Lifestyles of Gods and Monsters

by Emily Roberson

The priests get to their bloody work. The head priest pulls out his stone knife and leans over the bull, and I want to look away. I’ve been around enough sacrifice. But I watch. The bull bellows as the knife cuts in, and the smell of blood rises as the animal is drained, butchered, and hoisted onto the fire.

  The priests march out, their white robes stained with blood, and the people in the stands mouth their words of petition and praise. I can’t say whether they mean them, but I am dead serious as I whisper my own small prayer. The one I always say when the gods are invoked.

  Please remove the curse from my brother.

  I wonder sometimes if the gods are even listening.

  The music stops, and the stadium is again plunged into darkness. The first round of fireworks explodes, reflecting off the domed ceiling. It’s the largest indoor fireworks display in history, twice as big as last year, and the people gasp. Daddy’s face is illuminated in the flash of phosphorescent light. He looks pleased. That’s good. He’s been grouchy since we got here because of the empty seats in the stadium. They’ve covered up three of the sections with purple fabric so it’s not so obvious that there are nowhere near eighty thousand people here. I guess that after ten times, teenagers being eaten by a monster isn’t the draw it once was. What really matters to Daddy is the viewing numbers worldwide, and we won’t know those until later.

  The fireworks finish, and the spotlights focus on Daedalus, standing in the middle of the stage. He wears a black double-breasted suit that gives him the illusion of bulk. His tie is printed with tiny images of the Minotaur. A bit of irony for the cameras.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” His voice is amplified throughout the stadium. “Welcome to the eleventh annual Battle against the Minotaur!”

  The people cheer at that. But it is nothing compared to the noise they will make later this week, when I lead the Athenians to the maze.

  Before the competitors are brought out, we have to be reminded why the children of Athens must die. The audience needs to be reminded of our tragedy—the death of my brother Androgeous, murdered by the Athenians. They need to be reminded that this contest isn’t a mindless spectacle. It’s divine punishment.

  The drums play a martial beat, and a line of our soldiers, in their dress uniforms, marches out onto the field. The leader holds a torch high in the air. Daedalus’s voice is solemn now, like the narrator on a war documentary.

  “Let us never forget the reason we are here,” he says. “We honor a lost life. A lost hope. A lost dream of the nation.”

  The lead soldier lights the huge chalice in the middle of the stadium, and the bowl fills with flame. On the Jumbotron, there is a memorial film—videos and stills—images of the same smiling, charismatic face, from babyhood to young manhood. My older brother, who I don’t remember. Daddy’s heir. In the final picture, Androgeous is crowned in laurels and wreathed in metals, the victor of the Pan-Athenian games. It was the last day of his life.

  “Let us remember our lost prince, Androgeous,” Daedalus says.

  My mother’s face would collapse in sorrow now if her frozen facial muscles permitted it. She touches the bracelet on her wrist with the image of Androgeous. Daddy glowers.

  Theseus looks at his shoes, seeming a little ashamed.

  Which he should be.

  This happened because Athens couldn’t protect my brother.

  “What do we deserve?” Daedalus calls to the crowd.

  Daddy starts the response. “Vengeance!”

  “What do we demand?”

  My mother answers this one. “Blood!”

  The call rumbles, filling the stadium, back and forth, from side to side—“Blood!” “Vengeance!” “Blood!” “Vengeance!”

  Theseus leans back in his chair, like he’s watching some sort of exhibition. The fourteen competitors are still backstage, watching from the wings, waiting to be introduced, as tens of thousands of people call for their blood. Right now, Theseus is the only representative of Athens in a stadium full of people calling for vengeance. In his shoes, I’d be afraid.

  Instead, he gives me a bemused, flirtatious look that says “Can you believe this?”

  Around us the faces of the people are contorted in rage. But Theseus is looking at me like we’re the only two people in the world.

  I don’t look away, even though I know I should.

  Daedalus makes a fist and thrusts it high in the sky. The crowd falls silent.

  “Who is the tool of our vengeance?” Daedalus calls.

  I drop my eyes from Theseus’s. I can’t flirt with him now. This is too important.

  The drumroll begins, and the crowd calls out the syllables “Min-o-taur! Min-o-taur!”

  Daedalus spreads his arms wide. “I give you, the monster in the maze, Minos’s bull, the tool of the gods’ vengeance—the Minotaur.”

  The spotlights shift to shades of red and orange, and the music changes to a steady beat, deep and ominous. The rhythm echoes off the dome. Hundreds of dancers fill the stadium floor, pulling yards and yards of fabric between them, drawing out the shape of the maze in the center of the field, a map.

  The question is always, how will they represent the Minotaur in a way that is adequately terrifying? Every year, we have this problem. It can’t be a man in a bull mask, because that’s silly. It obviously can’t be the Minotaur himself. There’s no telling what he might do if you brought him out here. Eat the dancers, for one thing.

  A low bellow sounds from every speaker, shaking the ground. People look around, apprehensive. Wondering what is coming for them. Everyone here knows about the Minotaur. Yet the sound of his roar triggers something elemental in most people. A reaction at the most basic level. A rush of fear from the base of the brain.

  Not for me. For me, the sound is as familiar as my own breath.

  From the center of the fabric maze, a column of white smoke rises. Red and gold lights flash and a huge form is projected onto the smoke.

  It is the image of the Minotaur, twenty feet tall. I shiver because this is no man in a mask, no animated figure, half man, half bull. No, it is a video image of the Minotaur himself, taken from one of the cameras in the maze, and he’s enraged, rabid, his eyes red like fire and his mouth smeared with blood.

  I glance at Theseus, and I see the horror and disgust on his face.

  It hurts my heart.

  Looking at the image on the screen, I can understand why he feels that way. If this was the only way I knew the Minotaur, I’d be disgusted, too. But this isn’t how I know my baby brother.

  Then a ram’s horn is blown, amplified a thousand times through the stadium. The lights drop out and we are plunged into darkness.

  The presentation is starting.

  When the lights come back up, Theseus is gone from his seat.

  * * *

  The lights shift to a bright blue and white—the colors of Athens.

  The music changes, no longer terrifying but stirring and patriotic.

  “Now,” Daedalus says, “the final fourteen, the champions of Athens. This year’s competitors.”

  The crowd cheers raucously, but there is an ugly undercurrent in many of their cries.

  In Crete, the audience wants the competitors to do well, but not too well. Many bets will be placed tonight on people’s favorites. How long they will last in the maze. How they will do on the obstacles. Whether they can get a hit in on the Minotaur. How many minutes it will be before they die. No one is betting that competitors will win. In Crete, we show support for our monster. We root for the bull.

  Daedalus introduces each competitor individually, like he always does. His tone is exactly right. His whole manner suggests that it will be fine. That this is a game. One of them will win. Fame and fortune are in their future, if they can face this one last challenge from the gods.

  Vortigern is out first, wearing a warrior kilt, black leather with gold stitching, his upper body bare except for the shoulder plates. His chest is waxed and oiled, shining.

  T
hey show his video on the Jumbotron. I don’t really pay attention.

  It’s always the same. We’ll have pictures from his home in whatever sad village or tiny apartment he came from—his parents’ tears, coupled with their pride, the certainty that he will be the one to win, bringing fame, endorsements, a way out of their hideous lives. There are highlights from competition and training in Athens.

  I look around the box, wondering again where Theseus is.

  One by one the competitors are introduced. Beautiful, well-oiled, strong. Exactly like every other year. I watch them, wondering what kind of damage they could do in the maze, how long they will last.

  Hippolyta, the Amazon, is thirteenth. She’s wearing a short black leather dress, belted in gold. Her fists are clenched, her head high. You would never know what she is facing. Horns and teeth and death in the dark. With the whole world watching.

  The music is thumping and the lights are flashing; something is building and everyone in the stadium can feel it. We’re almost done.

  “We present our final competitor,” Daedalus intones.

  Thirteen kids are lined up on the stage, in their black leather and gold. A spot is empty in the middle. We are waiting on the lowest-scoring boy of the competition. The kid with the long straggly hair. Although by the end of his makeover that hair was gone.

  It is taking too long. Something is off. Even my sisters are looking around curiously.

  No one comes out.

  The crowd is stomping, demanding the fourteenth Athenian. The music beats in time with their feet, in time with our hearts. The spotlights swoop around the stadium, making wide circles of light on the crowd in their seats, like the last competitor might be hiding among us.

  Then, the lights drop out, and a single spotlight illuminates the entrance to the field.

  The music stops, and everyone leans forward in anticipation.

  A lone figure comes onto the field.

  My mouth goes dry.

  It is Theseus.

  The light follows him as he makes the long walk to the stage.

  He is wearing a warrior kilt, his chest bare.

  In close-up on the Jumbotron, his quizzical humor is gone. His relaxed energy has disappeared. Instead, he looks flinty and determined. One hundred percent unironically heroic. As different as he could possibly be from when I met him.

  What is he doing? With a sinking feeling in my gut, I already know.

  The lights come up and he stands facing Daedalus in front of the stage, where the other competitors are waiting, as dumbfounded as the rest of us.

  “Why have you come forward, prince of Athens?” Daedalus asks.

  “I will face the Minotaur,” Theseus announces, his voice clear and strong, reverberating through the stadium. “As the prince of Athens, I have a duty to protect my people.”

  But he can’t.

  You don’t volunteer to be a competitor. That isn’t how it works. There are qualifications, obstacle courses, wrestling matches, a fricking swimsuit competition. The same every year. Required by the gods. Theseus hasn’t done any of it.

  We cut for commercial, and on the stadium floor, the dancers come back to distract the audience while we are waiting.

  Theseus looks relaxed and calm in his warrior kilt.

  Like he could wait all day.

  My mother whispers to my sisters, “Social media blast—now.” They both pull out their phones and start typing furiously. They are telling their millions of followers that something big is going on with The Labyrinth Contest.

  Daddy will be happy about that.

  The commercial break stretches on and my sisters’ fingers fly on their screens. This must be why Theseus and Icarus were in the meeting with Daddy. They planned this and kept it a secret.

  A red light flashes to tell us that the commercial is almost over, the dancers run off the stage, and Theseus stands in the spotlight, shoulders back, like he’s being watched by the whole world. Which he is.

  From the center of the arena, Daedalus speaks again. “Theseus, you are the prince of Athens. You are exempt from The Labyrinth Contest.”

  “I am never exempt from the challenges of my people,” Theseus answers. His voice sounds strange to me.

  “The king will decide,” Daedalus says. “Your Majesty, what is your command? Will Theseus be allowed to compete?”

  A spotlight shines on Daddy and he stands, straight, tall, and broad, and he waits a second, letting the crowd suffer in anticipation. All eyes on him. Total silence in the arena.

  Daddy’s face is stern. “Prince of Athens, this is a bold request. You are asking me to change the rules and replace one of our competitors with you? Is that so?”

  Theseus’s voice is clear. “The gods demanded that the bravest and most beautiful would be the ones to fight the Minotaur. As the prince of Athens, I claim that right. I did not compete in Athens, but I have proven myself many times over. I must fight the Minotaur.”

  “What do my people say?” Daddy asks. “Should I let the prince of Athens face the Minotaur?”

  The crowd roars its approval, and my heart is shouting no, no, no.

  “There can be no doubt of his bravery,” Daddy says.

  I don’t want Theseus to compete.

  “Or his beauty,” Acalle whispers from her seat, and Xenodice giggles.

  Fear rises in me.

  “Theseus will face the Minotaur,” Daddy says. “May the gods help him.”

  The crowd erupts in cheers.

  Theseus joins the competitors on the stage. He calls them into a circle around him. His arms are raised, his voice is deep and resonant. “This year, the Minotaur will be the sacrifice. This is the year the contest ends.”

  His face is blown up on the Jumbotron. Then he winks. A wink that will launch a million GIFs.

  My heart stops. In that moment, I see it. Unless I can stop him, Theseus will either kill my brother or be killed himself.

  SEVEN

  I leave the box with my family in a daze.

  A sick feeling of impending disaster fills me, like I’m in a car speeding toward an intersection where a puppy is standing, oblivious, and there isn’t time to stop it. There isn’t time to avoid the collision.

  My mind whirls. Is there no way I can stop this? No way I can go back to ten minutes ago when the only boy I’ve ever fallen for didn’t volunteer to try to kill my brother?

  My family moves through the crowd of spectators with our perimeter of security guards, my sisters waving and blowing kisses at the fans who are squealing and snapping pictures. I squeeze past them to get close to Daddy. To try to talk him out of this.

  I’ve barely reached his side when Icarus runs up next to us, holding his tablet.

  “Your Majesty, King Minos,” he says. “In that one commercial break, our viewing numbers doubled. The last ten minutes of tonight’s show had the highest numbers since season three.”

  Daddy stops walking to look at the screen, and we gather around.

  He slaps Icarus on the back, “Nice work, son.”

  Icarus is practically glowing. Daddy is a praise-miser, so it’s pretty amazing to get a compliment out of him. Icarus has gotten so wrapped up in getting The Labyrinth Contest ratings up, I wonder if he’s even thinking about making his own stuff anymore.

  Daddy points at the engagement stats. “The social media push right there, during the commercial break, that’s really something. Great job thinking on your feet,” he says to my mother, who nods graciously, accepting his praise.

  He turns to look at me. “How do you like our big surprise?” he asks. “That was the plotline Icarus was working on. That idiot Theseus asked us to put him in there.”

  My stomach clenches, seeing how proud he is of this. Oh gods. This is going to be even harder than I thought.

  “It was definitely a surprise,” I say.

  “It was a gift from the gods, that’s what it was,” he says.

  “Praise the gods,” we say.

&nbs
p; We start walking again, and I pull Daddy’s sleeve. “Daddy, I’m not sure this is a good idea. What if he has some secret plan? What if he actually hurts the Minotaur?”

  Daddy starts to laugh, his chuckle building to a full guffaw. “Ariadne, this is the Minotaur we’re talking about. He’s killed a hundred and forty Athenians with no trouble—their strongest and best. I’m sure they all had a plan to defeat him, and you see where it got them. You think this one boy might hurt him?”

  “I don’t know, maybe?” I say.

  “I think you’re worried because you have gotten a crush on our Athenian. As I told you, they’re nothing but trouble.” He pats my hand. “Make sure you get enough sleep tonight, and I don’t want to hear one more word from you about getting Theseus out of The Labyrinth Contest.”

  He gives my arm a quick squeeze, then climbs into his limousine after my mother.

  I look around urgently, fighting off panic. There is no reason to panic. There must be some way to solve this problem.

  Icarus. I have to talk to Icarus. He can help me.

  He’s absentmindedly getting into his own car, looking at his tablet, and I jump in after him.

  “Oh hey, Ariadne,” he says, looking up from the screen.

  I hit him in the arm.

  “Ow,” he says. He has forced his face into a look of innocence, but it’s not fooling me. “What was that for?”

  “Don’t give me that, Icarus. How could you?”

  “How could I what?”

  I run my hand through my hair distractedly. “Did it enter your mind that I might not want Theseus to be on The Labyrinth Contest?”

  “Why not, Ariadne? Because you think he’s cute? I mean, I think he’s cute, too, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t face the Minotaur if he wants to.”

  “Icarus—” I start.

  “I didn’t force him into it. He’s the one who asked me—begged me, actually, if you want the truth about it.”

  “You didn’t have to let him. You didn’t have to tell my dad about it. Admit it, this is about you getting sucked into the ratings game. This is about you being selfish.”

  “I’m being selfish?” he says. “You’re the one who is attempting to hold back the biggest thing that has happened to The Labyrinth Contest in years because you’ve got a crush on somebody.”