So it came to pass in that golden age of heroes that many kings, queens, and oracles came to the same conclusion: monsters, be they from the land, air, or sea, would take tribute.
It was King Minos with his terrible beast of a stepson who started the tribute idea, mostly because he was the first to demand it, and the yearly take became normal for the entire region. The idea of course was a mere Quid Pro Quo: monsters, beasts, we offer you meals or servants in the form of the most beautiful youths, maidens, or children. Please do not attack us.
And for some monsters, the more animal ones, like the Hydra, the tribute was seen as more of invaders of territory rather than gifts. But to those safe from the tribute demands, the ones who organized and thrust the victims forward, the system worked.
The fact was also simply that while oracles could promise deliverance from this monster or that, the hero they insisted was coming could be, at the moment of prophecy, a newborn babe or barely able to hold a sword. Tributes were biding the time and paying the price before the prophecy could happen. Not that this was consolation to those picked.
In fact many monsters lived far from human prying eyes, and one of these beasts was Medusa.
Stories of this beast passed from the winds and spirits of the ocean, back towards land, to those who had known Medusa prior to her curse. Oh, the stories were wide and vague and many direct lies, but the simple matter was that she was cursed as so many beautiful maidens were, and her hideous hair, those living venomous snakes, atop her beautiful face, was so terrifying that it would strike anyone who saw her into stone.
And it was that legend, among others, that Pylos thought to himself as the other tributes, all nine of them males, moaned and cursed their luck. He had heard at least two of the men whisper about knives they had hidden on themselves, in some vain vague hope of attacking the monster, and a few others whispered their own hope that if Medusa was indeed slain, then they could return home. Five of the men had intended brides back home, wherever that was; Pylos did not know and did not particularly care. He knew enough how he had come to be on this damned voyage; up until two days ago he had been a slave in a noble's house, and when the tribute bell rang and the traders came to collect the master's son, Pylos, wearing the clothes of that boy, had gone instead.
Such substitutions were allowed if the new tribute wasn't adverse to it. Seeing as his fate was sealed had he refused, Pylos had simply gone. Being a whipping boy for the noble's son had long since to bother him, and being a plaything of the boy had grown old. If nothing else it meant his first trip to sea, and the smell of the water, the scream of the far off gulls, the beauty just of the sound, was worth it.
Unfortunately due to his shackles and the confines of the bench he could not focus on those. The others whined too much.
But for now he relaxed, finally the others silent, and he let himself drift into an uneasy sleep. The captain, a rather worried man, had said a day ago that they would be near the drop-off point, and they were late. The poor man, no doubt, worried that he would be staying with the tribute as permanent statues too.
It was not the gulls screaming that woke him hours later; he wasn't sure how many hours but the air was chilled, and the shackles that had kept his wrists bound were thankfully gone. As were most of the men, though three kept close to him, whispering about the strangness of the place. The cold white and gray rocky shores, the many rocks jutting up from the cold bay. And statues, of course. Dozens of them, ranging from animals to humans frozen in terrified poses.
"She'll find us here," whimpered one of the men, keeping a hand on Pylos. "She'll find us here, I know she will, the others later maybe, but us for sure."
"Then she will. Just close your eyes," Pylos said softly, taking a careful seat on a patch of smooth sand. "There isn't much we can do."
Silence. Even the gulls were quiet, and the waves died down. Low tide, surmised Pylos, and the men with him kept quiet too.
He was aware that he was mentally drifting, eyes closed, but as a slave he had done that plenty too. Stories. Legends. Legends said that Medusa lived on a crop of islands far from any city or isle. Legends said that she was guarded or controlled two sisters called the Gorgons who were somehow more monstrous than she. Legends said that Medusa was a vile evil witch, and-
And legends had never specified what she or the Gorgons ate, but he looked up silently at the sudden rain of screams, high shrieks, and the three tribute men at his side were gone from it, their voices high and desperate, screeching like lambs being held by hawks.
The stench reached Pylos nearly before the unearthly howls did; whatever was making them was not human, and from the swamp stench of blood and rotten meat, it was either the Gorgons or all three sisters coming to the beach to feast. The other two tribute men, still screaming, splashed off the beach, trying to swim from the beasts. And Pylos simply lowered himself to all fours, and crawled carefully up the beach, away from the screams, the wails, the heavy thumps of bodies striking the sand or many statues. The further up the beach he crawled, keeping low to the sand, the more statues there were, and whatever beast was on the beach ripping through the other men did not pursue him.
He continued to crawl, keeping himself low to the ground, keeping his eyes shut, until his hands brushed into thick plant matter. Pushing his way through, he slipped off the beach and into greens, and hid until the only sounds from the beach were the loud gulls fighting over the remains of the tribute.
He woke to similar sounds, less gulls fighting, and more of simple waves crashing against the island, and slowly, carefully walked back down to the beach, careful of the statues with their outstretched arms and hands desperate to be saved. At times he had to crawl again, so thick were the statues, and nearly halfway down he heard the first soft hiss.
There he froze, waiting, breath frozen, and the hiss repeated, and then was silent. Slowly, carefully, as a man holding the finest wine goblet over a chasm as he walks across a slight bridge, he moved in a large semi-circle until he was sure he was low enough. A careful and ginger reach out, and his fingers did not touch sand, or another cold statue, but warmth. Warm skin. And his finger gingerly trailed up a mound to a familiar bump, and the soft sigh was all he needed to know.
He had found Medusa. Asleep on the beach, among the dead statues, and from the sound of her breathing, asleep. And the snakes that adorned her skull, he had no idea of the precise breed, but surely they were long enough to strike him where he hesitated on three. His fourth, of course, was a hand outstretched, and finger pressed to a very human breast.
In part he realized that that made sense. Some legends said that Medusa was a pure monster, with a snail tail instead of legs, with claws and bronze teeth. Some legends, of course, also stated that the Minotaur was just a man in a costume. Legends had a lot to answer for.
