Minotaur Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Copyright © 2015

  MINOTAUR by PHILLIP W. SIMPSON

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Month9Books, LLC.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Published by Month9Books

  Cover designed by Najla Qamber Designs

  Cover Copyright © 2015 Month9Books

  Map of ancient Greece used with permission from greeka.com.

  For Emeritus Professor Vivienne Gray. Emeritus Professor Geoffrey Irwin and Professor Tanya Fitzgerald. Thanks for instilling within me a sense of wonder and thirst for knowledge about the ancient world.

  “With record of his deeds. When men shall have read of … the mingled form of bull and man.” Ovid, Heroides 2. 67 ff

  “Krete rising out of the waves; Pasiphae, cruelly fated to lust after a bull, and privily covered; the hybrid fruit of that monstrous union - the Minotaurus, a memento of her unnatural love.” Virgil, Aeneid 6. 24

  “What Cretan bull [the Minotauros], fierce, two-formed monster, filling the labyrinth of Daedalus with his huge bellowings, has torn thee asunder with his horns?” Seneca, Phaedra 1170

  “Theseus escaped the cruel bellowing and the wild son of Pasiphae, the Minotauros and the coiled habitation of the crooked labyrinth.” Callimachus, Hymn 4 to Delos 311

  Cast of characters

  Cretan Royal family

  King Minos: King of Crete. Stepfather of Minotaur.

  Queen Pasiphae: Queen of Crete. Mother of Minotaur.

  Princess Ariadne: daughter of King Minos and Queen Pasiphae of Crete.

  Prince Asterion: Also known as the Minotaur or just Minotaur. Sometimes as the ‘starry one.’ Son of Queen Pasiphae of Crete and the Greek god of the sea, Poseidon. Step-son of King Minos of Crete.

  Prince Glaucus: Son of King Minos and Queen Pasiphae of Crete. Youngest sibling to Asterion.

  Prince Androgeus: eldest son of Minos and Pasiphae. Brother of Asterion.

  Prince Catreus: Son of King Minos and Queen Pasiphae of Crete. Twin brother of Deucalion. Younger brother of Asterion.

  Prince Deucalion: Son of King Minos and Queen Pasiphae of Crete. Twin brother of Catreus. Younger brother of Asterion.

  Princess Phaedra: Illegitimate daughter of King Minos.

  Cretan retainers

  Daedalus: Master craftsman. Builder of the labyrinth with his son, Icarus.

  Icarus: Master craftsman. Builder of the labyrinth with his father, Daedalus

  Alcippe: Nursemaid for the King’s children on Crete.

  Paris: Martial trainer in the palace of King Minos of Crete.

  Athenians

  Prince Theseus: Prince of Athens. Son of King Aegeus and Poseidon.

  Princess Aethra: Mother of Theseus

  King Aegeus: King of Athens. Father of Theseus.

  Queen Medea: Queen of Athens

  Other

  Publius Ovidius Naso: Also known as Ovid. Roman poet in 1st century BC.

  Periphetes: An outlaw

  Procrustes: An outlaw

  Sciron: An outlaw

  Sinis: An outlaw

  Chapter 1

  The ship swept into port at Iraklion. Swaying slightly, Ovid stood at the rail and waited impatiently for it to dock, eager to see the sights and sounds of this island. Shipboard life, whilst vaguely entertaining, had begun to be a little monotonous.

  Crete was a place he’d always been keen to visit, especially given his current work in progress. His most ambitious work to date. The Metamorphoses, his epic poem of Greek and Roman mythology, was almost complete. He considered it his magnum opus, his greatest work—something that he was immensely proud of. It would, he hoped, cement his place amongst the best Roman poets and live on long after his death. It was a monumental piece of work, comprising fifteen books and over two hundred and fifty Greek and Roman myths, painstakingly researched, rewritten and reinterpreted. It chronicled the history of the world from its creation all the way through to the reign of Julius Caesar. All that remained was a little editing and some fact checking and then it would be ready—he hoped. Ovid desperately needed it to be a success. Even poets with the Emperor’s favor could not afford to waste years on an unpopular work.

  After working for so long, he’d had a sudden desire to get out, to actually see some of the places he’d been writing about. To see where these events had taken place. Not that it was especially important—most of his work had taken a decidedly creative approach to historical events—but it was invigorating nonetheless. He was a poet after all, not an historian. That was why he was on Crete. To see for himself the fabled home of the Minotaur.

  Ovid’s thoughts turned for a moment to Rome. For once, he didn’t miss the bustling metropolis. He wondered for a moment what his daughter was doing. No doubt busy with his three grandchildren. They would have liked this trip, but he had quickly discarded the idea of bringing them along as foolhardy. At fifty, he felt old. The grandchildren exhausted him.

  He disembarked, unburdened by any baggage other than a wineskin. A sailor trailed in his wake, carrying bags that contained his few important items; his writing implements and a few changes of clothes.

  The port was a bustling hive of activity; sailors and dock workers vying with each other for elbow room, loading and unloading crates, urns, and a bewildering array of other products, which included live animals and people like himself.

  A nearby voice raised in anger drew his attention amongst the chaos. A circle of bodies formed, incorporating Ovid into their midst. Within the circle, two figures stood. A shattered urn lay at their feet, shards of broken pottery lying in pools of what was clearly wine. Ovid drew a long breath in, savoring the delicious fumes even as he mourned the waste of good wine slowly evaporating.

  One was an average sized man, unshaven with hair that looked like it had been chopped and sawn off with a clumsy blade. He wore a battered and torn tunic that appeared Roman in origin. Facing him was perhaps the largest man Ovid had ever seen. He stood head and shoulders above the other man and most of the others that gathered eagerly nearby. The simple tunic he wore could hardly contain his chest and arms, thick with corded muscle. Legs like seasoned oaks supported him.

  The huge man’s tunic marked him as Cretan. Ovid really didn’t think Cretans were so, well, large.

  “You clumsy fool,” snarled the smaller man. “You’ll pay for that.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the huge man. “It was an accident.” A breeze suddenly sprung up, wafting the man’s long, greasy hair so that his face was suddenly revealed. His cheek bore evidence of ancient scars.

  “Pay me now,” said the other man, holding out his hand expectantly.

  The giant shook his head. “I have no money to pay,” he said, almost sadly.

  The smaller man’s face twisted in anger. “Then my fist will extract payment,” he said, aiming a mighty blow at his opponent.

  The huge man did nothing other than bring his hand up. He caught the fist of his attacker, stopping it dead like it had impacted with a stone wall.

  The other man’s eyes went wide with surprise. He tried to wrestle his hand back from his opponent but found that it was stuck fast. The situation m
ight’ve degenerated into something much worse then but for the intervention of the town’s garrison.

  Three legionaries were pushing their way through the crowd.

  “Break it up,” shouted one of them. The crowd grudgingly dispersed, grumbling. The two antagonists melted away with them.

  The legionaries pushed through them until they were standing before Ovid.

  “Publius Ovidius Naso?” said one of them.

  Ovid sighed wearily. He was beginning to sober up, which didn’t exactly improve his mood. “That is my name, yes, but most call me Ovid.”

  If the legionnaire was annoyed or disconcerted, he didn’t show it. “The Emperor sent word you would be coming. You are here to see the palace at Knossos?”

  “I am indeed,” said Ovid.

  The legionnaire nodded. “Please come with us, sir.”

  “Don’t I get to put my bags down? Perhaps a small goblet of wine? Maybe rest my legs for a moment or two?” said Ovid irritably. Not that he needed any more wine. Or rest for that matter. He’d had ample on board the ship. But that wasn’t the point. These legionnaires didn’t seem to possess any manners. Perhaps, this far away from the center of Roman power, they’d forgotten what civility they had once possessed.

  “The ship leaves again in three days’ time, sir,” said the legionnaire patiently. “If you really want to explore, you don’t have much time. I thought you might want to make a start.”

  “Oh, very well,” grumbled Ovid. More wine would evidentially have to wait.

  The legionaries led him through the small town of Iraklion. It was a picturesque place with simple white washed cottages. Dotted amongst them were larger wooden and stone buildings with gabled roofs covered in terracotta tiles. Ovid’s delicate nose knew exactly what most of them stored. The air was filled with the heady fumes of sweet, sweet wine, Crete’s specialty. Ovid would’ve loved to have an opportunity to explore the contents of these buildings but it seemed he was to be denied.

  They came to a stout structure that, in contrast to the buildings of indigenous design, was clearly of Roman origin. Its walls were tall, comprised mostly of large blocks of stone. Its fortified nature marked it for what it was—the local Roman barracks, home to the garrison.

  He and the sailor were escorted inside. A stool was provided for Ovid and the sailor dropped the bags next to it, holding out a hand expectantly. Ovid fished around and produced a coin. The sailor bit it and, apparently satisfied with its authenticity, hastily departed. The legionaries told Ovid to make himself comfortable, promising to return shortly. Ovid complained loudly at this treatment to anyone who would listen but his complaints were largely ignored.

  After waiting for an hour, Ovid, thoroughly irritated and more than a little thirsty, decided to take a more active approach. He stood and stalked over to a table where two legionaries were playing with dice.

  “I demand to see someone in charge,” said Ovid. “I wish to complain.”

  “We’ve noticed,” said one of the legionaries dryly, looking up from his game of chance.

  “I have been kept waiting for longer than even the most patient man could tolerate. I haven’t even been offered some refreshment,” said Ovid. He would’ve said more but was interrupted by a voice behind him. Ovid turned.

  “My apologies,” said the new arrival—a centurion by the looks of him. “There was an altercation down at the dock that I had to address. I’m sorry that we kept you waiting. Please follow me, sir.” He eyed the two dicing legionaries critically. “You,” he said, pointing to one of them, “get off your lazy ass and bring his bags.”

  Ovid, slightly mollified by this, nodded his head curtly. The centurion led him through the barracks toward the rear of the building. They exited through an ancient wooden door that appeared to belong to a much older structure and found themselves out in a large training yard. It was empty save for one man holding the reins of a donkey.

  Ovid blinked in surprise. It was the giant that he’d seen earlier.

  “Publius Ovidius Naso, this is Ast,” said the centurion, introducing the giant. “He will guide you up the hill to the palace and show you around.”

  Ovid extended his hand. It disappeared into the palm of the larger man.

  “Greetings,” said Ast, his voice a low rumble reminiscent of boulders grinding against each other. He kept his head down and only met Ovid’s eye for a moment. His long hair shadowed the rest of his face, almost as if he was embarrassed somehow.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” said Ovid easily. This, he decided, would be an interesting trip. Ast was clearly a local. Who knew what tales this man had? Perhaps some Ovid had never heard before. He felt his scholar’s intuition and thirst for good, well told stories flare up.

  Even if Ast were lacking in conversation, the donkey would ensure an easy climb. Ovid’s wine skin was full. The sky was bright and clear. The sun was shining. Already, his irritation over his treatment by the legionaries was starting to subside.

  The legionnaire dropped Ovid’s belongings at his feet. The poet fumbled around in his toga for his purse and extracted another coin. He held it out and then had second thoughts.

  “You’ll get triple if you undertake another little task for me,” said Ovid, addressing the legionnaire. “See that warehouse in the distance over there? The one that smells of wine?”

  Ω

  Riding on the donkey was not as comfortable as Ovid had imagined. The roughly paved path that wound gently up the hill was not well maintained. This, Ovid mused, is what you got in the backwaters of the Empire.

  The path followed the river Kairatos, which was pleasant enough. The cool air from the rushing waters kept the worst of the heat from stifling the two men as they ascended. The path was shaded in parts by large cypress and oak trees.

  “I take it you live around here?” asked Ovid, more to pass the time than any great urge for conversation.

  Beside him, Ast nodded his great head. “Yes. I live in a cottage not far from the ruins.”

  “And what is it you do? I mean other than get into fights at the docks and act as guide to drunken poets?”

  Ast looked surprised for a moment. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said slowly. “It was—as I said at the time—an accident. The aggrieved party didn’t concur with my worldview and decided to take his complaint to the garrison commander. The only reason I am not currently residing in one of their cells is because I agreed to guide you. As for what I do—I tend goats. I grow olives. I maintain the gardens of the palace. It is enough.”

  “Why didn’t you hit that man?” asked Ovid. “He had it coming.”

  Ast shook his head. “I have discovered that violence rarely solves problems. Years ago, I might’ve responded differently, but not now.”

  “And what were you doing down at the docks?” asked Ovid.

  Ast turned to stare at Ovid for a moment and the poet felt a little intimidated by the intensity in that stare. “You ask a lot of questions, poet, but if you must know, I was picking up supplies. And waiting,” said Ast, somewhat mysteriously.

  “Waiting for what?” asked Ovid. Ast did not respond.

  Ovid decided to change tack. “Was it the Romans who built this road?” he asked.

  “No,” said Ast. “This is the remains of the royal road which led from the port to the palace itself.”

  “Ah,” said Ovid. Maybe he couldn’t blame Roman engineers after all.

  It was clear that the huge man was not inclined toward conversation. Ovid was content to let the remainder of the voyage pass in silence, guessing that Ast preferred to be alone with his thoughts.

  It was over a league from Iraklion’s port to the top of Kephala Hill—where the ancient ruins of the palace of Knossos sat. It took the two men almost two hours to reach it, by which time Ovid had had enough. His body ached. The donkey, although well fed, was bony enough to cause his rear great discomfort.

  He dismounted with
a sigh of relief.

  “Here you are,” said Ast, without preamble.

  Ovid was surprised. He knew he would find ruins but he hadn’t quite expected this. The palace, scattered over a huge area, had well-tended gardens. Clearly, it wasn’t as neglected as he’d been led to believe. Ast must have been busy.

  They tied the donkey to a nearby cypress and Ast led the way into the ruins. They passed under a covered stairway, which led them into the palace proper. Entering a massive courtyard, Ovid followed the giant, picking their way over fallen columns, some blackened by ancient fire. A shattered wall offered a vista over the valley.

  “To the south there is the ancient site of the Caravanserai,” said Ast, pointing. “Further south, there used to be many houses. Once, a bridge crossed the river Vlychia. It collapsed during the last earthquake.” Ast pointed at the opposite shore. “That is Gypsades Hill,” he said. “The limestone for this palace and what lies beneath was quarried there.”

  “And what exactly lies beneath?” asked Ovid. “Are you referring to the labyrinth, the home of the mythical Minotaur?”

  Ovid saw Ast stiffen for a moment and wondered what he had said to offend.

  “Yes,” said Ast. “We stand above the labyrinth.”

  “Can I see it?”

  Ast hesitated for a moment. “Why would you want to see it?” he asked.

  “I am a scholar and a poet,” said Ovid. “Myths and legends of all sorts interest me. I am particularly interested in the tale of the Minotaur. You’ve heard of him, of course?”

  Ast nodded. “Yes. Every Cretan has.” Without another word, he turned and began making his way through the myriad ruined rooms of the palace. Ovid had to confess that it was all very confusing. The palace itself contained over a thousand rooms. If he hadn’t had Ast along, he surely would’ve become lost.