Odysseus in the Serpent Maze (19 page)

He pressed his hands against the coils that were crushing him. He pushed with all his might. But he was a boy—not a man. Even a man could not have resisted those relentless coils.

One by one, the other snakes returned to the centre of the maze. They turned their merciless eyes upon him. The crested head was now so close he could feel its cold breath.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Odysseus clenched empty fists.

If only
, he thought,
if only I had a weapon. At least I could die fighting. A hero’s death
.

He would never have a song sung about his death. How good it had felt when—in the midst of his grandfather’s warriors—he’d told them of his courage in the boar hunt.

“The boar hunt!” he gasped. He
did
have a weapon.

Ladon’s jaws were almost over him, the fangs about to bite him in two.

Odysseus reached into the neck of his tunic, pulled out the broken spearhead, yanked it over his neck, and rammed the pointed shard of bronze straight into Ladon’s unblinking eye. It pierced the black centre, the leather cord dangling.

With a howl of awful pain, Ladon’s crested head reared back.

The stump that had held Odysseus loosened with the shock of Ladon’s pain, dropping Odysseus. The gold key that had been in his belt clattered to the floor.

He scrambled over to the sword and torch and snatched them both up, surprised that he had the strength to lift either, surprised his legs still worked, surprised that he could breathe again. Then he turned to face the monster.

The cavern was now filled with angry, twisting forms. They swayed and twined around the quivering body, echoing Ladon’s pain and rage.

“Come on, you cowardly snake!” Odysseus yelled, forgetting the songs and the stories, forgetting his aches, forgetting how heavy the sword was, remembering only that he’d got in a blow. “Fight me now that I’m truly armed. That small point was but a first taste of death. This large point will be your last!”

Goaded by pain, tormented by the boy’s arrogance, Ladon’s crested head swooped down like a hawk plunging from the sky.

Odysseus braced himself, holding up the sword to meet the attack. And just as the monster’s head closed on him, the torch guttered out.

But the momentum had already been set. Ladon’s downward motion landed the head on to the upthrust sword. The sword point burst through the soft underside of Ladon’s jaw and drove straight through the roof of his mouth.

Odysseus’ knees buckled under the impact, and he had to let go of the sword’s handle. But the blade was so firmly set now in the monster’s head that Ladon’s own unstoppable downward movement jammed the hilt on to the stone floor and forced the sharp bronze blade straight into his own brain.

At the moment the brain was pierced, a shriek of agony burst from every one of the monster’s multiple heads. His dying cry shook the walls of the Labyrinth and brought dust showering from the ceiling.

One by one the long necks thudded to the floor, and—with a final shudder—Ladon was dead.

O
DYSSEUS CRAWLED OUT FROM
under the dead serpent and stood up, panting. He could see nothing in the black cavern, but the silence was immense.

Feeling around, he found the crest of the giant head, with the point of the sword like a second crest poking through. But there was no way he could pull it loose. Instead, he felt around till he found the serpent’s ruined eye and yanked his broken spearhead free.

Wiping it clean on the hem of his tunic, he put it around his neck again. Then, because his legs were suddenly shaking so hard he was afraid he might fall down, he sat and wept. Out of relief. Out of the lack of fear.

“Odysseus! Odysseus!” It was Penelope’s voice.

Suddenly she was there, running towards him, leaping over the dead serpent heads, with Silenus right behind her, carrying the little oil lamp.

She grabbed Odysseus in a fierce hug. “I was so afraid for you.”

“Personally,” said Silenus, “I waaaas terrified for
us
. We were surrounded by aaaa score of Laaaadon’s heads, when they aaaall suddenly let out horrifying screams, aaand fled.”

Odysseus wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, not caring that they’d seen him weep. Then he picked up the gold key that was at his feet and shoved it into his belt. He stood, astonished that his legs could still hold him up. “Now what?” he asked.

“Your plan …” Penelope said.

“I hadn’t a plan. Beyond killing Ladon.”

“Which you did,” Penelope said.

“
How
did you do it?” Silenus asked.

So Odysseus told them, quickly, and without embellishments.

They went over to look more closely at the sword embedded in the monster. In the flickering lamplight, the feat seemed even more heroic than it had felt.

Silenus whispered, “We maaaay still need thaaaat sword.”

Odysseus agreed, though he doubted he could hold it, even using two hands. He felt that weak.

“Maybe the three of us together …” Penelope said.

But it was clear that even three of them could not free the sword from the serpent’s head.

However, behind the monster’s body, they saw a stone pillar rising up out of the floor. On it were some odd carvings.

“Perhaps that will help,” Penelope said. “Perhaps it’s the key to our getting out. If it’s script, I can read it … I hope.”

They scrambled over the scaly corpse, but before they reached the pillar, Silenus gasped.

The little oil lamp was finally guttering out, and darkness, like a giant hand, was bent on closing around them.

Silenus cupped his hand around the wick to preserve the last glints of flame for a few seconds more.

“We need something to burn,” Penelope cried.

Silenus shrugged. “I have nothing.”

An awful thought occurred to Odysseus. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out the sheets of parchment. They were all that remained of Daedalus’ genius, the only chance he’d ever have to build a ship like the master’s.

But if we never get out of the maze
…

He twisted the first piece into a long taper and thrust it into the dying flame.

The flame blossomed between wick and taper, and then the oil lamp died. But the papyrus taper burned clean and quick.

Much too quick.

Odysseus twisted the remaining three pages into tapers, ready for use.

“Let’s look at that pillar while we still have light,” he said.

They gathered in front of the stone and studied it. It was made up of a series of rounded blocks, each a foot high, and as thick as tree trunks. The carvings reached all the way to the ceiling.

“I can’t maaaake anything out of it,” said Silenus, his voice a misery.

“
Is
it script?” Odysseus asked. “Can you read it?”

“No,” Penelope said, “it’s just pictures.”

They lit the second taper.

Odysseus walked around the pillar, examining the images, Penelope and the satyr trailing behind him.

At eye level the blocks were carved with pictures of the gods: Ares with a sword, Zeus with a thunderbolt, Apollo with his lyre, Artemis with her bow. Above them were carvings of a ship, a house, a chariot, a vase. Below was a beast half bull, half man.

“The Minotaur,” said Penelope, putting her finger on it.

On the same row as the Minotaur were a boar, a fish, and an eagle.

“These must be more than mere decoration,” Odysseus said.

“Some kind of story?” Penelope asked.

They lit the third taper.

Taper in hand, Odysseus walked around the pillar again, nervously fingering the key that was stuck in his belt. “We have to think like Daedalus,” he said. “We’ve been in his ship, in his workshop, in his maze. Surely we know how his mind works.”

“I don’t,” the satyr bleated. “But then, aaaall I know of him is this Laaaabyrinth.”

Suddenly Odysseus stopped and stared fiercely at the stone pillar. “Take the taper, Penelope. Here—use this last one if needed. I think I understand.”

He placed his hands upon the middle set of carvings.

“What are you doing?” Penelope asked.

“It’s not a story—it’s a key. Artemis, the maiden goddess—”

“And the Minotaur, the horned beast. Of course!” Penelope said.

“I thought I waaaas the beast,” Silenus bleated.

They ignored him.

The stones had been set in place for many long years but—as Odysseus had suspected—they were designed to move. He twisted and pushed and, as if grudging any movement, the stone images of the gods began to turn.

Penelope lit the last taper.

“Faaaaster, faaaaster!” Silenus bleated. “The light will go out any moment.”

Odysseus was straining with the effort of turning the stone; his hands were rubbed raw. His already aching shoulders protested every turn. But slowly, finally, the figure of the goddess in the stone rested directly over the figure of the Minotaur.

“‘When maiden meets the horned beast at the heart of the Labyrinth,’” Odysseus said. “Now let’s see about that heart’s desire!”

The taper burned out, and darkness held them complete.

Silenus’ voice broke the silence. “Nothing’s haaaappened.”

“Wait,” Odysseus said.

No sooner had he spoken than a deep rumble filled the dark chamber. There was the sound of huge stones grinding against one another, and a sudden gust of chilly wind blew over them.

“By aaaall the gods, maaaanling, you were right. The Laaaabyrinth is moving.”

A whole section of the far wall opened slowly, and light—blessed light—poured in to illuminate a long corridor. Fresh lamps, like the ones in Daedalus’ workshop, sprang to life the full length of the hallway.

Then a wall at the end of the corridor opened as well, and beyond it more and more blocks swung open, one after another, as if the blocks were beads on a long string.

Penelope took Odysseus’ hand and squeezed. “Shall we follow the master’s thread?”

Hand in hand they went down the corridors, with Silenus capering around them. The scent of fresh air drew them faster and faster until they found themselves at last on a grassy hillside far from the city. Above, moon and stars beamed down, as if the gods themselves were smiling.

Odysseus took a deep, cleansing breath. Then he looked back over his shoulder at the gaping tunnel.

“When Daedalus spoke of the heart’s desire …”

“He meant what every prisoner in the Labyrinth desired,” Penelope said.

Silenus understood too. “The waaay out!” he cried, and his little goat feet beat a happy tattoo into the grass.

For a long while they sat together, luxuriating in the feel of the grass and the smell of the earth and the sound of the wind past their ears.

At last Odysseus stood. Holding his hand up above his eyes, shielding them from moonglow, he looked around. “Over there,” he said, pointing.

Penelope and Silenus stood and followed his pointing finger. They saw the silvery sheen of moonlight reflecting on water.

“That must be the harbour,” Odysseus said. “If we’re lucky, that’s where Mentor and Helen and Praxios and Captain Tros will be.”

“And if we’re not lucky?” Penelope asked.

“Then we’re on our own.”

“Good luck to you aaaall, then,” said Silenus. “I’m off on aaaa different paaaath.”

“What’s this?” Odysseus said. “Surely you want to get off this island. Come with me to Ithaca. You’ll get a hero’s welcome there. Wine. Women. Song.”

“The only waaaay off this island,” said Silenus, shivering violently, “is by sea. I’ve haaaad enough of thaaaat for one lifetime, thaaaank you. Goats and boats—aaaa terrible mix.”

Penelope went over and held the satyr’s hand. “But Deucalion will be looking for you.”

At her touch, Silenus stopped shivering. “There are plenty of mountains over there,” he said, gesturing with his head. “Aaaand mountains mean nymphs. Aaaand wild grapes. Aaaand …”

Penelope nodded and once again kissed the old satyr between his horns. “Farewell then, old goat.”

Odysseus shook the satyr’s hand. “Farewell, indeed.”

Silenus turned, stomped his feet, then said over his shoulder, “If you should come aaaacross aaaa jar of wine in your travels, don’t forget to toast your old friend, Silenus.” With a bound, he was gone.

O
DYSSEUS AND PENELOPE FOUND
a rough track that led in the direction of the harbour, and followed it down from the hills. It brought them to the outskirts of the city, and they crept through the quiet streets, keeping to the shadows.

Next to the harbour was a large, grotty tavern called the Trident, and inside raucous voices were raised in song.

Crouching low, so as not to be seen through the tavern windows, the two of them passed by. But then a familiar voice called out, “Here’s to King Deucalion! And here’s to leaving this wretched island on the dawn tide!”

Penelope grabbed Odysseus’ hand. “That’s—”

“I recognise the voice too,” Odysseus said. “The pirate chief.” He peeked over the window ledge.

Inside was the mastiff-like chief, and he was surrounded by about twenty of his men. Odysseus saw the three who’d tried to throw him overboard.

Penelope tugged on his tunic, and Odysseus ducked down.

“Who was there?” she asked.

“Your pirates. They’re spending their loot unwisely,” he said. “Come on.”

A little farther on was the quayside, where a dozen ships lay at anchor, illuminated by a sky the colour of old pearl.

“Praxios said the slave pens were close by,” Odysseus told Penelope quietly.

“There?” she whispered, pointing.

To their left was a brick enclosure locked by a high bronze gate. Dimly visible beyond the bars were a number of sleeping figures.

“But where’s Mentor?” Odysseus whispered. “He should have been here long before us.”

“And Helen,” Penelope added.

As if in answer to their whispered questions, an all-too-familiar voice pierced the air.

“My father and brothers will wage war on this city and burn it to the ground! There are a thousand ships looking for me even now.”

Odysseus seized Penelope by the arm, pulling her behind an empty wagon. Just then Idomeneus appeared around the corner of the slave pen. Behind him were Bosander and four soldiers, herding an increasingly irate Helen, along with Mentor and Praxios.