The Labyrinth `1`

Basically, I hate all Greek "heroes" (particulary Jason and Odyseus), so I decided that I would rewrite the story of the Labyrinth with my own, original cast or characters. Enjoy.

Kalonice gently pulled the smooth wooden comb through her cascading locks of golden hair. Her skin, the pale of one who never has to work or even venture out of doors, was already beaded with sweat, despite that the sun had only just cleared the horizon. On a normal day, Kalonice would not have risen until midmorning, but today…today was not a day for late rising.

Standing up, she discarded the light cotton dress that she had slept in and allowed Koren, her twelve-year-old slave, to wipe down her body with a cloth soaked with sweetly-scented rose water. Koren then draped a short white chiton around Kalonice’s slender body, belting it with a simple girth of leather cords. Normally, of course, Kalonice would be dressed in far finer clothes in blue and violet, draped with golden chains and adorned with pearls from the depths of the Aegean Sea, but today…today was not a day for finery.

When Kalonice was dressed and her hair was pulled back from her face with a leather cord, she took Koren’s hands between her own and touched her lips to her slave’s fingertips. Koren, her eyes glimmering with tears, did the same to her mistress. Such contact was strictly forbidden, of course, but today…today was not a day for rules.

Today was a day for death.

By the time the sun had cleared the low walls surrounding the marble palace that Kalonice had grown up in, she was waiting with Koren and every other person between the ages of nine and sixteen, including Kalonice’s brothers, Demas, Cyril, and Tadd, and her two sisters, Altheda and Pyrena. Everyone was dressed simply, in white. To a stranger, it might have been hard to tell the commoners from the nobles. Everyone was quiet, standing in the crowd in the center of the central court of the palace of Rhodes. Siblings grasped each other’s hands tightly, seeming afraid to let go.

“Kalo?” said Cyril, who, at barely nine years old, was the youngest of the six royal children.

“Yes?”

“It won’t be us, will it?” Everyone able to hear the young boy’s soft voice went silent. He almost didn’t need to have asked the question. Everyone was positively radiating it.

“I don’t know, Cyril,” Kalonice said carefully, careful to keep her expression blank and her eyes fixed on the far distant horizon. Somewhere out there, she knew, was Crete. The Isle of Death, as it was known in Rhodes. “We might be.” Cyril turned his despondent gaze to the smooth pebbles beneath his feet, but Kalonice could feel the disdain and disbelief from the children and teenagers around her. She knew that all of them were sure that she was lying, that none of the royal children would ever be chosen for the cruel death sentence. But Kalonice knew that it was possible, that it just hadn’t happened yet. And she prayed to Zeus, to Hera, to Poseidon, to Athena, to every god with a temple on the island, that it would not happen now, would not happen ever.

Finally, at almost noon, Xanthus, king of Rhodes, entered the crowded court and stood at the top of a short marble staircase. From where she stood at the front of the crowd, Kalonice could see the sadness and worry on her father’s face. Calandra, Xanthus’s wife, stood beside her husband, her pale blue eyes sadly resting on the faces of the youths in the court. There was no speech, no explanation. Everyone knew the reason.

King Minos of Crete was the reason. His navy was the reason. His army was the reason. More than anything, his terrible bloodlust was the reason. Every year since Xanthus had come to the throne, more than twenty years ago, Minos had demanded a sacrifice of the youth of Rhodes. Every year, ten girls and boys were sent to Crete to be slaughtered for the king’s enjoyment. And there was nothing that Xanthus could do to stop it. If he didn’t send the tribute, Minos would send warships, the navy that could raze Rhodes to the ground. And so, ten youths were sent to be imprisoned in the monstrous Labyrinth�"the enormous maze that covered almost ten miles of the huge island of Crete�"to be killed by starvation if they got lost in the innumerable twists and turns in the maze, or by Minos’s pet monster if they didn’t. No one knew what this monster was; only that Minos had bragged once that none could escape the beast that roamed the endless corridors of the Labyrinth.

Xanthus cleared his throat and said, simply, “May the gods bless us on this day and be merciful.” Everyone, for an instant, raised their faces to the blue sky, towards the heavens where the gods watched. Then, the moment of spirit was over and everyone was, once again, intent on what the king had to say, the names that he would announce. Without looking, Kalonice reached out and took the hands of her two youngest siblings, Cyril and ten-year-old Altheda. Altheda was holding tightly to red-haired Pyrena’s hand, her knuckles white with fear.

A slave came forward, holding a small woven basket. In the basket, Kalonice knew, were slips of paper, each one with a name written on it. Kalonice knew because her best friend and almost constant companion, Ismena, was one of the scribes who had written the name of each young person on the island, despite that Ismena was a girl.

Slowly, almost painfully, Xanthus reached into the basket. One after another, he withdrew a slip of the thick, stiff paper and read out the name written on it.

“Gemina.” A dark-haired girl of about twelve raised her eyes to the sky again, tears of hopelessness escaping her hazel eyes.

“Astra.” A small girl with dark, olive-colored skin and curly brown hair, tightly embraced a taller boy standing beside her.

“Panos.” A boy, looking maybe fourteen but large for his age, gently placed a large hand on the head of a little girl in front of him.

“Aetos.” A handsome lad with slightly curled caramel-brown hair merely nodded at the sound of his name, only his eyes displaying his fear and sadness.

“Linus.” A teenage boy, his pale blonde hair tied back with a thin leather band, set his jaw, staring straight ahead into the distance.

“Titian.” A thin, pale girl dropped to her knees, her unbound red-gold hair falling around her face.

“Tamas.” A boy standing beside, Gemina, the first girl called, who looked exactly the same as the girl, clasped hands with her.

“Zeva.” A strong-looking, emotionless girl shut her eyes tightly, clenching her hands.

“Attis.” A boy, younger than the other eight, let out a single sob, clutching at the chiton of a girl who looked to be his older sister.

The king’s breath seemed to falter as he looked at the last slip of paper in his hand. His eyes went imploringly from the sky to the paper. Calandra, concerned, looked over her husband’s shoulder at the paper and then closed her eyes, her lips moving in a silent prayer. Finally, the king said, in a whisper that seemed to echo in the silent courtyard, “Kalonice…”

Author's Note

I really, really hate Jason. Just in case you care. Oh yeah, and, in Ancient Greece, people only had one name. Also, all the names here have meanings.