Lost in the Labyrinth (3 page)

When I encounter people from other nations, either down at the harbor or formally at court, it is difficult to avoid coming to the conclusion that foreigners, whatever their station in life, invariably stink. They don't seem to realize it, either. Elegantly dressed ambassadors will smile and bow and lean over me, patting my hand in a kindly way. all the while blasting out such a stench of rotted teeth and unwashed bodies that I must fight the urge to flee.

Ours is a society much addicted to washing. Our bathing facilities are renowned all over the civilized world. No one has devised a more elegant and ingenious method of cleaning the body and carrying away its wastes, and I do not believe that anyone ever will. The Queen of Egypt has not a bathroom so fine, even though it is said that she bathes in asses' milk and honey for the sake of her complexion.

I am especially fond of my own bathtub. Well, to be truthful, it is not mine alone but belongs to my sisters as well as myself. Icarus's father, Daedalus, made and decorated it for us, and Icarus helped him, though he was but a child at the time. For this latter reason it is doubly dear to me, but I love it mostly because it is beautiful and clever, like everything that Daedalus makes.

Since it is the bathing place for a princess who will someday rule an empire, the bathtub is designed to give information to the mind while the body sheds the dirt and odors of the day. It is a perfect model of our world, or as perfect as it can be and yet retain the shape of a bathtub.

We are the Sea People, or so we are often called. We live at the very center of the world, at the very center of the sea. Painted on the floor and sides of the tub is a map of the sea, with the Island of Kefti in the middle of it and along the rim the lands that border upon the sea. So, after Maira has released rainwater from the catchment reservoir on the roof into the tub, added a basinful of boiling water to make it hot, and poured in the fragrant oils, I climb inside and find myself sitting squarely on my own homeland, on top of a tiny representation of the Palace of Knossos.

As is fitting, my back is to the ignorant Ligurii in the west. (I have heard that still farther west lies an even greater sea than our own, with lands unimaginable lining its shores, but I care nothing for them; that which is not represented in my bathtub does not interest me.) My left arm lies on the northern shores of the sea, from whence come the Athenians and other Hellenes. My left knee presses upon the land of Anatolia, where the Hittites live. My right arm curls about the southern coast: arid Libya, where my sister Acalle is said to have gone.

Far, far to the east, above the drain hole and almost entirely out of the tub, lies Babylon, where they understand the secret pathways of the stars. Nearer, underneath my right foot where it rests on the rim, is the ancient land of Egypt. And scattered across the face of the sea, underneath my body where I cannot see them, are the many colonies of the Keftiu: Kamikos, Thera, Naxos, and others.

Painted dolphins and squid swim in the sea, camels lope across Libya, the inscrutable Sphinx guards the mouth of the ancient Nile—oh, it is a beautiful bathtub!

I have sat upon my mother's throne often, and once or twice worn my mother's crown. Never have I wished to be queen except, occasionally, in my bath.

And yet to be Queen of Kefti is to be queen of the world, or nearly so. We the Keftiu have no rival in the world, save Egypt. Alone among the nations of the eastern seas, we pay no tribute to Pharaoh; we are equals. The Keftiu do not begrudge Egypt her wealth. Why should we, when so much of it finds its way into our storehouses by means of trade?

Our people are makers and merchants. We have small heart for conquest, though we will do what we must to protect ourselves. It is in our best interests that the sea shall be peaceable and free from piracy; therefore, our ships patrol the waters far and wide, punishing those (Athenians, as often as not) who would attack and plunder honest merchants.

But our greatest joy is the making of things: things of beauty and usefulness, things to amuse and entertain, things of power and wonder. We make so many things that in the end we have not room in our houses and temples and palaces for them all, so we ship some of them to neighboring countries. In return, our neighbors send us lumber and metals and precious stones from which we make yet more things: vases and urns and libation cups, medicines, charms and magic rings, ornaments of gold and silver, finely wrought swords and jeweled ostrich eggs.

We the Keftiu are very clever and very, very rich.

S
OMETHING DREADFUL HAS HAPPENED
. M
Y BROTHER
G
LAUCUS
is missing. No one can tell where he has gone.

Soaking in the bathtub, I heard the beginning of the uproar. I sent Maira to see what was going on while I dried myself off She returned, wailing and keening as though already mourning his death.

"The poor little boy! He's wandered off by himself. He's surely been eaten by lions!"

"Don't be stupid, Maira," I snapped. "There are no lions on Kefti." Maira came from Anatolia, where these ferocious beasts are often heard roaring in the waste places.

"There is the lion in the Queen's Menagerie," she pointed out.

A chill washed over me in spite of the lingering heat of the day. Glaucus was just such a plump, round little boy who might be expected to appeal to a hungry beast of prey.

"Go and look, then," I commanded.

"Oh, but—what if the lion is still loose, prowling around? I must stay and help you dress, Princess."

"I am perfectly capable of dressing myself. And if," I added meanly, for I was angry with her for giving me a fright, "if you are right and the lion has eaten my brother, he may be too full to think of eating you as well."

"Oh, my lady!"

"Go!"

She went.

If truth be told, I was not accustomed to dressing myself and it took me some time, fumbling with the fastenings of my clothes. My very haste seemed to render them stiff and uncooperative. Still, after what seemed an eternity, I was attired and ready to help in the search.

Glaucus had been missing for much of the day. He had not been seen since just after the morning meal, and it was now late afternoon. His personal servant admitted that he had given the boy leave to go down to the wharves at the harbor to watch the stir and excitement of the preparations there but had not accompanied him. Instead, Bas, the servant, had curled up in a corner and taken a long nap. He awoke just before the midday meal and, when Glaucus did not appear (a most unusual circumstance, for Glaucus was fond of food), began cautiously to inquire about him around the harbor. No one could be found who had seen him, and the servant's fears grew, until at length he was forced to admit that the child was lost and to ask for help in finding him.

The Labyrinth is not a good place in which to lose something. It was built with the intention to confuse and confound. It is as much a temple as it is a palace, for it is the dwelling of the Goddess, the Lady of the Double Ax. A hundred winding passageways leading to a thousand and half a thousand rooms ensure that no one who has entered may leave without assistance.

Only a few months before, the feebleminded son of a merchant in Knossos Town had crept into the palace. I do not myself believe that he meant any harm, but who can say? He eluded the vigilance of the guards and penetrated the private portion of the palace for some reason best known to himself Being lost in the Labyrinth is bewildering for those of normal intelligence—what must it have been like for such a one as he?

I pity him, thinking of his fear mounting as he trod endless featureless corridors that turned and turned upon themselves and finally led to a dead end. I imagine him running down a flight of stairs, believing that at last he was about to break free of the maze, only to be faced with a blank wall and no way out save by the route he had come.

Eventually he happened upon the Bull Pen, where my brother lives. In the extremity of his terror, the madman attacked my brother with a knife. The Athenians did nothing, of course, except to run like so many squawking chickens. When the soldiers came, Asterius was snorting with rage, trampling about the enclosure with blood and foam speckling his arms and chest. The poor fool lay dead, his neck broken.

I could not prevent myself from thinking of this now. What if—what if Glaucus had gone to see our brother Asterius? What if Glaucus had teased Asterius, pulled on his tail, tormented him in some way? Surely Asterius would not—

My heart beating uncomfortably in my chest, I nearly ran to the Bull Pen. It could not have happened, it
ought
not to have happened, with those servants present. Yet no one knew better than I that servants are not always to be relied upon. I could not believe that all thirteen of the Athenians would stand by while their charge tore a seven-year-old child of royal blood to pieces, but still my feet paced faster and faster as I ran deeper and deeper into the maze.

In the Bull Pen, all seemed much the same as on my earlier visit, except that Asterius was asleep amid piles of hay. The servants arose and saluted me.

"He is not here, my lady," said one immediately. "The little prince is not here. The king, he came and asked and we said, 'No, no little boy came here.'" If my father himself had come looking for Glaucus, then the situation was indeed grave.

I looked about for signs that they were lying, but saw none. There was no indication of a struggle, no terrible patch of blood, nothingto suggest that anything but eating and drinking and gambling had gone on here. If Asterius had been involved in anything like what I dreaded, I knew that he would not now be sleeping but still rampaging about, bellowing and pawing at the dirt floor.

Asterius awoke and came to me. Disappointed that I had brought him no gifts of food, he felt inside my pockets and shook his heavy head mournfully. It occurred to me that I had not taken him outside lately—he must be bored.

It was growing ever more difficult to allow my brother the freedom of being outside, away from the Labyrinth. My father claimed, especially after the incident with the fool, that he was likely to kill someone. I had no such fears, but I was not sure I still had the ability to restrain him if he took it into his head to bolt.

Never mind. Once this fuss over Glaucus was over, Id take Asterius out and see to it that he exerted his limbs to some purpose. I would bring his attendants and—here was an idea—I would ask Icarus to accompany us. I stroked my brother briefly and kissed his broad forehead in farewell.

I debated with myself what I should do next. Many of those now searching would themselves be lost in the Labyrinth by nightfall. I could see no purpose in adding a missing princess to the miseries of the day. I had grown up within these walls, yes; I had played here all my life, but even I might lose myself in the maze. Every day, it seemed, new rooms were erected. No one could possibly keep track, except perhaps Daedalus, Icarus's father.

I have heard Icarus say that in Athens they believe that Daedalus built the Labyrinth, as though one man could ever have conceived of it, let alone laid stone on stone to erect such an edifice. They wish to believe it, of course, because Daedalus is partly of their blood and they may thus lay a sort of claim to the most remarkable building on earth.

It's laughable, really. Ariadne says that Aegeus, King of Athens, lives in a crude hall of no more than three or four large rooms, a humbler dwelling than we would think proper for one of our impoverished upcountry farmers.

The Labyrinth has been slowly building, rising tier upon tier, colonnade upon colonnade, corridor upon corridor, room upon room, for more than a thousand years. However clever Daedalus may be (and he is very clever indeed), he is only a man, with a man's normal span of years. He is, however, the overseer of new construction and in charge of redecorating some of the suites of rooms, which may be how the story came to be told in Athens. Icarus claims that his father carries the plan of the whole Labyrinth in his head, which is certainly more than I could do.

I therefore determined to seek further news before extending my search. Perhaps Glaucus had already been found and a feast in celebration was even now being prepared. I hurried away to the public rooms, where I might hope to hear tidings of him.

As I descended the grand staircase in the eastern wing I heard voices on the landing below. They were the voices of the two people most likely to be able to give me the information I craved—my mother and father. The news did not appear to be good.

"Well, Pasiphae, are you satisfied?" said my father. I had been about to call out to them, demanding news, but the tone of my father's words checked my steps as well as my voice. I dropped to my knees and so caught a glimpse of them through the turn of the stairs.

"How can you torment me so?" said my mother, her voice cracked and broken. "Can you not see that I am desperate?"

The grand staircase lies open to the sky, in one of the light wells that bring daylight into the deepest places in the Labyrinth. It was therefore easy to see that my mother was indeed desperate. Her usually perfectly arranged hair hung in black snakes down her back, and the kohl lining her eyes was smeared. Her dress was dirty and torn at the hem—she had been down on her hands and knees on the stone floor looking for her child under beds, in trunks, and behind wall hangings. To my dismay, she looked old. She was forty years old, I knew, and had borne fifteen children and raised ten. She had ruled a mighty empire for twenty years. At this moment she looked to be an old, old woman.

My father was, to the uninformed eye, more composed. His plumed headdress and painted robes were in no disarray; the thick black lines painted around his eyes were sharp and unstreaked. But yet there was a whiteness around his mouth and nose that frightened me, his daughter.

"Your grief is your own doing," he said.

"How dare you speak to me so?" My mother drew in a long, shuddering breath. "You who abandoned my Androgeus among the savages, to be butchered by a wild bull! You! You might as well have murdered him yourself."