Bull God

by Roberta Gellis

  She saw him swallow and his lips thin—doubtless as he reminded himself she was only his little sister, but she said nothing, only waited, staring at him.

  At length he cleared his throat. “Third daughter of Minos,” he snapped. “Your father summons you to appear before him.”

  “I am no daughter of Minos',” Ariadne replied evenly and coldly. “In the dawn of the turn of the year, before this very altar, Minos yielded me into the hand of Dionysus, who deigned to accept me. I am the high priestess of Dionysus, his Mouth, with power to bless the vineyards of Crete.”

  “You haven't blessed them on King Minos' land,” Glaukos retorted angrily.

  “No, indeed. On Minos' land, the god withheld his blessing.”

  “But you're Minos' daughter. You were his sacrifice to the god, who you say, deigned to accept you. His vines should be specially favored.”

  “The house of King Minos has been specially favored through my pleas and intercession. Remember what befell King Pentheus, who offended the god Dionysus and was torn apart by his own people, his mother first among them. Be glad that no worse has befallen Knossos beyond the failure of its vineyard.”

  Although Glaukos hadn't himself attended the consecration of Ariadne, his elder brother's shaken recounting of what had occurred and Androgeos' new respect for his sister had made an impression. And Glaukos did remember what had happened to King Pentheus. The king and his household all dead, the whole country ravaged by ravening hordes, who killed and tore for no apparent reason, all totally mad. Fifty years had passed, but that poor bloodstained realm was still a shambles avoided by all.

  “What are you talking about?” Glaukos asked, burying fear in bluster.

  “I am the Mouth of Dionysus. When I came to speak my god's warning, as I am bound to do, I was insulted and assaulted, driven out. You know what Dionysus does to those who reject him. Only by my tears and pleading did I withhold his hand from you all. Accept the cursing of the vines and be grateful. Praise Dionysus, who can be merciful.”

  Glaukos stared at her for a long moment, then turned and left the shrine, his men following. Ariadne bit her lip, wondering whether she had convinced him and what he would say to her father. She had an answer quickly enough. The very next day, a messenger came from the palace requesting an audience before Dionysus' priestess for King Minos himself.

  Ariadne wore black to receive him, and to her relief he came forward alone and saluted her with fist to forehead.

  “I see you, King Minos,” Ariadne murmured.

  His lips twisted at the formal greeting and his hand came down with some force, showing how little he'd expected it. “Are we cursed forever?” he asked angrily. “Are we damned to be ground between the upper millstone of Poseidon's will and the lower one of Dionysus' rage? Don't you see that the failure of the king's vines, and only the king's vines, will make nobles and commons alike look askance at me and shake my rule. You spoke of sacrifice and restitution. What sacrifice? The bull from the sea is already gone. In the morning after Pasiphae ... did whatever she did, the bull was gone. What restitution? I would make my peace with you but I cannot force Pasiphae to give up what she bears.”

  “You need make no peace with me. It is Lord Dionysus you have offended.”

  “Lord Dionysus?” Minos' voice was now uncertain.

  “He came to bless the vines, as he promised. And he learned how his Mouth had been received. It is only through my pleas that all of Knossos is not a bloody shambles. Lord Dionysus is not a patient god.”

  Minos licked his lips. “You know your mother. What could I do? What can I do?”

  Nothing, Ariadne thought. But the first sin had been his in keeping the bull from the sea. If it was Poseidon's will that Pasiphae bear what she carried, to thwart the Earth-Shaker might bring much worse upon Crete than a family tragedy. Poseidon might tear the island apart, bury it in the sea. Beyond that she remembered her father's bitter question about whether they must be ground between Poseidon's will and Dionysus' rage. Poseidon's will seemed fixed, but Dionysus was no longer angry, and it was the duty of a Mouth to speak the truth.

  She shook her head. “The punishment that befell you has nothing to do with Lord Dionysus' Vision. His warning was given to you in mercy, to save you from a disaster if it was possible. If you don't heed his warning, doubtless you'll suffer, but not by Lord Dionysus' act or will. Lord Dionysus didn't withhold the blessing on the vineyard of Knossos because your wife wishes to carry the curse of Poseidon to fruition or because you wouldn't sacrifice the bull from the sea. Your vineyards were overpassed because Queen Pasiphae insulted his Vision and threatened harm to the Mouth that spoke it.”

  Minos' eyes had narrowed as Ariadne spoke. She assumed he was angry and she was sorry for him, knowing how hard it must be to swallow reprimand from his own child—a mere daughter and very young at that. Her sympathy didn't last long; Ariadne was appalled when her father's brow lifted and a sneer bent his lips.

  “So Dionysus won't contest with Poseidon for power.”

  For one moment Ariadne was struck dumb with shock. She could never have guessed how Minos would interpret her attempt to soothe him. Then the woman inside her stirred.

  “Contest about a curse laid upon a foolish native?” She laughed; the voice was not hers. “Because you were my father before I was consecrated to him Dionysus wished to warn you, but I doubt if he really cares if a double curse falls on you.”

  Doubt flickered on Minos' face as he remembered his blighted vines in the midst of burgeoning growth. He wasn't so sure Pasiphae's burden was a curse—beyond the fact that the god had cuckolded him—but since Dionysus apparently no longer demanded Pasiphae abort the child, a little humbling was a cheap price to pay if that would restore his vines.

  So, when Ariadne began to turn away, he cried, “Wait,” and raised his fist to his brow in salute again. “From this time forward,” he said, “the Mouth of Dionysus will be welcome and respected in the Place of Knossos and I will double the offerings that are traditional. And I sue humbly for the curse to be removed from my vines so that the peace of the realm may not be troubled.”

  His voice was smooth, his face expressionless. Ariadne's heart sank. She'd seen that face and heard that voice whenever her father negotiated for advantages with the paraoh of Egypt or the kings of Greece. Behind that blandness was calculation. She'd made matters worse. She'd failed to convince Minos that the fruit of Pasiphae's womb was a curse. She might even have made Poseidon's get desirable—something her father hoped to use as a weapon to keep his people meek and quiet despite Dionysus' displeasure.

  Was this matter serious enough to Call to Dionysus? In the privacy of her own chamber, Ariadne stared at the god's chair and shuddered. Must she betray what she feared were her father's intentions? And what if Dionysus, to show his power the greater, killed what was in Pasiphae's womb? Would Poseidon accept that tamely? Would he match power with Dionysus, daring the madness Dionysus could cast upon him? Or would he take the easier path, assume the people of Crete were guilty and break their island apart as he'd done in the past?

  PART TWO: ASTERION

  CHAPTER 8

  No one likes to admit a serious blunder or set loose a catastrophe. Ariadne didn't want to tell Dionysus that his Vision had been rejected by her parents, that her mother insisted on bearing what Poseidon had set into her and that her father agreed. She put off Calling him while she sought reasons for him not to punish her family further, but she sought in vain and in the end he appeared beside her bed early one morning without being Called.

  He looked terrible, so ashen pale that his skin had a faint greenish tinge, mouth swollen, eyes heavy-lidded and ringed with bruised-looking mauve-colored skin. She'd have been frightened, if she hadn't seen the look before, on her brothers when they'd been making too merry among the wine pots and the women of pleasure. But could a god get wine-sick and drained out by lust?

  Pushing that thought into the back of her mind, she sat up and hel
d out her hand. “How can I serve you, my lord?”

  He took the hand she had offered in so tight a grip that Ariadne had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. When he saw that, he eased his hold.

  “I just wanted to make sure you were here, that I hadn't dreamed of how the vineyards of Crete were blessed.” He took a deep breath and forced a small smile. “I'll go now that I've seen you.”

  “Oh, don't go so soon, my lord.” She scrambled out of bed, her eyes widening as she came closer and saw that his clothing and his body, where it was not covered, looked as overworn as his face. “You are soiled and exhausted. Let me draw a bath for you and—” she hesitated, wondering if she dared mention that he was marked with nicks and scratches and trickles of blood. Could gods be injured and bleed like common mortals?

  “And?” He was smiling more naturally.

  “And find some salve for your hurts?” she finished timidly.

  He hesitated, staring at her, and then said, “Yes.”

  “Lie down then, my lord,” she said, steering him toward the bed, “while I make all ready.”

  She was surprised by an initial stiffening, as if he would resist, but she was already turning away, reaching for the robe that lay over a chair. Before she could face him again and ask what was wrong, he released her hand and lay down with a long sigh. His eyes were closed before she was out of the door, so she didn't hurry, rousing the servants to heat and carry water and telling the priestesses to be sure there was more than enough and of the best quality for breaking the fast.

  When they were busy about their tasks, she went quietly to where the medicines were kept and took a pot of the unguent used for wounds. This she hid in the folds of her robe while she returned to the bedchamber. Whatever her own doubts about gods who needed to eat bread and cheese and who could be scratched by brambles and scraped by stones, she didn't want to arouse similar doubts in others.

  As she had hoped, Dionysus was soundly asleep, his body huddled in on itself as if he were cold ... or trying to ward off some ill. She put the unguent pot at the back of a shelf, where it wouldn't be easily seen, and then drew her coverlet over him. He was so beautiful, even sapped out and filthy, that she could have stood staring forever, but a faint movement of his head, as if he were trying to turn away, warned her and she left the room and closed the door.

  After standing for a moment, she went to tell the servants to fill the bath with cold water only and keep the hot water on the hob until it was needed. Then, remembering the little frown between Dionysus' brows and the greenish tinge of his skin, she ran as quickly as she could to the kitchens of the palace, where she asked the cook for that remedy he made for her brothers when they had been carousing.

  Although he scolded her for running errands—a high priestess, he said, should send servants to do her will—he prepared the draught right there. This time, Ariadne paid close attention so that in the future she could make up the drink herself.

  She was breathless, more with anxiety than with the effort of running, when she returned, but all was quiet, and she took the potion to her chamber and set it beside the unguent. She frowned at that. It would do no good to have hidden the salve if Dionysus' body was exposed for any to see, but he was far too large for her to borrow a priest's tunic. Ariadne spent more time contriving a garment from the cloth she kept for herself, but even when that task was accomplished, he slept. Eventually she broke her fast alone and told Hagne, who carried away most of the meal, that a special midday meal should be prepared. She had begun to think that, too, would have to be set aside when Dionysus finally called from the bedchamber.

  At first—at least after the cook's remedy had taken effect—Dionysus found Ariadne's preparations, which included fetching the hot water herself so the servants shouldn't see him and anointing his cuts and bruises after the bath, very funny. For a time he seemed utterly contemptuous of what the servants and priests and priestesses saw. Then he began to cast odd glances at her, and by the time he had finished eating and leaned back in his chair with a cup of wine in his hand, he was staring at Ariadne with such intensity that she began to tremble. Seeing that, he crooked a finger at her and she came and knelt at his feet.

  “So you're wondering what I am, are you?” he asked.

  “You are my lord, my god,” Ariadne answered, head bowed.

  “No matter whether I am a god or not? Isn't that what you mean?”

  “You are my lord, my god,” Ariadne repeated stubbornly.

  “Because you're afraid of what I will do if you doubt my divinity?”

  She lifted her head and met his eyes. “Because I love you. Because you've been kinder to me than any other person in the world has been. Because ...” her voice slowed and faded, but then she went on more firmly, “bcause you are a person.” She dropped her head again. “The Mother is kind to me also. I feel Her warmth. She gives me strength. But ... but She ... She's so much beyond my understanding, my reach.” She looked up. “You are my god, Dionysus, my own precious god.”

  She knew he was no god, that was clear enough. Dionysus looked into his wine cup instead of at the fragile, kneeling girl. He knew what Zeus would say, or Athena, or Apollo, that he should kill her before she ... Before she what? Told anyone? Ridiculous. Hadn't he just been laughing because she had gone to such lengths to be sure that even the consecrated priests and priestesses of his temple shouldn't know he was wine-sick, that he could be wounded?

  She was more careful not to cast any doubt on his divinity than he was. And she was aware of his power. She could feel it even when she was spared its effects; she'd begged for mercy for those in the shrine on the day of her consecration. So, for their own sakes, she wouldn't allow anyone to think he could be challenged.

  The other side of the coin was even more dangerous. If she knew he was no god, wouldn't she soon guess the other Olympian mages were not divine? They would be less merciful.

  “So I'm your god out of love, but what of those you don't love? What of Poseidon?”

  Ariadne shuddered. “One doesn't question what the Earth-Shaker is when one lives on Crete. Nor is it safe or sane to ask questions about any of the others. If they aren't like the Mother, they're still able to rule us through Her Gifts and their power.”

  “That's very wise. It would be wise also not to talk of this to anyone.”

  Now Ariadne smiled. “To whom do I have to talk? The priestesses are too awed and, to tell the truth, too old to be interested in the things I am; the novices newly sworn to the temple are too young.”

  “You have a father, a mother, a sister, brothers . . .” His voice faded as he watched her face. He could see that her eyes, no matter they were already downcast, shifted. “So,” he said, “your family has been troubling you again, about the vines that were not blessed, no doubt.”

  “Glaukos came as if he would brazen out a demand, but he yielded quickly. Then my father came.” She hesitated. “He has doubled his offerings and swears if I come again to Knossos as your Mouth that I will be listened to respectfully and not threatened. He says that to leave his vines blighted when those of all the rest of Crete are full and rich might shake his rule, the people and nobles thinking that he isn't acceptable to you. He begs humbly that you bless his vines.”

  Dionysus stared at her for a moment longer, then burst out laughing. “You should've told me this tale when I first came into your bedchamber. Now I'm fed and rested, I hear more than the words. So you've told me the better, now out with the bitter.”

  Ariadne looked up at him under her long lashes. “If I had told you when you first came to me, you would've roared over to the palace and everyone in it would be dead. That's not what I want, even though I no longer acknowledge parents or siblings. Which takes me back to what you began to say about whom I had as a confidant: remember I have no father and mother; I was consecrated to you. I'll talk to no one but you, of course, about anything we say privately to each other.”

  “But you will try to protect your
family from me—”

  “Not from you, my lord. From Poseidon.”

  He cocked his head. “You want me to stand between your family and Poseidon?”

  “No! Mother forfend! I only want you not to do what must offend Poseidon.”

  “Why should I offend Poseidon? Of all the Olympians, he is the one with whom I have least contact.” His lips twisted. “And I don't have much contact with any of them.”

  Ariadne was silent, head bent. After a moment, Dionysus set his cup on the small table. She looked up. “My father won't part with what Pasiphae carries.”

  Dionysus shrugged. “He's a fool, but it's nothing to me.”

  “But I think he plans to use whatever ... whoever ... it is to diminish your authority in Crete. Perhaps to drive you out.”

  The words came out in a rush, after which Ariadne caught her breath. Dionysus burst out laughing. “Who cares? It's the vines of Crete that will suffer and the wines made from them. Perhaps I'm a little sorry for the farmers and the merchants who've suffered my indifference before. Do you think this little island is all my domain? There is Egypt and all the lands of the east and the west. Do you think I care about Crete?” He reached out and took her chin in his hand, lifting her head. “I care for you, Chosen.”

  She breathed a huge sigh and squirmed forward so she could lay her head on his knee. “Then I don't care either.” After a moment, she looked up, her eyes pleading. “Oh, my lord, will you tell me of those other lands?”

  He smiled into her eager face. “I'd tell you gladly, but I'm sorry to say there's not much I know.” He grinned at her more broadly. “I don't travel for pleasure or to see the sights of the land, after all. All I know is the temples and the vineyards.” And then his expression grew thoughtful. “Well, no. Perhaps I've seen more in some places.” He stared at her, and then shook his head. “It's only here in Knossos that I stay so close to the temple.”