“The queen encourages Aridela to sit with her in the Chamber of Suppliants,” Isandros said. “When asked for judgment, she proves herself capable, wise beyond her age. Her logic and wit amaze everyone. Of course, she and her sister have the finest tutors from every known land.”
Intriguing as the story was, Menoetius was familiar with the many inventive ways rulers found to create an air of omniscience in their offspring. He knew better than to take these declarations for truth; something must have shown in his expression, for Isandros gave him another disdainful glance.
“She was conceived the night Queen Helice dedicated her girdle in the oak grove. And there is more. Prophecy. Visions.”
Daughter of a god, of Athene’s holy Son.
An inexplicable surge of emotion made Menoetius’s scalp tingle.
Crete, or Kaphtor, as the locals called it, seemed filled with goddess-women. Never had he met such pleasure-loving, gracious, open people— that is, until he’d incurred their wrath.
“Most believe she would make a better queen than her sister.” Isandros cut a bite-sized segment from his fruit. Red juice spurted and dribbled down his forearm. “She seems born to it. Not only does she amaze with her judgments, she’s proven herself capable with the sword. One of her military teachers was brought from the land of Phrygia, where some say warriors learn to fight at their mother’s breasts. Two moons back, Aridela breached the woman’s defense and bruised her thigh. Her sister never managed that. Yes, Aridela is the people’s favorite.” Pride suffused his voice as though he himself contrived this success.
That day in the shrine, her eyes stared into Menoetius’s as he cradled her in his arms. In them he recognized a depth he’d scarcely ever seen in grown men. There was no hint of fear. No wonder such tales circled around her.
“Why did you help her sneak into the bullring?” he asked.
Isandros stiffened; the arrogance returned. “What would you understand? Barbarian.” Tossing the rest of his uneaten pomegranate into the bowl, he went to the table and dipped his hands into the water basin, provoking a faint spicy scent of saffron. “You know nothing of our ways.”
Menoetius bit back a shout. She would have bled to death if not for me. But the desire faded. He glanced at the remains of the pomegranate, mangled and discarded, bleeding rich red juices and seeds, imprisoned in the brightly painted bowl, and fought off a shiver of premonition.
“It’s true, I know hardly anything,” he said. “I would like to know more. If Queen Helice sets me free, I’m not sure I want to leave. My homeland is forged of dust and pinnacles, and the women there turn their faces down and scurry into the shadows like mice. Having seen this place, I wonder if I can suffer living there again.”
Isandros grunted. “I will live nowhere else.”
The little princess’s half brother seemed to relax, and Menoetius dared ask another question. “Is it true that any man, no matter how low his birth, can compete to become queen’s consort and king?”
“Yes— any man. The only requirement is courage— or ignorance.”
With only Alexiare’s descriptions of Crete, Menoetius couldn’t resist having this native to query. “I’ve heard women in your land take lovers when and how they wish. That no one cares who fathers children.”
Isandros’s chin lifted. “Women know who the mother is. For them, it’s all that matters. They usually know who the father is too, but don’t always choose to tell.”
While Menoetius pondered that, Isandros switched their positions. “It’s rumored your people kill children born to unmarried women.”
“Yes. Sometimes.”
“What is it you call them?”
“Bastards.” Menoetius’s face burned, but the disarmed interest on Isandros’s face made him realize there was no cruel intent. The boy didn’t know the circumstances of his birth. He was only repeating idle gossip he’d heard.
“If the father acknowledges the child,” Menoetius said, “then all is forgiven. Or if the mother is a slave, no one’s angry because the child will be a slave as well. Valuable property, you know.”
“Ah.” Disgust furrowed Isandros’s brow. “That is a strange custom. Life must hold little value on the mainland.”
“We try to imitate our generous benefactor.” Menoetius glanced at the damp walls with a shrug. “But sometimes we’re too deeply influenced by our ancestors. For them, fatherhood was all-important. Women are nothing… livestock, used to continue bloodlines and make sons.”
Isandros stared, openmouthed. Ignoring the sarcasm, he said, faintly, “I’ve heard this, but I didn’t believe it.”
Why had he made it sound so cruel? Anger flared. To distract himself, Menoetius fingered an olive and popped it in his mouth. Firm and moist against his tongue, it released an earthy essence, tinged with a hint of sunlight. He rolled the seed over his tongue, sucking out the juicy pith.
When he and his slave arrived on Crete, the servants of a wealthy Cretan merchant met them at the shore and took them to his villa. Following custom, he welcomed them lavishly and gave orders that their every need be served. Lush dark-eyed maidens bathed and oiled him. The first afternoon, while Alexiare explored the marketplace, a pretty young serving maid brought him a platter of figs and grapes. At some point she offered more precious fruit; time passed most pleasurably accompanied by the hum of cicadas in the oak tree outside.
Indeed, it was easy to believe Crete specially blessed by Divine Athene. On the mortal plane, it was women, not men, who resembled her. This was the root of his father’s hatred.
Could he find peace here?
The king who allowed him to live, who elevated him to a status almost equal to Chrysaleon’s, would never stand for such disloyalty.
“I am a bastard.” He watched Isandros’s eyes widen. “My mother was a slave and my father acknowledged me. So I may live, but I can never hope for prestige. My trueborn brother will inherit my father’s bounty and status. Yet the fool is jealous of me, and he hated my mother for the small favors she received. That’s why I’m here. He and I had to be separated before something happened. Something too difficult to mend.”
Isandros gave a perplexed shake of the head. “Yours is a strange land, barbarian, with strange ways,” he said, but not unkindly, and grinned as he walked away to relieve himself.
One of the guards left his station and entered the cell, leaving the thick door wide open. He approached the table, propped his spear against the edge, and plunged his hands into the saffron-water, splashing it over his face.
“From where do you hail, foreigner?” he asked, showing no indication he believed Menoetius a cold-blooded abductor of Crete’s child-princess.
“Mycenae.” To show friendliness, Menoetius added the half-truths he’d told Crete’s council. “My father is Ephesian, but spent his childhood here.”
Grey accented the guard’s black hair; significant weathering betrayed how much older he was than his prisoner. “My mother told me of the queen who started up relations with your country. The mother of the mother of the mother of Queen Helice. It was a bold move; many didn’t agree with her at the time. Now your people and ours mingle like we’re one and the same. One of your warriors competed in our Games last year.” He paused then added, “He died bravely.”
A moment of silence ensued. The guard said, “You don’t seem the sort who would harm a child.”
“Then I wish you were my judge.”
“Queen Helice is just. If you’re innocent, you have nothing to fear.”
“Do you know how the princess fares?”
“I’ve heard the wound hasn’t festered.” The guard scratched his rough jaw, adding, “They found a knife on her bed this morning, and don’t know where it came from.”
“A knife?” Menoetius leaped to his feet, causing the guard to take a quick step backward. “Was she hurt?”
“No. Someone probably dropped it by accident.” The guard’s brow lifted and he glanced at his spear.
; Fighting a sudden incomprehensible chill, Menoetius clenched his teeth. He tried to make himself squat on the ground again, yet rather surprisingly, without conscious determination, barreled into the man’s stomach with some desperate plan of escape.
Isandros rushed forward and two other guards in the corridor ran in, lowering their spears. Menoetius was yanked off and held immobile while the guard he attacked drew his dagger and pressed it to Menoetius’s throat, drawing a fine strand of blood. “Explain to me why you did that,” he said, “and why I shouldn’t kill you now.”
“I— you must protect her.” Menoetius knew his words were ridiculous. He swallowed. “Is she guarded?”
“What concern is this of yours?” The point of the warrior’s blade pricked more deeply.
Isandros clasped the guard’s wrist and moved the dagger away. “Can you not see? He’s fallen in love, like so many before him.” He gave a knowing, sideways smirk. “My sister’s conquests are already legion. What will happen when she comes of age? Woe to men everywhere.”
The guard’s face relaxed. He stepped back, a faint grin coming and going as he chewed his lower lip. “I’ll tell the queen I think you meant Princess Aridela no harm, boy. It might help.”
Menoetius straightened as he was released.
“But take care.” The guard lifted his blade again. “Do not make me angry. You’re in far more danger than she.”
With a last warning glance, the guard motioned to his fellows. They wandered back to their posts, one glancing at him warily and one with amusement.
“My thanks.” Menoetius bowed stiffly to Isandros, whose stare was speculative.
The brother’s explanation, though helpful, was absurd. Menoetius, having experienced love once or twice, knew this was different than any such puerile sensation. It would be more precise to liken such instincts to kinship. He’d saved the child’s life, so now he felt an obligation to her. Yet that wasn’t right, either. Menoetius couldn’t define this feeling, which crept into his bones when he plucked Aridela from the ground, and now seemed bent on grinding him up from the inside out.
He tried to divert his thoughts. Why would any man choose to engage in Crete’s Games, if all he could look forward to was death? He remembered the first day he’d approached the palace, the dread curdling his stomach as he gazed at the bull’s horns crowning the gate. The winning competitor, though heaped with glory and adoration, lived but one year then died, horrifically, rumors claimed, in a sacrifice Cretans believed blessed their land and people with fertility. Despite this, every year, men gathered from all corners of the island, throwing themselves into contests so brutal that many were maimed or killed. Something made the final penalty worthwhile.
Idómeneus wanted to hear that Crete was vulnerable, that it could be overthrown. He would accept no other opinion. But was it? What stronger force existed than that which compelled men to willingly give their lives?
Menoetius’s hands clenched. He didn’t want this island threatened, by his father’s armies or any other.
Another emotion besides the urge to protect lodged in his soul when he held the bleeding princess in his arms. A disquieting certainty, which had nothing to do with being tossed into their prison.
He peered at the discarded, withering pomegranate as apprehension reared again and crept through his flesh.
Someone, somewhere, would find a way. Crete would be destroyed, if not by the king of Mycenae, then some other voracious ruler.
This indefinable sense of foreboding warned him that the world would suffer its loss in ways he couldn’t begin to comprehend.
Chapter Seven: Moon of Field Poppies
As long as she kept her movements slow and gentle, Aridela decided the pain could be borne. Propping herself up in bed, she demanded barley cakes and honeyed wine.
Breezes slipping between the pillars at her balcony brought the scent of pears and cypress. Her stomach growled. She felt alert; how many other days had she lost, trapped in the murky dream-state of poppy juice?
She vowed she would drink no more.
Her white Egyptian hound rolled onto its back with a protracted groan.
“Taya.” Aridela patted the bed. The dog rose and loped over, wagging its tail and giving a playful bark. Aridela stroked its smooth head as the jealous cat pushed a cold wet nose against the back of her hand.
Along with breakfast came her mother, Minos Themiste, and the Phrygian warrior, Selene, who was training Aridela and her sister in the art of fighting skills and swordplay.
The queen swept into the room in her usual brisk manner, giving Aridela a piercing stare as she motioned for a stool. She sat beside the bed, gesturing to her daughter to eat. “I’m told you feel better.”
“Yes. I want to get out of bed.” Her mother appeared to be in a good mood. Perhaps this meant her punishment would be light.
Helice’s smile was no more than a brief flicker. “I’ve never been so frightened. When I saw that bull throw you into the air….”
Aridela’s hunger shriveled. She picked at her coverlet. “Forgive me, Mother. I didn’t mean to cause such trouble.”
“Why did you do it?” Themiste, sitting on the opposite side of the bed, leveled her with a stony gaze. “What could prompt you to terrorize those who love you?”
Wasn’t it obvious? She was Aridela, child of a god, her birth marked by a bolt of fire from the heavens. The people believed she was a gift from Athene. Of course she should dance with a wild bull. Rules and restrictions shouldn’t be applied to her as if she were ordinary.
But she’d failed. She hadn’t made the graceful leap she’d envisioned, a leap that would inspire Kaphtor’s people for a thousand years. Instead, the bull threw her into the sand like an insect. She was lucky it hadn’t stomped her into pulp.
“Aridela,” Themiste said. “Why did you think you were ready for the bullring? And how did you talk your brother into helping you? Your mother is very angry with him.”
“It isn’t his fault. He has to do what I tell him.”
“Absurd,” the queen snapped. “When will you obey me? I order you to stay out of the bullring and you go in anyway. Don’t you realize how important you are, not only to me, but to the people, as a symbol of our vitality and endurance?”
Aridela sought words to explain the conviction that sent her striding with supreme confidence toward the horns of a wild bull, but they died in her throat; at this moment it seemed silly mischief, the antics of a child. “I’m sorry, Mother.”
The three women regarded her, their expressions puzzled and concerned.
“Do you remember what you did after you were hurt?” Helice asked.
Aridela set down her bread and licked honey from her fingers. “What do you mean? I was in bed.” Her head throbbed, no doubt due to poppy juice. How she hated poppy.
“You were found in the shrine.”
If she concentrated, which made the headache stab like jellyfish barbs, Aridela could recall, but vaguely, distantly, as though through mountain mists. “I wanted to pray.”
Helice tilted her head to one side. “How did you get there?”
Aridela didn’t realize she was rubbing her temple until Selene asked, “Does your head hurt?” Without waiting for an answer, she strode to the door and called for Rhené.
The healer placed cool wet cloths on Aridela’s forehead and drew the draperies across the terrace to dim the light.
Helice and Themiste both showed their disappointment as they stood to go. Aridela held up her hands to stop them. “I do remember. I wanted to pray. I was afraid.” She removed the cloth from her head and wadded it in her fists. “I was afraid you would kill Isandros. You haven’t, have you, Mother? It wasn’t his fault. I ordered him to help me. He believed as much as I did. He trusted me.”
“He’s alive and well.” Helice gripped her hand. “But tell me, isoke; do you remember anyone else with you in the shrine? How did you get there?”
Aridela sighed. Themiste wrung out a
nother cloth in a bowl of water and handed it to her. She pressed it over her eyes. It felt cool, and carried the scent of wild parsley. It smelled like the mountains after a rain shower. How she wished she could put all this behind her and run off to the mountains with Selene. She wouldn’t come back for days and days, not until the end of this tiresome heat.
“Aridela,” Themiste said. “How did you get to the shrine?”
“I walked,” Aridela said.
“You walked?” All three bore various expressions of incredulity. “But how?”
“I just walked. I made myself do it.”
“You walked,” Selene said.
“Yes.”
“No one helped you?”
“Nobody saw me. I was quiet.”
“Where was your nurse?” Helice asked.
“I don’t know. The privy?”
“What is her name again?” Helice demanded of Themiste.
“Halia, Mother. It’s Halia.” Aridela snorted. “Will you throw her into your prison for having to relieve herself? What I did was my own fault.”
Helice took a deep breath. “Themiste thought you were dead when she was called to the courtyard. Your nurse could have prevented all of this.”
“Queen Helice.” Selene laid a hand on Helice’s shoulder. “Surely Our Lady watched over Aridela that day.”
“Yes.” Helice swiped at her tears. “Now we must ask you something else, child. Did anyone hurt you or threaten you while you were in the shrine?”
Aridela shook her head then she remembered the dagger Halia found on her bed. These questions must have something to do with that. They must be trying to find out who left it, and didn’t want her to be frightened. There wasn’t anyone in the shrine. It was too early for the priestesses. She was alone with Goddess Athene.
She’d fallen over. The Goddess picked her up.
“Blue,” she said.
“What?” The three women spoke as one. They leaned forward.
The Year-god's Daughter: A Saga of Ancient Greece (The Child of the Erinyes Book 1) Page 5
