Collected short fiction, p.379
Collected Short Fiction, page 379
“Quick!” whispered Theseus. “We must escape before his uproar calls other guards! Or we’ll all face—that one! Firebrand’s hoard was a lie—but still I’ll see that you are all rewarded. Let’s get out of here!”
Frightened guards led the hurried, furtive way through confused black passages, up long ramps, through a series of locked doors, and at last into one of the deeper palace magazines, where rows of huge jars held oil and wine. Finally a side door let them into an alley beneath the starlit bulk of Knossos, where a palanquin was waiting.
Theseus relaxed, trembling, on its scented cushions.
“Back home,” he said anxiously, “before we are discovered!”
“But there’s no danger now,” said the servant, who had helped him into the litter, in the tone of one who enjoys his master’s confidence. “We have been aboard often enough by night. Men will merely laugh and whisper that the admiral is wooing his goddess again.”
The servant made a hollow chuckle.
“It’s unfortunate that the pirate lied, but at least the trickery was not all his own. If he knew that you had captured his old comrades two moons ago, sold his men to Amur the Hittite, and already sent the Gamecock ahead of him into the Dark One’s Labyrinth!”
The servant laughed thickly in the darkness.
XIV.
THESEUS LAY between scented sheets of fine Egyptian linen. He opened his eyes on a long room. The frescoed walls showed graceful girls in a harvest dance. Hinged window screens of tinted oiled parchment were open, to reveal a quiet garden where birds sang in pomegranate trees.
The surroundings were all of rich luxury and high-walled security, but Theseus could not help a cold shudder of fear. He rubbed the smoothness of the sheets, and buried his face again in the fragrant pillow, afraid that he would yet wake up in the foul darkness of the pit.
For the success of his desperate plan seemed still a dream. He could hardly credit, even now, the splendor of this hilltop villa, to which the frightened slaves had brought him. The midnight feast that the chamberlain had set still seemed a vision of his starvation-goaded brain—and he was ravenous again.
But he remembered the chamberlain’s laugh about his old companions’ capture, the Gamecock already sent to the justice of the Dark One. That stiffened his dream into hard reality, sobered his incredulous joy. He was awake, all right, and he had things to do—Cyron had to be avenged!
He sat up on the bed. A tin mirror propped on a marble table showed him the sharp, narrow face of Admiral Phaistro. He made a grimace at the bulging forehead, womanish red lips, and retreating chin. It was not a face he liked—but still he was mutely thankful for the gift of Snish.
“Did you call, master?”
The chamberlain, who hid the confidences of Phaistro under a countenance of rigid disapproval, was bowing in the doorway.
“Bring my breakfast,” Theseus ordered.
“A quail’s egg?” asked the servant. “And barley water?”
“Porridge with milk,” amended Theseus. “A broiled fowl, honey cakes, and fruit—” Astonishment broke through the chamberlain’s rigid face, and he cut short the order. “And send me the cobbler,” he said. “The man is versed in certain small Babylonian spells, and he has promised to brew a wonderful philter for me.”
“The master requires a wonderful philter indeed,” returned the stifffaced servant, “if he still aspires to the goddess. Your pardon, your breakfast! I rejoice that the master feels so hearty.”
The bowl of porridge arrived—incongruously upon a long silver tray carried by two slaves. Snish came waddling behind them. Apprehension sat upon his seamed, widemouthed face, and his yellow popeyes darted about uneasily. Theseus sent away the slaves, and invited the little wizard to share his breakfast.
Snish, however, was in no mood to eat.
“Master!” he croaked, when his blinking yellow eyes had followed the slaves out of sight. “Do you know the peril that your mad plot has brought upon us?”
“I can see a danger,” admitted Theseus. “If one man can get out of that pit, another can. And the presence of two admirals would make for confusion. Therefore, we must work swiftly. Try these Egyptian dates.”
Bending fearfully, Snish shook his brown, bald head.
“It’s worse than that, master!” he whispered. “Once your guise was broken—you must know that any close touch will turn you back to Captain Firebrand. And send us both to the Labyrinth! If these Cretan warlocks take us, my poor power will not serve again.”
The whisper sank to a sobbing whine.
“Why, master, did you have to set Phaistro’s marines after me?” He quivered’, and tears sprang into the bulging eyes. “I had sold Tai Leng’s jewels, and bought a tiny shop on a good street, with last and hammer and needle. Business is better here than in Babylon, and I had learned to be contented.”
Snish blew his nose on a loose corner of his loincloth. “I was happy, master,” he sighed. “I was busy all day—until the admiral’s men came in the darkness, and broke down the shutters of my shop, and choked me with gags, arid dragged me away without one word of explanation to the dungeons under Knossos.”
The yellow eyes blinked. “Remember, master, I am no bold soldier of fortune. I am merely a luckless cobbler, with no stomach for such adventures as this. And had I not repaid my debt to you, master, on the day the games were played?”
“Try one of these honey cakes,” said Theseus. “So you did aid me?
I had wondered. You profess to be only a minor wizard, and yet you tell me that you defeated the warlocks of Crete?”
Snish shook his head, fearfully.
“I am the very smallest wizard, master,” he protested anxiously “My small powers are almost beneath the notice of the jealous warlocks of Knossos. Else they would have discovered and destroyed me long ago—as they will surely do yet, if you force me to defy them any further!” Paling, he shivered.
“The arrow and the boomerang and the wizard’s shot went by me,” said Theseus. “How?”
THE YELLOW frog face faintly grinned.
“It was through the same small art that you already know, master,” wheezed Snish. “After each god had launched his. weapon, I changed you—too briefly for the eye to see the change—into the likeness of myself.”
“Yourself?” muttered Theseus.
“The missiles were all,” Snish told him. “aimed at your head. But Gothung was a tall man, and I am short. Therefore, the gods shot high. But I trembled lest they discover the trick!”
Theseus stared for a moment at the seamed yellow face, and tried to curtain the doubt in his eyes. He had felt that an effort of his own, a reckless defiance of wizardry, had helped deflect those shots. But the tearful face of Snish was earnest.
“These pickled olives are superb,” he said. “Try them. The trick was very clever, Snish, and I thank you for my life. If Ariadne hadn’t kissed me—”
“But she did!” whispered Snish. “And here you have flung yourself back into the same danger—dragging me after you!” The whisper sank. “Tell me, master—what are your plans? Since you are now the admiral, shall we not take the swiftest! ship in the harbor and sail while we can?”
“No,” said Theseus, and the thin features of the admiral turned hard with resolve. “I came here to crush the wizardry of Knossos—to end the reign of Minos and the dominion of the Dark One. And I shall!”
“Caution, master!” urged the fearful voice of Snish. “And don’t shout! The warlocks have very keen ears for any such talk as that. Haven’t you suffered enough from the folly of your purpose?”
“But don’t you see?” protested Theseus. “The goal is already half won. As admiral, I am master of the wooden wall of Knossos. I can I walk safely by Talos, the brass wall. There remains only the third—the wall of wizardry. That is all that stands before us, now.”
“You are still Captain Firebrand!” Teeth chattering, Snish clung to the tall carved bedpost. “The warlocks had better look to their weapons—as doubtless they will!” He tried faintly to grin. “But I perhaps Ariadne could tell you something about this wall of wizardry.”
“Doubtless,” said Theseus, wistfully. “If a man might speak alone with Cybele.”
Snish grinned more broadly.
“Evidently, you are not familiar with the gossip in the servants’ quarters.” Anxiously, the little wizard caught the arm of Theseus. “Master,” he begged, “beware of her kiss! Or we’ll both end in the Labyrinth.”
Theseus picked up the jeweled tin mirror and surveyed the thin, aristocratic face of Admiral Phaistro without enthusiasm.
“Women,” he commented, “are very strange creatures. And goddesses, apparently, as well. When am I going to see her?”
“You are expecting a message today,” Snish told him.
“What else have you learned in the servants’ quarters?”
“Your financial affairs,” Snish informed him, “are in a very bad way. You gamble recklessly, and spend tremendous sums for feasts and bribes, to maintain your position. You are deeply in debt to Amur the Hittite. That is why you were so anxious to secure the hidden hoard of Captain Firebrand. Amur, by the way, is coming to call on you this morning.”
“The scorpion,” muttered Theseus. “Thank you, Snish.” He smiled. “Keep your ears open and your small arts ready to serve me—and perhaps you will live to be an honest cobbler yet.”
WAITING to receive Amur in the great dusky hall, Theseus could not check a little shiver of apprehension. The Hittite, with his golden power, was almost as obnoxious as the warlocks. Hawk-nosed and sallow, lean-limbed and big-bellied, Amur left his palanquin in the court and bowed as he entered the hall.
“Your most humble slave, lord admiral.”
For all his fawning smirk, however, his voice held a veiled arrogance. Too small, too close together, his black eyes glittered, watchful and ruthless.
“Your slave beseeches upon you the favor of the gods.” The husky voice had an almost oily softness. “And he regrets that his own dire poverty forces him to mention a certain small matter—that your notes are due again today, for five hundred talents of silver. Will it please the lord admiral to repay his slave that insignificant debt?”
Theseus met those snakelike eyes.
“The money isn’t ready today,” he said. “You will have to wait. As you know, the expenses of my position are heavy.”
“Well I know it!” Amur abandoned the mask of servility, and his voice became a venomous hiss. “I’ve paid them for the last ten years.” He shook a lean, yellow fist. “But I’m through paying them, Phaistro. Unless those notes are paid, Minos will have a new admiral—and the Dark One a new guest!”
“Wait.” Theseus gestured protestingly. “You’ll get the money.” He tried to think. “I have learned where the pirate Firebrand hid his loot. A squadron of the fleet sails tomorrow to recover it. There will be enough—”
Amur’s yellow claw made a fist again.
“You won’t put me off with that.” His glittering eyes, Theseus thought, were like a hungry rat’s. “I have already learned how you spent the five talents you borrowed—to bribe the dungeon guards—and how the pirate duped you with his lies. If one word of your folly reaches Minos, it will take no more to break you, Phaistro!”
“I was a fool, last night,” yielded Theseus. “But there are other ways of getting money.”
“You always were a fool, Phaistro,” snarled the Hittite. “But you have one way to obtain the money—and, unless you do, Minos will learn all he needs to know.”
“One way?” repeated Theseus.
“So the goddess still frowns?” The Hittite laughed. “I warned you that it wouldn’t be easy, Phaistro—not even for a lover of your famed skill—to unlock the treasury of Cybele.”
“Well—” said Theseus, uncertainly.
“I’ll give you one more night to try.” Amur turned to go. “If she laughs at you again—well, the Dark One is always hungry.” He put on the servile mask and bowed. “Farewell, master. May the goddess favor you tonight with many kisses—and the keys to her treasury!”
Alone, Theseus sat down on a couch and rubbed reflectively at the weak chin of Admiral Phaistro. He lost any regret for the ruse that had left the Cretan in the pit. A man who made love for money—The chamberlain entered, carrying a tiny sealed scroll.
“Master, a message for you.” His face was rigid. “It bears the seal of Cybele.”
Theseus broke the seal, unrolled the small square sheet of papyrus. An eagerness checked his breath, as he read the delicate Minoan script:
Mortal—if indeed you feel yourself worth the favors of a goddess—come to the old shrine in my olive grove, after the evening star has set tonight.
WITH mingled impatience and trepidation, Theseus waited for the fall of night. In the afternoon, officers came to see him about certain naval matters. At first he attempted to put them off, fearing to expose ignorance. But it soon appeared that Phaistro concerned himself little with affairs of the fleet. The officers wanted nothing more than the impression of his official seal upon certain clay-tablet requisitions and reports. The chamberlain brought the little graven cylinder, he rolled it across the documents, the officers thanked him and departed.
When they were gone, the chamberlain reminded him that he was due at the palace at sunset, to attend the reception of a visiting Egyptian embassy. Theseus said that he was ill. The chamberlain grimly promised him medicine, and objected that his absence would please neither Minos nor the Pharaoh.
Theseus submitted to being bathed, oiled, and perfumed. Slaves dressed his long black hair with scented pomades, arranged it in buns and pigtails, attired him in an embroidered robe of purple silk.
And the chamberlain brought his medicine—a flagon of strong brandy. Theseus drank enough to scent his breath, and found an opportunity to pour a generous amount of the remainder down a drain—wonderful, this modern plumbing! It might be useful to seem drunk, but this was no night—of all nights!—to be actually tipsy.
The palanquin carried him to the forbidding bulk of Knossos. He shuddered, as if the very shadow of the ancient walls might break the spell of his guise. When he came into the frescoed splendor of the throne room—walking unsteadily, with the chamberlain holding his arm—he was appalled again to see the gnarled, hollow visage of Daedalus, the yellow, black-beaked mask of Amur, the rosy, dimpled smile of Minos.
The reception went on, however, and none of them seemed to consider it unusual that the chamberlain must hold the admiral’s arm, whisper every necessary word into his ear.
The brown Egyptians entered, small, proud men. They spoke politely of the greatness of Minos, pompously of the grandeur of Pharaoh, fervidly of the friendship of the monarchs.
Theseus said only what the chamberlain whispered into his ear. As the affair continued, however, he permitted himself a few undiplomatic alcoholic slips of the tongue. He was beginning to enjoy the masquerade.
The evening star was low when he got back to the villa of the admiral. He left the chamberlain, waked the apprehensive Snish to come with him, and ordered the slaves to carry him to the old temple in the sacred grove of Cybele.
In the shadow of an olive, at the edge of the grove, he left the palanquin, telling the bearers to wait. Snish followed him toward the dim beehive shape of the ancient temple, protesting:
“Caution, master! Remember that one kiss will change you!”
Theseus chuckled.
“But we shall be in the dark,” he said. “And you will be waiting here, when I return, to restore the likeness of the admiral!”
He walked boldly into the shadows, seeking Ariadne.
XV.
THE TEMPLE, erected over the fissure through which Cybele had been born from the mother earth, was a small, ancient beehive of unhewn stone. Rushes scattered the floor. Offerings of fruits and flowers lay withering upon a small altar, at the lip of the dank-smelling hole.
With a sharp hurt of disappointment, Theseus realized that the dark little chamber was empty. He waited, kneeling on the rushes as if praying before the earth womb. At last a rustle made him turn. His heart leaped with gladness when he knew that Ariadne had come.
For a moment, in the pointed arch of the entrance, she stood outlined against the night sky. She was tall and proud, and the light of the stars shone faintly on her hair.
“Mortal?” Her golden voice was muted. “You are here?”
“Goddess,” whispered Theseus, “here I am!”
He rose from the altar and took her in his arms. She seemed at first cold and unresponsive, and even somewhat startled at his ardor, so that he began to wonder why she had made the assignation.
Presently, however, something in her seemed to take fire from his avid lips, and her mouth and her long, eager body returned his caresses. For a time neither of them felt any need of speech, and then:
“Well, goddess,” whispered Theseus, “is any mortal worth your kisses?”
In a faint and shaken voice, she answered from his arms:
“There is one!” There was another time of silence, and then she added: “This is not what I came to find. For it was pity, not passion, that brought me here tonight. I came to bring warning that your enemies plan to destroy you, through your debts and your drunkenness and your indiscretions. I did not think to find—you!”
For a time again they required no words. Even Theseus, for a little space, forgot the purpose that had brought him to Crete. But presently a cold, slow movement of Ariadne’s serpent girdle brought it back to him, and his arms tightened about her. “Would a goddess make jest of a mortal’s love?”
The warm body seemed to quiver in his arms, and the golden voice was husky: “Never of yours.”
“Then,” pursued Theseus, “how would she prove her love?”
