The Trials of the Minotaur

Part One: The Blind Minotaur (Chapter Four)

That day and those that followed he drifted around the capital, despondent, using the last of his meager coins on a little food and drink, getting what sleep he could in secluded alleys. All hope and desire were sapped from him upon hearing Barthil Vulgih’s final words, along with the dream he had carefully preserved throughout his childhood of being drawn into his grandfather’s embrace. With that denied…he had never conceived of such a possibility. There was nothing for him in this city with its masses of people, confused streets and shouting markets, the doors to all patrician estates barred.

He was used to stares from all who chanced upon him, so he paid no mind one day when a man dressed in flamboyantly colored robes stopped cold in the street at the sight of him and began to fall in step behind. After following at a safe distance for some time the man finally summoned what courage he possessed and approached the Minotaur, catching him by sleeve of his arm. The Minotaur glanced down, only dimly registering the man under the garish hat. He shook his arm free and made to continue down the street.

“Are you by chance the Minotaur, born of Surys Dethcallen Barthil of the Dethcallas?”

The Minotaur squinted. “There are so many of us you cannot keep them all straight?”

“Quite, quite,” the man said with a loud guffaw. “No. I wanted to inquire what your business was in our fair city.”

“I have no business, here or anywhere.”

The man nodded gravely, tilting his hat as he did, and then leapt into his proposal. It seemed he was the head of one of one of the families that ran the contests at the pantheon. There were weekly gladiatorial competitions, to go along with the tamer sports, pitting man against man, or man against some manner of beast, in struggles that would often end in death. Most competitors were prisoners fighting for their freedom, but a beast like the Minotaur had precious few more freedoms than that in the empire, the man supposed, and perhaps even less in the way of options to make ones way in the world.

“I am of patrician blood,” the Minotaur told him.

“Quite, quite. There’s no doubt this sport is beneath your standing. I’m embarrassed to even propose it to you. But, if I may presume to be so bold, you seem to be at loose ends. And knowing the reputation of the illustrious Barthil Vulgih as I do, he will not have given you a fair listen when you presented yourself to him to claim your right.

“Well let me tell you,” and here he shook the purse at his hip, letting the coins rattle together, “patricians always listen to this. I will give you the choice of competitor and weapons, and a share of the gates for each contest you win. You will make both our fortunes.”

His instinct was to refuse the offer and storm away in a rage – that a commoner should ask this of him – but he could not deny his current state was dire. And there was no arguing that the man was right, there was little choice in the empire for him in terms of making his way. He agreed to the man’s proposal, telling himself that he could always withdraw before the day of the contest arrived, and in the meantime he would have some comfort. The man, Farsyl Wyarnu, took him home that very afternoon, fed him and gave him a room in his own home until he was able to afford quarters of his own. The next day he was brought to the pantheon, where he was instructed in the nature of the contests for a fortnight.

The pantheon battles were most often contested by slaves and prisoners of war, and this was who the Minotaur was set to his paces against in those early days, though a wooden sword and shield had to be constructed to his scale first. He proved a quick study, manhandling those put before him with ease. Farsyl Wyarnu and his compatriots were excited beyond measure watching his exploits in training, telling him that he would be the finest fighter in Colosi when he stepped into the pantheon. Although he still had his doubts about joining such a profession, the idea that he might become the preeminent fighter in all the empire was not without appeal.

He found he enjoyed the camaraderie of training, the other slaves quickly coming to respect him for both his strength and the strategic insight he was able to provide them, as well as the challenge of the pantheon fight, where the goal was as much in the display provided the audience as in the dispatching of the opponent. Only in those moments alone, when the day was through and training was done, did his sadness and despair overwhelm him, which only led him to throw himself into his exercises the next day with an even greater focus. By the time the fortnight was at an end and the announcement was made by the heralds in the pantheon of his upcoming contest, all doubt about his participation had been erased in his soul. He could already envision the look on Barthil Vulgih’s face as he earned triumph after triumph in the arena.

Within a year he was known across the empire as the greatest gladiator to ever set foot in the pantheon. No one man could hope to stand against him, so they began to send two and then five, all to the same end. Free men from across the empire arrived to test themselves, while others searched out the most extraordinary creatures to capture and bring to face him. None could best him and many did not survive.

The Minotaur and Farsyl Wyarnu and all his family became wealthy beyond imagining. He purchased an estate with some slaves and was able to live a life much as he had imagined during the privations of his youth. His renown in the empire was so great that other patrician families began to invite him to festivities at their estates, though none would visit his. Still, he passed easily through rooms with viziers and princes, was eyed longingly by patrician wives, and no longer had to walk the streets – instead he was carried in a litter away from the prying eyes of the plebeian crowd.

Farsyl Wyarnu’s family, always a powerful voice in the politics of the lower classes, found their influence reached to the imperial court itself. Even the Minotaur could expect the ear of certain administrators in the treasury and elsewhere. The rival families at the pantheon despaired ever having any influence again and plotted assassinations against Farsyl Wyarnu and others in his entourage in hopes of tipping the scales in the pantheon. They did not dare strike against the Minotaur, though, for he was on the rolls. It was said the emperor followed his exploits and would prosecute his murderers to the full extent of the law.

For three years the Minotaur’s meteoric rise continued unabated. Crowds kneeled at the sight of his passing litter. He added five concubines to the slaves he owned and was able to buy a country estate where he could go when the pantheon was not in session. The wine from his grapes drew much praise. All was right and well in his life.

The only mote in the eye was the continued refusal of Barthil Vulgih and the Dethcallas to recognize him in any way. It should not have mattered, for what could they offer him that he did not already have? Yet he could not stop the bitterness from rising in his throat at the thought. He still had no true name. In the pantheon they called him only the Minotaur, which was fine enough for that realm, but no substitute among the patricians in whose circles he now moved. One day, he swore, they would be able to deny him no longer.

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This is the fourth chapter of the Trials of the Minotaur. I will post a chapter a week (there are over 30), but if you enjoy what you're reading and don't want to wait, you can buy this book at Amazon, Kobo, and Smashwords. Thanks for reading.