She summoned the engineer, who’d never seen
the prospect on Poseidon’s wave machine
her window offered. Daedalus, your life
is drudgery. I’m told you have no wife
to share your labors and to raise your boy.
It’s time to close your workshop and enjoy
what Knossos has in store. Bring Talos here
to live with me while our great engineer
invigorates his mind with well-earned rest.
Your boy won’t be an ordinary guest—
more like Deucalion’s brother, that’s to say
brother of Crete’s next king. I’ll watch them play
at being men, and that may keep my mind
off of my eldest. Athens wasn’t kind
to Androgeus—don’t think I hold that fact
against you, though. Our forces must’ve sacked
Athens by now, or soon will. That is more
revenge than I desired. I fear this war
may keep on after Minos claims he won.
But the childhood binding Talos and my son
will, so I hope, prepare a stable peace.
Pasiphaë’s tiles were innocent of grease
till Daedalus smeared them with his palms and let
his dangling forelock sprinkle them with sweat.
I can’t refuse your majesty’s proposal.
Whatever wits I have at my disposal
I’ll dedicate to serving you. The gods,
I hope, will help us exiles, though the odds
are low, to someday merit your largesse.
I’ll need, however, one week to repress
the boy’s bad manners and his Attic speech
before I dare bring him within the reach
of so much splendor. So the queen allowed
Daedalus time to prep the boy. He bowed,
and set off for his little house, which stood
(he knew) where no one at the palace could
see his long terrace—not even from her tower.