Maze of Death

by Philip Caveney

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well now, ain’t that just perfect?’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  To the Death

  THE CHARIOT THUNDERED into the arena, pulled by two black horses. Standing at the reins was a tall man dressed in a metal breastplate and a plumed helmet. From his vantage point, Alec could see that the man also wore one of the metal collars around his neck. He had a sword hanging from his belt, and in a leather holder affixed to the side of the chariot were three deadly looking spears. The man slapped the reins against the horse’s backs and urged them around the flame-lit arena. Ethan stood by the weapons table, as though rooted to the spot.

  Alec turned to glare at Wolfe. ‘This isn’t fair!’ he yelled.

  Wolfe gazed at him as though amused by the comment. ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘But very entertaining.’

  ‘I’m going down to help him,’ said Alec, starting to turn away, but Wolfe gestured to the two armed guards, who raised their swords to point them at Alec.

  ‘This challenge is just for Mr Wade,’ said Wolfe. ‘Did Hector have any help when he fought with Achilles? I think not! Besides, you will have your own test tomorrow, so I would conserve my energy if I were you. Oh, and don’t worry. I’ve ensured that your test is inspired by a Cretan story.’

  Alec didn’t want to think too much about that right now. He turned back to look into the arena, realizing that he was powerless to help his friend. As he watched, the warrior pulled the chariot to a halt at the far end of the arena and studied Ethan, as though preparing himself for a charge. Ethan swung the heavy sword he was holding a couple of times and then selected a round wooden shield. He strode calmly to the middle of the arena, watching the warrior closely.

  There was a brief silence while the two men surveyed each other, as though searching for a weak spot in their opponent. In the silence, the flaming braziers crackled and sparks rose into the night sky. The horses stamped their feet impatiently. Then, suddenly, Achilles slapped the reins and the chariot surged towards Ethan. At the same time, he snatched up one of the long spears from the leather holder and raised it above his head.

  Alec held his breath. The chariot closed on Ethan and he dropped into a defensive crouch, the round wooden shield held out in front of him. He kept his position until the last possible moment and then jumped aside – but in the same instant, Achilles flung the spear with deadly accuracy. Ethan lifted the shield to meet it and the rim caught the spear in flight and sent it spinning away across the arena. The chariot raced by and turned to complete another circuit, before pulling to a halt. Achilles stood for a moment, gazing at Ethan, his eyes dark and demonic through the eye slits of his helmet.

  ‘Who is he?’ demanded Alec.

  Wolfe smiled. ‘Just a young man who has been training for months for this event,’ he said. ‘I found him in Crete and thought he would make the perfect Achilles.’

  ‘I notice you’ve put one of these infernal collars on him,’ said Coates, his voice hoarse with revulsion. ‘So I assume he has no choice but to compete in this sick contest.’

  ‘A man can be made to do many things,’ said Wolfe gleefully. ‘All it takes is the right persuasion. Achilles has been shaped into the perfect killing machine. Your man was lucky that time, but we’ll see how long his luck will last.’ He turned to look at Ariadne. ‘Raise your eyes from the ground, girl, you’re missing all the fun!’

  ‘I don’t want to look,’ she protested.

  ‘You will look,’ snapped Wolfe. He grabbed a handful of his daughter’s hair and wrenched her head up.

  The action brought a surge of anger flooding into Alec’s veins and he took a step towards Wolfe, but Coates grabbed his arm and held him back. ‘Another time,’ he murmured.

  A yell from the arena snapped their attention back to the fight. Achilles had urged the horses forward again. They raced at Ethan full pelt and he dropped into his defensive crouch. Once more, Achilles selected a spear and raised it above his head. Then everything happened very quickly. Alec saw the spear flash through the air and bury itself in Ethan’s shield – saw the sharp metal head of the spear punch through the wood as though it had no more substance than cardboard – saw the point of it stab deep into Ethan’s shoulder. Ethan stepped back to allow the chariot to sweep past him and as he did so, he thrust his sword into the spinning chariot wheel.

  The result was dramatic. There was a splintering sound, a flurry of sand, and then the chariot flipped upwards into the air, throwing Achilles out onto the sand of the arena. He landed heavily and rolled over several times. Meanwhile, the chariot completed its somersault and smashed down behind the horses, a piece of tangled wreckage. Luckily, the wooden pole that bound them in place broke in two and the horses were free to gallop away, snorting and tossing their heads. They continued to race around the arena, dragging their traces behind them.

  Alec stared down in dismay as he saw Ethan struggling to pull the head of the spear from his shoulder. It came free and blood sprayed down his tunic. He grunted, threw the ruined shield aside and turned to stagger back to the weapons table. As he did so, Achilles sat up, shook his head and got to his feet. He stood for a moment, gazing around, shocked by the sudden destruction of the chariot. Then he drew his sword and advanced on Ethan.

  The American grabbed the first weapon that came to hand, a short, broad-bladed sword, and turned back to face his opponent. Achilles didn’t even slow his pace. He raised the sword and drove it down at Ethan with all his force. Ethan got his own weapon up to meet the blow. Metal clanged against metal, striking bright sparks in the subdued light with a sound that made Alec wince. Ethan was knocked backwards several steps by the attack from the bigger, stronger man. Achilles came straight after him, swinging the sword like a man possessed, forcing Ethan to duck and jump back from the onslaught. Within a few moments, he had been driven right back to the table and Achilles aimed an overhead blow that would have split the American’s skull in two if it had landed; but Ethan rolled aside and the descending sword lodged deep in the table top and stuck for a moment. Ethan took the opportunity and rolled back, bringing up an elbow and slamming it into the side of Achilles’ head. The big man reeled sideways, losing his grip on the sword, but he recovered quickly and ran round to the far end of the table where he snatched up another weapon, a heavy two-bladed axe.

  As Achilles came back, the axe raised to attack, Ethan chose the sensible option and retreated, keeping the table between himself and his adversary.

  Just then, the horses came galloping past and the two men had to leap aside to avoid being knocked down by them, but the movement had taken Ethan away from the shelter of the table. Achilles ran forward and swung the axe at Ethan’s chest. Ethan managed to get his sword in to block the blow, but the impact smashed the weapon out of his hand and he fell back from Achilles, who kept right on coming, his eyes blazing with mad determination. Alec felt a cold sensation spreading through him. He realized that Ethan could not hope to evade the axe for very much longer. He was weak from his injury and each swing of the double-headed blade missed him by mere inches. Alec glanced at Wolfe and saw that he was intent on the fight, a ghoulish grin on his face. Beside him, Ariadne had her hands over her eyes.

  Now Ethan fell back towards the centre of the arena, glancing hopelessly this way and that for some kind of weapon. And then he saw his original sword lying in the sand a short distance away. He turned and made a run for it, but Achilles came after him, the axe raised above his head. He had a longer stride than Ethan, and in moments had almost caught up with him. Ethan made a last desperate bid for the sword, flinging himself face down in the sand. He grabbed the sword’s handle, twisted around onto his back and without time to take aim, he flung the weapon with all his strength as Achilles raised the axe for the killing blow.

  Everything seemed to happen in slow motion then. The sword flew from Ethan’s outstretched hand and began to turn. Achilles saw it coming and desperately tried to twist aside, but he was too late. The sword turned once i
n the air and then the heavy blade punched clear through the warrior’s metal breastplate and sent him reeling back. In the same instant, the axe fell from his hands and came downwards, towards Ethan, the metal head reflecting the firelight. At the last moment, Ethan rolled aside and the blade bit deep into the ground, inches from where his head had been.

  Achilles collapsed heavily onto his knees in the sand, a look of dull surprise in his eyes. A ribbon of blood spilled out from around the handle of the sword and ran down his breastplate. He reached up a hand to remove his helmet, revealing a handsome face, bathed in sweat and framed by curly black hair and a black beard. Ethan scrambled to his feet. He grabbed the handle of the axe and started towards Achilles, but he stopped when he saw that the warrior wasn’t going to stand up again. Ethan stood looking down at Achilles. The big man’s body was shuddering as the severity of his injury claimed him. He coughed and blood spilled from his mouth, staining his beard.

  ‘Finish him!’ roared a voice and everybody turned to look at Wolfe. He had stood up from his throne and was glaring down into the arena, his expression wild. Ethan gazed up at him, uncomprehending.

  ‘Kill him!’ yelled Wolfe. ‘It’s the law of the arena. He expects you to.’

  Ethan looked at the dying man for a moment and then back at Wolfe, an expression of disgust on his face. ‘He’s already finished,’ he said, and began to walk away.

  ‘Wait!’ Wolfe seemed furious by Ethan’s refusal to kill his opponent. ‘I demand that you finish him. My word is law here and I say that you must use that axe or take the consequences.’

  Ethan stopped walking. His lowered his head as though weary. Then he turned back to face Wolfe.

  ‘If you insist,’ he said. Then he ran quickly forward, lifted the axe above his head and threw it with all his force. It came whirling up from the arena, spinning end over end. Alec saw it coming. He grabbed Coates and forced him down as the axe skimmed above their heads. As he went down, Alec twisted his head to look at Wolfe – saw the man literally frozen to the spot in terror as the weapon hurtled towards him.

  Ethan’s aim was just a little off. The axe head buried itself in the back of Wolfe’s wooden throne, two inches to the left of his ear. Wolfe stood for a moment, gazing white-faced down into the arena. Then he dropped into his seat with a gasp of relief. Ethan stood where he was, glaring up at Wolfe.

  ‘Consider that a challenge,’ he yelled. ‘Now why don’t you come down here and fight me, man to man? You’re all dressed up like a warrior, but you don’t seem to want to set foot in the arena yourself. Come on, I’ll take you with one hand tied behind my back, you stinking coward!’

  Wolfe forced himself to smile and shook his head. He made the slightest gesture to Lee and Alec saw the manservant reach under his tunic.

  ‘No!’ Alec cried. ‘Please, don’t!’ He got to his feet and moved towards Lee. ‘It’s not fair. Ethan passed the test: you can’t do this, you just can’t.’

  Lee glanced at Alec and seemed to hesitate for just a moment, as though he saw what the boy was getting at. But then he turned away and directed his attention back to the arena. Ethan gave a sudden gasp of pain. He threw his hands up to his neck and began to claw at the shrinking metal collar. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

  ‘Stop this!’ cried Coates indignantly. ‘You’re killing him.’

  Desperately, Alec turned away from Lee and moved towards Wolfe. The two guards stepped forward, their swords raised, but Alec just brushed them aside and addressed his remarks to Wolfe.

  ‘You can’t do this! Ethan took your unfair challenge and passed it. If you kill him now, then you’ll have no honour, and honour was everything to the Greeks. If you admire them so much, isn’t it time you started following their example?’

  ‘Papa!’ cried Ariadne. ‘Alec is right. You cannot let this happen.’

  Wolfe looked at his daughter for a moment and then at Alec. He seemed to consider. Then he made the smallest of gestures to Lee. Down in the arena, Ethan gasped with relief and slumped onto the sand. Wolfe got up from his throne and studied Alec for a moment.

  ‘Let’s see how our young Theseus handles his challenge tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You will face it totally alone and then we’ll find out how much honour means to you.’ He studied the axe, still half buried in the back of his throne. Then he reached out, took Ariadne by the arm and pulled her up out of her seat. ‘Take them back to their quarters,’ he told Lee. ‘And see that the American’s wounds are tended.’ With that, he turned away and strode out of the enclosure, pulling Ariadne along with him. Alec ran down to peer over the rail into the arena.

  Ethan lay on the sand, letting his breath return to normal.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Alec shouted down at him.

  ‘Kid, I’ve been better,’ croaked Ethan. ‘But I’m still alive and I guess that’s mostly thanks to you.’ He sat up and looked across the arena at the still form of Achilles, lying in the sand. Then he got to his feet and dusted sand off his tunic. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said. ‘I don’t know about you guys, but I could use a drink.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Challenge

  STEPHEN OPENED HIS eyes. He lay for a moment, unsure of where he was or what had happened to him. Then, suddenly, shockingly, his senses came rushing back and his vision focused. He was lying on his back, looking up at a night sky that was brilliant with stars. With an effort, he sat up and saw that he was on a deserted stretch of beach, a short distance from the restless sea. Beside him lay the shattered remains of one of the wings of the Daedalus.

  He turned his head to look left and right, but could see no signs of life. The movement reminded him that he still wore the heavy metal collar around his neck. His throat was parched and his face burned from exposure to the sun. The last thing he remembered was being in the sea, kicking determinedly for the distant outline of Crete, but exhaustion and exposure to the elements must have made him hallucinate, because he had drifted into a hazy world of memories, of when he was a boy and his father had been teaching him things about science. Then he remembered that his father was dead. He had a flashing vision of the old man’s body tumbling down through the empty air, the wings of his flying machine flapping uselessly behind him.

  Anger coursed through Stephen’s veins, filling him with fresh determination. He got himself upright and stood, swaying unsteadily, wondering what he should do now. First, he decided, he needed to establish exactly where he was.

  He turned and started staggering up the beach, looking for a path into the olive and cypress trees that bordered it. After a little searching around, he saw a narrow track leading through the trees and he took it, forcing himself to place one foot in front of another. He heard a sound, a strange tinkling noise, and he headed towards it, hoping that he might encounter another human being, but what he actually found was a small herd of goats, bells around their necks, browsing the scrubby grass between the trees. He told himself that goats needed to be tended by somebody and he walked through the herd and climbed the slight incline beyond in search of them. And then he saw a light.

  He narrowed his eyes, trying to make it out, and eventually picked out the shape of a small cottage, a low white-painted building with a straw roof. The light, the dull glow of a lamp, was issuing from inside. For a moment, his head swam and he was in danger of slipping back into unconsciousness, but he shook his head to dispel the mist, reminding himself that the others were depending on him to bring help. He staggered towards the cottage, went through an opening in a dry stone wall and weaved his way up a dirt path to a plain wooden door. He reached out and hammered on it with his knuckles.

  For a long time, nothing happened – and then the door swung open and a man stood there looking out at him – a grim-faced Cretan dressed in peasant clothes. His eyes widened and he stared at Stephen as though he was looking at a ghost. It was only now that Stephen remembered that he was dressed in the woollen tunic of an ancient Greek and that he still wore the coll
ar of obedience around his neck.

  ‘Please,’ croaked Stephen. ‘You must help me . . . I . . .’ His throat seized and he was unable to form words. He pointed at his open mouth and made a universal gesture, a drinking motion. ‘Water,’ he managed to gasp. ‘Please . . . water . . .’

  The man seemed to be considering for a moment. Then he grunted and pulled the door open wider. He motioned for Stephen to enter the house. Stephen staggered over the threshold and found himself in a poor, sparsely furnished room, lit by the dull glow of a single hurricane lamp. A goatherd’s croft, he decided. The man strode across to a large wooden barrel standing in a corner and picked up a metal dipper. He filled it from the contents of the barrel and came back to hand it to Stephen, who took it from him and lifted it to his mouth. It was the coolest, most satisfying drink he had ever experienced. He gulped the contents down, spilling much of it in his eagerness, and then handed the dipper back to the goatherd, who ushered him over to a wooden seat and immediately went to refill the dipper. Stephen drank six draughts before he felt ready to speak again. He leaned back in the chair with a sigh of relief and studied the man for a moment.

  ‘You . . . speak English?’ he asked hopefully.

  The man shrugged his shoulders, shook his head. He was a big fellow with a suntanned face and the traditional Cretan drooping moustache. He wore a jacket made from white goatskin, which he had probably made himself. He was staring at the metal collar around Stephen’s neck as though trying to work out what it was.

  Stephen pointed to the floor. ‘Where?’ he asked. ‘Where is this place?’ He gestured around at the small room. ‘Where?’ he repeated, but the man just looked confused, so he tried another tack. He tapped himself repeatedly on the chest. ‘Stephen,’ he said. ‘Ste-phen.’

  The man seemed to understand.

  ‘Ste-phen,’ he repeated. Then he tapped his own chest. ‘Nikos,’ he said, and he smiled, as though proud of having understood this much.