So you know your ancient myths do you? Are you sure? Really sure? Read on and find out.

THE MINOTAUR'S DEATH

Theseus lay on a soft chair outside the palace of Knossos, shaded by a brightly colored pavilion. The sun shone brightly on the fields, the scent of olives heavy on the breeze. She was still a woman.

Dangling earrings pulled on her ears and she heard them jingle when she turned her head. Bright bangles on her arm reflected the light when she raised her arm. Looking at her body, it wasn’t her breasts that first drew her attention, it was the large protrusion of her belly.

She was not just a woman. She was a pregnant woman.

She gasped, and an attendant ran over to her. “Do you need anything, majesty?” the breathless young girl asked. “Iced milk, a plate of fruit, a fan slave?”

“No,” she choked out in surprise. She waved the girl away while looking at the fine white skin on her hands. She knew who she was, but had to confirm it. “Girl,” she called, “bring me a mirror.”

The girl ran off without question while Theseus lay still in the heat. Every movement took more effort than it should, so she tried not to move. Her stomach weighed on her, but turning to her side made her feel clumsy.

Her attendant returned carrying a small bronze mirror. Theseus peered into the polished surface. She recognized the face she saw there, though it was much younger and even more beautiful than the last time she saw it. She was Queen Pasiphae. Those bright green eyes and perfect nose were unmistakable. She touched at the soot over her eyes, smoothing it slightly so it looked like she’d had a reason to call for the mirror. It wasn’t necessary. Even bloated as she was, she was a startlingly lovely woman.

She concentrated on the labyrinth to gain her bearings. The glowing thread thread trailed behind her and to her side. As she tried to see the walls, she felt the baby in her stomach kick, distracting her. It was a foreign feeling, but strangely pleasing. She smiled contentedly.

A loud horn blast shattered the afternoon calm.

“Majesty,” announced the girl, “it’s the King. He’s coming here. We must get you ready.” She immediately started bustling around.

Theseus silently wondered what was not yet ready.

She learned. The girl set up a table and wiped down her face with olive oil. Theseus tolerated her attentions while staying as still as she could manage. She was not used to having someone’s hands in her face, and found it difficult to stay still. When she received chalk and lead powder on her face she started coughing.

“Majesty, please, hold still,” the girl hissed.

Theseus looked at her with annoyance and surprise. It was unusual for a serving girl to reprove a queen.

“The king is coming. He just saw the oracles, and…” the girl gestured uselessly at Theseus’ bulging stomach. “You must look perfect for him.” She was badly agitated. Theseus wished she knew her name.

After that remonstration, she stayed still while her attendant finished powdering her face. The girl picked up a mix of soot and coal. Knowing it was coming, Theseus managed to remain still while the servant rubbed her fingers over her eyes. Finally a mulberry paint went on her lips.

The girl looked at her, then carefully rearranged Theseus’s hair and positioned her artfully on her couch. As a final touch, she carefully draped the rich tunic to show the queen’s legs to best advantage.

The king arrived with three guards. He was a striking figure when younger, tall and muscular with a head of oiled brown hair. She couldn’t help but be impressed. With her memories as Thetis fresh in her mind she found herself wondering what King Minos would be like in bed. Reminding herself she was Theseus despite her current body, she brought herself back to the moment.

The king paused and ran his eyes over her. She found herself appreciating his interest and wishing she had a trim stomach so she could move better under his gaze. He barked, “Away with you girl,” as he waved his hands at her attendant.

The girl fled.

The king’s guards stepped back, leaving Theseus alone with him.

“I should have you killed,” the king snarled.

That was not what Theseus expected.

Danger crowded about her. She had no weapon, and would not be able to use it in this body if she did. She’d have trouble standing up by herself if it came to it.

“My King!” she exclaimed. “My love!” She used the only weapon at hand. As a man she used a commanding presence to win men over. She had to learn to do the equivalent as a woman. And fast.

“None of that,” he snapped. His hand flew and Theseus could not get out of the way. The king’s slap nearly turned her head around. Her face burned, the world flashed red, and she tasted blood.

“You carry a monster. The child is none of me. How dare you put horns on me?”

The minotaur. She was carrying the monster inside her. King Minos had just found out.

The King would imprison her until the child’s birth. It would then be abandoned to the Gods, while she would be killed. That was the law. To do otherwise would shame Minos and Crete.

Yet she knew he had done otherwise. Once. How? Why?

“Pl- Please,” she struggled to speak through the pain. “Please my lord. I–”

“No. No lies.” His fist barreled into her face. She tried to raise her slender arms to block the blow but was far too late. She fell from the couch to the ground, her face planted in the dirt.

“Eat dung,” he yelled as his foot hit her head. The warrior in Theseus wanted to rise and fight back. The woman she was would have none of it. She collapsed to the ground. Darkness.

She had no idea how long she was out, but when she opened her eyes she was still looking at the ground. King Minos stood over her in anger.

“It– It was,” she stammered through the pain, her mouth barely moving. She couldn’t take another beating, “Zeus.” Success. She’d gotten out the magic word.

His foot hovered over her face, her fate held in the sandaled sole. It didn’t fall.

“Prove it, woman.”

The world swam in front of her, out of focus except that awful, dreadful foot. “He was…” she wanted to vomit, she needed water, but stopping now meant death. She must get the words out. “He was a bull. The boy will be marked. Half bull himself, my lord, my love, and my master.” She couldn’t continue, her head fell to the ground and the world went dark. She fled pain and the shame of her abasement.

When at last the world returned, she was lying on her couch again. Her husband sat on a stool nearby, anger on his face. Her position had only improved marginally, and she was still almost blind from pain. She knew his guards were nearby, but could not see them.

“What of it?” he snarled when he saw she was awake. “If it is Zeus’s child he’ll be spared. Why should I also spare you?”

There was an opening. Theseus could see it, but couldn’t clear her head to see how to use it. She could not seduce the king with beauty or pity, but there was still glory. Glory was a call she knew well, and could use to survive.

“For you,” she said, “all for you.” The words slurred past her bleeding lip. She had to keep it short. “A God’s child in your house. Power for you.”

Minos drew back his hand in warning. “I see that, wench. I will have the child already. Why should you live?”

“Plan. The child, too strong to hold. Put him in a maze, so he can’t get out. Give your enemies to him. You are feared, strong.”

His hand wavered.

She wanted to smile, seduce, but couldn’t. “For you, a woman shared by Zeus. No other, ever, only the most powerful. Your name and Zeus’s, forever linked. I will,” she paused when blood ran from her lip, but carried on. “I will bear you more children, my love.”

He thought about it.

“It’s a good plan.” He stood and turned from her. “Have your maid clean you up.” He walked away without looking back.

Physically, she’d barely moved, yet she’d made progress through the Labyrinth. The strange direction loomed in front of her, and she moved.

θ

The pain was gone.

She was still a woman.

She was in a dark room. It was large but plain. A table was covered with parchments, an ink pot, a bone stylus, and charcoal sticks. Drafting tools were stacked neatly on a shelf, a bronze protractor carefully packed in a felt lined box. Wood and stone scraps littered the floor while more were stacked in a corner with nails and tools. A large bed was the only other piece of furniture in the room. Several large windows were tightly shuttered, keeping things shadowed.

She looked at herself with some dread. Her breasts were just barely visible, an observation she met with a mix of relief and disappointment. She was short, thin, with calloused feet and knees, and scars on her hands. Her body was immature, she was a young girl. She wore a short gray tunic with nothing beneath. She was either a servant or a slave.

A man in a rumpled brown and gold tunic with a green cloak entered the room. He had a short brown beard and lively eyes. He smiled, “Iola, you lazy girl,” and gave a playful slap to her rear. Theseus surmised that her name was Iola. The man continued, “throw open the windows, give me some light. Fetch some water and scrub the floors. Put the scraps over in the corner with the others,” he pointed at the pile of wood and stone.

“Yes my lord,” she replied uncertainly.

He stopped short and stared at her with piercing eyes. “Stay still, girl.” His gaze went from her head to her toes. She felt naked and ashamed before him, but didn’t move.

She did not know what was going on, and did not want to look for the labyrinth walls while this stranger watched her.

He nodded. “Very well. Get back to work. And for love of all the muses, just call me Daedalus.”

She tripped. She needed her stoic mask to keep her surprise from showing. Recovering, she went to the windows and threw them open, careful not to look behind her at the master inventor while he settled in at the table.

As soon as she could, she went to fetch water. Out of sight of Daedalus, she concentrated on the maze. It was still there, and her thread still trailed her. It was the most complex section she’d ever seen. It twisted in on itself, full of turns and crevices. She would not be able to keep her eyes on it while the maze builder himself watched her. How could she navigate it successfully, she wondered.

Knossos was already bustling in the early morning light. Without Daedalus watching her, Theseus could use the labyrinth to guide her. She found her way to the well and drew a bucket of water. The bucket weighed less than her old armor, but felt much heavier. Lifting with both hands and still struggling, she was out of breath by the time she got back to Daedalus’s quarters.

While scrubbing the floor, she watched the master craftsman at work through the corner of her eye. Daedalus sketched in charcoal, occasionally reaching for his stylus, but never using it. Once he dipped it in ink before dropping it. He seemed curiously indifferent to surface, starting on parchment, but extending to the table or walls if it seemed more convenient. She hoped she’d be gone before she needed to scrub it clean. He would sometimes stop, suddenly, and close his eyes. Then he would resume with a sudden burst of energy. And every now and again, when he thought she wasn’t looking, he would stare at her.

She quickly grew tired of being on her knees scrubbing. It was harder work than she’d imagined when watching women do it back in Athens. It came as a relief when Daedalus told her, “Fetch some bread and wine Iola. For you too.”

She left at a run. The palace was even busier than it was in the morning. She hoped King Minos was outside the palace. The beating she took at his hands was still fresh and she dreaded seeing him again. She was more likely to see him in Daedalus’s room, as the King did not enter the servants’ halls. No one paid any attention to a young serving girl. She was the next best thing to invisible. It was something she’d have to remember.

“Come Iola, join me,” Daedalus said when she got back, patting his lap.

Theseus blanched, but she had done more than that already, so she stepped towards him.

It was wrong. She could just see her glowing thread in front of her.

“Why don’t I just eat with you, Daedalus,” she said with a giggle, holding her hand to her mouth shyly.

“It was worth a try,” he said weakly. He did not seem disappointed. More than anything, he seemed curious, turning his head to look around at nothing.

When he was occupied she concentrated on the labyrinth. She could see a turn. She had to do something. Daedalus was watching her eyes. What was he seeing? It was time to take a chance.

“Master Daedalus, have you thought about what might happen when you finish this project? King Minos is a cruel man and might think it better none know his secrets. Do you have a way out if he throws you in your maze?”

She was on the right path. She hoped.

Daedalus peered at her. He looked to the right. He looked back at her, squinted and frowned.

“Why do you ask, girl? Have you heard something?”

“No. I haven’t heard anything, but I am,” she paused, thinking quickly, “I am afraid for you.”

He stood, leaned over the table and brushed the parchments to the floor. Inches from her face, he looked straight in her eyes. She did not know how to react, so she stared back.

He sat down.

“That was an error, whoever you are. You should have looked away. I think you can get back on your path. Make a left next.”

She was stunned.

“That’s a good idea, Iola,” Daedalus continued as though he hadn’t just spoken directly to Theseus. “I think I will have to make a way to escape. It occurs to me, though,” he said as though deep in thought, “that even if the king lets me go, you might still be in danger, since you know some of my secrets. I think I will have to hide the key, and tell you where it is so you might be safe too.”

Theseus’s mouth hung open. She didn’t know what to say.

She had to move. Her path ended.

As she left, she heard Daedalus say, “So that’s how it works.”

θ

She was still female. She was tired of it, but she had expected it. She was Ariadne.

It made sense. Theseus was putting together the puzzle. She was setting up her path through the labyrinth. The maze was a puzzle of lifetimes. She had to create the conditions that would allow her to travel through it. Ariadne had to learn about the thread from Iola in order to give it to Theseus.

She looked forward to seeing Iola now that she was grown up. It would be the first time she saw Iola’s face, she wondered what she looked like. She resolved to be as kind to her as she could without straying from her path in the maze. At the same time, she hoped not to see Minos, despite him being her father now. The beating he delivered still haunted her.

Her room was richly appointed. The seats were covered in linen and velvet, the molding along the walls carved with images of the palace. A bronze mirror polished to a high sheen hung on the wall, and she took advantage of that to look at herself more closely.

She had expected to be younger, but she was about the same age as when her old body met her. Perhaps Ariadne only got the thread from Iola when plotting to help Theseus. Her makeup and hair were in place, elaborate jewelry was on her arms, and she wore the red and yellow tunic and cloak of a princess of Crete.

She remembered it well.

It was exactly what she wore the night she appeared in Theseus’s rooms.

With a sinking feeling, she dug into the fold of her tunic. The spool of thread was already there. She had a different task tonight. She must convince her old self to take the string with him into the Labyrinth.

She thought back to that night. The princess and her mother had given a short speech during the feast, but she wore no makeup then. So this was after the speech, but before the feast ended. She would have to go to her suite.

Reason alone was not enough to convince her, so she concentrated on the labyrinth walls. She had it right. There was a touch of melancholy that she would not see Iola, but she was cheered by the thought of not seeing Minos. She did not look forward to seeing her old body again, memories of her time as Thetis rising unbidden.

Servants and slaves bowed as she hurried to the guest suite. Inside, she knelt to wait. She knew her old mind. He would not trust help freely offered, but must charm the help from her.

“O Theseus, Prince of Athens,” she cried when the door opened, “All my life I have burned to meet a man such as you. I could not bear to lose you so soon. Spare me a broken heart; flee with me this night and let us run far from my father’s house.”

She ran to him eagerly despite herself. Sparing some thought for the true Ariadne, she hoped she was not ruining the young girl’s life. Ariadne had the thread in her tunic before Theseus possessed her, so it was likely she wanted this too. The male Theseus was holding her by her shoulders to pretend he did not want the princess. “I can never flee from my duty to Athens. I will not die, but win eternal glory by defeating your champion and escaping the labyrinth.”

If only he knew the cost of that mission, she thought to herself. She fell to her knees and wept, thinking of all she’d had to go through to get to this point. It had been so much that she was even thinking of herself as a woman now. Her male self needed to convince her to give up her secret, and she wanted him to, but she meant it when she pleaded with him to run away with her.

“Surely you have gleaned some knowledge of the beast in your father’s court. With your help I may escape the maze and then -”

“And then you would take me with you when you go back to Athens?” She watched him closely to judge his reaction.

“You are your father’s daughter,” her old body said, cupping her chin. “You are of Crete, and would not be made welcome in Athens. And yet, I might be able to convince my father to accept you, were I able to show him that your support of us is real.”

He spoke the words but didn’t mean them. She knew because she remembered being him. She also knew he was wrong, she would bring Ariadne with her and would marry her. Minos would be furious at his loss and would seek revenge on Athens. If Theseus married his daughter, his rage would be less. Theseus’s daring would reflect well on him. King Aegeus would not only approve but be thrilled with a tie to Crete. Ariadne was a lovely woman, and stealing her away would enhance Theseus’s legend. But, she admitted to herself, she simply could not bear to ruin the young girl’s life when she’d done so much to help. Somewhere in this trek through lives she’d changed. She would wed Ariadne.

“Oh it is, my prince, it is.” It took too long, she had spent too much time thinking. She could see it in his eyes, he suspected something was wrong. He must be the hero, she must be the adoring girl. She hated abasing herself, but it was necessary. Promising to make it up to Ariadne one day, she pleaded “Let me wash your feet, please. I shall be your attendant, your father must accept that.”

Kneeling at his feet, she unlaced his sandals and bathed his feet first with water and then with oil. From this angle she saw his manhood stir, even after his romps with Thetis. She was impressed and proud despite herself.

His pride mollified, Theseus still demanded more of her, as she knew he must.

“My prince, there is… There is a way.” She was careful to sound fearful. Hesitant. Shy. She told him how she came to possess Daedalus’s secret. “Now I give it to you, my prince.”

She saw triumph in his eyes, and felt the same in her heart.

“What is this key, my lovely Ariadne?” She was touched by his praise, even knowing it was a front.

“This.”

“String?”

“From Daedalus. Normal string will not do. The maze will cut string, or break it, or pull it, or twist it. Not this. The guards won’t even take it from you, just laugh. Others have tried making trails, but this will work.”

“I thank you, Ariadne. I will take you with me when I leave in triumph.”

He didn’t know it, but he spoke the truth. He would take Ariadne with him, she’d be the one to do it. In delight, she kissed his feet.

Instructions. She had to tell him how to follow the path, but she couldn’t tell him what that meant. If she told him what she’d done to navigate the maze, she knew he would never enter.

“Finally, he said you must remember that there are many directions.”

“I see,” the man said dully, until he realized the last instruction was meaningless. “Hold on, what does that last part mean?”

It meant she must hide the consequences of the Labyrinth from him, from herself, until it was too late to do anything about it. “I don’t – I don’t know.”

She could see desire and regret on his face as he dismissed her. He wanted to take her on the spot, and she reveled in that knowledge. She would soon marry this body, she was glad she found it desirable.

She left, and once more saw the way out.

θ

The walls of the labyrinth were visible again. Even in the dim light, he knew he was a man again. He was Theseus once more. In his joy, he almost broke into a shout of triumph, but he restrained himself. He had solved the great riddle and made it to the center of the maze. The minotaur should be near. His quest, at long last, was near an end.

Or so he devoutly hoped.

He could see his thread glowing behind him, looping through a long and complex path. He rejoiced that he could see the thread and the labyrinth without needing to concentrate. Reflecting briefly on his journey, he knew he would never look on the women of Athens the same way. He would soon have to fight, so he tucked the spool of thread under his belt behind him.

Now, he hunted.

He stood still and listened. He sniffed the air, smelling the dust of years mixed with the musk of an animal or a man who hadn’t bathed in far too long.

Lacking any weapon, he crept forward as silently as possible. Shadows made more noise. Surprise was all he had, he would not sacrifice it in vain.

Still following Daedalus’s instructions, he padded quietly through the maze. Hunter’s senses stayed at high alert.

And there, at last, was his target.

The minotaur. Sleeping.

Theseus took advantage of his fortune to study his foe. The minotaur had the head of a bull. Its horns extended at least a foot forward, and they were stained with dried blood. The tips of the horns, however, were clean and showed signs of sharpening. They would be deadly weapons.

The creature’s horns were not the only threat. His body was that of a man, but a man both tall and fit. Bulging muscles spoke of strength that would rival Hercules. It wore nothing besides a belt and loincloth, so at least Theseus did not need to worry about hidden weapons. With that as the only positive, he had to finish the fight quickly.

Quietly, with painful deliberation, he sneaked up on the sleeping beast. Kneeling behind it, the hunter grabbed the creature’s horns and with a burst of strength, twisted.

A quick break would have ended the struggle as soon as it started. It was not to be. The minotaur’s neck was thicker and stronger than a man’s, and it did not break even with Theseus’s great strength.

The beast roared as it struggled to its feet. Its bellow echoed through the maze. Theseus nearly lost his hold on the creature. But only nearly. He held on.

With Theseus clinging to its back, the mintoaur slammed into the nearest wall. Theseus grunted but held on. Once he got his feet on the ground, he yanked the creature’s horns to pull its head back.

Countering that, the minotaur snapped its head forward. Theseus tumbled to its front. With a loud crack he flew off, forward, and to the ground.

He still held one of the minotaur’s horns. The bull bellowed and stomped with fury. While its left horn was as sharp and dangerous as ever, only a stump remained on the right.

The beast’s display gave Theseus barely enough time to get back to his feet.

He had a weapon now, a sharp horn he could use as a short spear. He forced the creature to keep its distance. They circled one another warily.

“I will destroy you, little man,” the bull bellowed.

It spoke. Theseus jumped in surprise, giving the creature an opening to charge.

He dodged the deadly horn, but the bull got its arm on Theseus and pushed.

Pushed in a direction that wasn’t.

θ

Theseus hit a wall again. The world spun when his head hit stone, and it seemed the minotaur jumped up by at least a foot.

No, he’d shrunk.

No, she’d shrunk.

She was a small girl with calloused hands and feet. She was Iola. Again.

But now she was Iola fighting a giant beast who could give Hercules a run for his money.

“Why didn’t you change too?” she yelled at the monster in her soft girlish voice.

“This maze was built to hold me. I am not allowed even the escape of other lives.” Its low gravelly voice echoed through the temporary stillness of the halls.

She lifted the horn. It felt heavier than before she changed, but she could still lift it. Using it as a weapon was beyond her.

The minotaur watched her and laughed.

“You are undone, little girl,” it growled with delight. “Hah, you thought you were a hero, but you were wrong. You’ll beg for death before I’m through with you.” It smiled evilly, “Or you can surrender now and I’ll make you scream with pleasure before I kill you.”

Theseus saw the beast’s erection beneath its loincloth, and felt terror grip her. She couldn’t show it.

She lifted the horn in warning. “Try it,” she warned.

Then she ran.

Unprepared, the minotaur was caught flat footed, and she put some distance between them.

The minotaur was not quiet in its pursuit. As soon as she knew she was out of sight, she ducked her tiny body around a corner and hid. The minotaur bellowed as it ran past her

Silently, she crept from hiding, ran, and slashed its leg with its horn. Bleeding, the minotaur roared. The sound knocked her from her feet like a ram. She barely held on to her weapon.

With her lying on the ground the minotaur could not impale her, but it grabbed her by the hair and lifted her into the air.

“For that you die painfully little girl,” it growled while she kicked uselessly.

It hugged her to its chest, ran with her, and slammed her against the wall. Her back erupted in pain, she lost control of her body. Her prize, the minotaur’s broken horn, slipped from her grasp. The beast stepped back, turned a corner, and the pain was gone in an instant.

The maze was hot, dry, arid, and the creature was smaller than it was a moment ago. She flexed her arms and broke free with only a slight effort. The minotaur stumbled back in surprise.

Thetis.

She was still a woman, but now a goddess.

With casual ease, she picked up the fallen horn.

“Now beast, it is your turn to die. Stay still, and I’ll make this quick.”

It charged her. Under water her grace and agility were unmatched. She was slower on land, but she was more than fast enough to avoid the beast’s lunge with ease. She lashed out with the broken horn and cut its chest as it passed.

The creature wasted no time roaring or showing its fury. A fast turn and it charged her again. She moved out of the way again with no margin for error. She brought her weapon down awkwardly on the beast’s back, without cutting its skin.

They circled again, each watching the other warily.

The minotaur charged. She avoided its horn and planted her weapon to impale the beast. She underestimated it again. Its head was a bull’s, but the minotaur was no beast. It absorbed the hit, lodging her weapon deep in its shoulder. In return for the wound it was able to grab Theseus and push.

She fell back against a wall, the searing pain informing her clearly that she was no longer Thetis. Her improvised spear fell out of the minotaur’s shoulder to clatter on the floor. Glancing at it through the corner of her eye was enough to also see her body. She was Ariadne.

Before the creature could recover, she ran. The minotaur was bleeding badly, but it still stood. She was uninjured, but she was also unarmed and weak.

Hearing a bellow behind her she ducked around a corner, and then another. To her surprise she had guessed right, and was back where the minotaur’s broken horn was lying abandoned on the ground. She grabbed it, ducked, and waited.

An instant later the bull headed man came into view. As soon as it did, she stood up and threw.

The horn was not balanced so well as a spear, and she did not have the strength she did as a man.

But it was enough.

The minotaur bellowed, but its mighty roar shut off. With a wet, gurgling sound it fell forward. Its broken horn pierced its throat.

Theseus collapsed, breathless, as blood pooled around her. Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. The normal post battle rush did not come, or if it did, it felt different in this body. She did not like it. She wept until she could weep no more.

Then she almost started crying again when she looked around. The thread she still carried hung limply behind her. Her trail out of the maze was broken.

θ

Panic was her enemy, so she forced it down. She had slain the minotaur, she was a hero.

When she calmed down she tried to retrace the path in her mind. She was near the spot the minotaur forced her to be Ariadne again, since this was where she picked up its horn. She wore Thetis’s body before that, and she worked out the path she took in that body. Her memory as Iola was less certain, as she’d been overwhelmed at the time.

She pulled the horn from the minotaur’s throat. She would need a trophy to prove her words when she reached the tributes. The maze would not claim another victim, she resolved.

From the wall she hit as Ariadne she paced back. The frescoes were made to distract, so she didn’t look at them. She found the spot, the direction only Daedalus know, and stepped through it.

Nothing.

She was still Ariadne.

Tears welled up, but she forced them down. Either she was wrong about where she changed to Ariadne, or the maze didn’t work the same in reverse. Or it didn’t work the same because she was with the minotaur when she changed last. Or because her thread broke. In each case, her best course of action was to continue her current quest to find the string.

She saw it. The soft glow of the string was off to her side. She almost made a dash for it, but her respect for the architect’s skill led her to refrain. It was too easy to get distracted and lost. So she stuck to retracing her steps by memory. It worked.

She grabbed the torn thread like an infant clutching for the breast. Soon she would be Theseus again.

She followed the thread back to where she’d caught the minotaur sleeping. A pile of animal skins made a bed. Blood and bones heaped nearby indicated they’d been a meal first. Minos fed more than men to his pet, it seemed. She felt a surge of pity for the creature and renewed anger towards Minos. She would marry his daughter, but hoped never to see him again.

She found the turn where she’d ceased being Ariadne and become Theseus again. Holding her breath and closing her eyes, she made the turn in reverse.

“Ariadne?”

She opened her eyes with a clang like a spear on armor. She was still in the labyrinth. She was still Ariadne. And yet-

And yet Theseus was standing before her.

Her body. Her male body.

“How did you get here Ariadne? Did you come looking for me? That was very dangerous.” He grinned disarmingly.

Her mouth moved, but no words came out. She couldn’t take a step if her life depended on it.

Theseus put his hand on her arm and took the minotaur’s horn and Daedalus’s thread from her.

“Come, Ariadne. It was very daring of you to come after me, but I am glad you did. Now I will not need to break into your father’s palace to steal you away. But we must make haste ere the Athenians grow restless.”

“What did you say?” she blurted.

“I said we must make haste or the Athenians will fear I died at the minotaur’s hands.”

The Athenians. Not the tributes.

“Yes,” she answered warily, “let’s go, Prince Theseus.”

He peered at her suspiciously. Her face was a mask he could not decipher.

“Well,” she said impatiently, “shall we go?”

“Of course, Princess. Follow me.” He did not hold the horn properly, she noted. He held it upright, like he was marching in a parade. It should be carried low, like a spear, so it could be brought quickly to offense.

She followed. At first she fell naturally into patrol, two paces behind him. Then she remembered she was a woman now. She didn’t have a spear of her own to justify staying that close, so she dropped further back. She was almost certain he noticed.

The labyrinth was unfamiliar. The last time she was here, she was living other lives. Neither she nor the male Theseus suffered anything more than an upset stomach when going through the strange turns that once swapped lives.

“How will you steal the ship from King Minos?” she asked.

“The Black Ship will sit at anchor for three more days,” he answered, “so Crete can revel in its strength. It is not well guarded. We can sneak in at night and launch under sail. If we leave as the tide recedes, they will have to wait hours to pursue, and may not bother.”

“That’s a very good plan, Ariadne,” she said. She had her suspicions, but wasn’t certain until he knew too much about the Black Ship.

“What? Then you know? You aren’t…” He forced himself to stop stammering and looked closely at her. Grimly, he asked, “Theseus?”

“Yes,” she answered. She could feel heat rise in her cheeks, and knew she was blushing. He probably couldn’t tell. Quietly, she gave thanks the Labyrinth was dark.

He stopped and faced her. “When I went to see you last night, I thought a God possessed me, but it was a kinder spirit than any God I know.” He smiled warmly, and for an instant she believed him. Then she saw, his smile never reached his eyes. She hid her reaction and let him continue his prepared speech. “A few moments ago I felt that presence again, and the world went black. When I saw again, it was from your body, and you were there before me. You must know more than I about how this happened.”

“Part of the maze wound through the lives of others. Yours was one of them.”

“I don’t understand,” he said too quickly.

“I’m not sure I do either. But the minotaur used it in battle and pushed me into your life. I think he pushed you into mine at the same time.”

“How do we undo it?” he asked quickly and sincerely. She wondered if her new and growing suspicion was wrong.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “We will have to escape together, as we planned, and seek out the master craftsman. You will need my help to play your role properly.”

He agreed, and she saw a chilling smile as he turned away. Her suspicions were right. He knew more than he was letting on, and she would have to watch herself. The real Ariadne was more clever than he let on.

“When we get to the tributes,” she started, “we must become each other. No one must know.” He nodded. “From now on, I am Ariadne, and you are Theseus. Remember it.”

“Then you need to watch yourself, Ariadne. It is not fit for you to give a man orders.”

She winced, but nodded. “Agreed. But we aren’t at the tributes yet. Here’s what you need to do.” She outlined a plan for him.

He agreed. “And you can teach me more when we’re on the ship, on our way to Athens. It seems I have much to learn.”

She was unsure whether to smile or weep.

θ

“The minotaur died by my hand. Children of Athens, we are triumphant.”

The tributes gazed heroically at Theseus before breaking into a rousing cheer. He posed dramatically with the minotaur’s horn over his head. Ariadne tried her best to stare at him adoringly while her heart was eaten out with envy. Those should have been her cheers.

“What’s she doing here?” one of the tributes shouted, a finger pointed accusingly at her.

Theseus held his palm out to silence them, then draped his arm casually about her. She had coached him on this, and still resented his claim of possession. “Ariadne provided me with the key to the Labyrinth, ensuring my victory over the beast and Crete. She did this out of love for me, and so I shall carry her off with us to my father’s house. Let all praise her for aiding Athens’ children in their time of need.”

A flowery command is still a command. The tributes looked questioningly at one another. They gave another round of cheers, this one much more ragged than the last.

Theseus examined the gate. There was a hole at the base, and he inserted the minotaur’s broken horn into it.

Ariadne understood. The horn was the key, but it only fit upside down at the base of the gate. It was cruelty, designed to taunt the minotaur. The creature could see the lock, and know it held the key, but be unable to open it.

The gates moved. It was only an inch, but they opened.

Theseus and the men grabbed the opening and pulled.

There was more noise than Ariadne wanted. Any guards in the area would be certain to hear it. Theseus had been sure there wouldn’t be any; they never remained once the gates closed.

He was right, no one waited. The entrance hall was empty save for the tributes.

“Now we wait for night,” Theseus commanded. “Rest and get ready.”

The tributes sat and rested at his command. Theseus went to each group to speak words of encouragement. Ariadne sat alone, conspicuously avoided. No one even glanced at her. She wanted to break down and cry, could feel tears welling up in her eyes. This should have been her triumph. All she had left was the warrior’s mask, the stoicism she’d learned so well, and she called on it again. It would take cunning, wisdom, and daring to turn her situation around, but she had them all.

When night fell they left. Theseus followed the plan Ariadne made for him. He sent two of the tributes ahead as scouts. They considered it an honor to help the hero of Athens. It covered up the new Theseus’s lack of experience, but hopefully no one would catch on.

The scouts were good. They signaled back when they saw guards and everyone waited. The fifteen escapees moved with silence and speed. Ariadne was pleased with the skill the tributes showed. Even the women moved with discipline.

They got to the Black Ship. Theseus was finally able to take command in truth. He understood sailing more than stealth. Under his terse and whispered commands, the tributes raised the sails, untied from the dock, and silently launched the ship.

As Crete vanished in the distance, Theseus gathered them all about. “We have escaped from Crete, but we are not safe yet. They will soon know that we are gone, the minotaur is dead, and their princess taken.” He pulled Ariadne to him, raising a cheer from the tributes.

She almost started to struggle, but restrained herself. They had not discussed this, but it made sense. He had to rally the tributes, for there was still work to do. Using her to enhance his glory served that purpose. She did not like it, but she accepted it.

“We will not make anchor, but will sail through day and night. In two days we will lay in at Naxos. The harbor there is protected from view, and we can wait two days while the ships of Crete search. Then we return to Athens and triumph. Are you with me?”

“Aye!” “The Hero of Athens!” “For Theseus!” Cheers rang out all over. Ariadne smiled worshipfully at him so everyone could see.

Theseus assigned each of the tributes tasks, and then grabbed Ariadne and retired to the head cabin. The tributes leered suggestively, while Ariadne burned.

“You must tell me how to act in Athens,” he commanded imperiously as the door shut behind them. “Our act has worked so far, but I must be better prepared before we land at the city.”

Beneath his glare, Ariadne remembered the beating she’d taken from his father, King Minos. The new Theseus learned from him, and Ariadne suddenly understood him. Her fear now was not just for herself, but for her city. That, at least, she could address.

“Of course,” she said, lowering her head in a bow of submission. “The first duty of a Prince is one I hope you will not have to fulfill before we are able to return to our proper bodies.” She saw impatience and anger on Theseus’s face, and knew she was taking the right path. “As prince, you must be prepared to take my father’s– to take King Aegeus’s place should he die.”

Theseus nodded, paying close attention.

“It is the custom of Athens that the prince must refuse the throne twice. To accept too quickly is to show too much eagerness, and the people will fear a tyrant. To refuse more than twice is to show too much reticence, and will be likewise distrusted. They will offer the crown three times, and only on the third time must you accept.” She paused, “Of course, King Aegeus is hale and hearty. We can both hope you will never need to know that.”

“Of course,” he responded. “I am sure it will not be needed.”

She wondered if he thought he was sly.

Hours passed as she told him the customs of her city and the duties he must fulfill. She taught him exercises to train as a soldier and fighter, and tried to teach him to act the part of a hero.

“Now,” Theseus said at last, “we need rest. We must still play our parts for the Athen– for the tributes. Come sweet Ariadne, to bed with me.”

“No,” she answered. She had to admit she was tempted. She knew her old body well, from both sides, and she remembered her time as Thetis fondly. She suspected that the current Theseus did not have her skill, and she did not trust him. “The tributes may suspect you have taken me, but we cannot make it so. King Aegeus must accept me as your bride, and so I must come to him unstained.”

Theseus raised his hand to hit her. Ariadne steeled herself to receive the blow, but it never fell.

“Fine,” he grunted.

Theseus lay in the bed, leaving Ariadne to comfort herself on the floor.

They saw no pursuit that night or the next day. They put in to the harbor of Naxos in the dark of the following night to hide from any ships they’d missed.

With the supplies from the ship they pitched a small camp. They rested for two days as the tributes grew ever more excited about returning home. Theseus commanded their patience, secure in his knowledge of how the Cretans would search. He continued his lessons with Ariadne.

On the third morning, Ariadne awoke alone.

The camp was deserted.

She saw the ship sailing away.

The sails were still black.

θ

“When he saw the black sails in the harbor, King Aegeus knew his son was dead. He leapt from the cliffs in his grief, and is buried beneath the waves in the sea that bears his name.” The storyteller paused for a drink from his wineskin. “I often wonder if Theseus was surprised when he refused the throne, and Athens accepted it. He’s widely celebrated for it, the birth of the Athenian demos, and all due to a trick.”

Laughter rang through the crowd.

“Ho, storyteller,” one cried, “how then did Theseus go on to stay a hero? You can’t claim that girl would be a capable warrior?”

Pointing, and gesturing at the man to rise so all could see him, the old man answered. “He still had the body of Theseus, the son of Poseidon, with a strength few could match. But the boy’s promise was gone. The wise warrior who broke the puzzles of the past was gone. Instead he spent his time seeking a bride. He insisted that only a daughter of Zeus was worthy of him. He teamed up with that brute Pirithous and kidnapped Helen, but couldn’t hold her. Then he did it again with Hippolyta until he grew tired of her.

No, he was basically an embarrassment by the time Lycomedes threw him off a cliff. Athens let him lie there nearly a century until his legend was useful to the city again. He may have been a hero, but he was not loved.”

The feast was breaking up, the goat nearly finished. But the crowd remained in high spirits and hoped to get a little more from the storyteller. “What of Ariadne, who was Theseus? What happened to her on Naxos?”

“Left with no food, it took her four days to build a trap and capture two birds. Rather than keep herself alive, she built an altar and offered them to the Gods. Her piety was rewarded when Dionysus rescued her. So taken was he with her beauty and strength that he took her as his wife.”

“No.” “In truth.” “How so?” Everyone there knew the name Ariadne, knew her position on Olympus, and yet showed shock at the story teller’s words.

“Truly. She approached her role with a soldier’s discipline. Dionysus is not the most diligent of Gods, and so as manager of his house she took on a lot of responsibility. The God of Wine is envied for many things, and among them is a wife who is lovely, wise, diligent and loyal.”

“How do you come to know this story, old man?” cried the heckler.

“Ariadne bore Dionysus many sons, among them Oenopion, the very personification of wine. It is from him,” said the old man, hoisting up his wine skin for all to see, “that I learned this tale.”

The laughter of the crowd started low and raised to a gale as they got the joke.

The story teller let them laugh. There are many ways to lie, and he aimed to know them all.

The sun set and the crowd broke apart. Many people thanked him for his tale, and a few gave him some additional coins. It had been a good day.

When just a few people remained, a small boy came to him with a final question. “Storyteller, Theseus was a man; a warrior and a hero. How could he become a woman?”

“Theseus was a hero,” he answered in a low voice that would not be overheard. “He had strength and skill in abundance, but his greatest skill was his composure. He knew how to present himself as a prince, and as a hero. He was not just celebrated in Athens, but loved. In the labyrinth he learned new ways to present himself as a woman. When she became Ariadne, she had to rely on those skills to seek glory. She became the wife of a God, so well loved that when she was killed Dionysus brought her out of Hades and made her a Goddess. She lives now on Olympus and ranks above all mortal kings. I’d say she did it well.”

He paused, then added, “It’s a good question, and one you should ponder well, young Hippocrates.”