Ariadne(7)

Asterion grew and it became harder to contain him. As the months passed, only Pasiphae could enter the stables, which were reinforced with heavy iron bolts. Although I did not go in any more, I hung nervously about, unsure of what to do with myself. I had not danced since the day he was born. My stomach was a writhing pit of anxiety and whilst I paced relentlessly, I could not find the place within me that let restraint go. I waited and told myself that I did not know what I was waiting for. But I did.

I am certain that Eirene would not have gone near that stable of her own accord. I would never know what made her take that route back to her quarters that night, the night he lowered his head and charged at the bolted doors like he had so many times before without splintering the wood. The butting of his fearsome horns made all who heard it cringe and hurry by, but we had believed him secure. I did not allow myself to imagine the moment he had crashed through; how Eirene must have run, though she would have had no chance. My face felt numb, the tears blocked somewhere in my throat as I gathered up the torn scraps of fabric that had fluttered out into the courtyard, caught in the restless gust of wind that stirred as we arrived at the shattered stable doors, hastily barricaded by the unfortunate stable hands who had discovered the carnage earlier that autumn morning.

Phaedra hid her face in my skirts and I stroked her hair. ‘Don’t look,’ I mumbled through numb lips.

I remember the heat of the resentful eyes upon us when we turned and saw the gathering of household staff that bore witness to the scene. I remember the stiff paralysis that seized me in the centre of that semi-circle of accusers, and the repetitive thud, thud, thud of my murderous brother’s horns against the iron slabs that just barely held the doors behind me.

How long that eternity stretched, I cannot say, but the deafening silence was broken abruptly by the arrival of Minos. His cloak swished as he strode through the crowd, which scattered and dispersed in his wake like a shoal of fish before a shark.

Beside me, my mother cringed.

No blow was struck, no scathing words delivered. When I risked an upward glance, I saw his expression was placid, with no hint of a storm on the horizon. A fragment of robe spiralled in the chill breeze by his feet and I saw a smile begin to break across his face. ‘Wife!’ he exclaimed.

I felt her flinch, though her eyes were dull as smoked glass.

He gestured expansively, warm and exuberant. ‘Day by day, I hear reports of our son’s strength and how it grows. He becomes a fine specimen, despite his youth, and the tales of his power strike awe and respect into hearts far and wide.’ He nodded approvingly at the bloodstained scraps of material and the incessant thud, thud, thud.

Our son? I wondered, not yet understanding what he meant. I slowly perceived, in my incredulity, that it was pride warming the stern angles of his face. He was proud of the monster we had nurtured in the heart of the palace, proud of the reputation it had won him. Far from bringing ridicule upon the cuckolded Minos’ head, Poseidon had delivered him a fearsome weapon, a divine brute that Minos had come to see would only strengthen his status.

‘He must have a name,’ Minos declared, and I did not speak up to say Asterion. Why would he care what Pasiphae and I had called him?

Minos approached the door, and at the sound of his footsteps the thud, thud, thud increased as my brother’s excitement overwhelmed him. Minos laid his hand against the straining doors and, as they bounced against his palm with ravenous force, Minos’ smile broadened. ‘The Minotaur,’ he spoke, claiming my brother for his own. ‘A name that befits the beast.’

And so Asterion became the Minotaur. My mother’s private constellation of shame intermingled with love and despair no longer; instead, he became my father’s display of dominance to the world. I saw why he proclaimed him the Minotaur, stamping this divine monstrosity with his own name and aligning its legendary status with his own from its very birth. Realising that no stable in the world would constrain him any longer, he compelled Daedalus to construct his most awesome and ambitious creation yet: a mighty labyrinth set beneath the palace floor, a nightmare of twisting passages, dead ends, spiralling branches, all leading inexorably to its dark centre. The lair of the Minotaur.

With Pasiphae’s baby confined to a dark, stinking maze of tunnels, his only company the lonely echo of his bellowings and the rattle of rotting bones beneath his hooves, I began to see flickers of emotion in her once again. Where once she had shone with joy, love and laughter, she now was shadowed with bitterness and a slow, smouldering rage.

I had lost my mother the day that Poseidon’s curse drove her to the pastures where his sacred monster waited but I still found myself searching for her, however vain I knew such a quest to be. I would often, hopelessly and helplessly, seek her chambers and try to bring her out into the world once more, no matter how many times I was rebuffed. More frequently, I would find her doors bolted and although I knew she was only inches away from me, she would give no sign that she ever heard me call for her. One day, however, when I went to press futilely upon the barricaded door, I was surprised to find it swing away beneath my hand with the smooth, silent action that was a trademark of Daedalus’ work.

She had left her sanctuary unguarded, and she did not hear me enter. The chamber was in darkness; the warm golden light that should have spilled through was obscured by heavy fabrics hung haphazardly against the windows. A sharp stink of herbs made my eyes water. I looked about in confusion, trying to discern through the gloom where my mother might be.