The Reign of Wizardry (14 page)

“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:

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.

T
HE 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?”

Ariadne kissed him, before she said: “I have been waiting for you to speak of that. For I know of your debt to Amur, and his threats. I came tonight to warn you to leave Crete while you could. But that was before—”

Her voice broke, and she clung to him. “In the treasury
of Cybele,” she whispered, “there are two thousand talents of
silver. Tomorrow I shall send Amur a draft on the temple, for the amount of your debt.”

“Thanks, goddess,” whispered Theseus. “But I can’t accept that.”

Surprise stiffened her in his arms. They sat up on the rushes, and Theseus moved a little from her. Her warm hands clung to him. “Then, mortal,” she breathed, “what do you desire?”

“If a goddess would prove her love of a mortal,” he said softly, “she must offer more than silver. And there is another thing.” His voice fell to a murmur. “A secret thing, called the wall of wizardry.”

Ariadne made a little gasp, as of pain. Her fingers sank into the arm of Theseus with an abrupt, spasmodic force. For a long time she was tensely silent, trembling. Then she whispered faintly:

“Must you require the wall, mortal? For that is tenfold more precious than all the treasure in the temple. It is more precious than my life or my divinity. Must you take it?”

Elation leaped in the heart of Theseus. He had not known that Ariadne possessed the mysterious wall; he had hoped for no more than some hint of its nature. Striving to calm his hands and his voice:

“Love,” he whispered,
“that sets anything above itself is not love.”

Her hot, fragrant arms crept around him. The cold, writhing coil of the serpent girdle touched his side. Her hair caressed him, its perfume half intoxicating. Her lips sought his.

“Kiss me,” she whispered. “Forget your insane folly!”

But Theseus turned his face away from hers. “Then it isn’t love,” he whispered bitterly. “It is merely a jest.”
He pulled out of her arms and rose. “Farewell, goddess.”

“Wait!” She rose after him, caught his arm. “You forget your enemies. I came to warn you—leave me, now, and you shall die before the dawn!”

Theseus pushed away her clinging hands.

“You don’t understand the love of mortals, goddess, if you think that threats will buy it.” He caught her tall, quivering body, drew her to him. “One kiss of
farewell, because the love of mortals is real. Then I go—even, if must be, into the Dark One’s lair!”

He held her to him, so close that he felt the thud of her heart. He kissed her soft throat, her seeking lips, her hair.

Then, firmly, he swung her from him, and strode toward the doorway of the little temple.

“Wait, mortal!” she sobbed after him. “Here—not to prove my love, but to save your
life—here is the wall!”

Theseus came slowly back to her. In the faint starlight that filtered through the entrance, he saw that she was reaching into her silken bodice. She drew out some little object and solemnly pressed it into his hands.

Swiftly he fingered it. There was a thin, smooth chain that she had worn about her neck. Strung upon it, like a single long bead, was a tiny cylinder. It
was warm from her flesh, the surface of it uneven with some graven design.

“This,” he whispered, wondering, “is the wall?”

“It is,” she told him. “It is a small thing, and simple—yet it holds a concentration of power greater than the Dark One’s. Guard it well!”

“What is its power?” Theseus eagerly demanded.

Ariadne hesitated for an instant, and her tall body tensed again. “This is the secret
of it,” she breathed at last. “The man who holds it safe shall be master of Knossos, and no wizardry can prevail against him.”

Theseus caught her shoulders. “Then you have given me Knossos?” She winced from his hard fingers. “Or is this another warlock’s trick?”

“I have given you the wall—would you doubt me now?”

Theseus held her shuddering shoulders.

“If this thing
is
the wall,” he demanded,
“why do you carry it, and not Minos?”

“There was a reason why my father could not keep it with him,” she whispered. “He trusted me—in all the years that I have lived, I have met no such mortal as you are.” Her whisper sank. “Now, kiss me!”

Theseus clasped the chain about his neck and kissed her. When at last, breathless, they had drawn apart, Ariadne breathed:

“Now that I have proven my love,
with the greatest gift that I could give, we must leave Knossos tonight—before my father’s arts discover my betrayal. Have your fleetest ship made ready. My slaves will load it with silver. And we shall be sailing toward Egypt before the dawn.”

Theseus touched the little hard cylinder on the chain. “But why must we take flight,” he whispered, “when now the third
wall is mine? Didn’t you say that
it would give me Knossos, and guard me against all wizardry? Then can’t we claim the throne?”

Ariadne shook her head, against him.

“There is often an irony in the spells of wizardry,” she whispered. “If the wall gave you Knossos, it might be for as brief a space as it was ruled by the Northman who was victor in the games.”

She shivered in his arms. “Again, if the wall will guard you against
wizardry, it will not defend you from an arrow or a blade or a strangler’s cord. The wizards may recover it by cunning and force, and then you will be once more at their mercy.”

Theseus lifted his head. “If the wall has any power,” he said, “I shall use it.”

Ariadne clung to him. “I have tried to warn you,” she whispered. “Your enemies learned that you were coming here tonight. They have set
a trap. You can’t even walk out of this temple alive—without my aid. Yet you talk of unseating Minos!”

Theseus breathed, “And I shall!”

She laughed, half hysterical, and flung her arms tight about him.

“I know why you came to Crete,” she cried softly. “But can’t you see the mad folly of it? No mortal can hope to overwhelm the empire of my divine father—not even you, Captain Firebrand!”

Theseus
stood for a moment, frozen. “So you know?”

“Did you think, Captain, that I could forget your first kiss so soon?”

“Still, knowing, you gave me the wall?”

“That is the reason.” Her voice reflected scorn. “Would I give it to the drunken weakling, Phaistro?”

Theseus was hoarse with wonderment. “And you would sail to Egypt with a pirate?”

“Yes, anywhere—with Firebrand!” Her quivering hands tugged
at him. “Shall we go?”

Theseus stared down into the darkness. His mind saw all the splendor of her proud body, the flame of her ruddy hair, the flashing spirit of her cool green eyes. Her arms made a caressing movement about him. At last, sighing, he said gravely:

“I wish that my business were less urgent in Crete. But I can’t abandon it—not even for a goddess. When Minos has been unthroned,
and the power of wizardry shattered, and the dominion of the Dark One ended—then, perhaps, I shall seek you.”

Her voice was choked, barely audible: “You would destroy my father—all my world?”