The steps themselves and the rising ground around the dancing floor were crowded with people, except for the aisle beside the sacral platform which she and the dancers would take down to the dancing floor. The watchers rose to their feet and saluted as the procession of “god” and “goddess” and performers came into sight. Ariadne hesitated, imagining the surprise and scorn on all those now-respectful faces when she staggered and stumbled. If she could have, she would have turned away, but the other dancers were a solid wall behind her. Eyes fixed on nothing, blind with shame and fear, she stepped and stepped again.
The sun was just gilding the tops of the trees to the west. Dionysus shook his head and gestured irritably as a slave proffered a bowl of fruit. The boy drew it back at once and left the room hastily. Dionysus looked down at the polished table. He was mad, and he made everyone near him mad also. When the rage came, he couldn't ... But before despair could grip him and rage follow despair, he remembered that Ariadne could divert him. Only it was because of Ariadne that he was angry now.
The word made him pause and think and gave him a sense of relief. Yes, he was angry, but not mad. He had no impulse to rend and tear and would not transmit that impulse to any other. He was angry over a real thing, because he wanted to see Ariadne dance, and knew he shouldn't want it.
Why couldn't he just think of her as he thought of the others, if he thought of them at all, as a good priestess, willingly passing all the sacrifices to him? The meat and other offerings Hermes had collected from the shrine had permitted him to pay back a lot of favors. Not that he ever lacked trading points. All the mages liked wine, and that he had from many shrines, but this bounty, not marked with the stamp of his Gift, he had given freely as presents.
Well, he thought, grinning suddenly, perhaps not totally free. A jeweled cup had brought Aphrodite to his bed. Not that he had expected or even hoped that would happen when he gave her the cup. It was meant as a “thank you” for her many kindnesses. Of all the great mages, Aphrodite alone didn't fear him, didn't ask what he wanted as soon as he arrived so she could be rid of him the sooner. Perhaps because there was no violence in her that he could rouse, perhaps because she understood what he did—if not why he did it. She, after all, also used what was within a person to punish and manipulate.
He sighed gently. No, not even Aphrodite, so like him in her ability to use emotion as a weapon or a reward, was able to understand why. Only Ariadne felt what he felt and could soothe him. Aphrodite ... Ariadne ... No, Ariadne was only a child. But Aphrodite looked little more than a child herself. He smiled, doubts and fears forgotten for the moment.
That coupling had been a revelation, a warm and laughing joy, as different from the orgiastic rutting of his worshipers with him and each other as beasts were from men. And yet he didn't desire to renew his pleasuring with Aphrodite. Even when he laughed with her and loved her he was a little repulsed. He was a jealous creature; he needed a lover who was his only, and Aphrodite, wonderful as she was, couldn't even comprehend the idea. She was perfectly promiscuous . . . and she couldn't drive Ariadne from his mind. He could dwell on coupling with Aphrodite, but he still wanted to see Ariadne dance.
Why shouldn't he? Dionysus thought. He would harm no one ... except possibly himself. But that was his own affair. He would do better this time. He wouldn't roam the fields and woods and cities drawing men and women into wild excess to assuage his grief. He knew now the bacchanals couldn't help. And it would be many, many years before this Ariadne died.
He stood abruptly and walked out of the dining chamber of his house into the megaron and then out onto the gleaming marble portico. Here he paused, looking down the street of close-fitted stone to the open square dominated by his father's house, grander than all the others. Why not? He laughed and strode out.
He thought back to his coming to Olympus as he walked. Hekate had brought him there and presented him to Zeus. How she had known or guessed that he was Zeus' son, Dionysus had no idea. He suspected his mother, Semele, had told her when she found herself with child. If she had sought Hekate's protection, either it had failed or Hekate had refused her help. Semele had been buried in a heap of gold only days after Dionysus had been born and had been sacrificed to Hades, god of the Underworld.
Whether Hekate had felt guilt over Semele's fate or was simply curious, Dionysus knew she had kept an eye on him—and Dionysus was very grateful for it. When he reached puberty and the Visions began, he would have gone mad without her steadying assurances and explanations. She could not interpret those dreams and visions or free him from them, as Ariadne could, but she had been able to assure him that he was not mad and make clear what was dream and what was real. Then she had fled her father's malice and Dionysus had been left to struggle with his growing power alone, until one day Hekate was there again, holding out her hand and saying she had found his father, who would welcome him to a new home.
Dionysus grinned as he reached the great hammered bronze doors of Zeus' palace. Doubtless Zeus sadly regretted sending that welcome to Olympus with Hekate—more the fool he for being so eager to spite his wife that he did not more carefully examine what kind of a son he had fathered—but it was too late now.
The double doors were open, as they most often were during the day, and Dionysus walked in. A servant scurried to his side and asked how he could help him.
“I want to see my father,” he said.
“Of course,” the servant said. “Come with me.”
That was what everyone said to him. “Of course,” they said, and gave him what he asked for, and waited for him to go. Dionysus felt a flash of heat. The servant cringed.
“Tell him where I am,” Dionysus said, and went into the nearest empty chamber.
Zeus came in moments. “What is the matter, Dionysus?” he asked.
“Nothing is the matter,” Dionysus said. “I want to be a Cretan for a few hours.”
“A transformation?” Zeus asked, the tenseness in his arms and shoulders relaxing. “Just for this once or will you want to use the form again?”
Dionysus looked away. “I shouldn't use it again, but likely I will.”
Zeus laughed, relief in the sound. “A woman,” he said, and smiled with knowing and pleasure. He went to the door and called out, “Bring me a scrying bowl,” and when the servant came with it, he handed it to Dionysus. “Show me what you want to look like,” he said, “and give the form a name.”
At the sacral platform the procession halted. The crowd raised their voices, invoking the presence of the deities inside the bodies of their avatars. Minos and Pasiphae faced the celebrants and sang the ritual responses. Waiting beyond her father and mother, Ariadne swayed, tried to brace her knees and, feeling them tremble, at last yielded to her weakness. She tried to call out, to say she was unfit to dance, but a burst of ritual chant from the celebrants drowned out her breathless voice. In that moment, the dancers turned and pressed her forward again.
And then, deliverance! As soon as Ariadne's bare feet touched the smooth stones of the sacred place, warmth rose in her, steadying her legs, firming the muscles of her thighs, tightening her belly, pulling breath into her chest, and making her arms strong and lithe. Shock and joy uplifted her; she felt dizzy with reprieve, ready to leap down the steps and begin to whirl about and laugh, but that would have been as shocking to those who came to worship the Mother as to have her stumble and stagger. She had to grit her teeth and bite her lips against a fit of giggling.
Habit held her to the ritual. She stopped at the bottom of the stair and faced the sacral platform, the other dancers behind her. Raising fist to forehead, she saluted, waiting for Pasiphae with Minos at her side to take their places on the seats before the great horns, symbolic both of the horns of the growing moon, which promised the Mother's care and, in the horns of the bull, the virility of the male god.
King and queen, “god” and “goddess,” they seated themselves in the full light of the westering sun. From the four corners of the d
ancing floor, first one priestess and then another raised her sistrum, black flounced skirts embroidered in red and gold, breasts jutting proudly, hair bound high in gold headdresses. Utter silence fell as the bell-toned rattles sounded, coming together into a rhythm that caught the breath and made the heart pound in time. Between the corners of the dancing floor stood the priests. Each raised his flute to his lips, and a lilting melody soon wove in and between the sound of the sistra.
Smiling now, Ariadne dropped her arm from its salute. Slowly she paced to the center of the dancing floor, struggling against the need to march in time with the music and keep to the sliding glide of the votary. Not yet, she told herself, not yet. At the center of the floor she stopped and waited for the other dancers to weave a pattern around her, right and left. When they were placed, she turned, foremost among them again, to face the sacral platform, and slowly raised her arms, palms upward, toward the “god” and “goddess.”
In a heartbeat she felt as if her hands were full of feather-light ribbons. She had always felt that, but today she could “see” them, gossamer bands of golden light. She threw them up and stepped forward into the cascade. Now she let the music engulf her. The Goddess caught her hair. She whirled and leapt in the joyous greeting of recognition, the ribbons winding and weaving around her body. Having greeted, she paused, the dancing chorus moving around her in decorous steps of submission and pleading. Returned to their places, the dancers were still, leaving the praise to music alone; then Ariadne began the dance of life. In the rich afternoon light, she bent and swayed, gestured and leapt, miming birth and growth, work and rest.
As the light faded into evening the beat of the sistra slackened, the flute song grew fainter. Ariadne's steps slowed and the ribbons fell more softly but glowed all the brighter as she portrayed also love and death, all that the Mother provides, sinking, as darkness fell, to lie curled on the ground.
The ribbons encased her as a shroud, but their golden touch was warm and soft, not binding. Ariadne did not struggle against the Mother's caress; she simply lay, waiting for the moon to rise. Around her, singers formed a crescent moon, one horn male, the other female, and raised their voices. The men chanted the first plea of the ritual. Pasiphae answered. Then the women sang. Minos, playing the role of the young god, replied to them, turned to the “goddess” and wooed her. She responded. The chorus sang the old, old tale of the slow yearly seasons, of the quicker cycles of death and rebirth of the moon.
Ariadne in her golden shroud smiled. Waiting in joy for when she would dance the welcome to the Mother as the new day began with the moonrise, she felt the golden bands become part of her. The flower around her heart opened, and each petal was edged in golden light. Dionysus? she thought. And back to her, but very faintly, like a murmur meant not to disturb, came his whisper; this was the Mother's time and Ariadne must think of Her. Joy added to joy. Although she didn't move, she felt as if, if she desired, she could will herself to float off the ground and into the sky.
When the moon cast a brilliant, silvery light into the hollow of the dancing place, she unfolded herself from her fetal curl, swayed on her knees, letting her arms and fingers speak of the wonder of hope, of the endless renewal. She danced the welcome, danced in joy, light-footed, light-hearted, for once free of all doubt and fear. And when the ritual was complete, and she stood at the center of the floor again, saluting the figures on the sacral platform, she dared to look for Dionysus.
She couldn't find him. All the celebrants were Cretans, dark, handsome perhaps, but not one burned with the golden brilliance of the sun. She was hardly disappointed. The warning that this was the Mother's time implied that he would not show himself. It was a generosity she hadn't expected and made her glad, even though she was denied his presence. But he had been there; he had seen her dance and approved; she was sure of that.
At the top of the steps, Ariadne saluted the “god” and “goddess” again and she was free. Most of the dancers were swallowed into the crowd as relatives greeted them and praised their performance. Ariadne gladly slipped away. She had no desire to join the celebration that followed. She had celebrated with her whole heart and was replete. She went back to her chamber enwrapped in warmth, secure in the power the Mother had given to her, sated with delight.
The next morning Ariadne woke very early but, knowing her duties at the shrine were few and light, didn't get out of bed and drifted off to sleep again full of contentment. It was her stomach, clapping against her backbone and groaning dismally of her neglect, that finally induced her to rise. Her clothes chest produced only a sigh. The practice skirt was draggled, even stained with blood from some of the offerings on which she had not imposed stasis quickly enough. She would lay it across the chest for one of the slaves to collect and clean. The consecration skirt had been cleaned and stored, but it was crazy to wear so elaborate a white skirt for a common day's work.
Prodded by hunger, Ariadne shrugged and put on a kilt. It might not be dignified enough for her new station in life, but she had nothing else. Good. Today she would have time to tell that to her father and ask for her woman's dowry. She would never have a husband so the dowry could outfit the priestess. Considering whether she should just ask outright or make a more calculated approach and if so what kind, Ariadne went to the toilet, washed, combed her hair, and made her way to the eating hall, which was almost empty.
However, to her surprise, Phaidra was there. Usually their mother had duties for her daughters—like overseeing the household slaves or carrying messages to the craftsmen in the workrooms—when they were not engaged by their tutors in lessons. Ariadne had expected that Phaidra would be twice as busy because of her own work at Dionysus' shrine. She hadn't had a chance to urge her sister to practice the praise-dance, and perhaps it wasn't necessary now, but life was uncertain. What if she fell or was taken ill? If Phaidra had free time, she would go over the movements with her.
Ariadne took her breakfast and went to sit beside her sister. As she approached, however, she realized how dejected Phaidra's posture was and saw that her eyes were red and her lips downturned. Guilt stabbed Ariadne. She hadn't been idling over the last week, but her labor, no matter how exhausting, had been full of a rich satisfaction. Phaidra had been doing double duty for a thankless and ungrateful taskmistress.
“Oh, sister,” Ariadne sighed, sinking down beside Phaidra. “I'm sorry to have left you with all the work of the palace. I swear, I hadn't a moment to spare from the god's service. But now the work of the shrine is mostly finished and I can help you.”
“I have nothing to do,” Phaidra said dully.
Ariadne, prepared to hear a long list of woes, choked on the bite of cheese she had taken. “Nothing?” she gasped, when she had controlled her coughing. “Then why are you weeping? I thought you were overworn.”
“I'm afraid,” Phaidra whispered.
“Afraid!” Ariadne repeated, also in a whisper, although there was no one close enough to hear. “What's happened?”
“Nothing has happened,” Phaidra replied, keeping her voice very low, and shuddering convulsively, “but something will, soon ... something terrible.”
“Oh, Phaidra,” Ariadne sighed, shaking her head with exasperation, “you're frightening yourself with boggles again. Why do you take such pleasure in doom and gloom? You nearly frightened me to death. Why do you think something terrible will happen?”
“Because Daidalos is so angry, I think he's ready to bring down the palace. Because mother, who hates Daidalos, has spent all ten-day in his workroom urging him on to some task he is unwilling to perform. Because Daidalos went to father and told him he must curb mother, but though he looks as if his guts are being torn out, father still ordered Daidalos to create what mother demanded. No one is allowed in the workroom but mother and Daidalos—even Icarus has been cast out.”
Ariadne shrugged over Phaidra's first sentence and went on eating calmly. Daidalos was always angry. He had come to father's protection because of a blo
od feud in his own land, one he said was unjust. Minos had agreed to protect him, but at a price—that he would create, by craft and by magic, any artifact Minos desired. Possibly Daidalos had thought he would be treated as a royal exile with nothing to do but live off his host's fat and enjoy himself. Instead, he found his place little above any of the other palace craftsmen, and he resented Minos' demands. In fact, the only task Ariadne remembered him doing with good will was the creation of the dancing floor.
Phaidra's second sentence moved Ariadne little more than the first. She made an indistinct sound of comfort around the olive meats she was chewing and took a swallow of wine. Pasiphae and Daidalos didn't like each other, but both knew on which side of the bread the cheese had been spread. They would work together if necessary. When Phaidra spoke of Minos' behavior, however, Ariadne put down the cheese into which she was preparing to bite and frowned. And what Phaidra said of Icarus drew an exclamation of concern from her. Icarus was Daidalos' son, a fine artificer in his own right, and an eager student of any new craft or magic that Daidalos used.
“I tell you mother is going to do something terrible and father isn't going to stop her.” Phaidra shuddered again and sobbed. “When I asked her who was required to pay his duty before seed corn was issued to him, she laughed and said 'Give it to all of them. Soon I'll have a stronger rod to make them obey me than issuing corn.' And her face ...”
“Oh, dear gods,” Ariadne whispered. “I think perhaps she tried to Call a god—one of the great ones, like Zeus or Hera or, maybe the Mother Herself—she told me she intended to do that. I think the god would not reply, and now she's making Daidalos do something that she thinks will force the god to answer her.” She took Phaidra's hands in hers and sat hold ing them, thinking. Then she said, “But what could Daidalos do to compel a god? If he had that power, surely father would have demanded that he compel Dionysus to come when some years the vines started to die and the wine would not ferment sweet.”
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