“Of course,” I replied. There was an uncomfortable silence as I furiously thought of something to say. “I’m sorry,” I said eventually.
Phaedra touched my arm gently. “I know you are. It was an accident.”
“That’s not how Father is going to see it,” said Ariadne behind me. I hadn’t heard her approach. Behind her, the other children crowded forward.
I turned to see her smiling at me. A random urge to hit her flooded me, completely at odds with my gentle nature. That would only make my punishment greater still.
“Father probably already knows,” said Ariadne, still smiling. I bet he did. She’d disappeared for a while when we were in the playroom, and I could hazard a pretty good guess as to where she went. The guards would’ve already informed Minos, but Ariadne was taking no chances. I kept expecting her to rub her hands together gleefully.
Punishment was inevitable. I thought it’d be meted out by some palace functionary later that night.
But I was wrong on both counts.
Chapter 3
I was summoned into a small audience chamber later that same afternoon. It is hard for me to explain the mix of emotions I felt that day. Fear, of course, was the most prominent. Underlying that was excitement and curiosity.
Up to this point, I had had nothing to do with my father. He avoided me. If I was to be disciplined, it was by someone else. He’d never spoken to me in my life. Never. Now, to be summoned before him, I was extremely nervous.
The audience chamber was like many rooms in the huge palace. Larger than most, supported by columns, walls covered with freshly painted murals, mostly depicting bulls in some aspect or another. At the base of the walls were several stone seats, all of them empty. I passed by the ceremonial pool but didn’t pay much attention, my gaze being drawn toward the small ornate chair sitting on a raised dais at the far end of the chamber—and the figure sitting within it. The room had a slightly ominous and claustrophobic feel to it, more so because it was toward the center of the palace and blocked completely from all natural light. Oil lamps held within sconces on the walls provided illumination. My passage caused them to flicker, casting dancing shadows about the walls, giving the bulls the illusion of movement. The figure in the chair was, of course, my father, King Minos.
I approached on hesitant feet and stopped at the base of the dais at what I considered a respectful distance. Other than the guards lining the walls and the two flanking his chair, we were alone. I knelt but kept my eyes up in order to examine my father in more detail. I had never been so close to him. I had always considered him a young man and never had any reason to question that thought. If I’d thought about it, I would’ve worked out that he must’ve been getting on in years. I knew from palace talk that he hadn’t married my mother until he was well into his fourth decade.
But my father, the King, was, like his daughter, Ariadne, extremely vain. Any signs of gray in his hair or beard were banished with dye. I suspected that the unnatural blush of youth on his cheeks was an extract from a plant applied in a judicious manner. He was, however, quite stout with the build of a warrior—albeit an aging one. In his heyday, he’d vied with and fought his brothers for control of Crete. Rumors, if they were to be believed, said he’d been a fearsome warrior in those days, and the evidence was still on show. His long black hair had been set with combs, and a small golden crown sat atop his head. His tunic was richly embroidered.
All in all, he didn’t make an unfavorable impression. He looked kingly. I was not disappointed. That’s if you didn’t look in his eyes. They were like blue chips of ice. I felt my heart freezing under his stare.
Complete silence filled the hall. Long moments stretched on and on until I felt almost compelled to open my mouth and say something, just to break the horrible silence. It would’ve been a terrible breach of etiquette to speak before my superior but I needed to do something. My father continued to stare at me. I noticed that his gaze was drawn to my horns, which, despite my best efforts to conceal, were well and truly on display.
Suddenly, my father stood. On long legs, he strode down the dais toward me, halting just before my kneeling form. Humbly, I averted my eyes, fixing them fearfully on the mosaic tiles beneath my knees.
I felt a finger slide under my chin, forcing my head up. I met the cold eyes of my father. He smiled at me and my heart leapt. Perhaps I had been forgiven? Perhaps this was the moment I had been waiting for? The moment I connected with my father for the first time. I felt elated, relieved, happy. I smiled back.
My father turned slightly. I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye and then something struck me with staggering force.
Even though I was still a boy, I had almost the same physique as a grown man. Solid muscle starting to layer into something even harder. Even so, the blow hurt, but it was the shock more than anything that dashed me into the tiles. My father was a powerful man and had obviously driven all his strength into the blow.
When I looked up, he was staring at his knuckles strangely. The heavy rings that adorned every finger were covered in blood. He shook his hand gently, the expression on his face betraying that the blow had hurt him more than he’d obviously expected. At first, I thought the blood must be his and then I felt the trickles running down my face.
I reached up, touching my face, and held my fingers before my eyes. Red, covered in blood. My father’s rings had cut me deeply.
To my shame, I started to cry. I felt lost, hurt, betrayed. To get my hopes up with a smile and do this? It was one of the worst moments of my life.
My father, in case you hadn’t already guessed, was not a good man. But then again, he wasn’t really my father, was he?
I crouched there, blood soiling my tunic and spilling onto the floor, weeping miserably. My father looked at me coldly and then turned and marched back to his chair atop the dais. He still hadn’t said a single word.
Seeing that I wasn’t going to receive any comfort from him or anyone else for that matter, I quickly sobered. It was the first time in my life that I worked out how to turn my emotions off. They were still there, lurking in the darkness, waiting for an opportunity to present themselves to the world but something happened to me that day. Cold stone entered my heart, and I vowed never to display such weakness again. Regardless of how I felt, I would not allow strangers to see how their words or actions could affect me. My father’s humiliation taught me that.
My audience clearly at an end, I stood, wiping the mixture of blood and tears from my face with the edge of my tunic. I had entered the audience chamber as a boy. I would leave as a man. Without a backward glance at my father, I departed, walking as proudly as I could manage, hatred fuelling my steady stride. Hatred for my father.
As well as being a vain man, my father was appallingly stupid. Of course, he didn’t know what I would become. If he had known, perhaps he would’ve conducted himself differently. Then again, perhaps not. He was convinced of his God’s-given superiority. In my experience, such men never learn.
I should thank him, I suppose. He did teach me to grow up and to consider the consequences of my actions. Much earlier than I’d anticipated but in some ways, that was a good thing. It started to prepare me for the trials that were not too distant before me.
And I would need all my strength to survive.
Ω
“Are you trying to tell me that King Minos made you what you are?” interrupted Ovid, putting down his quill. He’d listened, fascinated, for what seemed like only a short amount of time. The reality was that a few hours had passed. Outside the tiny stone cottage, night was falling. Despite Ovid’s initial reservations, the story was indeed compelling.
Ast shrugged his massive shoulders. “In a way, yes,” he said. “We made each other. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been bitter if Poseidon hadn’t cuckolded him. If he had treated me better, my life would’ve been much different. I wouldn’t be the man you see before you.”
“That’s if
you are a man,” said Ovid wryly.
“For the most part,” replied Ast, without a trace of humor.
“So it was he who gave you those scars on your face?” asked Ovid. The marks seemed consistent with Ast’s story. They even looked ancient. But a thousand years … ?
Ast nodded, reaching up and tracing the marks on his cheek for a moment, lost in thought. “They are a constant reminder of those times. They ensure I will not forget. You could say that Minos scarred me both on the inside and out.”
“And King Minos was every bit as cruel as the legends say?” asked Ovid.
Ast stirred his great bulk and stood up. He stretched mightily. “He was. Probably more so. I bore the brunt of his cruelty.” He paused and glanced around, becoming aware for the first time that it was almost night. “If we are to continue with my story, we will need light.”
Ast bustled about the house for a while, fetching two oil lamps that he lit and set on the table. Ovid helped himself to more wine. His mouth had gone dry. So intent was he in writing down every one of Ast’s words, he had forgotten to drink. Unthinkable! It was a testament to how involved in the story he had become. He still wasn’t convinced that this man was the Minotaur of legend, but regardless, the story was compelling. His hand was cramping up but he still had an urge to continue.
“Do you wish to hear more tonight?” asked Ast, as if reading his mind.
Ovid nodded. “I do.”
“Then I suggest we eat something first. My story is long and tales like this require stamina. You cannot write on wine alone.” Ovid didn’t agree but protested only mildly when Ast returned to the kitchen, preparing platters of food, which he set before them.
There was a bowl of olives, some dried strips of goat meat, beans still in their pods and some coarse brown bread. Ovid wasn’t particularly hungry but ate mostly because he thought he ought to, picking lightly at a few things here and there. Ast himself ate enough for two men, which was appropriate given his size.
Finally, when the plates were almost empty, Ast cleared them away and returned to his seat at the table.
“Shall we continue?” he asked.
“Please do,” said Ovid, settling himself into his chair. Despite his earlier protestations, the food had done him some good. He felt wide-awake, eager for the tale to resume. And he knew there was still much to hear.
Ω
That spring was a turning point in my life. Phaedra’s leg healed cleanly and so well that her slight limp was almost unnoticeable. She began to explore the gardens again, and, more warily now, I accompanied her. I don’t think I was terribly great company after the encounter with my father, but Phaedra still managed to elicit the odd smile and occasional laugh from me.
I was very conscious of not putting her in danger, unwilling to risk another bout of punishment from my father, but Phaedra was not easily contained. She was optimistic, as bright as the sun, the light of which I basked in. Her presence was a balm to my troubled soul.
She soothed some of the hurt away but it wasn’t until we started lessons with a new tutor that I managed to dispel most of the disquiet that filled me.
Before the age of six, most of our education had come from our mother, her household staff, and some informal tutors. After six, we had real teachers, but none that I especially bonded with or felt inspired by.
That all changed when my father decided to make one of his resident scholars our new tutor. He was originally from Crete, but he had travelled widely, returning to the island of his birth after many years, bringing his son Icarus with him.
His name was Daedalus. You might have heard of him. He was a teacher, of course, but much, much more than that. His true skills lay in invention and design. He was both architect and mathematician—skills that, years later, would serve him well. For good or ill.
Ω
“Catreus, Deucalion, attend please.” Daedalus rapped one of his knuckles down on the wooden desk directly in front of the twins. He held out his palm expectantly. “Hand it over.”
Reluctantly, Catreus produced the offending article— a wooden horse that he and Deucalion had been playing with. Daedalus palmed it and then placed it in one of the many pockets adorning his tunic.
“Now then,” he said, addressing the entire class. “Who has a solution to the problem?”
There was silence. Now there are two types of silences in a classroom. There is the silence when students are baffled into speechlessness, and then there is the silence where the answer wants to spring forth, but it is just too embarrassed or self-conscious. This was the second kind.
Apart from myself and the twins, almost all of my brothers and sisters were present. Icarus, Daedalus’s son, was there too, although he contributed little or nothing to any discussion. He was a little older than I, about the same age as Androgeus, but where Androgeus was tall and strong with an athlete’s build, Icarus was frail, with long spindly arms and legs. He didn’t speak much either, content to bury his long nose in a bunch of papyrus.
I’m sure Daedalus was very proud of him in many ways—foremost being his interest in scholarly pursuits—but he wasn’t the easiest person to talk to. I’d tried a few times, but he was even more awkward and nervous in the company of others than even I. In fact, I’d only seen him rarely before Daedalus was appointed our tutor, schooled by his father in their private chambers.
Androgeus had been present earlier before being called away for training with the shield, sword, and spear. He was sixteen now, four years older than I, and lately he’d been devoting himself more to the physical pursuits than anything else. I had been seeing less and less of him. The Panathenaic games were only two years away, and Androgeus was one of Crete’s hopefuls. Held in Athens every four years, the games celebrated physical excellence. Androgeus hoped to enter both the wrestling and the marathon. Even though I was happy for him, I missed his presence.
I couldn’t bear the silence any more. I felt some answers bubbling away within me. If I held onto them any longer, I’d burst.
“Lift,” I said. Phaedra, sitting next to me, turned to me and raised her eyebrows. Even though I usually felt like I understood what Daedalus was saying, I often kept my mouth shut, unwilling to give Ariadne an opportunity to humiliate me. Despite being vain and nasty, Ariadne had a quick mind. Equipped with a sharp tongue, it was a fearsome combination.
“Explain yourself,” said Daedalus. His top lip quirked ever so slightly, an indication that he’d just heard something amusing. I smiled back nervously. I liked Daedalus but he wasn’t above chastising me in front of the others if I said something stupid.
“In order to fly, an object needs lift,” I said. I cast a hurried glance in the direction of Ariadne. I couldn’t help myself. To my relief, she wasn’t smiling. Instead, her eyebrows were knitted together in concentration, staring at me intently. With a grunt of irritation, she began scribbling furiously on the papyrus in front of her. Even from a few paces away, I could tell much of it was nonsense. A horrendous waste of papyrus given that it was a rare and expensive commodity. But then again, we were the children of the King. Well, most of us anyway.
To demonstrate, I stood. “I just used lift to force myself off my chair.”
“Yes, but you’re hardly flying,” sneered Ariadne.
“Ariadne,” said Daedalus sharply. “Confine your observations to ones that are relevant.”
Next to me, Phaedra chuckled as Ariadne blushed bright red.
“But that was relevant,” protested Ariadne. “He’s not flying. What has lift got to do with flying?”
“Asterion is right in some respects. In others, not so,” said Daedalus, bursting my bubble of joy over Ariadne’s discomfort. “Phaedra, have you got something to add?”
Phaedra nodded slowly. “I think I do,” she said finally. She stood next to me and lifted one of the pieces of papyrus in front of her. She held it flat on her palm and then gave it a little push upwards. The papyrus flut
tered upwards for a moment before slowly spiraling down to the floor. “See how the push I gave it caused the papyrus to float? I think Asterion was on to something. I believe lift is one of the things an object needs to fly—but there must be others.”
Daedalus nodded. “Good, Phaedra. It’s pleasing to see that at least someone has been listening all this time. Glaucus, you seem to be very quiet. Anything to add?”
Glaucus started, clearly not concentrating on anything rather than what was going on his head. Probably lunch, I thought. Lately, Glaucus had been putting on weight. Not surprising. He did little exercise and ate prodigious amounts of food. “I agree with Ariadne,” he said automatically.
Phaedra and I unsuccessfully repressed laughter. It was what Glaucus always said.
Like Ariadne moments before, Glaucus blushed.
We spent several minutes discussing various ideas relating to the dilemma posed by Daedalus and then took a more hands-on approach, trying out our ideas using the papyrus in front of us. I enjoyed myself, as did most of the others in the class. Daedalus was an excellent teacher. Even Ariadne and Glaucus were engaged. The twins, happy to have something more physical to do, were in their element.
Daedalus eventually declared it was lunchtime. As we shuffled out, I felt a light touch on my tunic. I turned to find Icarus standing next to me.
“You have some good ideas,” he said very softly, almost like he didn’t want the others to hear. Perhaps he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. “I’d like to discuss those with you sometime,” he said shyly. “If you’d like, we could talk about your horns, too. I have many questions.”
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