Several women cried out. A few cringed and covered their heads.
Chrysaleon’s men rushed into the courtyard, swords drawn.
“Find Themiste,” Helice told her attendant. Her voice trembled. “Ask for her explanation of this thunder in a clear sky.”
The woman bowed and fled.
“What is it, Queen Helice?” Chrysaleon asked.
“I know not,” she said, “yet it fills me with foreboding.” The queen brought Aridela close in a sheltering embrace. “Sometimes, when the birds rise together like that, soon after, the Earth Bull shakes his great back. Our land quakes and there is much destruction.”
“Goddess is angry?” Neoma moved closer to her mother.
No one replied.
Aridela watched the sky.
The doves settled again, cooing. Heat wavered above the paving. A nightingale began to sing and the earth remained quiet.
Chrysaleon’s guard crossed to the milling soldiers and herded them from the precincts.
“Until we understand what frightened the birds, let us not cower like children,” Helice said, displaying her renowned calm; Aridela saw only the faintest tremor at the edge of her lips. “My lord, I visited your country when you were a boy. Could you possibly remember?”
Her efforts at banter failed. Chrysaleon’s distraction was obvious in the way he kept glancing toward the palace’s upper stories. The queen, too, lost her usual composure, but before the situation deteriorated further, two priestesses hurried into the courtyard, grave-faced as they bowed and asked her to accompany them.
“Aridela,” she said, “fetch my steward; see that our guests are tended.” Giving Chrysaleon an apology, she motioned to her sister and the two women followed the priestesses.
Aridela returned her gaze to Chrysaleon. She struggled to maintain the impression that she’d never seen him before.
“My mother will want to hear news of your home,” she said, leading the way to the relief of shade under stone overhangs. “Her steward will show you to rooms where you can bathe and rest. Tonight we feast, and tomorrow is the bull leaping. You’ve come at our country’s holiest time.”
The inclination of Chrysaleon’s head was every bit as royal as one of Helice’s.
“Here he is,” Aridela said as Helice’s steward approached from an adjoining corridor. “Please, tell him anything you require and he will see to it.”
Aridela hoped neither her attendants nor Chrysaleon would sense how his smile shortened her breathing.
The steward led them away. Aridela’s escort, still frightened and subdued, dispersed while she hurried across the courtyard in search of Helice.
She found her, with Themiste, in the royal family’s private shrine, deep in the earth beneath the palace.
“What happened?” she asked, pressing both fists against her breast in salute to the Lady as Themiste long ago taught her.
“One of the priestesses fell into a fit when the thunder sounded,” the queen said.
“It was Sidero.” Themiste rinsed her hands in a bowl of water held by a serving maid. “Rhené is attending her, but she is near death.”
Sidero, a woman of nearly fifty, was kind to Aridela during her shrine training in the mountains. Once she’d found Aridela weeping, lonely for her mother and sister, for the bustle and excitement of palace life. Sidero sought her out after that, teaching her the qualities and magic of herbs and sharing amusing tales of the shrines. She spent hours retelling the songs and prophecies, giving them a rich vibrancy that made Aridela see them in new ways.
Could it all be connected somehow, the birds rising, the thunder, and poor Sidero now lying ill, just after those two men entered the gates of Labyrinthos?
Helice finished speaking to Themiste then motioned Aridela to follow her. They walked along the underground corridor, following scattered pools of lamplight. “This is of grave concern,” she said. “Does the Goddess send us warning? I was told Sidero spoke in her fit. It could be important. Minos Themiste is going now to investigate. I hope she recovers.”
“Yes, so do I,” Aridela said. “May it please Lady Mother.”
Helice took Aridela’s arm as they climbed the steps leading into daylight. “So the Mycenaean prince has come,” she said. “Why? Has Idómeneus sent him to compete, or is he here merely to observe? My fears of a mainland threat feel justified. And this thunder. Most unsettling.”
“The warriors of Mycenae honor Potnia Athene.” Aridela kept her voice even, though inside, her heart fluttered like a netted bird. A discreet binding had covered the wound on Chrysaleon’s arm. She remembered the dagger buried in his flesh, and how profusely it bled when he’d drawn it out. His companion must have sewn it closed. Questions flooded her mind. How was it healing? What would happen when he came face to face with his attacker, Harpalycus?
“Never forget,” Helice was saying, “she comes second to their horse-god, Poseidon.”
“True, this is no secret, but they have always conducted themselves with regard for our ways. Our people mix with theirs in harmony. Now, perhaps, their high prince wishes to honor us by competing for the kingship. Perhaps it was his intent to arrive after the others. Does it not make him appear more powerful somehow? More confident?”
Helice frowned.
“I agree with your concerns,” Aridela added hastily. “But remember the respect Mycenae has always shown. I told the steward to give the prince and his men fine chambers. I for one don’t think we should risk offending the son of Mycenae’s high king.”
“Your words are wise, Aridela. I will follow your recommendation.” Helice rested a reassuring hand on her daughter’s shoulder, but soon her fingers tightened and she sighed. “I do fear his coming, though, he and his men, with such display. The prince was charming, courteous, but what was he thinking as he drove his chariot across our land?” She gestured at the inlaid tiles and vivid frescoes adorning the cool inner walls of Labyrinthos, the result of many years of artistry and labor. “Does he covet Kaphtor as others do?” The queen shook her head and sighed. “I feel changes coming. If only Damasen were here. He understood the minds of these men. He would know if they’re plotting something.”
“I wish he were here, too,” Aridela said. “I would have liked knowing my father.”
“I pray a Cretan male wins the Games. If only I could think of something. If only there were something I could do….”
Aridela touched her mother’s hand. “To take harsh action before circumstances warrant could cause a worse outcome. Trust Athene to guide us, Mother, as she’s always done. Isn’t it better to welcome this prince and show him the honor due his station? No doubt the truth will become clear soon enough.”
Helice’s proud smile was gratifying, but Aridela felt torn in her loyalties and at odds with her soul.
During the reign of Helice’s grandmother, artisans fashioned gardens for the pleasure of those who lived in the palace of Labyrinthos. Lying outside the breakfast hall, the lush foliage filled that room with scent and delighted the eye with color. Potted flowers and fruits mingled with old apple and almond trees, edged by beds of aromatic rosemary, thyme, oregano, and mint. Flagstone paths wound through arbors of hanging blooms, past cascades of jasmine and oleander. Cypress benches invited one to sit and enjoy the tranquility. Many species of birds found refuge in the branches of the trees and leant their singing to the overall appeal; vivid scenes of birds, ivy, lilies and fish decorated the sheltering north and south walls.
Menoetius found the gardens after hours of aimless wandering through deserted palace corridors.
The first pink glow of daylight illuminated the paths. That and the hypnotic scents drew him in.
He was tired. His eyes burned. Though the chamber he’d been given was comfortable, he’d spent the night tossing and turning.
Every time his thoughts turned to Aridela over the years, he pictured that innocent child with the huge black eyes, shaved head and topknot. He remembered how her initial curio
sity and gratitude grew into infatuation. She tried to hide it, but he saw. He’d done his best to be tender.
That nearly weightless, bleeding girl he’d carried from the Cretan shrine, though still small-framed, was now a woman, with a woman’s body and rich black hair that when unbound, as it was in the cave, fell to her thighs.
Six years ago she stood on the quay rubbing at her tears as he sailed away from Crete. She’d shared the tale about her father’s death in an effort to bind him to her. He’d thought of it many times, and many more times wondered how the little princess fared.
Yet she showed no sign of recognition, either in the cave or the palace courtyard. Had he changed so much?
He knew the answer.
Seizing a stalk of blooming white allium, he broke it off and kneaded it to mush as his anger expanded.
Chrysaleon used her.
Worse, she allowed it. She embraced his violation.
Menoetius stood at Chrysaleon’s side yesterday in the courtyard as the queen welcomed them. When Aridela arrived, her gaze swept over him without pause before settling upon Chrysaleon. That rapt expression she long ago offered to him was now given to the spoiled selfish prince, the ‘Gold Lion of Mycenae,’ a man who never suffered remorse over toying with women, gaining their devotion, and casting them aside when boredom set in.
Why hadn’t he fought harder to keep Chrysaleon away from her? He’d known his brother’s plans. Why did he allow those plans to succeed?
Succumbing to a few shoves and threats, Menoetius went off with Selene like an obedient slave, leaving Chrysaleon to defile Aridela without interruption or hindrance.
You’re weak. A coward. That’s why you allowed him his way.
Never had he hated his face so much, and Chrysaleon’s even more, for being flawless.
You sacrificed her to his lust rather than endure her revulsion.
That was the reason he’d scuttled into the shadows like a beetle from the light.
Chased by the unrelenting barbs of his recriminations, he paced through the garden paths, shoving past benches and bushes, upsetting a pot of jasmine, turning his blame on her.
She was nothing to him any longer, nothing but a means to conquer this island. She hadn’t recognized him. It didn’t matter that the cave was dark, or that Harpalycus commanded their attention with his threats, or that in the courtyard, his helmet covered all but his eyes and mouth. She should have recognized him.
He should have prevented that unbearable union. His one chance to protect her, and he’d failed.
You allowed Chrysaleon to take what should have been yours.
Now it never will be.
“It is you. Carmanor. Carmanor?”
Menoetius stopped, startled, thinking for an instant Aridela had come and at last knew him.
But it was the Phrygian woman, Selene, entering the gardens from the eastern gate.
He swallowed to dispel the hard lump of rage in his throat. “Yes,” he said, lifting his chin.
“It was so dark in the cave, but I thought so. I didn’t have a chance to ask because of Harpalycus… then you left to follow him.” She came nearer, staring into his face, her eyes wide. “I’ve missed you, Carmanor. You must tell me how you come to be traveling with Mycenae’s prince.”
He didn’t know what to say, but there didn’t seem to be any need. She pressed against him, laughing, and gave him no chance to speak.
To the east and slightly north of the palace, the sloping hill evened into a flat plain. Here stood the bull court of Labyrinthos.
Aridela stared at it from the balcony on the east side of her bedchamber. She watched as eager spectators congregated in the wooden stands.
It was said Crete’s bull leapers made use of mysteries handed down to them through generations. These secret methods transformed a dangerous, earthy craft into delicate poetry as leapers grasped the bull’s wide horns and flew like swallows into the waiting arms of their compatriots.
Only the bravest and boldest accepted the call of the bullring. The best of them were rewarded with honor, riches, and reverence. Any wounds they suffered were idealized as symbols of courage. If a bull leaper died, ceremonies of mourning marked the passing, and the champion was interred in a lavish tomb. Priestesses etched the name of the fallen into the walls of the shrines, and the dancer’s comrades scratched the name into the door from which the killing bull emerged. No one on Kaphtor received more respect.
Aridela pondered this and more as she gazed across the palace rooftop toward the ring. Dust obscured the scene as more and more people gathered.
In the six years since her last attempt to dance with a wild bull, she’d never stopped wanting to try again, to succeed, to fulfill the promise of the dream that continued to haunt her. During the last phase of the moon it invaded her sleep four times, giving the desire a needle-sharp insistence. She saw herself land, soft as a dragonfly, on the bull’s broad back; echoing cheers remained long after she woke.
My leaping the bull does something important. It changes something. It makes something happen that wouldn’t happen otherwise.
Those were the words she’d used to explain why she, a ten-year-old child, defied her mother’s strict ban against the bullring. They returned to her mind now. No one understood, not even she. An underlying, inexplicable knowledge that her bull leap would have wider consequences than a simple show of courage forced her into action, though she knew she would be punished. The dream conveyed some imperative purpose, but she had no idea what it was.
She’d failed when she was ten. Today, however, clear, bold confidence fired her blood. This time, she would succeed.
She had two conspirators, Neoma and Isandros. Neoma entered the bedchamber moments after Aridela chased out the handmaids.
“Did you bring it?” Aridela grabbed a satchel from her cousin’s hands.
“Please don’t break my arm,” Neoma said as Aridela opened the bag and pulled out a dancer’s loincloth and gilded leather belt. “You see—I haven’t failed you, though before this day is over the queen will have me gutted. Put it on.”
Aridela stripped off her heavy ceremonial skirts. “Did you bring everything?”
“Yes, Aridela. Everything. Are you sure about this? What if something goes wrong?” Neoma traced the eye-sign against evil.
“Coward.” Aridela grabbed Neoma’s face and gave her a kiss. “Nothing will happen other than the most memorable bull dance anyone has ever seen. Lady Athene has wanted me to do this since I was a child. She told me where to go on Iphiboë’s dedication night and she’s with me now. I’ll dance in her name. I’ll bring her the adoration she craves.”
Neoma frowned but reached into the bag and pulled out two leather wristbands. “Hurry.”
She helped Aridela don the loincloth and fasten the belt. They rearranged the layered skirts to keep it hidden.
“The barbarians will tell of this when they return to their countries,” Neoma said.
Aridela kept her face turned down, pretending to inspect the drape of her skirts as a thrill swept through her. “I know. It’s what I want. To win something for myself. This may be the only chance for glory I’ll ever be allowed.”
The future decreed for Aridela hung between them like a curtain of smoke.
“I don’t want you to be locked away in the shrines,” Neoma cried. “It isn’t fair. And now you’ve been with a man; doesn’t that spoil Minos Themiste’s plans for you?”
“Themiste doesn’t know. My mother says she can’t ever find out about the cave. I have to keep up the appearance that I’m untouched, for Themiste is determined to bury me in the shrines for the rest of my life.” With a shrug and a sigh, she added, “I want the tale of my bull-dance to travel to the mainland, beyond if possible. All will know the Goddess holds the land they call Crete in her hands.”
She tested the fit of the wristbands then returned them to Neoma for safekeeping.
The two left the bedchamber and raced down the staircase,
their way flooded with warm afternoon sunlight from the light well.
Anticipation lifted gooseflesh across Aridela’s skin. The loincloth brushed against her thighs. She filled her mind with the triumphant culmination of her most persistent dream.
Themiste stood before the three-pillared shrine, where earlier she’d given the oracles. Iphiboë reclined in a litter and nearby, the queen chatted with Chrysaleon. Aridela met the prince’s glance but quickly looked away and fiddled with her bracelets in an effort to hide her blush and the catch in her breathing from her sharp-eyed mother.
Nothing can ever part us. The god made the promise on the holy mountain. Chrysaleon’s face, so arrogant yet with that flash of tenderness as his gaze met hers, returned it to her mind.
Did he mean to enter the Games? Helice prayed a Cretan would triumph, and believed her daughter did as well. Yet in truth, Aridela longed for the prince of Mycenae to compete and win, if for no other reason than being Iphiboë’s consort would keep him here. Perhaps she could see him occasionally.
Queens often shared their mates, as their responsibilities made pregnancies inconvenient. She glanced at her sister, who kept her face averted. No doubt Iphiboë would lend hers out every night.
More litters arrived to carry the royal entourage to the bullring, where the crowd was now thick as flies on an open wound. Beneath the weight, the steep tiers of wooden benches groaned.
Aridela and her companions sat under an awning on the northern perimeter. A massive, amazing likeness of the lyre-shaped aurochs horns dominated the wall behind them. Two handmaids circulated the air with feathered fans while others offered wine, mead, pomegranates and figs. Themiste and the queen left to perform the sacrifice while below in the ring, acrobats leaped and somersaulted over half-buried swords, magicians offered displays of wonderworking, and dancers performed to music that could barely be heard over the din of voices and laughter.
Cretan princes and foreign dignitaries alike eyed Chrysaleon with ill-concealed resentment. Aridela noted with dismay that Harpalycus sat not too far from them. He worries me, Helice had admitted, which increased Aridela’s own worry. She saw in his glare, lifted chin, and sneer that he would likely cause trouble, and her suspicion came true almost immediately. He stood and stalked toward them, shaking off the restraining hand of the pale eel of a man next to him. Chrysaleon rose as well, his jaw visibly clenching. Aridela motioned to her guards, who hurried to intercept Harpalycus before he reached them.
The Year-god's Daughter (The Child of the Erinyes) Page 27
