CHAPTER VIII
She wasn't there. Even when he ran back through her rooms, calling her name aloud, she wasn't there.
Numbly, Burke stumbled forth again, out onto the long ascending ramp that led to the central court.
Over on the far side, at the Shrine of Oracles, orange-yellow flames leaped high into the black night sky. Whipped by the buffeting south wind, they jumped to another building while Burke watched; then on to still another. Silhouetted figures ran this way and that—gesturing, shouting.
Once again, Burke checked his watch.
Eleven fifty-five now. Only five brief minutes till the moment all Knossos was to be destroyed, according to the time inverter's scanner screen.
Still Burke hesitated, straining his eyes against the night as he strove for some glimpse of Ariadne. In taut concentration, he listened for the distant echo of her voice.
Without avail.
Then, while he yet lingered, a man called out to him hoarsely. He wheeled just as one of Minos' huge Sudani guards came hurrying in his direction.
It was a stimulus Burke couldn't ignore. Another moment and the man might recognize him. Whirling, he sprinted up the nearest stairway, then across the flat roof of the back of the building.
A quick drop to the ground again. A daredevil slide down the steep East Bastion. A stumbling, headlong run along the bank of the river called Kairatos to the cover of a clump of cypress trees.
But now that he had started running, it seemed the best idea not to stop. On he fled, and on, clambering over boulders, careening into ditches.
Then, at last, he found himself in a crown of brush atop a little knoll, a good half-mile or better from the palace. Panting, unable to go further, Burke flung himself down in the blackest of the shadows and lay there, staring back at the strange, stark majesty that was Knossos.
The flames of the fire he'd started in the Labyrinth still were spreading. Sparks swirled in the wind, carried high by blaze-stoked updrafts; then dispersed, floating farther and farther from the central core of heat, till at last they fell again, to ignite new buildings.
Tearing his attention from the distant holocaust, Burke peered at his watch once more.
Twelve ten.
So the zero hour had come and gone, with nothing happening save the continued spread of the fire.
Burke felt a little sick. Had all his efforts, his anguish, gone for nothing? Was he to live out his life in Bronze Age Crete to no purpose save to prove correct that part of Pendlebury's theory that said that Knossos, dying, had been swept by fire?
Burke cursed beneath his breath. He still couldn't, wouldn't, believe it. It left too many loopholes. After all, what about the business of the radiation traces he'd detected; the blighted circle that showed on the scanner screen? Why, for so many hundred years, had Cretans shunned the site of their ancient glory?
Then, too there were his own personal experiences of the past few hours to think of. Pasiphae's monstrous imbecile son; the octopodal alien telepath—what roles did they play?
Not to mention the great, shimmering, blue-white ship hidden deep within the earth.
Certainly Pendlebury's theory offered little save the detail of the fire to commend it. The invasion part, the idea that outsiders had swept down on the palace with torch and sword—that simply wasn't true.
Not unless he, Dion Burke, might be said to constitute a whole task force in himself, just because by accident he'd set the Labyrinth ablaze.
As for his hopes, his dreams, the way he felt towards Ariadne—
A wave of sheer frustration came with the thought. Savagely, Burke hammered the dirt with a clenched fist. Then, breathing hard, he scrambled to his feet.
Only in that same moment, a sound pulsed in upon him ... a high, thin, wailing sound that rose in sudden sharp crescendo.
Burke spun round.
But before he could even place the noise, the earth beneath his feet began to shake. A roar, louder and deeper than the bellow of a thousand angry bulls, thundered up to counterpoint the wail.
Simultaneously, light flared, so blinding bright Burke had to throw up his arms to shield his eyes.
The glare seemed to come from the southeast, off in the direction where Mount Lasithi's rocky pinnacles rose.
Mount Lasithi, whose towering, cliff-girt bastions shielded the sacred Cave of Zeus....
While Burke cringed, the radiance seemed to fade a little. The earth-shaking roar diminished also. The shrill wail struck a slightly less ear-piercing note.
Another moment, and Burke dared to squint skyward once more.
What he saw made the hair stand up along the back of his neck.
For off there, to the southeast, a great spray of light radiated out from Mount Lasithi. Before his very eyes, the whole crest seemed to split asunder. Rocky buttresses crumbled. Great crags and ledges split away.
Up from among them rose a huge, flattened, metallic cone—the blue-white ship at which Burke had stared in awe brief hours before.
Light pulsed from it now, as if it were a miniature sun. Rock fell away from the craft in avalanches as it broke free of the mountain.
Now the light drew into a single, broad, fan-shaped shaft that thrust down from the ship's base to the rugged terrain of the shattered mountain below. The thing began to climb, faster and faster.
Then, as it gained altitude, it swung round in a tremendous, wheeling circle ... swung round, and then straightened, and lanced earthward once more, straight for the flaming tumult that was Knossos.
Burke threw himself flat in the dirt.
It was wasted caution. He might as well not have been there. The alien ship went wide of him by miles.
Another moment, and it was hovering over Knossos; leveling off till its base was parallel to the ground below.
Slowly, slowly, then it descended, riding down on its fan-shaped shaft of light till it hung bare feet above the tops of the buildings. For an instant, Burke thought it must surely be going to land.
But no. For suddenly, the light-shaft pulsed brighter by a dozen, a hundred, a thousand times. The ship spun in a low, flat circle that carried it over the entire area of the palace and surrounding grounds in seconds.
Then the wailing sound went shrill again—so shrill Burke clapped his hands over his ears. The ship peeled away from the palace and lanced into the sky like an electron-streak. In a flash, it was gone—gone from Knossos, from Crete, from Earth itself ... a dim and distant pinpoint, sparkling as it faded away, incredibly fast, into the night.
Numbly, Burke turned once more to the palace.
So far as he could see from this vantage-point, no sign of life remained. It was as if a giant hammer had smashed down on it; reduced it to a heap of tumbled stone. Even the fires were dead.
And Ariadne—?
Burke couldn't let himself think about her. Better to marvel at the alien ship, with its pulsing power that shattered mountains and wiped out cities. Better to grope for some bitter tendril of satisfaction that at last he'd learned the truth about the palace's destruction.
As if that would do him any good now.
Because always, always, fight as he might against it, Ariadne was in his mind and heart alike.
Yet perhaps she'd survived. After all, he'd not been able to find her in her quarters. And she'd promised to meet him—where was it?—on the headland to the left of the mouth of the River of Amnissus.
At least, hunting for her would give him something to do; something to occupy his muscles and maybe, even, a small part of his brain.
So, now, he rose; turned towards the sea.
It was nearly dawn before he found his way to the headland. By then, the wind had died, and the sky in the east lay grey as the whispering, slate-colored waves.
A spark of tension came to life within Burke. Suddenly eager, heedless of fatigue, he clawed his way to the headland's highest point and scanned the whole area.
No sign of Ariadne.
The spark flickered; died. Dully, Burke stared out across the shadowy sea.
His life from now on would be like that: grey; all grey.
It didn't even matter that now he could see the hidden pattern behind the rise of Bronze Age Crete.
The alien ship's presence was, of course, the key.
Obviously, that ship had brought the biggest part of so-called Minoan culture with it. That was why Cretan civilization had flowered so incredibly fast. Perhaps even the Minoans themselves had arrived on Earth aboard the craft, as dry-land slaves in the service of masters better adapted to a liquid environment.
Why had the aliens come? That was a question harder to answer. But whether because of external foes or internal problems, the creatures had been looking for a new world to colonize. And since the Mediterranean teemed with octopi, Cephalopoda, no doubt Crete had offered advantages. Maybe there'd been experiments—attempts to cross-breed the superior, telepathic aliens with the less-highly-developed native octopi. Or perhaps the intruders had merely sought to adapt themselves to life in water, rather than the smelly stuff in the Labyrinth tank.
In any case, they'd held Crete for a long, long time—the way they'd buried their ship in the heart of Mount Lasithi proved that.
Minos, in turn, had played the role of a Quisling, power-hungry intermediary between his own race and the aliens. To hold his kingship, he'd had Daedalus build the Labyrinth, to serve as quarters for the alien overseer who, in the guise of oracle, held final power in Knossos. And when a human host for this octopodal commandant had been demanded—a man to serve as transportation for the creature—Minos had blackened his wife's name and dedicated his imbecile son to the duty.
Or perhaps he hadn't. Perhaps he'd done the things he'd done reluctantly, and only in order to save his people from alien wrath such as had struck tonight.
In any case, the death of the alien in the Labyrinth had served as trigger for the disaster. One of their number slain, the extraterrestrials no doubt had concluded Earth unsafe, and so had fled back to the outer space from which they'd come.
Which meant that the alien's slayer was also responsible for Knossos' fall ... the death that had struck down all the hundreds trapped in the now-blighted palace area tonight.
Burke shivered.
Only there was another side to that, too.
For instance, suppose he'd stayed in his own time; never come to Crete, nor slain the Minotaur?
Where would that leave Earth? As an alien outpost, overrun with telepathic octopodal horrors, while Man survived as mere serfs to carry out the bidding of the master race?
Again, questions without answers.
Burke's shoulders shook.
But then, while he still stood brooding—fatigue-worn, lame, half-sick—the first pale fingers of the sun began to touch the horizon with rose.
Turning, Burke stared down at the river and the tiny port village near its mouth.
As if his move had been a signal, there was a sudden stir of activity. Men hurried to and fro along the water's edge. A Greek long ship pushed out from shore.
Now those aboard the craft hoisted its sail.
A black sail.
Involuntarily, Burke stiffened.
Because the black sail made it Theseus' ship.
And legend said Theseus left Crete with Ariadne.
Burke ran for the point closest to the water; stared tight-lipped at the long, slim vessel.
Scarlet caught his eye—the scarlet of a woman's bright-striped cloak.
The same cloak Ariadne had swirled for him so prettily, perhaps—?
Burke dived from his point, straight down into the river. With all his strength, he swam to intercept the slowly-drifting long ship.
Now those aboard had glimpsed him. Men pointed. Women's voices rose, thin on the morning breeze.
Burke plowed the water closer ... closer....
And now a brawny, familiar figure came striding to the bow: Theseus, Hero of Athens.
Burke swam the harder. Just a dozen strokes more—
Almost, it seemed as if he could reach out and touch Theseus.
The Athenian leaned forward—face stiff, teeth bared, eyes bright with malice. Then his arm came up and back, and Burke saw he gripped a spear.
Theseus hurled the weapon in the same instant.
Desperately, Burke tried to throw himself aside.
But the waves, the water, slowed his movements. The spear struck home, deep in his shoulder.
In spite of himself, Burke cried out.
And now Theseus caught up another spear and poised to throw it.
Burke drove the air from his lungs in a gust. He sank like a rock, turning over and over, as the rush of the Amnissus into the sea carried him along.
But at least there were no more spears; and after a long moment when it seemed his lungs must surely burst, he fought his way back to the surface, and drank in air, and then floated till he could grit his teeth and tear Theseus' javelin from his shoulder.
After that, there was the long swim back to shore—a swim against the current, this time. By the time Burke made it, Theseus' ship was toy-size in the distance.
For his own part, and what with fatigue and pain and loss of blood, Burke wasn't at all sure that he cared whether he lived or died. Stumbling up from the water onto a narrow strip of beach, he crumpled face-down before he'd gone ten steps.
Half in delirium, thinking of Ariadne, he almost sobbed aloud.
The delirium grew. He knew it did, because now he could even hear her calling to him dimly, as from afar.
Only then the voice came closer: "Dion, Dion! Please, my lord Dion, speak to me!"
Hands lifted his head; cradled it in soft arms. Tender fingers smoothed his hair and brushed the sand from his face.
With a tremendous effort, Burke opened his eyes.
And there was Ariadne.
It took him a full minute to know he wasn't dreaming, or in that dark half-world between reality and hallucination.
Then, at last, incredibly, it was true, and she was with him, her salt tears spattering his face faster than she could wipe them away. "Oh, my lord Dion ..." she whispered, again and again, "My Dion, my Dion!"
Burke said hoarsely, "Ariadne, what happened? I thought—How'd you get here?"
"How indeed, my lord Dion!" Of a sudden the slim princess was laughing through her tears. "I walked, as you did, though it took me longer, for I wanted to be sure we were free of that dog Theseus before I joined you."
"Free of Theseus—?"
"Of course. When he came seeking me at my quarters in the night I fled, then followed him, till I knew for certain he was aboard his ship."
And that brought up another matter: "But—the cloak—the woman—"
"The woman?" Never had Ariadne looked more a picture of wide-eyed innocence. "I do not understand, my lord."
Burke gave her back stare for stare, holding his tongue; and after a moment, with a sound suspiciously like a giggle, she murmured, "It could not be my maid you mean, could it, my lord?"
"Your maid—?"
"Yes, the peasant girl who found such favor with Theseus." Ariadne's dark eyes held more than a hint of laughter. "I thought it only fitting that he be rewarded for his efforts, Lord Dion. So I wrapped the wench in my cloak and told her that if she kept her face hidden and played the role of Princess Ariadne long enough and well enough, she might end up as Theseus' queen."
The picture was perfect. Burke laughed till he feared he'd open his wound again.
Ariadne laughed with him for a moment, then sobered. "I meant what I told her, Lord Dion. She's a clever girl, and Theseus can see no farther than the nearest bed. By the time he reaches Athens, she may have him so in her toils as not to be able to bear the thought of parting from her."
Burke smiled wryly; shook his head. "I'm sorry, Ariadne. It won't work. Theseus isn't going to like being tricked. So when he puts in at Naxos, he'll leave your maid behind."
Ariadne's great eyes widened. "And—Theseus himself—?"
"When he reaches Athens, he'll find his father dead."
"I see." The slim, lovely princess nodded slowly. "And then, you'll go to Athens, and you'll kill him. And after that, if my father, Minos, still lives, you'll kill him, too. And then—"
Burke said, "No, princess."
"No—?" she stared. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, I'm all through killing."
Burke shifted, trying to ease his wound. "You see, Ariadne, I don't need to kill anyone. Because Theseus isn't stupid, really, and after all this trouble here, he's going to settle down and make Athens a good king.
"As for your father, he's alive. But we don't need to worry any more about him. All he's thinking of is avenging himself on Daedalus for helping us. Only Daedalus is going to get away to the court of King Cocalus, in Sicily, and Cocalus' daughter will kill Minos."
It was a long speech. When he'd finished, Ariadne brought up her hands and crossed them on her firm, bared breasts. "It is good to know what the future holds, my lord Dionysus. I thank you."
Quick irritation touched Burke. "Damn it, girl, I'm not—"
He stopped short.
That line he'd half spoken—the one about him not being Dionysus, not a god; just plain Dion Burke?
Was it true, really?
After all, in a world as primitive as this, what was a god but a man who knew spectacularly more than his fellows?
So, wasn't Ariadne maybe right? Wasn't the Dionysus of legend maybe just plain Dion Burke, twentieth century man, set down in Bronze Age Crete with his name corrupted to fit the language and the era?
And in that case—
Ariadne squirmed a little and began to smooth his hair again. Her hand trembled, ever so slightly. Her voice, too. She whispered, "My lord, this talk of days to come—would you tell me about—about—"
"About you, you mean? About your own future?"
Ariadne hid her face. Her words came tremulous and muffled. "Yes, yes, my lord!"
Burke couldn't help but smile a little. It was a good thing he practically knew his classical mythology by heart.
And there was nothing quite like time travel to make a man's predictions work out.
Shifting, he brought his good arm up so he could hold Ariadne. Then, very gently, he began: "You needn't fear, my princess. You and I—we'll go to Lemnos, make our home there. Then, we'll have four children—Thoas, Staphylus, Oenopion, Peparthus...."
It was a good story, even if somewhat foreshortened by the fact that Ariadne stopped it with her lips.
Then, abruptly, she halted the new activity, too, saying, "My lord Dionysus, Lemnos is a far place. We'd better try to find a ship before the sun climbs higher into the sky."
Together, they got up, then, and moved slowly down the beach towards the tiny harbor town.
As for the sun, Burke decided it had never shone on a finer day.