over his projects without interfering
in the daily highs and lows of engineering.
Better at greasing gears than forcing smiles,
Talos rarely tread the throne room’s tiles,
and Kokalos was wise enough to let
him spot his workshop with his ample sweat.
The hodgepodge feathers of his handmade wings
didn’t match the gold and marble things
gleaming throughout the temple, but that’s where
they hung, alluring dust and incensed air.
He didn’t catch the rumor that Crete’s king
had left his queen and spent years wandering.
When Cretan keels impressed Sicilian sand,
Minos spiderwebbed his drooping, tanned,
but pale-eyed mask and pouted at the walls
that seemed to mock his island’s porous halls.
His troops remained outside while Minos heard
the flattery his peaceful entry incurred.
Kokalos had his cooks prepare their best
delicacies to appease the unsmiling guest.
After a sumptuous but wineless meal,
Minos brought out a box whose lily seal
dehisced above a unicorn’s blank pell—
a cushion for an eight-whorled tower shell.
In a hundred courts, I haven’t met one king
clever enough to find a way to string
that mollusk spiral from its gaping base
to its twisted tip. I think it’s a disgrace,
to tell the truth, that men who claim to lead
cities or whole kingdoms can’t succeed
in executing such a simple task.
His host replied: King Minos, may I ask
my advisors how to do it and return
with the strung shell? The other gave a stern
nod at Kokalos, who left his guest
attended by his virgin daughters, dressed
in their tightest peploi. Kokalos discovered
the Athenian testing a bronze bee that hovered
above his head. The king held up the shell
and asked him how to string it. We’ll use mel,
Talos announced. The baffled king demurred,
but Talos started working. First, he stirred
water and honey in a tiny bowl,
then poured the mixture down the shell’s round hole,
and waited till the honey reached the tip,
then tilted it and let the water drip
back in the bowl. He went outside and found
an ant and tied a purple string around
one leg. The ant went through the hole and wound
into the honey hoard. A bit of string
protruded from the base. When the other king
saw the strung shell that Kokalos brought back,
he almost laughed. It’s taken long to track
Daedalus down, and here he is. The bard
imagined a conundrum much too hard
for anyone but Daedalus to solve.
He fled Crete for this shithole? I’ll absolve
you, Kokalos, of hiding him from me,
but you must hand him over immediately.
His host replied: I didn’t know his name
was Daedalus. He boasted of the fame
he earned in Athens, never said he came
to Crete and served your majesty. Of course,
I’ll give him back to you. But first, I’ll force
him to confess his real identity.
While I’m torturing him, my girls will see
to all your needs. Perhaps you’d like a bath?
The daughters led him down a cobbled path
through the west garden to a little house
erected above a hot spring. Every louse
on Minos drowned. His copper skin turned red.
Some of the daughters danced while others fed
the fire beneath a pot and others sponged
his multi-folded flesh and others plunged
into the bubbling water and embraced