Ariadne(14)

The games wore on and prizes were awarded. It did not stir my interest again until Theseus was led to the podium. Minos was in full flow, expansive and generous as he smiled broadly and placed an arm around Theseus’ shoulder. ‘The greatest prize we give today is usually the olive wreath,’ he declaimed. ‘But today, an extraordinary performance merits an extraordinary prize. Theseus, Prince of Athens, in honour of your mighty feats today, I give you your freedom. You will sail home tomorrow with the treasure you brought in offering to us.’

I sighed with intense relief. Beside me, Phaedra did the same, her hand clasped to her heart as though to calm its racing pulse.

Theseus looked grave. ‘I thank you for your benevolence, King Minos. But I cannot accept the generous honour you have extended to me. I swore to keep my brothers and sisters of Athens company on their journey into the unknown darkness tomorrow and I must not withdraw that now. I will keep my oath.’

Cinyras had been taking a long draught of wine and at this, he spluttered. Red drops showered over his robes, sinking into the extravagant purple. His face was stunned and stupid. After the florid speeches Minos had made all afternoon, Theseus’ succinct refusal sounded curt and entirely unexpected. My father wiped the shock from his face, but I could see the anger smouldering in his eyes. ‘Your honour and your courage are indeed as great as I had heard,’ he answered. ‘Crete welcomes your sacrifice.’ He swung to face me. ‘Ariadne,’ he commanded.

I jumped. What had I done? Had Minos’ cold gaze penetrated my very thoughts? Did he know how my rebellious heart surged with admiration for the man who had just so very publicly embarrassed him?

‘My eldest daughter,’ Minos went on. He gestured at me to stand.

Haltingly, I rose, feeling the gaze of hundreds rest suddenly upon me.

‘The Princess of Crete will crown you victor of our games.’

I hadn’t expected this. It had never been required of me before. I wondered if it was in some way to impress Cinyras or simply that he couldn’t trust himself to place the wreath on Theseus’ head without smashing it down in a fit of undignified temper.

With Minos’ glare intent on me, I had no choice but to force myself forward, towards the podium. At first, I cringed under the weight of everyone’s stares but then I looked towards Theseus and saw him watching me. His eyes were calm and steady. All at once, the crowd merged into the background and I looked only at him.

And then I was in front of him and I couldn’t hold his gaze any longer. The wreath was placed in my hands, by Minos or a servant, I couldn’t tell – I was too acutely aware of Theseus inches away from me. His head ducked down; my fumbling fingers dropped the wreath upon his hair and I stepped back, almost tripping on the long trail of my skirt. I think there was a scattering of applause. As I turned back to my seat, I saw Cinyras, the wine jug swinging from his hand and a spark of accusation kindling across his drink-sodden face.

The celebratory atmosphere dissipated a little after this. Theseus’ quiet dignity had confused us all. I think there were some who would have gladly watched him walk free with his life intact and his body unscathed, and then there were those suspicious of his unwillingness to accept such a gift, perhaps thinking he meant it as an insult to Minos and thereby an insult to all of Crete.

As the day drew to a slightly discomfited close, Phaedra and I rose to leave. With no courtesy, Cinyras pushed past us in his stained robes. Phaedra looked crushed and I could see the gathering of unshed tears glistening in her eyes. She was soft-hearted, my little sister, and she bore no love or loyalty for the Minotaur. Theseus’ display had moved her and I grieved for the shattering of her idealistic dreams.

But I couldn’t pretend that it was sympathy for Phaedra that made me glance back at the podium where Theseus had stood. Something else pulled me to it, and my feet were heavy as I forced them in the other direction.

Over the mountains, the orange flame of the sun was sinking. Helios drove his mighty chariot beyond the horizon, leaving the world to darkness.

And now to the great hall to feast: bowls of beaten bronze, inlaid with gems and painted figures adorning the outside, piled high with meat, fish, fruit, honey, glistening olives and crumbling slabs of salty, white cheese. Wine flowed and musicians played, singing stories of gods, heroes, treasures and monsters.

It was a great display of wealth and power and it was with a jolt that I saw Minos had commanded the Athenian captives to observe the celebrations.

My appalled eyes ran over the line. Seven boys, seven girls. All so young. I saw the face of the boy in the centre twist as he tried to master his trembling mouth and pull it into a straight line. I forced myself not to look away, but to take in the face of each of Athens’ children that we had brought here to murder. Fourteen faces. Thirteen of them were terrified, eyes reddened and hands shaking. I wondered what it cost them to stay standing. The fourteenth face, I did not have to wonder.

I could see Theseus much closer in this hall than in the arena, and it filled me with mingling emotions. What good did it do to look upon him now when he would die tomorrow? Minos’ cruelty in displaying his tributes was marked. His reasoning was thus: it was in their honour that we feasted. Whilst excited chatter and laughter rang through the hall, the bound tributes watched. Flanked by guards, hands tied before them, they trembled and prayed, waiting to be devoured at sunset the next day.

The Athenians weren’t the only ones Minos displayed. At the front of the hall, just beside the grand table at which my family were seated, sat Daedalus. His face wore more years than he’d lived, his hair whitened although he was not yet old. Around Knossos, his creations bore testament to Minos’ supremacy: Daedalus’ skill was unrivalled in the world, and he belonged to Crete. His most famed creation was one that few people ever saw; perhaps the hostages should feel honoured that they would have the privilege of not only seeing but actually treading its intricate pathways. Perhaps not. It would be too dark to appreciate its wonders, and the frenzied bellowing of the maddened monster intent upon tearing them limb from limb would detract from the awe one might otherwise feel. I knew Daedalus bore that knowledge and it crushed his shoulders down to the slump he now wore. No longer the straight-backed, avuncular inventor of my childhood who had come to Crete to develop his craft. He was the master of it, and whilst he wore no chains, he could never leave Crete as long as Minos desired to hold the secrets of the Labyrinth close.