Bull God

by Roberta Gellis

  All three looked immediately in the direction of the squeak, and Aphrodite jumped to her feet and ran lightly toward Ariadne, holding out her hand. She stopped abruptly when she was close enough to see Ariadne clearly.

  “Child,” she cried, “your gown is all over blood. What has that mad Dionysus done to you?”

  “Nothing. Nothing,” Ariadne gasped. “It's not my blood, Lady Aphrodite. And it's nothing to do with poor Dionysus. It was a—” she had to pause and take a deep breath “—a terrible accident caused by my half brother, the Minotaur.”

  Instantly Aphrodite, who had no interest at all in the Minotaur, was all smiles again. “As long as you aren't hurt. I was afraid Dionysus was out tearing another nation apart because you had been injured. He's so ... impulsive.”

  “He's very young, Lady Aphrodite,” Ariadne said, not thinking how ridiculous that might sound coming from her when Dionysus was probably ten or twenty times her age. “And he wasn't raised to understand that he must think before he lashes out with his Gift. When he's hurt, no matter how innocent or unintentional the cause, he grows angry. Then he sees the fear and withdrawal in those about him, which makes him angrier still—and afraid of what he is doing, too.”

  The second woman, as tall as Eros who walked beside her, had reached them. She nodded at Ariadne's words and took her hand. “Mouth and Chosen,” she said. “You are why Dionysus has been so much at peace these past years. We didn't know whether to believe what he said of you, but it's true.” She looked down at the hand she was holding and turned her head to speak directly to Aphrodite. “She is Mother-touched, too.”

  “You will make Dionysus what he was meant to be,” Eros said.

  “Men are too stubborn to let a woman make anything of them or they would all be perfect,” Psyche remarked, but the solemn look had left her face and mischief lit her violet eyes. “But where is Dionysus? How did he come to abandon you to confront us all alone?”

  “That was Bacchus' doing,” Ariadne said. “He invited you to come at once and Dionysus had specified the evening meal. Poor Bacchus. He isn't very happy about my being here and he hoped, I think, that I would make a bad impression or refuse to meet you at all. Dionysus has gone to see about a suitable meal to serve. I suspect he doesn't have many guests and he felt what his servants knew how to prepare would be too coarse. He said Lady Aphrodite was accustomed to a plethora of small delicacies—”

  “No, that was me,” Eros said. “I used to have a very poor appetite and Aphrodite tried to tempt me with variety.” He glanced sidelong at Psyche. “My appetite has improved. These days I could eat a baked horse without garnish.”

  Ariadne knew that was a joke and smiled dutifully, but she was mostly aware that Aphrodite's eyes were fixed on her gown. “I'm sorry I'm so inappropriately dressed,” she said hastily. “It's no insult to you. Bacchus was supposed to bring me proper clothes, but—”

  “It's a beautiful dress,” Aphrodite said, eyes wide. Her fascinated glance fixed first on Ariadne's exposed breasts and then on the huge bell skirt that gave her a minuscule waist and broad hips, last flickered to the beaded apron that came to a point into which a large amethyst was fixed, which drew the eyes unerringly to the crotch between the legs. Cocking her head inquisitively, she added, “Well, it would be beautiful if it weren't all bloodstained. It certainly emphasizes a woman's best features.” She turned on Eros. “How come I've never seen this style before?”

  “Because you have no temples on Crete,” he said. “They worship the Mother directly on Crete, although they acknowledge several avatars, like Potnia.”

  Aphrodite looked thoughtful. “Worship only as an avatar? I wouldn't mind, but—”

  “Aphrodite, please!” Eros exploded. “Zeus and Athena would have fits, and I don't wish to be fried by a thunderbolt or skewered by one of Athena's spears while I try to explain that you wanted a new style dress.”

  The girlish mage shrugged. Power and offerings meant less to her than to most of the great mages since she was easily able to get anything she wanted without worshipers. She continued to examine Ariadne's gown, cocking her head this way and that, her smile growing more brilliant by the moment. Eros and Psyche glanced at each other.

  “Oh, very well, I won't ask for a temple,” Aphrodite said. “I don't have to be worshiped on Crete to wear the costume, do I? It just speaks to my very soul.”

  Ariadne's eyes widened in horror. She knew, because Dionysus had told her, that Aphrodite was totally and irredeemably promiscuous, that hardly a night passed when there was not one mage or another—or some favored native—in bed with her or she in his bed. Nonetheless, she looked and dressed like a barely nubile girl, not only exquisitely beautiful but of infinite sweetness and perfect innocence. It was the face of love everyone desired to see and know.

  “Oh, my lady,” Ariadne breathed, her arms coming across her previously proudly uplifted breasts.

  There was something terribly obscene about the idea of Aphrodite in Cretan dress, a kind of exposure of the violence and voluptuousness that could lie under a seemingly perfect thing—something no one wanted uncovered; it was abominable.

  “No, Aphrodite,” Psyche gasped. “Not here. I don't think that style would befit you.”

  “Why not?” Aphrodite looked from one to another, her lips twisted. “It's a gown for a woman who knows every face of love and desires each.” She looked toward Ariadne, now covering her breasts and half turned away from them in shame, and she laughed, a cascade of bell tones. “It's nothing to do with you, child. You wear the gown in innocence and all the simple pride of being female, without lust.”

  Eros groaned, but before he could speak, Dionysus stepped through the door. The subject of Aphrodite's desire for a Cretan gown was shelved in greetings and explanations. Then Bacchus returned with a handsome enough peplos—although it was too long so that Ariadne had to fasten the girdle about her waist and pull the garment over it, which made her body appear thick. Aphrodite protested, but Dionysus seemed almost pleased and relieved, although he promised that Silenos should find better fitting clothing.

  Unfortunately the talk about clothes brought Aphrodite's mind right back to Cretan dress. The argument had to be explained to Dionysus, who innocently suggested that Aphrodite try it. Psyche jumped up, crying, “No,” but Aphrodite was already gone, laughing mischievously. Dionysus asked what was wrong and Eros tried to explain that Psyche didn't think the style would suit Aphrodite. Before he finished, Aphrodite reappeared dressed in Ariadne's discarded gown.

  There was a dead silence until Dionysus got slowly to his feet and backed away, shaking his head. “Take it off!” His voice trembled. “Take it off. I can't bear it!”

  Ariadne jumped up and took his hand, silver mist pouring out of her to wrap him around. Tears ran down her cheeks.

  Eros bowed his head into his hands, huddled in upon himself as if shrinking away from an unimaginable horror.

  Only Psyche seemed unmoved, if pale. She looked at them and sighed, shaking her head. “She is as truly Cybele as she is Aphrodite,” she said gently.

  CHAPTER 17

  Aphrodite laughed loud and long, peal upon peal, looking from one to the other as if, Ariadne thought, she were saying “There are none so blind as those who will not see. Beneath love lie many layers, and not all of them are beautiful.” But then she went away, and she returned in her diaphanous pale blue gown, modestly high at the neck and with flowing sleeves, out of which her rounded, white arms peeped shyly now and again when she gestured.

  “Come, come,” Aphrodite said in her light voice, looking around at her shattered audience. “Here I am again, just as I ever was.” She sighed heavily and pouted. “But it is a beautiful dress.”

  “Not for you!” came a loud chorus.

  Fortunately before she could reply a servant came to announce the meal, and they all moved into the dining chamber. There the whole back wall was made of Hades' glass, and beyond it was a forested glade in which satyrs and
fauns chased each other and played silly games of tag and leapfrog. Although Ariadne was still shaking inside, the others were immediately distracted by the charming creatures' antics and wanted to know how Dionysus contrived to keep them just where they were wanted.

  His simple explanation—he fed them well and often played with them—smoothed the way into general talk, and after the meal, Psyche drew Ariadne aside to ask many questions about the Cretan worship of the Mother. She was deeply interested in Ariadne's description of the golden ribbons that gave her strength, of the way her hair was lifted when she danced and her locks of consecration were tweaked when the Mother was pleased. But Ariadne said nothing of how she had been pulled by the hair to see the Minotaur eat a man.

  By the time Eros, Psyche, and Aphrodite left, Ariadne was sure that Dionysus' friends had accepted her, and she was far less frightened by the prospect of some day living in Olympus. Partly that was because the shock of what Aphrodite had revealed lingered. Just now Ariadne didn't care if Dionysus was sharing his bed or with whom. She was happy to go alone to her own bedchamber when it was time to retire. She no longer had any desire to tempt Dionysus.

  The next day Dionysus took her around Olympus, showing her the great houses, the beautiful statuary, and outside the city a very old shrine to the Mother. Ariadne froze before the entrance, drawing back and shuddering.

  “She isn't here,” she told Dionysus in a whisper. “She isn't wanted and has withdrawn. I can't stay here.”

  “She's among us still,” Dionysus assured her. “The greatest shrine of all is Persephone's, in the Underworld, but there is one in the hunting lodge where Eros and Psyche sometimes live. And when you come to live with me, there will be a shrine in the garden where the fauns play.”

  “I can't stay,” Ariadne pleaded.

  “Yes, I know. I must go with Hekate and you would be unhappy here. But for a few more days ...”

  Later in the afternoon Dionysus took her to visit Hermes, and despite her best intentions to be respectful and awed, she found herself laughing out loud at the naughty stories he told. And when Dionysus tried to hush him over a particularly juicy tale about Apollo, he wrinkled his nose.

  “He's mean,” Hermes said, grinning crookedly. “I gave him the lute I had invented so he would forgive me for stealing his cattle, and I taught him to sing. Why did he have to take my voice so that I now sound like a crow?”

  “To whom do you want to sing?” Dionysus asked.

  Hermes laughed and looked aside. “No one, but I might some day.”

  On the third day Ariadne met Hekate. She had no trouble at all being awed and respectful, although she didn't feel afraid. Actually Hekate was rather kind, even though her silver-blue eyes seemed to be looking right through Ariadne into some strange and distant place. She asked whether Ariadne would be deprived in some way if Dionysus' went East with her. For the answer to that question Ariadne found a small smile.

  “Only by my missing his company, my lady. I'm in no need or danger. And he's said it's not only his duty but his pleasure to go with you. I think he's looking forward to the adventure.”

  “Looking forward,” Hekate said, and closed her eyes. Then she shook her head. “I'll send him back safe, I promise.” And after a pause she went on, “Call if you need him. It's far, but I'll make a spell that will carry your Call.”

  “Oh, please don't,” Ariadne whispered. “I'm so foolish that I sometimes Call when I don't mean to at all, just if I'm startled or ... or lonely. Don't let me Call him from what might be more important ... or dangerous.”

  “You're a brave little lady,” Hekate said, and Ariadne felt herself flush with pleasure because Hekate had not called her “child.”

  By the fourth day, Ariadne was on very good terms with Silenos, who'd taken her to several shops in the agora from which she'd come away with half a dozen really beautiful gowns. And whatever Bacchus thought, he'd done no worse than beat a servant on the second day for hurrying to fulfil an order from Ariadne. He thought the servant would be afraid to complain to Dionysus—and that was true, but he wasn't afraid to tell Ariadne. What Dionysus did, Ariadne didn't ask but everyone seemed happy to attend to her lightest wish.

  On the fifth day, however, Dionysus found Ariadne in tears at the table when he came to break his fast. “What is it?” he asked. But the flatness of his voice said he knew.

  “I must go back to Knossos,” she sobbed. “I can't stay any longer. She's pulling my hair, pulling my heartstrings. My heartflower is cold and dead. I must go back.”

  Dionysus shrugged. He'd wanted to keep Ariadne with him until the day he had to leave with Hekate. When he was with her, Olympus was a different place. Storekeepers served him without flinching and told him the price of anything if he asked. He'd been offered refreshments and had civil inquires made about Ariadne in several houses, Hephaestus' and Ares', and he and Ariadne had met Hestia in the street and she'd invited them to return to Zeus' house with her.

  Nonetheless, he couldn't argue against her need to go. Truth was he'd felt it himself. The Goddess didn't pull his hair, but his heart knew it was time to return Ariadne to Knossos. Unfortunately, he also knew that likely as not she'd plunge into trouble trying to defend the bull-head. Nor was he sure he'd be able to rescue her. He had no idea whether Ariadne's Call could reach to the Tigris or whether Hermes' spell could carry him back so far—and Hekate refused to tell him anything except that she would not permit any harm to come to Ariadne. He shifted restlessly in his seat and Ariadne wiped away tears and looked at him.

  “You are troubled, my lord?” she asked.

  “I must go with Hekate,” he said. “I promised. And, besides, she's done so many things for me.”

  “Of course you must,” Ariadne agreed, smiling now. “You've been away before. I miss you, but so long as I know you're coming back, I can endure.” She put her hand across the table to take his. “Some day I'll come back to Olympus, I promise you, but She wants me in Knossos now. And I'll be waiting there with open arms when you come back.”

  “If you haven't been killed by that half brother of yours. Won't you promise me to stay away from him while I can't come quickly to you?”

  Ariadne's smile disappeared as she remembered her last sight of the Minotaur and she shuddered, but she couldn't promise what Dionysus wanted. “He didn't try to harm me,” she assured her worried “god,” trying to soothe him.

  “I heard you scream.”

  “He pushed me away and I fell. But that was an accident. He didn't mean to hurt me.”

  “But your mind was black and red with fear. I've never felt such terror in you.”

  “It was because of what he'd done. It was horrible. Horrible beyond the words, which are dreadful enough. The Minotaur killed an attendant very bloodily. He doesn't even understand that it was wrong. The poor creature's been taught he's a god who can do anything and at the same time he's been denied anything he desires. I don't know what Pasiphae wanted of him, unless she was still insisting that he learn the king's responses in the ritual for the Mother for next year, but he must have been driven too far and attacked her. I imagine the attendant, Isadore, tried to drive him back with a torch—I saw that happen—but this time the Minotaur was so angry he didn't fear the fire.”

  She began to shiver in earnest, and Dionysus got up and pulled her into his arms. “There's nothing more you can do for the bull-head,” he said. “And if he kills you, my love, that will kill me, too.”

  Ariadne smiled a little against his shoulder. “It's nice to hear, but one doesn't die of love lost, Dionysus.”

  “I will,” he said softly. “You make 'being' real for me. If I lose that, now that I know it exists, I'll lose altogether my footing in this world, which has never been too firm. The other Ariadne was an anchor for me, but you've added to that love and friendship. Be careful of yourself, my Ariadne, for I will die of lost love.”

  How strange, she thought, that he speaks of love, that he says he'll die without m
y love, that he'll hold me, comfort me, caress me, but won't join our bodies in the natural fulfillment of love. But as she thought of trying once more to entice him, she remembered Aphrodite in the Cretan gown and the horrible laughter. He must either come to bed her because he could no longer resist or because they had talked the matter out and he understood she would still be his friend, Ariadne unchanged, after coupling.

  “There's nothing to fear for me from the Minotaur,” she assured him, reverting to the subject that had inspired the talk of love.

  “The bull-head attacked his own mother,” Dionysus protested.

  “He's never been given any reason to love Pasiphae. Actually, he's been given good reason to hate her. He associates her with unpleasantness. He loves me, Dionysus.”

  “Why was there blood on your dress, on your arms?”

  She swallowed hard. “I told you before, it wasn't my blood, my lord. The Minotaur not only killed Isadore, he was eating the body. He said he was the Bull God, that gods eat the offerings made to them, that Isadore was a sacrifice, and that he liked man flesh. But even when I tried to pull him away, he didn't hurt me. He said—” A little half-hysterical giggle forced itself from her. “He said that if I didn't like it I should go away. And then he picked me up, but quite gently—that's when I got blood all over me—and put me outside the door. He said he was sorry, that he loved me and hadn't meant to hurt me.”

  “I'm a little easier in my mind,” Dionysus said, but he still looked dissatisfied. “Still you shouldn't go to him if it can be avoided. I'm not sure how long he'll be able to recognize you.”

  “How long he will recognize me?” Ariadne barely breathed the words.

  “Hekate thinks that the spell Poseidon wove to set the bull's head on the body and to give that body strength to bear it wasn't perfect. She believes he'll grow, at least to the natural size and weight of a bull, and that as his body grows he'll be less and less a man and more a bull.”