Robert Harris - Odysseus in the Serpent Maze

“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.

CHAPTER 25: SECRET OF THE MAZE

ODYSSEUS 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.