The King Must Die

by Mary Renault

  High above the shouts of the Cretans rose the Amazon battle scream. Closer, about my ears, Amyntor and Menesthes were yelling, as they had yelled at the Isthmus and at the storming of Sounion Head, “Ares Enyalios! Ah-yah-yah-yah Enyalios! Hai-ai-ai Theseus! Theseus! Theseus!”

  I threw back my head, and gave the war cry.

  We began to move faster. I remembered my dive in the muddy harbor, crawling among ships’ garbage to find the ring. I remembered how he had bought me like horseflesh, after I had defied him like a warrior; how he had shown me at his feasts like a dancing dog; how he had made me sing. And I said within me, “Let him dare to die before I come! Wait, Minotauros, wait. Wait for the mainland lad in the leather breeches; the mad bull-boy good to turn somersaults and nothing more! Ares of the Battle Call, Father Poseidon, keep him for me!”

  I could feel Ariadne’s fingers clutching my hair, as our charge bore her forward. Presently we came to some carrying-chairs, which had brought nobles to the dancing; we throned her in one of these, and the Cretans lifted the poles. As she rose above the mellay, I looked to see if she was frightened; but she was leaning forward, grasping the chair-arms, her lips parted as if she drank the wind.

  A roar broke forth like spring snows rushing down a mountain; but the spate streamed upwards, and was made of fire. The flames had found an oil store. As they met the breath of the gale they were flattened, and blown streaming to the north. By this huge cresset the House of the Ax was lit like day, and I saw that one block still stood entire. It was the western wing, where the great stair led down to the sunken shrine and the white throne of Minos. I thought, “If he lives, he is there.”

  They had found a second chair, and tossed me into it, lifting it shoulder-high. I made them turn it round, so that I could stand as in a chariot, with the high back for a rail. I did not want the bull-dancers to lose me. On I rode like a ship on a tossing sea, the Cranes close around, the Cretans cheering. To them I was Theseus the bull-leaper, whom the Mistress fancied; the odds-on favorite who had saved their bets. But to myself I was once more Kouros of Poseidon, Kerkyon of Eleusis; Theseus son of Aigeus son of Pandion, Shepherd of Athens, riding to my enemy. “Ahai! Ahai!” I shouted, as one leads the battle line. The war calls answered. My blood sparkled and sang.

  As we came near and the fire-glow warmed our faces, I thought of Minos, for whom the god himself had raised a burial-mound and fired the altar. Minos had sent the tribute-galleys forth. Under his seal the mainland cities had been assessed: so much corn and wine, so many mares in foal, so many bull-dancers. I would have ripped his soul from his breast upon a battlefield, if our threads had crossed there. But it is a king’s work to rule, to widen his lands, to win spoil for his warriors and feed his people. And he had greeted me by my title, though I was a slave. Asterion had offered me gold; he had put wine and dressed meat before me to the sound of music. But he had made my standing mean, and hurt my pride in myself when it was my whole estate. It is what any man will have blood for, who is half a man.

  We came in from the east, and saw a place that was not burning. It was the Bull Court. The lamps had been smothered by the falling roof; the shell still stood, and one or two columns; in the portico the Bull of Daidalos kept his sturdy feet, with painted plaster up to his hooves. I made them put me down, to lead the way.

  We climbed over the fallen roof beams, and the prone inner doors. In the passage beyond lay the floor from above, broken chairs and women’s paint-pots, and a child’s body curled upon a toy. Fiery sparks floated over us on the wind, and the air rippled with heat. Behind me ran the bull-dancers, who had kept with me while the Cretans looted; working together was in our blood.

  Presently we came out on a wide space of ruin. It was the Great Courtyard, where on smooth pavement cool to the feet nobles and envoys had walked among pots of lilies, and flowering lemon trees. Three of its sides had fallen in on it, the south right to the ground; to the east were leaning floors with flames licking along them. But the west wing stood. One of its balconies had fallen; the crimson pillars had smashed through the flagstones, and painted flowers stood bare upon the wall. But in the lofty entrance porch the huge king-column upheld the lintel above the stairs, and at the top of them I saw armed warriors.

  I was going to shout for the charge, when I heard groaning. Though the air was full of screams, from people trapped in the ruins, this caught my ear. It was quite near; as I looked about, a heap of rubble moved, and I heard my name.

  It was Alektryon. He lay with his curled black lovelocks white with dust; his gaping mouth was scattered with flakes of plaster. So had the boy-dolls of painted clay, which the Cretan ladies deck in springtime, lain on the dancing-floor trampled and unstrung. One hand hung limp; the other moved and fluttered over a great column-drum that lay across his belly. A rag hung out from under it; yellow silk stitched with turquoises, but it was mostly red. As I looked down, two Cretans shouldered each other to snatch his jewels.

  I flung them off him, and knelt down, with half an eye for the porch where the troops had seen us. His grimy hand gripped my arm. “Theseus,” he said. “Don’t leave me for the fire.”

  I looked at the great column; then at his eyes. We understood each other. I brushed the rubble from his breast; he was slender, and weakly as it beat one could find his heart. “This will be quick,” I said. “May the Guide lead you kindly. Shut your eyes.”

  He put his hand on my wrist, and panted as if he would speak again. I paused, and he jerked his head to the west wing, saying, “The Minotaur.” Then he shut his eyes as I had told him to. Seeing him bite his lips with pain, I left him in it no longer. He caught his breath and died; and I turned away, for there was much to do. So I never saw who got his necklace and earrings.

  Men were coming down the steps, holding up shields against the stones the Cretans were throwing. Forth stepped Phoitios, with his boxer’s nose, and standing before the king-column called out in Cretan, “Be quiet, good people. You have a king to mourn for. Minos is dead in the earthquake. How he sinned against the god, and incurred this vengeance, you will be told when there is time. But first the new Minos must be hallowed, who can make our peace with Earth-Shaker and avert his anger. Now while I speak to you the sacred rite is being done; the time is too desperate for public shows.” There were boos and howls of anger; but Phoitios was a man who could face out a lie. He flung up his hand palm out; he was a man used to command, and the sign had power. “Take care! He is in the presence of Mother Dia! It is sacrilege for men unpurified to approach the shrine. Have you not had enough misfortune? Stand back, and escape the curse.”

  They drew back muttering. They were not warriors, and had good cause to fear the gods. Then in the pause, a high clear voice sang out across the courtyard. “Who are you, Phoitios,” it said, “to curse for the Mother?”

  She stood on the platform before her chair, her right arm raised, the flame-light flickering on the dress she had led the dance in. Phoitios’ mouth set, and his men looked at each other. I too gazed in awe. Never before had I heard her speak with power; it made me shiver.

  She said, pointing toward the sanctuary, “In there is the curse upon the Labyrinth! I call all gods to witness, he has murdered Minos! There is the killer, in the holy place, uncleansed of blood-guilt, standing before the Mother. And you speak of sacrilege!” There was a dead hush, but for the rush and crackle of fire. She stretched both hands out over the earth and cried aloud, “May the Mother curse him and all gods below, and may Night’s Daughters hunt him down into the ground! And on the hand that sheds his blood let there be a blessing.”

  The silence broke in roaring. The Cretans surged forward. I cheered them on; a warrior does not forget the battle. But my mind was troubled. I thought, “She does not know who struck down Minos. Will her curse fly home to me?” And then I thought, “No, for Minos himself freed me of it,” and then again, “But she would have known who killed him, if she had spoken in the power of any god.” Then I felt better. As to Aste
rion being her own mother’s son, there is no holier duty than to avenge one’s father. One could only praise her, if she wanted to see his blood.

  The Cretans were hurling stones again and pressing nearer; behind us was the fire, and before the enemy. I jumped up where the bull-dancers could see me, and gave the call of the bull ring, when everyone is needed to turn the bull.

  A boy’s shout answered mine. Thalestris scrambled up the rubble, the firelight turning her strong limbs all to gold. She reached back over her shoulder to her quiver, and nocked an arrow to her string. It spoke, and Phoitios fell.

  “Well shot!” I called, and turned to smile at her. But she did not look. She was giving at the knees, and sinking backward, with a javelin standing up under her breast. She fell; the blood of her wound was bright as scarlet, and there was a rattle in her breath. A red-haired Amazon who had fought at her left hand knelt down beside her wailing. Thalestris pushed her away, to struggle up on her elbow; she scanned the battle line, and pointed out the man who had thrown the javelin. The red-haired girl leaped to her feet again. Under the glowing sky her eyes seemed to glitter with tears of fire; she blinked them away, and steadied her hands to aim. The man clutched his throat, and I saw the flight of her arrow between his fingers. Then she turned back; but Thalestris’ stare was set, and she lay still, with her black hair spilled among the crocks of a painted vase.

  The red-haired girl gave a scream that drowned all the din of the burning Labyrinth, and rushed toward the spears. I shouted my war call and sprang ahead. I liked her spirit; but I was not going to have a woman get there before me.

  The bull-dancers came swarming over the broken stones. Our feet were light, from dodging bulls in the thick sand of the ring; and the weapons in our hands were like food in famine, to us who had flirted with death unarmed. The troops on the steps had spears and shields; but Cretan bulls have long horns, and stronger fronts than a plated war helm. We were used to unequal matches; it had been our life.

  They were still hurling javelins, and ours could not be thrown; they had all been shortened, to smuggle into the Bull Court. Amyntor was by me. We grinned at each other, with the love of men in battle who know each other’s minds. Each of us picked his man, and waited till a stone made him throw his shield up; then we ran in and grappled him round the middle. Each of us came away with shield and seven-foot spear.

  We pressed up the wide stairway. Not far off I saw the red-haired Amazon, with Phoitios’ arms and helmet. The guards upon the steps had locked their shields; but we bore them back and back, past the painted frieze of noble youths bearing gifts to Minos, up and back toward the hall above. Sometimes they would trip as they felt for the stair behind them, and pitch down into our hands. The steps grew slippery, but it was worth it to get their arms. I saw some at the back beginning to steal away, and raised a yell to put the rest in fear.

  Suddenly, like water from a sink, they trickled back into the shadows. They had gone to hold a narrower pass. We gave a loud triumph call. Among all the voices, there was one that made me turn. It was Ariadne, borne high by the cheering Cretans, her hair dishevelled, her eyes wide, crying us on to the kill.

  As we tore up the stairs, I looked at the red-haired Amazon, whose spear arm was dyed now with a crimson wound; and my heart hid from its own thought. For war frenzy is honorable in a warrior girl, who sheds her own blood and risks her own life beside you. I know, who once had such a comrade, no man better than I, how as a bright torch it lights the battle. But in a house-woman with soft hands, whose painted feet have scarcely felt rough ground beneath them, it is not the same.

  “Well,” I said to myself, “wrong has been done her, and worse wrong threatened. She has a right to vengeance. And it is a time to do, not think.”

  At the top of the stairs was a hall, and beyond that an entry where light showed through from a staircase open to the sky. But while they held the outer steps, those I thought had fled had been building a barricade, of fallen stones and chests and such heavy stuff. It looked good for a long while. They shouted at us from behind it, bidding us begone, and leave Minos to his sacred task.

  I said to Amyntor, “Sacred task! There is only one thing the gods still want from him. If he were half a king, he would offer it himself, not leave us to take it.” Then I looked through at the staircase, and remembered the place below and how the land lay there; and I had a thought.

  “Kasos,” I said, “keep up the attack here. Press them hard; don’t let them think you are playing for time. There is a way I know; but it may be blocked by the earthquake. If I get in, you will hear my war call.” I looked for the Mistress, and saw her safe among her guardian Cretans. Then I rallied the Cranes to me, and said, “Follow me.”

  I led them down the steps again, and along the courtyard, toward the northern block beyond which was the Bull Court. There was a little warren there of kitchens and stillrooms and paint stores and blending rooms for oils and scents. There too was the old lamp room, with its trapdoor to the vaults.

  The face of the block had fallen, and the upper floors had caught the fire; but below were thick walls and pillars, and at ground level one could get inside. I must own I did not like it Poseidon’s great rage might have deadened me for a lesser warning; and the place looked ready to fall if one only breathed. Before we entered, I prayed him for a sign if he was still angry. Nothing stirred but the fire above us; so we went in.

  The lamp room stood. The shelves had fallen, and the lamps lay smashed on the floor. There were oil jars broken too, and we looked at each other, knowing fire might close the way behind us. But below were the strong pillars of Cretan Minos, which had withstood two great earthquakes. I thought it was a chance worth taking; and the Cranes trusted me.

  Below, all was thick darkness. We made wicks from our garments for two lamps which would still hold oil; there was no lack of kindling. I found the secret thread still tied about its pillar. I took it in one hand, and a lamp in the other, and led the way.

  The place had changed. We had to paddle in wine and oil, in lentils or in sesame, where the shock had thrown down the cysts and shelves. And once, as we crossed the ancient armory, we saw beyond it, through a narrow chink, wild tossing torchlight, and heard the shouts of men fighting like beasts. I guessed the vaults of treasure lay there. But the Cranes kept with me, sure and silent. Our minds were single; we did not take that sickness.

  At last we came to the Watcher. Great stones had fallen from the pillar by him, and he had risen a little out of the ground. You could see his jaw now and his fine strong teeth; he must have been young. The Cranes started, but he was an old friend to me; I saw no malice in his grin. It was his shaky pillar I did not care for; I put finger on lip, and we trod cat-footed.

  At last we saw before us the upward door, and under it a crack of light. We crept up softly; and laying my ear to the wood, I heard a sound of chanting.

  I tried the door, fearing to find it jammed out of the true. But it opened smoothly, still oiled from the last time. We grasped our weapons, and slipped within. The anteroom was full of a flickering glimmer. We crept across it; beyond was the great stairway, all dusky red with light thrown back from the burning sky. But there were lamps below, and mixed with the smoke a swirling cloud of incense. I signed for silence, and looked through.

  I saw before me a rite scrambled up out of fear and wreck: priests and priestesses in their daily clothes, with some rag or scrap as symbol of sacred raiment; rich pedestals bearing lamps of common clay, a boy with a dirty face holding the fretted censer; cracked vases of precious work laid leaking by, and the holy oils in pots from the kitchen. The white throne of Minos stood empty between its gryphons. The daggled crowd faced the other way, to the sunken earth court. White-faced hierophants stood round it, their gold-stitched robes torn and soiled, like mountebanks in rich men’s cast-offs bought from chamber grooms. Their incantations, shaky as the plaints of beggars, filled the place with a gabbling drone; sometimes they coughed, as wind-blown soot ca
ught their throats.

  Down in the earth court a man was standing, naked down from the neck; broad-bodied, thick-legged, thatched with black hair on chest and groin and shins, a-straddle before the sacred Labrys. His trunk glistened with the chrism a shaking old man and woman smeared on him with half-palsied hands. From the neck down he was man, and base; above the neck he was beast, and noble. Calm and lordly, long-horned and curly-browed, the splendid bull-mask of Daidalos gazed out through the sorry huddle with its grave crystal eyes.

  Above the chanting, half muffled by the walls, I could hear the fight still raging; the clatter of weapons and of stones, the shouts of men, the Amazons yelling. Our friends had kept faith with us. Now it was time. I gave the war whoop, and rushed out among them.

  The celebrants screamed and scattered. There was a rush for the staircase, old men and women knocking each other down, while those who were stronger trod them under. From outside came the shouts of the defenders, as they heard they had been taken from behind. A few wild-eyed guards, who had been stationed about the Throne Room itself, rushed in disordered. I thought the Cranes could hold them. As for me, I had one thing to do.

  He stood at bay, against the high wall that carried the stairway above the pit. It was too deep for him to climb out of it except by its steps. I stood at the top of them, and called his name. I wanted him to know me. The gold mask turned, and the curved eyes faced me. Fixed with that kingly gaze, which lent majesty even to what hid within it, I lifted my arm, and gave the salute of the team leader to the bull. Then I leaped down to him.