Bring Down the Sun

by Judith Tarr

  They all wore the dark belt that bound her own waist; on the finger of each left hand, the dark circle of a ring stood out, distinct in the firelight. Part of her recognized the lower terrace of the Mystery. The rest laid no single name on this place. It was all holy places in one, a long shallow curve of stony ground set apart from the world by the swift torrent of a river.

  A figure loomed by the fire. Her heart stopped and then began to beat hard. He was tall, taller than a mortal man, and his horns spread wide beneath the moon.

  The Bull of Minos waited for her, that mingled monster with his man’s body and his bull’s head. His shoulders were massive, gleaming as if with oil; his breast and belly were thick with curling hair. The phallus that rose at the sight of her was as great as a bull’s.

  She walked through a shower of fragrant petals. The garland of myrtle was still about her brows; its scent rose again around her, as strong as if the garland had been made new again. As she walked, her garments unraveled, falling away from her body.

  She made no move to cover herself. Her skin was as hot as if she had stood in the fire. Her hair escaped the last of its knot and slithered down her back.

  A shrouded priestess appeared in front of her, rising as if out of the earth. In her hands was a mask. It was old beyond age, carved of alabaster, featureless but for the slash of nose and the long slits of eyes.

  It fit to her face as if it had been made of skin and not of stone. The age of it, the power that was in it, froze her briefly where she stood. If she brought down the mountains here, where would she go? What shrine or nation would take her?

  The earth held its place. The power that filled her was pleased to stay within the bounds of her body. The Mother’s arms embraced her. Whatever strength she had, this place was strong enough to contain it.

  The Bull’s horned head rose above her. The smell of him was pungent yet pleasant, compounded of sweat and musk and surprising sweetness: honey and thyme, sharpened with smoke.

  Her hands ran down his arms. They were massive, but the skin was unexpectedly smooth. The heat of his blood matched hers.

  He trembled under her touch. He was afraid: he, the great bull. She smiled behind the mask.

  She was dimly aware of the circle in which they stood, the priests and pilgrims beginning a slow chant. The words did not matter. The sound was the spell, the slow rise and fall like the breathing of a great beast.

  She had seen this in dreams. The oracle had given it to her, this vision, this truth that shaped everything she would be.

  She laid her hands on the Bull’s breast. His heart beat hard. So did hers, but she was not afraid. She was dizzy with exaltation.

  This was the great rite, Hieros Gamos, the sacred union of the Mother and Her chosen. The Bull looked down at her with fierce blue eyes. She laughed aloud and mounted him there, locked her legs around his middle and took him deep inside her.

  There was pain, but it was nothing. For every great victory there was a price. That was the world’s way.

  He bore her weight easily, held her in his strong arms and lowered her to the ground. It was softer than she had expected: grass grew in a circle there. Its sweetness mingled with his heavy musk and the sharp green scent of myrtle.

  He wanted to take her as a bull the cow, but she would not suffer that. Face to face and breast to breast, like equals, they worshiped the Mother in all Her glory.

  Nine

  Polyxena sat enthroned in the Mother’s stead, clothed in flowers. Priests and pilgrims brought her offerings of flowers and fruit, sweet cakes and strong wine.

  The Bull and his companions danced for her. They put on armor and filled themselves with wine and danced the wild, clashing dance that was sacred to the Great Gods and the Divine Brothers.

  It was a vauntingly male thing. Polyxena, raised in a staider observance, was mildly shocked. Yet her body loved the ferocity of it, the leaping and stamping and the clangor of bronze. When they raised their war-cry, she gasped; then she laughed.

  It was a splendid noise before the Mother. But they danced it for her—for Polyxena, the living woman behind the Mother’s mask.

  * * *

  With the dawn, Polyxena returned to her mortal self. The terrace of the Mystery was strewn with bodies, sleeping tangled in one another or drowned in wine. Even the priests had given themselves up to the rite.

  There was wine enough in her, but it made her mind clearer instead of clouding it. She left the throne, treading lightly on trampled garlands and bruised petals. The morning air was cool on her bare skin. Between her legs she ached, but that was almost pleasurable.

  The Bull lay sprawled by the riverbank in a circle of snoring men. In this pale light his head was obviously a mask, though wonderfully wrought. It had fallen askew.

  Gently she took off the mask of the Mother and laid it on the grass beside him. Then she worked the Bull’s mask from his shoulders.

  His hair was flattened and tousled, his cheeks flushed above the curls of his beard. She brushed his lips with a kiss.

  His eyes sprang open. His hands caught her before she saw them move.

  She made no move to pull away. His scowl lightened. He did not let her go, but he held her somewhat less fiercely.

  “You’re not afraid of anything, are you?” he said.

  “Should I be afraid of you?”

  She asked the question honestly. From his expression, he had to be sure of that before he answered. “Cross me and you’ll regret it. Challenge me and I’ll fight back—and if you blink, I’ll win. I don’t fight to lose.”

  “Nor do I,” she said.

  “We could kill each other,” he said as if to himself.

  “Or we could fight side by side.” She slipped free of his grasp but stayed where she was. “You can’t be any less than a king.”

  “Why? Are you a queen?”

  “My sister is,” Polyxena said.

  He sat up. It was fascinating to see how he changed from the bull in rut to the king in council, eyes narrowed as he considered all the possible sides of her. “Epiros?”

  She nodded, then said in response, “Macedon.”

  It was not a question. He grinned, baring strong teeth. “It seems we’re the only proper royals here this year—pirate queens aside. Convenient, don’t you think?”

  “The Mother disposes us as she wills,” Polyxena said. She knew she sounded prim. She refused to be embarrassed by it. “I’m a child of queens. From the very beginning the Mother has loved us.”

  “They say you’re descended from Achilles.”

  “They do say it,” she said.

  “And you? What do they call you?”

  “Polyxena,” she said.

  “Odd choice of name,” he said. “Didn’t she betray your noble ancestor?”

  “Some say she did. Others say she did what she could to save Troy. Yet others,” said Polyxena, “said he was besotted with her, and demanded her sacrifice on his tomb, to be his consort in Elysium.”

  “With all respect, lady, I can’t see you submitting to any such thing.”

  “It is unlikely,” she said.

  He sat up in a strong surge. Polyxena quelled the leap of startlement, so that he only saw how quiet she was, composed and calm. The heat of him made her breathing come shallow.

  He lifted the garland from her brows where it had been all night long. It was barely withered; its scent was nearly as strong as ever. “I give you a new name,” he said, “a fitting name. Myrtale, crowned one, beloved of Aphrodite.”

  Polyxena frowned. Part of her resisted; it clung to the old and the familiar. But the sound of the name in his deep burr of a voice, and the meaning of it, fit for a queen, had a rightness that melted her resistance. “Myrtale,” she said. “I’ll be Myrtale.”

  He laid the garland aside. Even as he reached for her, she took him as they said a man took a woman, swiftly and by storm.

  * * *

  She left him exhausted, breathing hard and slicked with
sweat. Her knees tried to wobble as she walked away, but she held her gait steady.

  She picked her way down the steep bank to wash in the stream. The water was snow-cold. The shock of it on heated skin had a peculiar effect: it made her want him all over again.

  He was spent. In that much Nikandra had been right: males had no endurance.

  She toyed briefly with the thought of finding another man among the fallen and initiating him, too, but the ache inside and the practicality she did not often admit to convinced her otherwise. In the old world, the more men she bound to herself, the greater her power. But in this one, a woman had to tread more carefully.

  The man who snored on the bruised grass was a king—a ruler over men. Through him she bound them all.

  She scrubbed the blood from her thighs and the sweat from her skin. Sweet herbs grew by the riverside; she perfumed herself with them. There was nothing to clothe herself in but her thick red-gold hair, but she chose not to go searching for a garment among the fallen revelers.

  They were waking as the sun came up over the mountain, stirring and groaning and staggering to their feet. She walked among them as if she were still the Mother’s image.

  Who was to say that she was not? They opened a path for her. Some bowed or murmured snatches of prayer.

  A pair of priestesses met her on the first terrace, a few long strides from the city’s gate. They dressed her in silence. She was sorry to lose the freedom of the air on her skin, but the mortal world had risen with the sun, and it had its difficulties with the ways of divinity.

  She put on mortality with the soft new-woven wool and the demurely plaited hair and the veil. The world muted around her, but she kept the memory of that other self. It would come back to her when she needed it, or when the Mother willed.

  * * *

  Her sister had nothing to say, though her sister’s women eyed her sidelong. The pilgrims who had gone no further than the first Mystery were dispersing as the morning brightened, scattering to their ships. Troas might have done the same, but she had waited.

  Polyxena, who must learn to think of herself as Myrtale, could not tell what she was thinking. Troas offered no awe, but neither did she seem to disapprove. She simply rose from the bed where she had been sitting, stitching a bit of needlework. “Good. You’re back. The men are waiting.”

  She did not ask if Myrtale had broken her fast. Maybe that was punishment.

  Myrtale was not hungry in any case. She had been so full of the Mother that her stomach had forgotten how to be mortal.

  * * *

  The men from Macedon were on the shore, preparing to embark on a ship of somewhat more size but rather less opulence than the ship from Epiros. Their king loaded cargo with the rest of them, wearing no mark of rank and claiming no signs of respect. But Myrtale would always know him.

  There was a sort of contract between them, an agreement that needed no words. One glance spoke for both.

  I’ll send for you, his eyes said.

  Her own lowered in assent. I’ll be waiting, the gesture promised.

  Macedon’s ship set off first, raising a sail the color of dark wine, with the bright rays of a sun painted on it. Myrtale’s heart contracted at the sight. It was not exactly as she remembered from her vision of darkness shot with fire, but near enough.

  This the Mother had meant for her. And she was meant to take it with both hands.

  But first she had to look on her own mountains again, to come once more to Epiros. For her, everything began there. Even this.

  It was hard to climb into her sister’s ship and not his; to see him sail away and not know for certain when they would meet again. That they would, she knew surely. But it would be in the Mother’s time.

  “Soon,” she said under her breath as the oars began their steady rhythm, carrying the ship out of the harbor. “Please the Great Gods, let it be soon.”

  PART II

  Myrtale

  Ten

  The embassy from Macedon clattered into the king’s house of Epiros a month to the day after Myrtale had returned to it with her new name and her new secrets. They had come over the mountains on horseback, riding with a bravura that made the young men of Epiros sit up and take notice.

  Myrtale knew better than to expect that Philip would have come for her himself, but she was a little disappointed even so. Patience was not her strongest virtue, and she had waited for a month and had meant to wait longer.

  The man who came in Philip’s stead was big as all these Macedonians seemed to be, with a long lantern jaw and a pleasantly ugly face. His name was Lagos; he came of a noble house, some said royal—though he said nothing of that. Myrtale gathered it from the servants’ gossip.

  They gossiped, too, that the king had sent an ugly man on this errand for cause; he would hardly want his bride to fall in love with the messenger. But Myrtale reckoned that a falsehood. Lagos was a capable man; his mind was keen and he spoke well. Macedon was honoring Epiros with the best it could spare.

  He brought gifts for the king, fine armor and weapons and a team of horses with a gold-inlaid chariot; to the queen he offered a bolt of Persian silk, a silver mirror, and a vial of perfume from Egypt. For Myrtale there was a box of fragrant myrtle wood, and in it a golden diadem.

  It was a grand ceremony in the king’s hall, with the queen and her ladies in attendance. They all knew what Lagos was going to say; there was no mistaking the purpose of his embassy, once Myrtale had opened the box and taken up the diadem. The murmur that ran through the hall had an edge of excitement.

  It was a great thing, this matter of royal marriage. She fought for patience, and for the calm that befit a queen. Troas set the example; Myrtale wondered fleetingly if it had ever been so difficult for her. She was as gifted in serenity as Myrtale was in attacks of fiery temper.

  Lagos, thank the Mother, did not waste time in indirection. Having offered gifts and respect, he looked Arybbas in the face and said without further preamble, “My king asks leave to take your niece to wife. He saw her in the Mysteries, and the Great Gods inclined his heart toward her—and toward the alliance that the marriage would offer. This is meant to be, he says. He hopes your majesty will agree.”

  That was blunt enough. Logical enough, too. But Arybbas was not a hasty man. “We’re honored,” he said, “that Macedon reckons us worthy of alliance. Still it’s my duty to ask: What does he want of her? Wife or concubine? Will he make her queen?”

  “My king will take her in lawful marriage,” said Lagos, “and give her all honor and respect due her lineage.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” Arybbas said. “How many wives does he have now? Four? Six? One has a son, I hear. My niece is a daughter of Achilles and an initiate of the Great Gods. She’s more than a trophy to hang on your king’s wall.”

  Myrtale stiffened when her uncle spoke of other wives. She had known she was not the first wedded wife to come to Philip’s bed. Everyone knew that kings married early and often. But that was not the same as hearing it spoken.

  Lagos seemed unoffended by Arybbas’ plain speaking. “My king has wives, yes, as kings do. It’s his duty. But he’ll honor your kinswoman in all ways, and treat her as the royal lady she is. He loves her, lord king, and worships her as Goddess incarnate.”

  “That’s well and good,” said Arybbas, “but love dies. What’s left then?”

  “This love will last,” Lagos said before Myrtale could burst out with it. For that she began to love him—though not as she loved his king. “But even supposing it does not, there’s the alliance of Macedon and Epiros against common enemies, a share in trade and amassing of wealth, and for the lady, the respect and position of king’s wife.”

  “But not queen.”

  Myrtale could not tell if Lagos found her uncle’s persistence annoying. He seemed possessed of endless patience. “That may be negotiated.”

  Arybbas nodded. “I’ll think on it. While I do, you’ll enjoy our hospitality. Whatever you
want or need, my servants will see to it.”

  Myrtale did not see what there was to think on, but she could hardly say so. She was only here on sufferance; if she spoke out of turn, she could be sent away like an obstreperous child.

  It was hard to keep the spate of words inside. She was glad to withdraw with her sister, to retreat to the queen’s house and gnaw her frustration in peace.

  * * *

  Peace was not exactly what she found. The servant who had presented Philip’s gifts followed Myrtale out of the hall, carrying the box with the diadem. At the door to the queen’s house, Myrtale tried to take the box and dismiss the servant, but the woman would not go.

  “I belong to you now, lady,” she said.

  Myrtale’s brows rose. She had never had a maid. Since she left the temple, she had shared her sister’s women, but she had felt no need to claim one of her own.

  This was a young woman, smaller than Myrtale—who was not tall herself—dark and slight and quick, with eyes that missed nothing. She wore no mark of slavery; her gown was plain but well woven, and she carried herself with evident pride.

  Something about her caught and held Myrtale’s attention, though she was ordinary enough as far as beauty went. There was more to her than met the eye.

  Eye, thought Myrtale with a shiver down the spine. Those eyes were familiar somehow. As if she had seen or felt them before. As if …

  “I think,” said Myrtale, “that you need an explanation.”

  Philip’s gift grinned. Her teeth were white and strong and somewhat sharp. “What, do I baffle you, lady? My name is Erynna; I come from Thessaly. The king wanted someone fitting to serve his new queen.”

  “So,” Myrtale said, “he does want a queen.”

  Erynna spread her narrow hands. “Men like to pretend life is complicated. They’re such simple beasts, you see.”

  “You sound like my aunt,” Myrtale said.