The Year-god's Daughter: A Saga of Ancient Greece (The Child of the Erinyes Book 1)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Aridela sat close enough to observe Carmanor, but not so close she’d make him uncomfortable. He’d tucked one leg under his rump and propped the other against his chest as he scraped in the dirt with a stick. From time to time he peered into the heavens, where a retiring sun drenched the clouds in shades of pink, scarlet, and purple.

  She hoped she managed to disguise her growing appreciation of what she’d decided must be true perfection. His was a face defined by bones. Smooth, sharp planes molded one into the next as though whatever god fashioned him had run short of flesh. One could imagine those cheekbones splitting through skin if he missed a meal or two. She found the economy tantalizing, more masculine than her countrymen, who liked to paint their eyes and cultivate a softer appearance. Her gaze lingered on the beard; it, too, was spare, adding, in her eyes, to his unconventional charm. Anyway, she couldn’t ask him to scrape it off. From many tiresome months of study she knew that on the mainland, a man who shaved his beard would be deemed impotent, a eunuch.

  Honesty forced her to admit her initial feelings for the boy had changed. It made her skittish, jumpy. She feared this might be the love she heard the serving maids gossiping about, and for which males and females alike strived and suffered. If so, she must pray Athene save her from it. Too often she’d witnessed love turning ladies and slaves alike into weepy, irritating buffoons. Love caused her to stamp her feet and swear like a soldier when she couldn’t get the attention she wanted. Up until now, she’d ridiculed love as suitable only for the empty-headed.

  “Tell me about your country,” she said. “Do you live near the sea?”

  “Not as close as Tiryns or Pylos. Have you heard of them? Great regions ruled by powerful kings, but even they are subject to one— Idómeneus of Mycenae.”

  “That is where you live?”

  “Yes.” Shifting so his other leg cushioned him from the ground, he opened his mouth, but instead of speaking, frowned and turned the crude spit. Judging from the smell, slightly burned but rich, the meat was nearly ready. A drop of fat fell hissing into the flames, setting off a tiny eruption of fire.

  The vanguard of attendants, their cheery fire burning bright at the other end of the clearing, giggled in unison over something.

  Aridela fancied wistfulness in the glance Carmanor sent their way. Fearing he might invite the others to join them and she would end up forgotten and invisible, she said, “My mother is friendly with King Idómeneus. She sent our finest sculptors to help construct a monument to the Lady. It crowns the entrance to his citadel.”

  He bit his lower lip. She’d noticed him doing this from time to time, and found it endearing, like everything else about him. “I heard about that as well,” was all he offered.

  “You aren’t telling me much.” Exasperation helped her avoid scarier emotions.

  “It’s the language. If Alexiare were here, he could help. Remember him? The old man who came with me.”

  Recognizing an evasion when she heard one, Aridela frowned. “Yes, I remember. I heard he speaks our tongue like a native.”

  “He lived on Crete in his childhood.”

  Rather than ask why a free man would choose uncivilized Argolis over Kaphtor, she said, “Is your father a farmer or an artisan?”

  “My father….”

  Aridela worked to contain impatience as his hesitation persisted.

  He sent her a glance, a mere flash of iridescent blue tucked beneath frowning dark brows, before he dropped his gaze and poked at the fire. “I lied. Alexiare isn’t my father. He’s my slave.”

  Aridela’s shock evaporated. She’d known instinctively he was lying about something. “Why?”

  “I suppose I thought having a Cretan father might make the queen look more kindly on me.”

  Aridela shook her head. “My mother wouldn’t be swayed by such things. Who is your father then?”

  “A warrior. He made a name for himself in the battles for the high kingship.”

  “Will you be a warrior, too?”

  “I’ll tell you a secret.” His eyes crinkled around the edges as he stared into the fire. “I’m going to be captain of King Idómeneus’s personal guard.”

  “On Kaphtor, kinsmen get positions like that.”

  His smile was faint yet confident. “The king’s custom is similar, but no matter. I’ll become his captain, and I’ll be the youngest ever appointed to that post.”

  She admired such ambition. “Someday I want to see the king’s citadel. I’ve heard it’s the finest on the mainland. Tell me of your mother.”

  Even in this fading light, the reflective brilliance in his deep-set eyes mirrored sparks from the fire and subtly changed color from one moment to the next. He shrugged. “I don’t know her. She went away before I could speak or walk. I don’t even know if she lives.”

  Aridela waited, pressing her knuckles to her mouth to make herself be quiet.

  “She was caught in battle,” he said, “and became my father’s slave. Alexiare and she were friendly, so he’s told me about her. Her name was Sorcha. She came from a place called Ys, on the coast of an island far to the west. He called it Albion. Supposedly, she was a priestess of impressive power; she could see the future, decipher the past, and control things to her will.”

  “It wouldn’t seem so,” Aridela couldn’t help from observing, “if she was enslaved.”

  Again that brief biting of the lips. “Rumor claims she allowed herself to be caught to serve her own purpose. Alexiare believes it. My father cared for her. That and his acknowledgement of me, his raising of me like a trueborn son, are outrages my brother will never forgive.”

  “You have a brother?”

  “Yes.” His shoulder muscles flexed as he stabbed the end of his stick deeper into the dirt.

  “Is he younger than you? Older? Why isn’t he with you?”

  “You interrogate me as though I were still your prisoner.”

  “If you would open your mouth and speak, I wouldn’t have to ask.”

  He laughed. “Are you hungry? Hand me that knife.”

  Amid brusque curses and the impatient shaking of burnt fingers, Carmanor sliced off a crackly-skinned chunk of meat, pillowed it on a leaf, and handed it to her. She licked at the edges, waiting for it to cool. Carmanor wolfed his own as though he’d starved for days. She left him in peace for a few minutes but had no intention of dropping their conversation. Just as she formed a new inquiry, Carmanor offered an answer to one of her earlier questions.

  “My brother isn’t with me because our father ordered us separated. He was weary of the fighting.”

  “You don’t get along?” she asked, thinking of Iphiboë.

  “He’s spoiled.” Carmanor tilted his chin at her. “You show more restraint, little princess, and he’s barely half a breath younger than I.”

  “Half a breath?” She accepted another chunk of meat.

  “His mother and mine gave birth at almost the same moment, but he is trueborn. I am the son of a slave.”

  “Oh.” Aridela saw how resentment might form from the slave and the wife giving birth to the same man’s sons, at the same time. Things were different on the mainland.

  Her mind darted down another path. “What is it he’ll never forgive? That your father cared about your mother?”

  She knew from his nearly imperceptible sigh that her questions made him uncomfortable, but he didn’t change the subject.

  “My mother was a slave, but my father loved her,” he said. “He loved her courage, her contempt, her pride. He married my brother’s mother for the riches she brought, the bloodline, and fertile lands on Seriphos.”

  She thought his gaze strangely intent.

  “My mother has married many men,” she said. “Not because she loved them, but because they triumphed in the Games and won the right to become her consort and bull-king.” Except for my father, she thought. Her hands clenched. She did love him.

  “I know little about your customs.”

  “In the la
nd of our ancestors, the new year began in winter. The king gave his life at the winter solstice and his chosen brother gave his in summer— at every seventh moon. Those lands weren’t as fertile as Kaphtor; two offerings were necessary to please the Goddess and ensure good harvests. We continued the twice-yearly sacrifice after my forebears settled here because it was our way, but in the time of my mother’s mother’s mother, the queen loved one bull-king so much that she wanted more time. She was bold, and changed things to suit herself. Now our kings live a full year and the Games are held only in summer, at the rise of the star Iakchos.” Aridela kept to herself how much she revered that particular queen, not because of the changing of the rite, but because of the queen’s boldness.

  Carmanor’s noncommittal grunt conveyed a disagreeable judgment.

  “No one is forced to compete,” she said. “Men seek this honor. For one year, the champion is Goddess-adored. His old name is forgotten and he becomes ‘Zagreus, bull-king of Kaphtor.’ By freely giving his life, the king transforms into a god. We have a saying: The god is a bull on earth.”

  “I can think of no man in my country who would seek such a death.” A lopsided smile conveyed sarcasm. “Much energy is expended prolonging our small existence and fighting to make others serve us and die in our stead.”

  “Lady Athene plants in our kings the desire to offer their lives. At the hottest, driest part of the year, when the crops languish, he gives his blood to the thirsty earth. Because of this, the rains come; everything is reborn, as is he, in Athene’s paradise. Through the year we celebrate him. He’s holier than any other. Any child he makes, with the queen or one of her surrogates, is royalty. Even a slave can be king on Kaphtor, if he’s the strongest. His fight, to win the Games, to lie with the queen, to give his blood to the earth, is what makes our country invincible. Isn’t Kaphtor the richest land you’ve ever visited?”

  “Yes,” he admitted, but his expression remained critical.

  She longed to gain his approval and struggled to evoke the poetry in their beliefs. “Athene is the fire-flame of life. She gives us passion, art, and meaning. She and her son, Velchanos, introduced the first sacrifice. It was her gift and renews us. The bull-king alone of all people achieves union with her. He’s elevated above any other. His title, Zagreus, means ‘Restored to Life.’ He is himself divine and the earthly embodiment of her son. This is why our men are so willing to become Zagreus of Kaphtor.”

  He made no comment, but looked at her as though considering, and she felt he wavered on the knife-edge of understanding. “Velchanos was the first to spill his blood in our fields. Yet he rose again, and with his rising, all life renewed and ripened. Some bull-kings have claimed he walked with them in the labyrinth, showing them what turn to take, helping them overcome their fear, giving them strength in their singular battle. Our customs weave our lives together with the seasons of the earth, the cycles of the moon, growth, death, and regrowth.” She paused for breath, dimly realizing she’d clamped her hand around his wrist. “‘Our brave year-king gives everything he has,’” she said quietly. “‘Does not Velchanos rise after his season of sacrifice? There is never new life without death, no new god without annihilation. Wise men accept their fate, and in the acceptance earn glory unimaginable.’ The high priestess, Themiste, composed this when she was a child. It’s become our most sacred dedication.”

  He shook his head then smiled; his expression transformed, sending twin sensations of joy and breathlessness flooding through her. “You amaze me,” he said. “I was told you possess wisdom beyond your age, and I see it. You almost make me believe your sacrifice a worthy way to die.”

  Aridela basked in a heated glow of pleasure, yet nervous embarrassment tinged the edges. She rushed to change the subject, stammering, “I have a sister. She’s frightened of everything. She worries so much, sometimes her hair falls out.”

  Carmanor helped himself to another hunk of meat. “So the gods have cursed us both with flawed kinsfolk.”

  Aridela laughed so hard she almost spit out her last bite to keep from choking. “Will you stay for the sowing of the grain?” she asked, concentrating on licking grease from her fingers so he wouldn’t discern the importance of his answer.

  “Alexiare says it’s a night for merrymaking. I suppose we’ll stay if the queen allows it.”

  He didn’t seem to care much, and she was glad. But how could she be expected to tolerate her new friend going off into the night to lie with whatever girl took his fancy? She was too young to go; she would be locked away, guarded by her nurse, who, due to the reprimands after Aridela’s last escape, would now be far more difficult to trick.

  It was unendurable to be so much younger than he.

  For one moment, she allowed a vivid mental picture of herself and Carmanor together beneath the oaks. They held hands. They talked and laughed throughout the night, and he shared his secrets. He leaned close and kissed her cheek. By night’s end she knew him as well as she knew Iphiboë.

  It was delicious, frightening and nauseating all at the same time.

  * * * *

  When Menoetius returned to his chambers, he found Alexiare still awake, busy brushing dirt from tunics and polishing his master’s armbands.

  “Was your day pleasant?” his slave asked. He poured Menoetius a bowl of watered wine.

  Menoetius merely shrugged before downing the drink in one thirsty gulp.

  Alexiare’s head tilted. “My lord?”

  Menoetius set down the bowl and raked a hand through his hair. “These lies. I’m weary of hearing myself called ‘Carmanor.’ The princess and her mother have given me their trust, but I’m lying to them. They deserve better.”

  Alexiare returned the discarded bowl to its place by the pitcher. “The truth might land you back in the queen’s prisons. I fear it’s too late to be honest.”

  “I told her you’re not my father.” Menoetius dropped onto the bed, one of the finest and softest he’d ever lain upon, its delicate wool coverlet decorated with bright embroidery.

  Alexiare stared at his young charge, his dismay undisguised. “Was that wise?”

  “I told her I lied to save myself from her mother’s punishment. She believed me.”

  “But you didn’t tell her—”

  “No. She doesn’t know the truth.” Menoetius rose and paced to the arch leading to the terrace. He stared into the darkness of the warm courtyard, redolent with sage. “I want to go home. I want to forget ever coming to this place.”

  “I thought you happy, now that you’re the queen’s honored guest. There’s hardly been enough time to learn anything about Crete’s defenses.”

  “My bones are rattling. I feel I’m going to burst.”

  “No ships are leaving, my lord, until after the festival of the sowing.”

  “I don’t want my father to succeed. I don’t want Crete overthrown.”

  A hesitant knock on the door saved the slave from having to respond to this treasonous statement. Alexiare opened it and bowed low. He spoke a formal greeting and stepped back to admit their visitor.

  Menoetius recognized the woman. He’d first seen her in the throne room during his interrogation, and later at the feast, sitting with Alexiare. Earlier today she’d served as one of the princess’s retinue. One couldn’t help noticing her, as her features bore such a marked contrast to her fellow islanders. She was taller than most Cretans, her skin paler, her hair a most attractive shade of frothy cream.

  He walked toward her, not missing her blush as she glanced at him. For the first time, he came close enough to note the greenish sea-blue of her eyes. She had an unconsciously spare and graceful way of moving, which made him think of the rare white panthers bards sang of sometimes.

  “My lord Carmanor,” she said, and smiled.

  Her smile told him he didn’t have to spend this night alone. It offered promises that she could make him forget his anger, guilt, and the princess Aridela, if only for a little while.

  H
e hesitated, then returned the smile and bowed.

  Chapter Thirteen: Moon of Winemaking

  “Sing to me,” Aridela beseeched her mockingbird.

  It tilted its head and opened its beak, but made no sound. Aridela unlatched the cage door and offered a bribe of tasty seeds.

  “Come, poppet,” Halia called from within the bedchamber.

  Aridela scowled. The nurse’s quavering voice was a reminder of her forced confinement, designed to keep her safe from the now-riotous grain festival.

  Throughout the day, on every furrowed plain across the island, priests and priestesses scattered wheat, spelt and barley seed. This was done somberly, with prayers, the blowing of conch shells, and sacrifices of pigs, goats and bulls. The queen and her daughters trod the fields as well, strewing soft seed and sprinkling consecrated water. Across Kaphtor, prayers and offerings begged earthy Gaia for another fruitful year.

  At the descent of twilight, priests lit bonfires on the mountain summits and outside the towns while priestesses ladled out bowls of wine and mead, and offered the traditional blessing: May the land wax as the moon above. The day’s heat dissipated and the air turned dewy-violet. Cheers greeted the glowing half-orb as it lifted, white and luminous as gypsum, above a sparkling sea.

  Queen Helice and her latest consort initiated the fertility of the land by coupling on the newly sown plain. Accompanied by flutes and drums, the queen and her lover lay upon silk tapestries, surrounded by chanting priestesses in white robes, tethered snow-white bulls with gilded hooves and horns, and wide-mouthed casks of water that captured the moon’s reflection.

  At the conclusion of this holy spectacle, just when Aridela forgot her fate, Halia the nurse clasped her charge’s forearm and led her back to her stifling bedchamber.

  The worst part was she wouldn’t have cared if she’d never met Carmanor of the indigo eyes. She had no interest in the rite until he changed the way she saw everything. Even now, she didn’t want to spend the night with him in the usual fashion, using their bodies to draw moisture from the earth and immerse the land with fertility. She only wanted to talk, about Athene, Carmanor’s rocky homeland, his fey mother, or anything else that struck their fancies. If he went into the night paired off with some female or other, he would probably fall in love, and she knew well enough that he would then have no more time for her.