Theseus

Theseus was stepping slowly ahead through the narrow, dark, stone corridors. He was walking as if of habit, as if he was wakeful. He remembered he had to kill Asterius, Pasiphaë’s spawn – she was Minos’ wife – but he ain’t seem to care if he would fulfil the task he had taken on willingly. He was squeezing the sword – that sharp sword that was his power, his victorious flag, his thirsty for blood gonfalon and that had turned into a fond relic, the only warm reminder about his happiness.

He was walking and harking, stumbling over his countrymen’s skulls, the ones he had not managed to save. He had been walking for a long time – a whole eternity – and could not remember when he had started off. The thread in Theseus’ hands was hanging sluggishly, dragging behind him, dead like his thoughts. He kept repeating to himself that he had chosen his destiny when he had left Athens, without expecting anything else but to find his end, though the king – his father, the old Aegean – had bid if he turned alive to put up white sails on his ship. But the sword he had taken from two flattering hands, that cord that was connecting him with the only two warm eyes in Crete through the covered in mold corridors, in this unfamiliar island land, in this world, that sword and that cord had given him the enormous will to win and the confidence that he would overcome the taken with ease ordeal. But the hope had left him at the moment when he felt that the cord, secured by his only daydream’s hands, tensioned by the one who had stayed to wait for him, whom he had trusted to, had hung in the wet, trampled dust and had turned into a simple muddy fiber.

Theseus was walking at random. He did not try to remember the road – it was meaningless. He stepped carefully, almost gropingly through the black corridors of the endless stone Labyrinth in which here and there, too rarely, some crack, some batter between two stones, squeezed the daily skylight. “Shame on Daedalus!” – Theseus whispered to himself. – “They have overpraised his mastery. Both his and Icarus one!” Just the quiet slow steps responded to his thoughts. He felt the tiredness, his dry tongue stuck on his droughty palate, the sword was too heavy in his sweat palm, the scratched by the roughly hewn stones feet hurt at each step. His eyes, gone blind by the oppressive darkness, almost could not tell apart the corridors in front of him, when after the next turn in a raw it seemed to him that the echo of his steps changed, becoming more distant. Theseus stopped and carefully reached out his hands. He found a wall neither from one side nor from the other one. He froze immovably and listened at the distance carefully.

He heard a quiet but deep breathing. His back shivered. His tense look started distinguish unclear outlines, chiaroscuros, drawn by the little light squeezing through a slight gap. He felt the fear like a stone. He could not swallow but his power had come back again. He felt each muscle of his body tight. There was no escape out. He could not run away. He made a step ahead, then one more and the powerful figure, the terrifying torso of the fierce monster raised in front of his eyes.

“Minotaur!” – Theseus pronounced deafly.

“Never call me like this!” – the monster growled. – “I am Asterius!”

“I know it.”

“You know nothing!” – his throaty roar thundered.

They had been looking at each other for a while without moving: the tense eyes of the man, who had gained back his daring shine and the deep hatred pushing to go out from the abysmal pupils of Minotaur.

“Why are you with a sword?” – his voice spread around.

“To stop this nonsense” – Theseus answered firmly.

The monster against him, tight and ready to attack, did not move.

“Why didn’t you kill Minos, the king, the great, because of whose greediness Poseidon drove my mother crazy and she gave her away to the sacrificial bull; because of whose greediness I live like that?”

“Another one will come to the throne and nothing will change, only your death is going to save my people.”

Asterius was looking at him with his shiny eyes.

 “It would be a benefaction for the evil that the cursed Poseidon damaged me with.”

“Do not curse the gods!”

“Do not tell me what to do!” – Minotaur roared. – “They cannot harm me more than this. You will have to fight my death!”

“Your brutish life is precious to you, right?”

“If you beat me out, at least I will die honorably as I have not lived” – the mighty torso raised suddenly, the horns flashed creepily and the degenerate monster rushed over the Athenian.

That was the last thing the man could remember from the struggle.

 

Theseus was stepping slowly ahead through the narrow, dark, stone corridors. He did not know where he was moving to but he felt inside of him the road to the exit. He had finished his mission but that had not made him happy. He was dragging back through the tunnels and kept thinking about the woman who had left the cord she had given to him with love. He felt himself heavy, massive, clumsy, the time had vanished, maybe he had stayed in these dungeons a day or maybe a week. He had thrown the sword away – unneeded, needless. He felt nothing, he thought about nothing. An enormous emptiness was growing up inside of him – the same emptiness that the struck monster had felt all his life long. Gradually, as if he had gotten to know Asterius in those corridors, he started understanding the endless grief gathered in his fierce temperament, the loneliness of the rejected one, he felt him close as if he was his brother, as if they were a whole, as if he was Minotaur himself.

Suddenly he felt a fresh whiff, the stench of the tunnels descended and not long time after, the stars flashed above him. Theseus took a deep breath but did not feel any relief. He stopped at the entrance where she had promised to wait for him till he did not come back, where she had given him the braveness to fight and where he had entrusted her his life. He was alone. He was staying there trying to understand, when the bushes aside started moving.

“Ariadne?”

She went closer and smiled at him.

“What happened? Why did you abandon me?”

“I didn’t. I have heard that the Labyrinth is enormous and the cord would never be long enough.”

“And me? What if I had not found the way back?”

“I knew it you would find it. I left another, a true cord that would always lead you to the exit.” – Ariadne answered and touched his chest. – “Over here.”

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Translated by: Vessislava Savova

Zama

Tullius heard the noise of the galloping hooves at the last moment and turned precisely when a horseman jumped out of the nearby dune. He was a Carthaginian. The rider stumbled but took out his sword and attacked the Roman immediately. Tullius jumped aside, cursed the loss of his horse, took out his spatha[1] and raised the oval shield. On foot, he had no big chances against his enemy. He had to pull him down of the saddle. At the next attack, Tullius went down the horse itself and hit its snout with the shield. The surprised animal jumped aside, harshly stood on his back legs and the Carthaginian crashed the ground in a cloud of ash sand. That was the perfect moment for the Roman but the smashing heat and his big tiredness said their word and he missed the trice to astound his enemy.

The horse had raced about twenty meters aside and then both of them were face to face. They were lurking each other behind the shields. The desert sun was heating the Roman’s helmet, his sandals were sinking into the soft sand, strong haze was blurring everything in front of his eyes, and some drops of sweat were pouring down his eyes. Tullius wiped them with a harsh movement and again held position.

Thoughts about that he would not be able to go back to the camp and worn his people were rolling into his head. And it was important! Hannibal had gotten reinforcement and his soldiery exceeded with about twenty thousand of people the Roman one. That fact, along with the war elephants he was about to use, gave him a big advantage.

He again remembered about the ridiculous accident that had left him without a horse: the animal had tripped over not a big sand pit and had broken its leg and there was more than a day of riding till the camp. He had to reach there by all means and to move faster. Tullius had given up the bigger part of his accoutrements and provisions but he advanced slowly. He had slipped the bellows of water over his shoulder and taken only the long sword and the big shield, provided for hits at the height of the saddle but they did not give him an advantage in the close handgrip. That would probably cost him his life but the thought he had fallen still at the first mission as a tracker was surging in his mind.

He was wondering what the Carthaginian was waiting for. He could overwhelm him with ease: the Roman was at the edge of his power, moving slowly and lamely. His enemy could see that but did not attack. Tullius gazed at him and noticed that his movements were also heavy. He made a step, a second one, rushed at him, their shields collided into each other with a muffled rumbling, the blades rang and the hit was weaned. A scuffled followed – the hits were running down but they did not cause damages. The thought that if he won, he would not only save his life but would gain a horse too gave some power to Tullius. However, his enemy did not give up although he was not able to prevail.

He did not know how much time had passed. Their battle had continued for a long time, with short pauses which both of them gifted to each other with no words to restore their power but that time they were at the edge. Tullius was leaning on his big shield more than wearing it. The Carthaginian in front of him was also staggering. They wore the swords down. The heat was unbearable. They were watching each other. The Roman made a few steps back, put the bellows cautiously and took a few sips of hot, insipid, rewarding water. The Carthaginian kept watching him without moving. “A cursed land! It was far much better in Carthage, nearby the sea!” – Tullius was thinking but the campaign had led them to the South, to the draught, to the desert where Zama – the last bigger city under Hannibal’s ruling – was.

Suddenly he flinched. The Carthaginian dragged his feet to the horse that was sniffing the sand and the dry weeds down-in-the-mouth, keeping an eye on him. He had to stop him, he was lost without the horse, he did not have to let him go. He raised his shield, clutched the handle of the sword and rushed forward cumbersomely when, in his surprise, the Carthaginian raised his arm and pointed at him with his finger. The Roman stopped in a wonder – his enemy made a gesture as if he was drinking and at the next moment patted the back of the horse twice.

He did not understand what he was supposed to do but the Carthaginian repeated the gestures. Tullius made a step ahead, looked at the horse more carefully and saw the empty bellows which was hanging down the saddle. Suddenly he realized the meaning – the Carthaginian could not survive without water but was decisive to defend the horse and Tullius was lost without a horse. He tottered. The heat was incinerating him. He was wondering what to do but nothing came into his mind. Obviously, their powers were equal and even if the fight continued it was not clear who would prevail. On the other hand, he had to reach the camp at any cost as well as the enemy his. He had no choice.

The Roman winked, approached carefully, raised his bellows and stretched his arm slowly. The dirty palm of the Carthaginian gripped the neck of the bellows, touched his sweat hand and Tullius loosened his fingers after a while of hesitation. The Carthaginian started pouring the contain in his throat devouringly holding the sword with his right hand and not losing sight of the Roman. When his enemy stopped drinking, Tullius sat up. He did not know what the other one was about to do. He squeezed the handle of the sword harder while their eyes kept gazing at each other but the Carthaginian gave the bellows back. The tiredness was on their faces, the blades in their hands were hanging down the ground. The stranger slowly put the sword in his scabbard without letting the handle down watching the movements of the Roman. Tullius also took his sword back and the Carthaginian nodded, patting the horse.

Both of them had been riding for hours. The Carthaginian was leading the animal and Tullius who had already known the locality well enough knew they were going to the plane where the both armies would go into a battle. The hours were going by. The horse was hardly crawling and the Roman had lost hope that he would reach on time to give his information although they had been riding all the day and night. They met the sunrise in that way – a weird view of a legionnaire in a cuirass and a desert dweller in leather armor, riding one behind another on a half-dead horse among the sandy desert.

At about noon a far noise that became stronger and stronger growing to quiet reverberation reached their ears and when they climbed up a big eminence, the rumble of the starting battle hit them. In the lowlands in front of them, the two armies advanced one against the other. Tullius was terrified. Aghast, he was looking at the chased into a trot dozens of martial elephants trained to cram, the bracelets with terrifying spikes on their feet, stepping against Scipio’s phalanx. He nearly cried when the centuries regrouped immediately forming corridors through which the monsters passed inflicting minimal damages. Some of the elephants had been slaughtered with the long pikes, others got frightened by the ensuing mess, rushed back and cannoned into Hannibal’s ranks. The cavalries mixed together on the far side, the first ranks clashed shields... he did not know what the outcome would be hoping his failure would not bring doom to his people. The stranger by his side was watching tensely the mess of people, horses, vexillum[2].

Tullius could not stay anymore; he had to be down. He moved and the both strangers looked at each other – the one of them in a metal helmet with red and black feathers and the other one in a weird leather headwear – tired, sweaty and dusty. They both could and had nothing to say to each other.

The Roman stretched his hand, the Carthaginian nodded as an answer and they separated. Under them, Rome and Carthage were holding the last battle near Zama.

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Translated by: Vessislava Savova.

[1] Spatha – long, Roman cavalry sword, longer than the infantry gladius.

[2] Vexillum – a military standard or flag carried by ancient Roman troops.