I stopped in shock.

  They dashed to me, perhaps to slay me.

  Should I die fighting? The thought fled even as I spoke it to myself. I held my hands up. “Peace, peace,” I said in the language of Crete. “Help me and I’ll reward you.”

  One lout raised a dagger to strike me.

  A taller, stronger man wearing a bronze helmet used his spear to knock the hand that held the knife. “That one is mine. You’ll guard him, making sure he’s here upon my return. Don’t injure him, for he’s different from what I expected.”

  The one whose hand had been struck picked up his dagger with the other hand, glowering at me as he sucked on his bruised knuckles.

  The rest of the band dashed past me, racing for the nomad camp.

  The guard motioned with the dagger that I sit on the ground to await events.

  I debated attacking him, taking his dagger and fleeing. I looked over my shoulder. The others charged the Amurru camp. Should I shout a warning? No, let the Amurru receive the indignity they’d given me.

  Shrugging, I sat in the sand. If I ran, the bandits would surely follow me later. I didn’t know the land, and the leader had spared me. That seemed like a good sign.

  The band struck the nomad camp. In the dark, I heard shouts, screams and pleas for mercy. Maybe some Amurru fled and escaped. Many died.

  Soon, the attackers were tying the hands of the women, children, eunuchs and surrendered nomads. Other bandits appeared. They carried long poles. They tied the hands of the captives to the poles.

  Now it made sense. I’d fallen in with slavers of Canaan, no doubt. Was this better than being a slave of the Amurru?

  I’d discover that soon enough.

  Chapter Six

  If I thought my status would change by the slaver attack, I was sorely mistaken.

  The next morning, I, too, was wrist-tied to a rung hammered into a log, joining my fellow captives. That included nomads of the Amurru. Together, we lifted our log and set it on our shoulders. Then we shuffled north at the command of the captain of the Amorite slavers, who was called Jethro.

  The Amorites were taller, thicker and cleaner than the skinny, filthy Amurru. Yet, I was bigger and I’m sure stronger than any Amorite. The Amorites wore robes instead of dirty rags and had bushy beards instead of scraggly cheeks. The Amorites laughed and joked amongst themselves even as others plied whips and switches, forcing us to march on the caravan-trail north.

  They fed us gruel at midday and made sure each of us drank plenty of water.

  After I finished my bowl, I snatched one from a nomad who’d treated me foully before. I gulped his gruel even as he yelled. I used an elbow to hit him. He was supposed to take it silently.

  A slave master saw the commotion. He rushed to us, using a leather whip, slashing me repeatedly across the shoulders. I hunched my shoulders, enduring. I’d learned my lesson from the Amurru. I’d never play the part of a slave again, refusing to plead or whimper in servility.

  A shout from Jethro stopped the whipping. He was an older, stocky man, with dark eyes and a curved sheathed dagger in his sash.

  Jethro strode up, demanding an explanation for the whipping.

  The slaver with the whip told him what I’d done.

  Jethro stared at me.

  I wanted to glare back and let him know none of this had cowed me. Despite my resolve, I dropped my gaze after a moment of looking into his pitiless eyes.

  “You don’t yet understand that you’re a slave, do you?” Jethro asked mildly.

  I understood the tongue of the Amorites, having learned it in Knossos as the language masters taught me various tongues.

  I looked up. It was well and good to maintain a warrior’s heart, but sometimes wit and dissimulation helped, too.

  “I’m bound to the slave log, so I must be a slave.”

  There was no smile from Jethro, but there was a glint of malice in his eyes. He turned abruptly.

  I noticed the slightest of nod to the slaver with the whip. But the whip didn’t slash again. I wondered about that.

  After lunch, we hoisted the log onto our shoulders and marched along the caravan trail.

  For the next several days, this was my lot as we trudged north, leaving the wilderness behind, coming to a greener and hillier area.

  I thought about all that had happened to me. How I’d swam ashore after surviving the shipwreck, enduring the slavery of the Amurru and digging for turquoise. Perhaps I should have attacked the lone knifeman and taken my chances in this land. But I had no coin, and rags for garments. I didn’t even have my dagger.

  As I thought about the dagger, anger burned. I’d given my oath to the Minotaur. What would happen now?

  That night, I dreamed I went back under the palace of Knossos, walking down the steps into the Maze, this time without the three priests.

  Perhaps this was more than a dream. Perhaps my spirit had fled back to Knossos.

  I maneuvered through the Maze until trembling with fear I came into a dim room. I saw a huge man seated upon a stool. He didn’t wear the headdress of a bull with horns, but I saw that his head was larger than a normal man’s and his back was broader. If he wasn’t a giant, he was huge nonetheless, much bigger than I was. He spoke in a rumble like a lion’s cough.

  “You’ve lost the star-metal dagger I gave you.”

  My knees gave out so I abased myself before him. He spoke to me. How could he see me if I was only a spirit?

  I hated it, but fear drove me. “Yes, Lord, I’ve lost the dagger.”

  “You must retrieve it, as I’ve given you a task. You must complete the mission or you’ll never survive. Now listen. If you do as I’ve said and slay the acolyte of the strange god, He who names himself Him Most High, riches await you on Crete. There will be rank and even royalty will crown your head.”

  “Lord?” I asked.

  “You must retrieve the dagger. You must wrap your weapon-hand around the hilt. Then you’ll be victorious. Then you’ll achieve greatness. Otherwise, you’ll remain a slave for the rest of your miserable days. You must do everything in your power to retrieve the dagger. You must challenge death itself. You mustn’t let these dogs of the desert and the dogs from the east withhold the dagger from you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes Lord,” I said.

  “Then go and do as I’ve bidden that you may gain valor, notoriety and a name for yourself.”

  With a wave, he dismissed me.

  It felt then as if my spirit fled the Maze of the Minotaur. My spirit flew across the sea, gaining speed—

  I awoke with a start.

  The stars blazed overhead. The nomad slaves, guard dogs and others, except for a few guards, slept.

  As I lay there, I pondered upon the dream. What had I seen? Had the Minotaur truly spoken to me?

  I felt my resolve harden, as if bronze fortified me. Unless I found my dagger, reclaimed it as my own, I’d remain a slave the rest of my miserable days. Could I live like this much longer?

  “No,” I whispered.

  Coming morning, I’d make the dagger mine no matter what it took, or die in the attempt.

  That should have kept me awake half the night. Instead, peaceful sleep came upon me. I was resolved one way or another.

  In the morning, we hoisted the slave log upon our shoulders and shuffled north, this time passing a village as farmers trudged out to their fields with hoes and spades resting on their shoulders. We stopped at noon, were given water and gruel.

  I sat, took a deep breath and remembered my resolve. I accepted slop in my bowl and devoured it with gusto. The next decision might well determine the rest of my life. I closed my eyes—I saw the big man on his stool in the heart of the Maze. It felt as if he looked at me.

  Turning, I snatched the gruel bowl from the nearest Amurru. I drained it fast, smashing an elbow against his face before he could complain.

  The slaver with the whip saw this. He came at a run and raised his whip, slashing at me.

  I stood and grabbed the end of the whip, jerking it from him. I threw the whip at my feet, daring him with my eyes to come and pick it up.

  How could I explain it? The power and arrogance of the Minotaur beat in my chest. I would die here rather than endure more slavery. I wasn’t a castrate. I wasn’t a dog of the desert. I was Damon the Athenian, trained by the best warriors of Knossos. I was the Sea King’s emissary, his ears to hear what transpired elsewhere.

  The slaver jerked out a knife and with an oath charged.

  I laughed, spreading my hands, deciding to enjoy the fight.

  “Stop!” a man shouted.

  The slaver with the knife skidded to a halt, turning.

  I looked up.

  Jethro stood there with five Amorite spearmen behind him. Jethro motioned with his head.

  The slaver with the knife hurried away.

  Jethro approached me, the spearmen following close behind.

  I dropped my hands, but I didn’t lower my eyes.

  Jethro stopped.

  The spearmen behind him stopped.

  “Are you a slave?” Jethro asked.

  The arrogance of the Minotaur still beat in me. I looked at the hills. I glanced at the sun. Life had been good. I was free from bonds. I’d just eaten, even if it was gruel. I returned my gaze to Jethro.

  “You have my dagger,” I said.

  “What?” Jethro spat.

  “My dagger. It’s silver. The Amurru stole it from me. I came to their land, shipwrecked from a storm. They bound me and forced me to do menial chores, but I’m not a slave. I’m a warrior and I want my dagger.”

  “You demand this of me?” Jethro asked, astounded.

  “You have my dagger. I want it back. Then I demand coin for the time I’ve spent carrying this damn log.”

  Jethro laughed, but there was no humor in it. It was a jackal’s laugh: one who sees an easy meal and enjoys taunting those at his mercy.

  My hands were free but my right ankle was not. Even so, I determined I’d let no one bind my hands.

  The man of the Amurru, the dog of the desert whose meal I’d stolen, must have decided this was the moment to gain revenge. He cried out and struck me.

  Without looking at him, I backhanded him in the face, knocking him to the ground.

  Jethro watched, with his face impassive. “I see,” he said. “I see.”

  A watching Amorite shouted. “Let Tonk deal with him.”

  Jethro nodded. “Yes, this is a matter for Tonk. You want your silver dagger?”

  “It’s a consecrated blade, given me for a holy mission. I will have it.”

  “Who gave it to you?”

  I said nothing, merely watching him.

  “Who gave it to you?” Jethro demanded again.

  “The Minotaur,” I said.

  To my surprise, Jethro gasped and took a step back.

  Perhaps even here, even among Amorite slavers, they’d heard of the Minotaur, the Dark One of Crete.

  “One of my men will approach you,” Jethro said. “He’ll cut your ankle rope. Afterward, you’ll face Tonk. You agree?”

  “If I win,” I said, “you’ll return my dagger to me?”

  Once more, a mirthless smile spread across Jethro’s thin lips. “Yes, if you defeat Tonk, the dagger is yours. You’ll no longer be a slave of the coffle. You’ll be a warrior under terms.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If you defeat Tonk, you’ll find out soon enough. But let me warn you, none has defeated Tonk in the three years he has fought for our amusement.”

  I considered that and shrugged.

  A knifeman approached, hunching his shoulders. I leaned to the side. He cut the rope that bound my right ankle.

  I stepped away from the slaves I’d walked with for days.

  “When do I face Tonk?” I asked.

  “Why, in the evening,” Jethro said.

  I nodded. “I’d eat meat before that and see my dagger so that I can test its heft and exercise my arms before I fight.”

  “No. Shem, give him your dagger. He’ll use that for the fight.”

  Shem threw a dagger point first in the sand.

  Swiftly, I picked it up. It was shorter and lighter than what I liked, but I had a weapon in my hand again. Confidence filled me, and the valor from my fathers engorged my confidence. I laughed and I nodded to Jethro.

  “You have my thanks,” I said.

  “We shall see,” Jethro said.

  He motioned for three spearmen to show me where I could get meat to eat.

  “Guard him well,” Jethro said. “If he escapes, each of you will join the slave line, and each of you shall go north to the Rephaim.”

  The spearmen nodded.

  They knew Jethro was a bitter man of his word.

  As I headed for a joint of mutton, I wondered how good Tonk was. He must be decent. But could he beat an Athenian, one trained by the best warriors of the Sea King and powered by the command of the Minotaur? I didn’t think so. But then, I hadn’t yet seen Tonk or faced him in the pit.

  Chapter Seven

  We stopped before the sun started to set, as we met a bigger company of slavers with masses of slaves hauling logs on their shoulders. There was rejoicing among these Amorites as word spread that a red-haired fool from the sea, who thought himself a warrior, would fight Tonk.

  I ate some beef and drank a cup of wine that evening. They would have plied me more, but I didn’t want dulled reflexes.

  Instead, I studied my new knife, hefting it. The weapon was far too light and the blade too short for my tastes. I threw it in the ground and practiced slashing and thrusting. In the process, I warmed and stretched my limbs. I’d need to be limber for this.

  To my dismay, I found a knot forming in my gut. That was odd. It hadn’t been that long since I’d jumped into the narrow galley of pirates. Had my weeks of servitude changed me that much? I grinned to force myself to feel tougher.

  Who was Tonk that the slavers were so sure he could defeat me? I was certain I could best any of the Amorites: I was heavier, taller and no doubt stronger. I was surprised I hadn’t seen Tonk by now.

  I noticed slaves under the watchful eyes of guards digging a wide, three-foot-deep pit. Right, the pit, I’d fight Tonk there. Seeing the limited dimensions of the “arena,” I’d have restricted maneuvering room.

  Knife or dagger fighting often mandated a dancing style. A leap back could be as critical as blocking a slash with your knife. The pit was far too limited for my tastes. We’d practically be on top of each other from the beginning.

  I shook my head. There was no changing that. I needed to adjust to reality.

  As the sun touched the horizon, a stocky bull of a man with hairy shoulders and a bald skull stepped forth. He had a coarse face with old knife scars, a formerly broken nose and cauliflower ears. That had to be Tonk. He didn’t hold a knife or dagger, but a short, stabbing spear. I hadn’t expected that. The short spear would give him reach. I glanced at the pit. It was big enough to allow his reach a little play. Would such a stocky bull of a man have speed? I glanced at him again. He had scarred knuckles. He’d done this many times. Maybe Tonk didn’t need speed.

  The bull of a man looked at me. What the—? He had green eyes. Tonk wasn’t from the East, but the West like me. There were bruises on his head. Did he head-butt, then?

  He grinned at me. He had missing teeth and in that moment, seemed like a simpleton.

  As an Amorite slaver instructed him, he nodded. Tonk flashed another glance at me. No. He was a warrior only pretending to be simple. Had that been to lull me or his handlers?

  The Amorite clapped his hands.

  Tonk moved surely and purposefully, reaching and jumping into the pit. He turned, watching me as his eyes began to burn with malice.

  I turned away, trying to remember everything I’d heard about Tonk. He’d survived the pit for three long years. How often had he fought, how many times a month? Clearly, he’d faced other warriors and won. He was used to fighting in the pit. He’d know cunning tricks and sleights and would likely recognize moves and attacks by my stance.

  Tonk was like the dagger master back in Knossos, a grim Spartan who’d taught me many a trick and stratagem in the art of killing my fellow man.

  I looked at my knife, a knife, not a dagger. The blade was short and thus lacked reach. It could have been sharper. Would it shatter the first time I used it? Why was I asking myself these questions? I’d fight like a warrior. I’d face this doom as a free man in my heart, not a cringing slave.

  I threw back my head, but no laughter came. I sought the arrogance of the Minotaur, but I didn’t feel him or it. I’d have to do this on my own as Damon.

  “Remember your father,” I said to myself.

  “Slave!” Jethro shouted. “It’s time.”

  I waited a half-beat. Then, I strode for the pit even as the knot tightened in my gut.

  The Amorite slavers watched me. Some drank. Some ate. None jeered. Could they tell I had nobility? Did they sense there was no fear in me…or only a little fear? Did they understand I was a free man fighting for my life, for the Minotaur, to complete my mission in order to gain riches and rank?

  This is it, Damon. Be on guard.

  I watched Tonk as I jumped into the pit. I didn’t stare with malice as he did at me. I stared as I would at a warrior I respected.

  Carefully, mindful he could lunge at me any second, I saluted him with my knife. “I hear you’re a mighty warrior, Tonk. It’s an honor to face you.”

  He grunted before spitting to the side. The scarred knuckles of his right hand whitened as he gripped the short shaft more tightly.

  I hunched forward, the knife ready.

  The Amorites closed in around the pit.

  Jethro shouted, “You will not begin until I give the signal.”

  I didn’t look up at Jethro, but nodded.

  Tonk just stared at me with his green eyes. I noted that the head of the spear was bronze, the blade as long as the handle of wood.

  I’d never fought someone with a weapon like that. It would work as a normal spear but with shorter range. Could he slash with it? The bronze looked as if it could take heavy blows. If the spear-blade hit my knife as it swept, backed by Tonk’s powerful muscles, my blade would surely shatter. I understood. I’d have to dance out of the spear’s way. If he shoved the bronze in my gut, the fight would be over. If he cut me enough times, I’d bleed until I lost strength.