Bull God

by Roberta Gellis

  Now the bright blue eyes focused on her and the hand she held tightened on hers, until she drew a sharp breath in anticipation of pain. “Don't go with him! No matter what reason he gives, don't go with him.”

  “I will not, my lord, my god. I love only you.”

  The grip of his hand eased and he almost smiled, but then his eyes shifted from her face and the staring look returned. “He was carrying something,” Dionysus said, “some framework I thought, draped in a cloth, and when he and the woman reached the middle of the field, he set his burden down.” He hesitated and swallowed. “I don't understand,” he said, piteously. “The horror of it freezes my soul, and yet there was nothing horrible in what I Saw. That was just silly, like a foolish dream.”

  “You Saw?” Ariadne urged softly, knowing there was no way for her to escape even if she tried to shirk her duty and refused to lift the burden of his Seeing from him.

  “The woman then went under the cloth. I think she cried out faintly as if she had been hurt, but then the man pulled off the cloth and there was no woman nor was what he had carried a framework—instead the cloth covered a white cow. Is that not ridiculous?”

  But his question held a note of uncertainty because Ariadne had gasped as soon as he mentioned the white cow. He paused and looked down at her. Calm spread from her small hand clasped in his. Not that she was calm. He sensed that she was frightened and horrified by what he'd said, but, oddly, that eased his own oppression. Whatever that mad Vision meant, she understood and she would explain it to him and he wouldn't be tormented by sorrow and horror any longer.

  “Was that all you Saw?” she asked. She heard the thread of eagerness in her voice; she couldn't help hoping he would agree, but she wasn't surprised when he shook his head.

  “No.” Despite the ease she had brought him and the warmth of the blanket, he shivered. “The worst is yet to come,” he admitted. “The man then disappeared and the cow began to low. Soon a magnificent white bull came running across the field, and the closer he drew the clearer I could see that it was a man's face under the horns, not a bull's. It was Poseidon's face.”

  “Oh, Merciful Mother, preserve us,” Ariadne breathed.

  “Not you!” Dionysus bellowed, pushing off the blankets and seizing Ariadne by the shoulders. “The Poseidon-bull coupled with that cow, she groaning and lowing with pleasure. Not you! I let you dance for the Mother because even we gods honor Her, but you will not be Poseidon's meat. You are my priestess. You will play no cow to that bull's lust.”

  “No, no,” Ariadne cried. “Not me! It wasn't I! It will never be me.”

  “Then why is your face gray with terror?”

  She closed her eyes. “Not terror, shame,” she whispered. “The woman is or was my mother—and my father knows.”

  There was a long moment's silence. Then Dionysus said, “You know what all this means, don't you? It's all to do with Knossos and the bull from the sea, all tangled up with that first Vision that nearly drove me mad.” Then, suddenly, he drew her up on his lap and pulled the blankets around them both. “You are shivering, child. I'm sorry I didn't notice you were as naked as I. Now, tell me what I have been Seeing.”

  The heartflower was open wide; the mist of silver threads encompassed them both and seemed to reach outward, bringing in and weaving together prophesy, knowledge, and memory. Ariadne was again aware of being two: on the surface she seemed a child who had known little love and was now almost bursting with joy because of the warm embrace, the kindness of her god; but in her deepest core she was a woman, wise with years, who could take in what the silver threads brought and had listened many times and many times soothed this most restless and dangerous being.

  “You know of my father's sin in not sacrificing the bull from the sea to Poseidon,” she said. “This, I believe, is his punishment for that sin.”

  “But why? It is almost a year since that happening. Why now?”

  Ariadne sighed and snuggled closer. “Of that I'm not sure. Perhaps the bull is such a small matter to Poseidon that it went from his mind, or perhaps he thought my father was waiting for a certain time of the year when a great celebration of bull dancing is held and then he forgot about his bull. I think ... I think something happened that reminded him of Knossos and the bull.”

  “That makes sense, but what fool prodded Poseidon?”

  “My mother, I fear.”

  Dionysus drew back a little so he could look down and see her face. “Your mother?”

  “When you accepted me as your priestess, the people all acclaimed me, saluted me with honor for your sake. My mother hadn't thought you would appear, had thought my consecration at your shrine would be an empty ritual. She ... she likes praise and adulation. She envied me the salutes and the bows. She tried to call your attention to herself, but you denied her.”

  “So I did. I remember that. She was the woman who wouldn't leave when I said I wished to be alone with you. But what has this to do with Poseidon?”

  “She wanted a god to acknowledge her also, and for the people to honor her more than they honored me, so she went to Poseidon's temple and tried to Call him—”

  Dionysus burst out laughing. “I hope she chose a more reasonable time than you did. I suspect that Poseidon is even less fond of being wakened at the crack of dawn than I—after all, sometimes I am still awake at that time, not having got to bed at all.”

  Ariadne, all child for the moment, grinned up at him. “Oh, is that why you object to dawn ceremonies? Perhaps if you didn't dance and drink all night ...”

  He began to grin in response, but suddenly her smile disappeared and her voice faded. “What is it?” he asked. “Surely you can't object to the god of wine drinking a cup or two?”

  “No, it was ... When I Called you about all the sacrifices, I saw the woman in your bed—”

  “That's enough!” he snapped. “Priestess and Mouth you may be, but you have no right—”

  “No, no, my lord. I didn't mean any criticism on that subject. It just reminded me of why my father kept the bull. He wished to breed from it, for it was finer than any bull in his herd, his or any other, and a horrible notion came into my mind.”

  Puzzled, Dionysus frowned. Then his mouth dropped open, and a moment later he was roaring with laughter. “I didn't think Poseidon had so much sense of humor,” he gasped when he could speak. “What a punishment! Minos kept Poseidon's bull to breed to his cows, so Poseidon would breed to Minos' cow.”

  “But it isn't funny, Lord God,” Ariadne cried. “Have you forgotten the first Vision you spoke of to me? Have you forgotten the bull with a man's face, not Poseidon's face, who turned on the cows and tore them with his horns and his teeth, who killed the herdsmen who tried to save the cows and then ravaged the whole countryside?” She shuddered convulsively. “What good could come of the fruit of Poseidon's rage and my mother's ambition?”

  Dionysus held her tight, comfortingly. “Ah, yes, you are a true Mouth. You've woven together the two Visions and have spoken the truth, I fear. Poseidon doesn't have any sense of humor. He'll try to make sure that his seed sets firm and that the fruit of that seed would be no blessing to Minos.” He put her off his lap gently and stood her upright before him. “Now, we must set a lesser evil against a greater. I know you fear to be punished if you speak out against the will of your parents, who are also king and queen of this realm, but I'll watch and protect you if real hurt threatens you for it. You may Call me if you need me, and I will come. This time you must be my Mouth and speak this Vision aloud.”

  “I will,” Ariadne breathed, although she was cold with fear. “I will.”

  Ariadne had been ready to go right then, but Dionysus had insisted she spend what remained of the night in the priestess's bedchamber and return to the palace in the morning. If his Vision had been of what would happen that night, he pointed out, it had happened already. Even if it hadn't, there was no way that she could interfere with Poseidon, and for him to meddle might bring worse upon
them. If he enraged Poseidon, the Earth Shaker might bury Crete in the sea.

  She had paled when he said that. Crete was not infrequently shaken by Poseidon's warnings and once had been nearly destroyed by the heaving of the earth. To comfort her, he reminded her that if his Vision was of the future, morning would be early enough to warn her mother of the evil that would follow the coupling she desired and certainly early enough to warn her to clean out her womb if she had yielded already. Ariadne accepted that with some relief. The confrontation would be bad enough in daylight; at night it would be terrible.

  Having calmed her and seen her fall asleep, Dionysus took himself to Olympus where he went back to his own bed—and found he could not sleep. He wondered irritably if he was a fool. Knossos's troubles were of their own making and wouldn't shake the world at large or be noticed in Olympus, and he knew with an inner certainty that the Visions that had troubled him were ended. He no longer needed the young priestess's counsel. But with that resentful thought came an image of her sweet face with those eyes like luminous black pools full of trust. Besides, he had given his word that he would protect her, and unlike others of Olympus, he kept his word. And even the most careless Olympian protected his or her Mouth. He sighed and stopped arguing with himself. In the morning he would seek out Hermes.

  He found the hazel-eyed young god, who was only a little older than he, looking over a necklet of such fantastic workmanship that it could only have been made by Hades himself. Dionysus clucked with concern and Hermes looked up at him, laughing.

  “From whom did you have that?” Dionysus asked.

  “I ... er ... from Ares, who planned to give it to Aphrodite, I suppose.” He snickered, lifting the necklet so Dionysus could see it better. “I only took it to save him from a grave mistake. Can you imagine anything that would fit her less? This is for a full-bosomed, dark-eyed beauty, not for Aphrodite's fragile perfection. That man not only has iron in his thews but in his head also. Will you tell?”

  “Have I ever?”

  Now Hermes clicked his tongue against his upper palate. “That was very foolish,” he said, his eyes dancing with mischief. “You should have said, 'I won't tell if you will do for me what I desire.' Then you wouldn't need to offer me wine or any other token in exchange.”

  Dionysus wrinkled his nose. “I have plenty of wine, and you, no more than I, would use a threat to gain a favor from a friend. All you want is to make our elders uneasy.” Then he laughed but without much amusement. “I make them uneasy enough just by being, so I don't need to prick and prod them. But some day, Hermes, you'll go too far.”

  Although Hermes didn't fear Dionysus because he could remove himself from that maddening presence quickly enough to save himself from frenzy or from being harmed by those in whom Dionysus had induced frenzy, he didn't like to set off his fellow mage's wild rage. Someone, even if not himself, often got hurt and Dionysus would then be sorry and ashamed. Far from fearing him, Hermes pitied Dionysus for his lack of control.

  “I know this is not yours—” Hermes gestured to the necklet, which he had laid down “—so you can't be angry about that.” He searched his conscience, but could find nothing and finally asked, “Have I trod on your toes somehow?”

  “No, not at all.” Dionysus shook his head. “Nor have I Seen anything concerning you. Only that sometimes I fear for you.” His lips twisted. “There aren't so many who are willing to talk to me that I can afford to lose one. But I didn't come for idle talk. I want to know whether a translocation spell can be set upon a person.”

  “Certainly, if that person has power enough to invoke it,” Hermes said.

  “I have never lacked for power,” Dionysus replied.

  “You. Of course not. But you said a person.” He raised his brows inquiringly. “Have you started Seeing yourself as separate people?”

  Dionysus laughed. “I said that wrong. I want a translocation spell that will take me to a particular person no matter where that person happens to be.”

  Hermes cocked his head as if he were listening to something Dionysus had left unsaid. “A native woman, no doubt.”

  “The high priestess of my shrine at Knossos,” Dionysus replied with a half-smile, acknowledging and denying what Hermes had implied. Then, relenting, he explained. “She's a true Mouth, both to me and to the people.”

  “And in danger? Your priestess? After Pentheus?”

  “My hands are somewhat tied in this matter,” Dionysus said. “Those to whom she will bring unwelcome news are her own father and mother, who also happen to be the king and queen of Knossos.”

  Hermes pushed aside the necklet with an impatient gesture and his brows knitted. “Wasn't there some trouble in Knossos some time ago? A contested kingship? I remember that Zeus decided not to meddle in it because the issue was not clear. Yes, yes. Minos was eldest but Rhadamanthys and Sarpedon were equally worthy. And eldest doesn't count much with Zeus, who was the youngest of Kronos' sons and still took the throne. Zeus was about to give his blessing to the division of Crete because he could see that the brothers would rule well together, but Hera stopped him. She said she Saw that after them chaos would follow.”

  “Ah, my priestess didn't know the reason but she knew of the prophecy of chaos after a divided rule. But, since Zeus wouldn't answer, Minos appealed to Poseidon.”

  He told Hermes the whole tale of the result of that plea. When he was done, the young god of thieves nodded. “And now Poseidon is taking his revenge. Well, he isn't the kind to put aside an affront. But why are you being bothered with the troubles of Knossos?”

  “Because I have Visions of them.” Dionysus shrugged. “And if I See those troubles, isn't that a sign to me from the Mother that I must do something?”

  “What?” Hermes asked. “Can your Mouth tell you?”

  “No. Perhaps the Mother knows, but She hasn't even given me the skill to understand what I See, and She certainly hasn't informed me of Her purpose. Only ... She, too, loves my priestess who dances the Welcome for Her.”

  “Scry her for me,” Hermes said then, abandoning further argument.

  A gesture brought a servant who ran for a scrying bowl and dark wine. Into it Dionysus brought the image of Ariadne, not as he had first seen her, all painted and dyed and in magnificent garments, but as she'd appeared to him before the altar of the shrine, with her huge black eyes wide with concern and her flowing wealth of hair her only garment. Hermes glanced sidelong at Dionysus but said nothing, only rising and going toward the back of the house where his work chamber was.

  Ariadne had wakened even earlier than Dionysus and the burden of what she must do fell upon her as soon as she opened her eyes. For a few moments, she felt that the weight was so great she wouldn't be able to get out of bed, and to add to her troubles she remembered that she had run naked from her bed in answer to Dionysus' Call. Was she to return to the palace wrapped in a bed cover? And confront her mother with a dire warning from a god in a child's kilt?

  The answer to the second problem came first. If she was acting as her god's Mouth, then she could wear the dress in which she had been consecrated to him. And then the answer to the first problem came easily. There was cloth enough in the chests. A kilt and shawl could be easily devised.

  Somehow finding solutions to the little problems made the real burden lighter. Ariadne rose and rang the bell that would bring the priestesses. The younger of the two appeared with a look of indignation on her face, which melted into apprehension as she bowed.

  “I thought it was one of the children, priestess,” she stammered. “When did you come? How ... ?”

  “The god Called me and I came,” Ariadne answered, then momentarily forgetting the reason for the summons, laughed. “I came straight from my bed and without bothering to dress. I must find suitable garments to wear to return to the palace. And I would like breakfast, too.”

  When the food came, however, she found it hard to swallow. Only the wine, bad as it was, went down easily because it remin
ded her of how Dionysus had held her and warmed her. Eventually she chose, somewhat at random, one of the lengths of cloth that the elder priestess had been displaying to her while she tried to eat. A kilt was cobbled from it. Ariadne braided her hair and told the priestess that a small lamp must be left alight in the sitting room and bedchamber in the future.

  “Lord Dionysus comes at his own will, it seems, and not only when he is Called,” she said. “The shrine and my apartment must always be ready for him.”

  She left then, knowing that if she didn't go at once she would find reason after reason for not going at all, but she had learned from what had happened when she wakened. She fixed her mind on the next step. She must arrange her hair and paint her face so that she would not look like a pathetic child. Then she must dress and, yes, because it was still early and cool, she could wear a shawl over her bodice that would hide her flat chest.

  A far greater problem, which she had kept pushing to the back of her mind because she had no solution, was how she would get past her mother's guards and into her presence. That, however, proved to be no problem at all. When the guard saw her with her hair dressed high, with the locks of dedication in long curls before her ears, with her eyes and lips painted, and wearing the many-flounced bell skirt in which the god had responded to her Call, his arm shot up in salute and he stepped aside.

  “I see you,” Ariadne responded automatically, and walked past him into her mother's antechamber. That was empty, but Ariadne could see movement in the bedchamber beyond and she walked through the drawn-back sliding doors.

  “Queen Pasiphae,” Ariadne said.

  Her voice was not loud or shrill, which she had feared, but the two maids who were attending her mother, one dressing her hair and another drawing a line of kohl around her eye, and the third, who was holding the gown her mother would wear, all gasped and then all saluted. Pasiphae, still heavy-eyed and full-lipped, shot to her feet.