Bull God

by Roberta Gellis

  “Mostly,” he went on, “the blessing is accomplished by ... ah ... coupling, by which act power is drawn from me into the priestess and from her spread into the land. I know you are very young—”

  “I'm not so young as not to know about coupling,” Ariadne said, fighting a losing battle with her impulse to giggle and coughing instead.

  “Yes, well—”

  A scratch at the door made him close his mouth. Ariadne glanced sidelong at him as she went to take the tray from Hagne and saw that his face was even redder. When she brought it back and set it on the table, the color had mostly faded, but he didn't even look at the food, only went on as if there had been no interruption.

  “—that's not the point. What I wished to say to you was that there's nothing between those priestesses and me except the act to make the vineyards fertile. They aren't Mouths. They bring me no peace. I like most of them well enough before ... before we . . . But afterward I'm sick of them.”

  “Because they drain you, my lord,” Ariadne said. “But I know the Mother doesn't frown on the mating of man or beast. My whole dance for Her is of the renewal of life through the union of male and female. Nor is it needful that I be virgin to dance the welcome. My mother, already married to my father and having born children, danced for Her when my grandmother was queen. I'm sure She wouldn't withhold Her blessing from me if—”

  “It's nothing to do with the Mother's blessing,” Dionysos interrupted sharply, red again. “It's to do with ... with ... Men and women united in that way are ... If they liked each other once, they do so no more.”

  “My lord, that can't be true,” Ariadne cried, relief and horror warring inside her. Perhaps, she thought, he didn't find her personally repulsive, just anyone associated with the sexual act. But before she could pursue the thought he jumped to his feet and began to pace the room.

  “It is true,” he said. “All over Olympus I see it. When Hephaestus and Aphrodite were married, they hated each other. Zeus and Hera do nothing but fight. I could go on forever telling you of couples who can't bear the sight of each other. Now that they are parted, Aphrodite and Hephaestus are good friends. They talk and laugh. Eros and Aphrodite, too, have never coupled and love each other deeply, whereas Psyche nearly killed Eros—”

  “That was a mistake,” Ariadne protested. “And haven't you told me about Hades and Persephone, whose love is so much stronger because it is well mixed with lust. My lord, it's the people, not the act. Are Zeus and Hera really changed from what they were before they joined? My two sisters both welcomed their marriages, but Prokris couldn't be happier while Euryale is sometimes content and sometimes miserable. But I swear to you that my sisters were so before their marriages. Union with their husbands didn't change them.”

  “I didn't say it changed a person's nature. It's the way that nature interacts with his or her partner's. When ... when two people ... Everything is changed.” He stopped and turned on her. “What I have with you is precious to me, Chosen.”

  And he was gone. Ariadne stood gaping at the spot where he had been as she had not done since the first time he had leapt elsewhere. “What I have with you is precious to me” was sweet to hear, but in the context of the preceding conversation there was the knell of doom about it. Dionysus was willing to be her friend, to come to Knossos and bless the vineyards, to laugh and talk and tell tales of Olympus and other lands. He even wanted her to come to Olympus and live with him ... as Eros and Aphrodite lived. She bit her lips. Could she endure that? To see him take other women to his bed and never herself kiss his sweet lips, caress his beautiful milk-white body, feel his strong shaft fill her?

  Why should she endure it? What he feared was nonsense. He was confusing the sickness of draining and the revulsion he felt for the women who drained him with the act of coupling itself. Surely he was. Ariadne gnawed on her lower lip again. What if he weren't simply remembering how he felt when he was sucked dry? What if his past experiences had so scarred him that he did feel revulsion for the women with whom he coupled even when they didn't drain him? Was she willing to lose his companionship entirely in an attempt to satisfy her craving for his body?

  Ariadne's decision about whether to try again for a sexual relationship hung suspended over her head, like the fabled sword of Damocles. It was made no easier by the fact that she wasn't at all sure it was her decision to make because Dionysus, who returned the next evening to look over the offerings made after the blessing of the vineyards, was now acting as if the conversation between them had never taken place.

  The Mother's dark image was no help at all. It was blank and unresponding when she wept before it of her desire for Dionysus—except once, when she was sure she heard a woman's indulgent laughter. But when she ceased to speak of her god, she was afflicted by a constant feeling of incompleteness, of a task unfinished. By now Ariadne was sure that feeling pertained to the Minotaur, but it wasn't strong enough to drive her into any action.

  For a time after the blessing of the vines, she was able to ignore the mild prodding because she was too busy—there had been many offerings—to think about the Minotaur. And she didn't wish to think about him, poor beast. However, when she had settled with Dionysus what he wanted of the offerings, placed the fruit and meat in stasis, written the accounts, and done all the other special tasks the coming of the new year brought, Ariadne found that she couldn't keep her half brother out of her mind.

  Again and again images flashed before her—images of the Minotaur's exposed fangs, the burning torch guttering in the trembling hand of one terrified attendant, images she hadn't seen, of the Minotaur trying to force the doors that guards had barred and braced. She told herself such thoughts were ridiculous; that Phaidra would have come to summon her if there were any trouble, but she was frightened. The images were like those she caught from Dionysus when he described a Vision.

  Ariadne fought her apprehensions, tried to ignore a growing unease that brought her nightmares every night until, after the spring quickening of the vines, Dionysus told her to hold all offerings. He would be leaving Olympus before the ten-day was out, he said, and be away for several ten-days. Hekate, who had done him many favors, had asked him to go with her back to her homeland to settle a long-neglected problem.

  Over the years since their reconciliation, Dionysus had been away other times. Ariadne had always sensed his regret in parting from her; this time, although he said he would miss her, there was as much relief as dissatisfaction in his voice. She kept her face calm with an effort, refusing to allow the tears that stung the bridge of her nose and the back of her eyes to fill her lids. The time for her decision was coming nearer.

  That night she couldn't sleep. She lay in her bed as tense as a drawn wire, her eyes wandering again and again to the dark image in Her niche. Ariadne saw nothing there, but she knew that she must go to visit the Minotaur the next day.

  Even so, she delayed as long as she could, lingering over her breakfast and calling Sappho to her to scry the other shrines to judge the worth of the offerings. When she had seen what was available and decided to allow the subsidiary shrines to keep what they had, she dressed in a formal gown and told the oldest priest, Kadmos, to summon the merchants who customarily bought the offerings Dionysus did not choose.

  She felt a small rise of hope while doing that business during the early part of the day because the draw—a sense almost of someone tugging on her locks of consecration—of the palace seemed less. Then, just before she was about to call for her midday meal, her hair was seized and pulled with such force that she cried out in pain. And before the pang had passed, she saw the Minotaur, fangs bared, charging at Pasiphae.

  “No!” Ariadne shrieked and ran.

  Again the Mother lent wings to her feet. She flew down the side of Gypsades Hill, across the empty front of the Bull God's temple, and up the stairs to the palace. Barely checking her speed for the guards to let her pass, gasping for breath, knuckles digging into her side where pain stabbed through her
, she passed her father's chambers. The doors were closed. It was the time of day when he received petitions in the audience chamber below. But there was noise ahead, past Pasiphae's apartment, a babble of voices and Phaidra's high-pitched shrieks refusing to do something.

  A crowd of servants and guards milled in the corridor beyond the Minotaur's shut door. Ariadne stopped short, seeing in fact what her Vision had shown—the new massive bars that had been set in huge bronze slots fastened to the wall on each side of the doorway. The shock of knowing her Vision was true prolonged her hesitation. Those moments gave the servants a chance to see her and some drew back. Through the aisle they opened, she saw Pasiphae dragging Phaidra, who was screaming and struggling to be free, toward the door. The queen's face was gray-green with fear and horror, but she was trying to speak calmly.

  “He's quiet now,” she said, shaking Phaidra. “Just divert him long enough for Isadore to slip out. He won't harm you. He knows you bring him food.”

  “No!” Phaidra shrieked. “No. He's killed Isadore and you know it. He's mad with blood lust. He'll kill me, too. He must be destroyed before he breaks free and—”

  “I'll go,” Ariadne said, stepping forward into the aisle left by the servants.

  “Ariadne!” Phaidra cried. “No, don't! He must be starved until he is weak and then killed. I tell you, he killed Isadore. He's changing. He no longer fears the fire.”

  “A fierce and vengeful god,” Pasiphae intoned. Her eyes stared, but apparently without seeing either of her daughters. “He must be pacified.”

  “He's only eight years old,” Ariadne said. “You provoked him and he struck out, like a child. I hope Isadore isn't dead, but even if he is, I don't believe the Minotaur will hurt me. Still—” she looked away from Pasiphae and her sister to speak directly to the guards. “Don't bar the door when I go in and open it quickly if I call to come out. If two of you hold each door, he won't be able to open it.”

  There was a silence while more guards were summoned. Two came forward to help with the doors and two others stood ready with pikes advanced to repel the Minotaur if he tried to rush out. One of those at the door, whose face looked familiar to Ariadne, said, “Lady, you didn't hear the scream Isadore gave. It sounded—”

  “Silence!” Pasiphae commanded. “Open the door and let the priestess of Dionysus in. She has her god to protect her.” A smile that held no mirth or good will curved the queen's lips, but her eyes were still unfocussed. “We'll see which god is the stronger then, won't we?”

  Ariadne stared at the queen, wondering how she could hold to so silly a fixed purpose as proving the Minotaur superior to Dionysus in the face of this disaster. Still, what she said had calmed the terror that had dried Ariadne's mouth and chilled her through and through at the thought of entering the Minotaur's chamber. Dionysus wouldn't—likely couldn't—fight the Minotaur, but he could catch her in his arms and “leap” them both to safety.

  The guards had been listening, ears pressed against the door, and the one who had spoken before said softly, “He's not near the door, lady.”

  Ariadne nodded. “Then open softly, just enough for me to slip in.”

  She was intent at first on sliding through as small an opening as possible and making no sound for the Minotaur's keen ears to pick up. Then she looked around for him and froze in place, just inside the door, rigid with horror. The area near her brother and the limp body of the attendant seemed to have been painted red, and the Minotaur seemed to be nuzzling at the corpse.

  “Minotaur!” she shrieked.

  He lifted his head and she put a hand on the doorframe to support her. For a moment her gorge rose and bile filled her throat and mouth so that she couldn't speak. The Minotaur's face was coated with blood, and a long sliver of skin and flesh hung from his mouth. She forced herself to swallow the bitterness.

  “Stop!” Ariadne cried. “Men don't kill and eat other men. Stop! Stop at once!”

  He heaved upright, glaring. “God!” he bellowed. “Bull God!”

  He put a foot on the body, seized an arm, and without apparent effort, wrenched it off. Ariadne screamed. The Minotaur laughed.

  “Sacrifice!” he said. “Gods eat men.”

  Shouting at him was useless. Ariadne licked her lips and swallowed. “No,” she said, striving now to keep her voice steady and speak calmly. “No. Gods are kind. They help men.”

  She forced herself forward, shaking with horror but reminding herself that huge as he was—and he had apparently grown almost a foot taller in the ten-days she hadn't seen him—he was only eight years old. Children did strike each other and bite each other when enraged. Doubtless Pasiphae had enraged him and the attendant had intervened to save the queen. She tried to grasp his arm to pull him away from the grisly remains, but he pushed her with such strength that she flew backward and fell. The Minotaur dropped the arm he had pulled off and advanced on her. Ariadne gasped and tried to push herself backward. She tried to call out to the guards to open the door, but her throat was shut tight with terror.

  “No hurt,” he said in his usual bass rumble. “Sorry. Love Ridne. No hurt.” He stopped, looked over his shoulder at the mangled corpse, then turned back, blinking his beautiful eyes. “Don't like? Go away. Minotaur like man flesh.”

  He bent and lifted her, not ungently, but his hands stained her flesh and her gown with blood. She choked and gagged. He shook his head, almost sadly, and carried her to the doors, one of which he pushed open easily against the weight of the two guards. Ariadne heard them crying out warnings, but the Minotaur didn't seem to notice. Nor did he try to get out. He merely thrust her through the opening he had made, and let the door slam shut behind her.

  CHAPTER 16

  In the corridor Ariadne was dimly aware of gasps and muted cries. She tried to speak to assure Phaidra who had screamed, “You are bleeding!” that she wasn't hurt, but she had no voice and all her strength was concentrated on a struggle to keep from fainting. Then much louder screams and shouts threatened that the Minotaur had decided to follow her. She tried to turn to beg him to go back, but a pair of powerful hands seized her. That was too much. The final horror sent her whirling away into a blackness of unknowing.

  She wasn't spared memory, however. Before her eyes opened she recalled the blood, the torn flesh. She stiffened and pushed at the arms that held her, crying, “Let me go.”

  “You'll fall.”

  Her eyes snapped open to meet the blue of Dionysus' gaze. And they were in her own chamber at the shrine. “My lord,” she breathed. “I thought you were the Minotaur.” And she bowed her head onto his breast, weeping, gasping and rocking in her grief.

  For a time Dionysus held her without speaking, stroking her hair and warming her with his body as she had warmed him, countless times, when he had arrived icy cold with Seeing. At last her sobs diminished and he led her, not to their usual place but to a couch where he could sit beside her.

  “I'm so sorry, my love,” he murmured. “Poseidon never cares whom he hurts. If he was angry at your father, he should have stricken him... “

  Ariadne threw up her head. “What? And perhaps have a king of Knossos who would be less devoted, less generous in sacrifice? Only once did my father defy Poseidon, and even then he gave three bulls for the one he kept.” Her voice broke and she began to sob again. Dionysus pulled her against him and held her tight.

  “What can I do, love?” he asked. “I haven't the power to change the Minotaur into a man. Even Hekate knew no way to undo Poseidon's will and she knows magic far beyond Olympian Gifts. I did ask. I even asked Zeus.” He hesitated, lifted her face and kissed her tear-drenched eyes. “It would have been better if you had listened to me eight years ago,” he said sadly. “It would have saved much grief, the poor bull-head's as well as yours and others, if he hadn't lived.”

  “Perhaps,” she sighed. “But he was so little and helpless, so horribly ugly. To kill him ... No, I couldn't.”

  “You have too soft a heart. He wasn'
t little and helpless for very long. And now he's killed some innocent servant. What will you do about that?”

  “You're a fine one to talk,” Ariadne said, pushing him away. “You speak as if you've never killed, as if you're not also a cruel god who can't be bothered to try to help those who worship him. I've excused you for so many horrors. I told myself they were caused by lack of understanding. Now I see I lied to myself. You never cared. Likely you took joy in seeing Pentheus torn apart by his own mother and her women. You—”

  “No!” Dionysus cried, paling. “I never meant that. I've killed and permitted killing to fructify the vines, mostly evildoers and willing sacrifices, but Pentheus was oppressing the women who came to my shrines. I only wanted them to be free, at least for a little while, of the bonds men had laid on them. I thought they would beat him, frighten him, teach him that he must allow women to worship me. I didn't know how deep went the hate ... “ His voice faded and he stared at Ariadne. “Do you hate me?” he asked faintly.

  She looked at his face, turned, and took him in her arms. His eyes were staring, not with Vision, not blind, but wide with fear. “Not for being a man,” she said, almost finding a smile. “Not even for being a god. Only when you're cruel and uncaring.”

  He shook his head mutely, too bound up in the painful acknowledgment that he'd fallen into the trap he'd been warned against countless times. He had fallen in love with a native, so deep in love that he couldn't contemplate living without her.

  “You must come with me to Olympus,” he burst out. “It's not enough for me to come here. I need you to be one with me, woven into my life. You blame me for being cruel and uncaring. You'd better blame me for being ignorant. How can I know about what to care? You desire me different? Come, live with me and teach me.”

  A lump of ice formed in Ariadne's breast, freezing the mist of silver threads so that they shrank back from Dionysus. “I can't live among gods,” she whispered, but she knew that wasn't the reason.