Eventually, they came to the lowest floor of the palace. A large part of it had collapsed, tumbling massive limestone blocks down into the darkness below.
“This is the way into the labyrinth,” said Ast. “Come.”
“Don’t we need a torch?” asked Ovid. He’d always been a little scared of the dark.
“There is no need,” said Ast. “I know the way better than any other. Inside, other parts of the roof have collapsed allowing light to enter.”
Sighing theatrically, Ovid gingerly picked his way over the tumbled blocks and down into the darkness of the labyrinth. The things he did for his muse, he reflected.
Ω
“So, this is where it all happened, is it?” asked Ovid, squinting in the gloom. As promised by Ast, the destruction wrought by the earthquake over a thousand years earlier had opened up enough of the ceiling to see. Just. “Not much to look upon, is there?”
“This was the home of the Minotaur,” said Ast, leading the way into the darkened depths. Amazingly, the huge man seemed utterly confident and at ease within the ruins, picking his way through the rubble as if born to it.
“How much time do you actually spend down here?” asked Ovid.
“More than I should,” said Ast. “Less than I used to.”
“You’re not being terribly helpful,” complained Ovid, puffing as he struggled to keep up. Ahead of him, Ast simply shrugged his great shoulders.
True to Ast’s word, there was just enough light to see by. The labyrinth was made of massive limestone blocks, which seemed to glow ever so slightly. Many of the blocks lay toppled on the ground before them, shattered and broken. Ovid suspected it was more a maze now than it had ever been.
Ast paused at a branch in one of the corridors. A spear of light, produced by a rift in the smashed palace above, illuminated what appeared to be ancient scratches on the blocks. Ast regarded them thoughtfully, almost sadly.
“What are those?” asked Ovid, squinting at the marks.
At first, it appeared that Ast had not heard him, lost in his own thoughts. Finally, he spoke.
“Marks left by the old inhabitant. Marks he used to count the passing of days.”
“You mean the Minotaur?” asked Ovid.
Ast nodded once. “Yes,” he said.
“And how exactly do you know that?” asked Ovid scornfully. “All this,” he said, indicating the ruins around him, “happened long, long ago. How could you possibly know what transpired here?”
“I know more than you think, poet,” said Ast. “More than you would dare to ask. Even if you did know the truth, I doubt whether you would believe it.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Ovid, smiling now. “Poets have a reputation for thirsty minds. And throats.”
They continued walking in silence for some time. Ast did not once hesitate, moving through the labyrinth with a familiarity that was slightly unsettling. Much like Ovid had in his large home back in Rome. Ovid followed nervously. Something was out of kilter here. Something wasn’t quite right. His poet’s intuition told him so and he had long ago learnt not to ignore it. He just wasn’t sure what it was. With a growing sense of unease, he continued to follow the giant.
“And this is where Theseus slew the great beast?” Ovid asked eventually.
“Some say that,” said Ast. Ovid couldn’t be sure, but there was something in the big man’s tone he didn’t recognize. Something dangerous.
“That’s what they all say,” said Ovid. “Every single scholar and poet before me says that Theseus cut off the monster’s head in this place.”
“Don’t always believe what you read,” countered Ast.
“Oho,” said Ovid, laughing gently. “Did you know I have written about this very subject before?” Ovid considered himself somewhat of an expert on the subject. He’d mentioned Theseus and the Minotaur several times in his work.
Ast turned and faced him. He was completely motionless, as if made of the same stone that comprised the labyrinth. His eyes met those of Ovid’s. It was a little frightening to be confronted by such a look. Ovid began to feel slightly intimidated.
‘“The bones of my brother he crushed with his triple-knotted club and scattered o’er the ground; my sister he left at the mercy of wild beasts.’ I am aware of who you are and your work. Your Heroides is a work of pure fiction.”
Ovid was taken aback. Ast had quoted directly from his work. In fact, from the speech written by Phaedra—the Minotaur’s supposed sister—referring to the death of the monster at the hands of Theseus. “So you know more than scholars and poets now, do you?” asked Ovid, unable to control the amusement in his voice.
“Perhaps I do,” said Ast finally.
“And how would you know that?” said Ovid, intrigued now.
“Because I was there,” said Ast simply.
Ovid’s mouth fell open in surprise. And then he began to laugh again. “You were there? Don’t be ridiculous. We are talking over a thousand years ago.” Clearly, the man was deranged. He didn’t look any older than his third decade. Ovid began looking around as casually as he could, trying to remember the way out. He’d make his escape, return to port, and complain about Ast. He’d have him arrested and get those stupid legionaries at the garrison to give him a guide who wasn’t mad.
“I can prove it,” said Ast. “Long have I heard false tales of Theseus and the Minotaur. You are a famous scholar and poet. In return for my tale, all I ask is that you record it faithfully. It is time the truth was finally heard. Come with me, and I will prove that I was there.”
“Very well,” said Ovid, thinking quickly. He probably wasn’t going to be able to find his way out of here without Ast’s help. If he fled, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to outrun him either. He’d have to wait, perhaps when Ast went to sleep, and then return to Iraklion. He’d encountered raving lunatics before and knew they had to be treated gently. Perhaps get him drunk? Ovid had plenty of wine strapped to the donkey. That was a good idea. Getting drunk was always a good idea. Perhaps he’d join him for one or two, just to keep up the appearances.
Ω
“Welcome to my home,” said Ast. “It’s not much but what hospitality I have is yours.”
Ovid stepped warily through the doorway and into the stone cottage. It was a simple affair with an ancient wooden table dominating the center of the room. Four chairs were set around it. In the corner, there were kitchen implements and bowls atop another much smaller table. Shelves were cluttered with scrolls and sheaves of papyrus. An open doorway led into another room, presumably the bedchamber.
“Do you live here alone?” asked Ovid.
“Sometimes,” said Ast. “I have visitors on rare occasions.” Ast put Ovid’s bags and several wine skins in the corner. He placed Ovid’s satchel under the table and set one of the wine skins on the worn table top. Grasping two goblets, he returned to the table and set them next to the wine. Ovid eyed the wine and goblets with something approaching hunger.
Usually, oblique answers like that only served to irritate Ovid. He let it pass this time due to the sensitivity of the situation.
“I have too many visitors,” commented Ovid. “Those who want to discuss my works, some who just want to meet me. I wish they would leave me alone.”
“I too, enjoy my solitude,” said Ast.
“I live alone. By choice,” said Ovid. “I was married. Three times, actually. All three ended in disaster. Thrice divorced by the time I was your age.” Nervousness made Ovid prattle. He knew he was doing it but couldn’t stop. “Do yourself a favor and don’t get married.”
Ast almost smiled. Ovid could see him trying to suppress the emotion. Perhaps, just perhaps, he wasn’t mad at all.
“Shall we have a wine then?” asked Ovid. He had an amazing tolerance toward alcohol, often able to drink larger men under the table. Even though Ast was far heavier than him, it was possible that the bigger man would collapse in a drunken stupor
before him. Besides, it was hot outside and Ovid was thirsty.
“Yes,” said Ast. “Why not?”
He filled both goblets with wine and offered one to Ovid, bidding the other man to sit. Ast eased himself slowly into the chair opposite.
“Your health,” said Ovid and drained his goblet in one gulp. Ast merely sipped at his before setting it down at the table.
“So, proof then,” said Ovid. “What is it you wanted to show me?”
“What if I told you everything you know, have written about, or have read about the Minotaur is false?” said Ast. “What if I told you the Minotaur was not the beast of legend and Theseus was not quite the hero everyone believes?”
“I would say you have an interesting imagination,” said Ovid. “Either that or you’re completely mad.” In hindsight, it was probably a poor choice of words, but the wine had made Ovid bold.
Ast took the remark without comment. His dull, blunt features displayed no emotion. “What if I told you the Minotaur was nothing but a man, a man with a slight deformity?”
“Then I’d say you have my attention,” said Ovid. Thoughts of running off had diminished for the moment. Mad or not, Ast was beginning to interest him.
“I want you to look at something,” said Ast. He leant forward on the table and swept his hair back to reveal two shining circular blots on his skull. “What do you see?”
Ovid bent forward and squinted sharply. Birthmarks perhaps? It was hard to tell. Closer inspection revealed that wasn’t the case. The blots appeared to be made of bone. Or even horn. After a long moment, Ovid sat back.
“I don’t know,” he confessed. “They could be anything.”
Ast sat down again, setting his hair back into place. “They are the stubs of my horns. The horns that gave me my name.”
“And what name would that be?” asked Ovid, refilling his goblet.
“The name I was born with is Asterion. The name imposed upon me is something else entirely.”
“Which is?” asked Ovid impatiently, taking another swig of his wine.
“Minotaur.”
Ovid spluttered. A fine spray of wine filled the air between them. He began to laugh. Wine dribbled down his chin and onto his already stained toga.
Eventually, he recovered his composure. “You expect me to believe that you are the fabled half-man, half-bull of legend? For starters, you aren’t nearly old enough.”
“My father is Poseidon,” said Asterion. “I am a demi-god. As such, I am immortal.”
Ovid waved one hand dismissively. “Even if I accepted that, you died over a thousand years ago. Theseus killed you. Everyone knows that.”
“Everyone is wrong,” said Asterion impassively. “That is why you’re here, is it not? You are a seeker of truth. A scholar and poet. I heard you were coming and offered to guide you around. That’s why I was waiting at the port. I was waiting for you. I chose you. Do you not want to know the truth?”
Something strange was happening. Ovid, despite his misgivings, was hooked now. Even if he wanted to run, he knew he wouldn’t. He wanted to hear. The ravings of a lunatic could still be thoroughly entertaining. Besides, he had a niggling doubt. He’d heard of these supposed demi-gods of course. Even heard rumors of their existence—that some of them still lived and breathed on Earth, a reminder of the golden age of gods long since passed.
Once, he’d possibly encountered one. A heroic figure who dressed, acted, and spoke as if he came from a different time, convinced, like Asterion, he was over a thousand years old. Choosing to indulge the stranger at the time, Ovid had asked him about the path to demi-god status, why some were chosen and others not. Why weren’t there more demi-gods running around?
The stranger had shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know,” he’d confessed. “I suspect it has something to do with self-belief and strength of character. Having the blood of the gods flowing through your veins is not always enough. Perhaps it is the gods themselves who decide?”
The conversation had amused Ovid at the time. Now all Ovid felt was confusion. The stranger spoke much like this Asterion did now. Why did the name Asterion suddenly sound familiar? He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Perhaps another goblet of wine?
“Here’s what I’ll do,” said Ovid, filling his goblet again. Strange how it seemed to empty itself so quickly. “You start telling me your tale. I’ll record everything you say. If, after a time, it starts sounding a little far-fetched, I am going to get up and leave. You will not stop me. Have we got a deal?”
“We have,” said Asterion solemnly. “My words will have to convince you. Other than the stubs of my horns, I have little other proof.”
“Let’s pretend for a moment what you say is true, why reveal it now?” asked Ovid.
“Because of you. Your arrival on this island. Because history is written by those carrying the biggest swords,” said Asterion. “At the time all these events took place, Crete was the most powerful state on Earth. Then, Athens became the most powerful. You have to remember that Theseus was Athenian. Even if the truth had emerged, those who wanted to preserve Theseus’s memory would’ve ensured it never got out. I had to wait all this time for the power of Greece to diminish. Now is the time of Rome. Your time. Amongst your people, you have many scholars and your works are read and distributed to thousands. You are the perfect instrument of truth. I have been waiting for you, Ovid, here in my self-imposed exile.”
Ovid nodded. He couldn’t argue with Asterion’s logic, even though he wanted to. “What makes you think anyone will believe your story now?”
“Because you’ll be telling it. Your reputation has preceded you. It doesn’t matter what you write now, others will want to read it. Surely some will see the truth in it.”
Ovid watched Ast carefully. He knew the man was sincere. He certainly didn’t appear mad or confused, just a little sad. Perhaps he really was the fabled Minotaur? Ovid had certainly seen some strange things in his time and birth defects much worse than horns.
Even if it was a complete fabrication, Ovid knew this was a story worth listening to.
Chapter 2
“Shall I begin then?” asked the man who thought himself the Minotaur.
Ovid held up one finger. “Momentarily.” He rustled through his satchel, producing a quill and a thick sheaf of papyrus. He set them down on the table before him, squinting intently at both objects through bleary eyes as if trying to divine their origins. His eyes suddenly brightened. He bent down again, retrieving a small corked glass bottle filled with a dark liquid.
“Can’t write without ink, now can I? This here is the best octopus ink you can buy. The merchant I purchased it from assured me it was from a giant squid fished from the deepest waters off Ostia.”
Ast nodded disinterestedly. “Are you ready?” he asked in a tone that suggested he was losing patience.
“Yes,” said Ovid. “No. Wait.” He picked up the skin of wine from the floor and took a mighty swig, smacking his lips in satisfaction before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He set the skin back on the table next to his writing implements. Ovid winked at Ast and smiled crookedly. “Writer’s lubrication.” He took a deep breath and blew it out, filling the air with alcohol fumes.
“All set,” he declared finally.
“Where shall I start?” asked Ast.
Ovid made an expansive gesture with both hands. “Where else but the beginning of course.”
Ast nodded his huge head. “Yes,” he said. “Yes,” his eyes already glazing over with the weight of thousand-year-old memories.
And then he began.
Ω
I was born only a few paces from here over a thousand years ago, in the once great palace of Knossos, certainly the greatest palace on Crete. My mother was Queen Pasiphae. I thought her the most beautiful woman in the world.
Much has been written about my conception and while certain facts have the smack of truth about them, others
have been filtered, lost, and otherwise misinterpreted during the intervening centuries. What is true is that there was no love lost between my mother and Minos, the King of Crete. He was, not to put too fine a point on it, not a very nice man.
He treated my mother terribly. He used to beat her, and she would hide the bruises that blotted her face in shame, unable to meet the eyes of others. I remember her walking around the palace with her eyes downcast. Her first son and my elder brother, Androgeus, brought her joy and the King an heir, so for a time she found favor with the King again. It didn’t last. Minos rarely shared her bed after that, and I think my mother was relieved.
He, for his part, was happy to spread his seed amongst other willing, and sometimes unwilling, females in the palace and those unfortunate villagers who were pretty enough to warrant his attention.
King Minos was insecure in his rule. He prayed to Poseidon, the god of the sea, for a sign that he was the legitimate ruler of Crete, more to overawe the peasants than from any great interest in paying homage to the gods. Poseidon decided to test Minos’s loyalty by sending a beautiful, giant white bull.
The bull was a glorious creature, the likes of which the world will never see again. It was taller than a large man at the shoulder and weighed more than three normal bulls. Its coat blazed pure white in the midday sun, forcing all who gazed upon it to shield their eyes.
King Minos, of course, was completely taken by it. He was present when it first appeared, lumbering magnificently out of the ocean, surrounded by spray. He knew what it was immediately—a sign of Poseidon’s favor.
Minos had initially thought to sacrifice the mighty beast to the god but had second thoughts upon seeing it. Cows—bulls especially—were highly prized on this island, and the bull was too beautiful. Minos knew his prestige would rise by possessing such an animal. His pride and lust betrayed him. He decided to substitute an inferior beast instead and had it sacrificed with due ceremony.
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