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.
Placing her hand on Chrysaleon’s arm, Aridela smiled. He hesitated, but then inclined his head and resumed his seat. The guards, four by this time, two with bared swords, removed the struggling, cursing, Harpalycus from the stands. Chrysaleon didn’t glance his way again.
“Your wound,” Aridela murmured, since everyone else’s attention seemed centered on the altercation. “How does it fare?”
“A pinprick,” Chrysaleon said with a careless wave.
“Did your guard sew it up?”
Chrysaleon frowned. “Yes.”
“Is he here today?”
“I don’t know.” Annoyance flickered across his face. “He disappeared earlier with no word.”
“There, Aridela.” Neoma touched her cousin’s forearm with the edge of her fan. “Isn’t that him?” She pointed. Eight rows or so down sat a man, companioned by none other than Selene. An unexpected stab of jealousy surprised Aridela. Selene could lie with whatever man she fancied, appear in public with him, even rest her hand on his back as she was doing that moment. There would be no lectures or punishment, not even a raised brow. But if Helice, or worse, Themiste, discovered Aridela had served as sexual proxy to her sister, right before the Games, with a foreigner, the outcry, blame, and punishment would be severe. She could be whipped or starved, and would most certainly have to endure a humiliating symbolic cleansing.
Selene leaned close to her companion and said something. He turned toward her, giving Aridela a clear view of the
ghastly scar that marred his entire cheek, including the corner of his lower lip. More scars covered his shoulders, his arms, even the backs of his hands. It looked as though some unimaginable beast from the realm of nightmares had used him for cruel sport, but more than likely, men had done it.
Odd, that Selene, a beautiful woman who could have any man she wanted, seemed so enthralled by this one.
“Ah,” Chrysaleon said. “There he is. I see my blood brother has found a distraction.”
“Your ‘blood brother?’” Aridela asked. “What is that, my lord?”
His smile intensified the green of his eyes. “He was attacked by a lioness that had recently given birth. I saved his life.” His grin widened, suggesting this was an oft-told story and a pleasurable memory— at least for Chrysaleon. “We mingled our blood after and swore loyalty. Only death can sever it. In my country, such a blood-vow is more sacred than any other among men.”
“Is that so?” Aridela gave him her full wide-eyed attention, which seemed to deepen his unconscious swagger.
“My horse ran off with my weapons, leaving me with nothing but a dagger. The lioness left this on me—” he turned his right arm over, displaying a jagged white mark running from elbow to wrist, “but as you can see, she did far worse to him. I’ve never seen so much blood come out of man and leave him alive. The gods must have some purpose in mind to keep his heart beating after that.”
She stared at the brutal scar on the man’s face. The shape, though rough, was reminiscent of the crescent moon on Themiste’s oracle crown.
All horned beasts were sacred to Lady Potnia, especially bulls. The bull-king’s sacrifice fertilized the crops with holy blood; it also symbolized the expiration of the crescent moon and triumphant return of the glorious full.
Had the crescent-horned Goddess deliberately marked this man with her most holy sign? If so, what meaning did it hold?
She recalled the way he’d stared at her from the shadowed recesses in the cave. Knowing as she did how much importance highborn mainlanders placed on the idea of unmarried women being without any knowledge of men, it was possible that Chrysaleon’s guard now considered her as spoiled as maggoty grain. The idea heated her cheeks. She was a princess; what was he? A common soldier. Perhaps even a slave.
Strange, incomprehensible beliefs accompanied these foreigners’ ancestors when they surged from their desolate northern countries and conquered every region they encountered.
Yet she saw no sign of ill feeling toward Selene, who had given herself to him in the same erotic fashion. Nor would Selene have any patience with such prohibitions, which would be mortal judgment against the will of a goddess.
Shadows had filled the cave that night. Overwhelming emotions and the disruptive effects of cara left her dizzy, excited, and confused. She might have imagined that judgmental expression.
When he turned the other direction, his attention drawn by a group of giggling females, Aridela glimpsed the opposite side of his face, the side unblemished by scarring. Struck by an abrupt sense of familiarity, she ran a list of names through her mind, but then he turned back to Selene and the fleeting intuition disappeared.
“Your father must be proud of your courage,” she said, returning her attention to Chrysaleon. “Saving the life of such an older man.”
“Older?” He shook his head. “We are the same age.”
Startled, Aridela glanced again at the lower benches. Though Chrysaleon’s guard possessed the firm muscled flesh of a young man, grey laced his dark hair, and she’d noticed lines around his mouth and eyes that Chrysaleon lacked.
With a short laugh, Chrysaleon said, “It’s his somber outlook that makes him seem older.” He discreetly twined his forefinger around the little finger on her left hand. “Everything for Menoetius is a battle or threat. He changed after the attack. He lost any ability to enjoy life. It’s one of many differences between us.”
If he kissed her right now, in front of this audience, she would find a way to forgive him. To distract herself from the now familiar ache, she turned away and ate a few grapes from the bowl placed on a nearby tripod.
Neoma was busy flirting with one of the royal cousins sitting next to her; Iphiboë reclined, morosely silent and still, on Chrysaleon’s other side.
Chrysaleon, perhaps realizing they’d neglected her, asked, “Are you comfortable, my lady?”
“Yes,” she said.
“How did you injure yourself?”
Iphiboë blinked and her hands fluttered. “I fell,” she said, but instead of elaborating, turned her face away.
Aridela offered a whispered explanation. “On the loose rocks outside the cave. If Iphiboë hadn’t hurt herself, you would have found her. I wasn’t meant to be dedicated. I’m promised to the high priestess, and was ordered to remain untouched. No one can ever know what we did.”
She hoped he would discern the message she tried to send. The hand of the Goddess interceded. Our twined fortunes overrode mortal concerns.
His brows pulled together. He started to speak, but the queen and Themiste entered the ring, surrounded by priestesses and priests. They bowed to the eastern edge of the pit, where an enormous oaken likeness of Athene towered above the bull gate. Each of the goddess’s outstretched arms rested on a tall blue pillar. Holy snakes wound round her wrists. Her face tilted down, as though to observe the perilous undertaking done in her name.
Helice approached the bound white ram on the altar.
Silence fell. The ram’s terrified bleat carried through the stands, but was cut off as the axe-blade bit into its throat. Blood poured into the offering jugs. Priests and priestesses sprinkled it across the sand.
Aridela glanced at the barbarian prince. He wore a solemn expression and touched his forehead before turning back to her.
“I’ve never seen a Cretan bull dance,” he said.
“The bulls we capture for the ring are ferocious, bad tempered, and very intelligent. Every time a bull enters the ring, he learns more about the dance, and bulls never forget what they learn. It soon becomes impossible to fool them, and deadly to try. But the risk brings us closer to Goddess Athene and her mystery.”
“I have a slave who once lived on Crete. He claims the Lady buries the moon inside your Mount Ida those nights it disappears from the sky.”
“It’s a common tale. One of many stories mothers tell their children. Another is how Athene brought Kaphtor up from under the sea to save our ancestors from drowning.”
With the fall of twilight, priests circled the perimeter of the bullring lighting torches, which stood as tall as two men. Iphiboë sat as still and far away as possible, a motionless shadow. Neoma giggled stupidly at whatever was being whispered into her ear. Aridela felt she and the prince were enclosed in a secret circle of intimacy. She found it difficult to look at anything but his face, as it reminded her not only of their night together but also of the seductive dream when the god Velchanos touched her, wearing the face of this man.
For longer than you can imagine, I will be with you, in you, of you. Together we bring forth a new world, and nothing can ever part us. Believe, no matter how many try to turn you against me.
In a weak attempt to regain control, she turned her gaze away. Diminishing sunlight splashed the western heavens in a gauzy pastel wash of color. Against that backdrop, the summits of the Ida mountain range gave off a brilliant glow, causing halos to pop out behind them. A suggestion of snow glistened on the highest peak.
She felt bewitched by the press of bodies around her, the scent of the dusty ring, and the nearness of this man she found so irresistible. If only this night could continue on and on.
She clasped her necklace, tracing the shape of the two moons and tucked within it, the lapis circle representing a star. “My mother and father were lovers before he won the Games. I was born during his year as bull-king, before he met his death in the labyrinth. He held me on his lap at the bull dance spectacle. His name was Damasen.” With a shy glance, sh
e added, “He was a native of your country, my lord, born at the citadel of Gla.”
“He competed in your Games?” Chrysaleon kept his voice low, but his gaze was intent.
She nodded. “He and my mother were lovers for many seasons. He abandoned his kin and homeland to remain near her, and served our country faithfully. He wanted to become bull-king, but she wouldn’t allow it. She didn’t want to lose him, but our Lady called him to it, so he appeared on the morning of the Games and competed. She couldn’t stop him at that point. She’d learned she was carrying me and hadn’t yet told him. I wonder sometimes if knowing would have changed his mind about choosing short life with renown. I might have known my father, if only my mother had told him about me a day earlier.”
She thought his expression held compassion, but wasn’t sure.
“I’m curious about your Games,” he said at last. “Will you tell me what happens?”
“It’s forbidden. It’s different, anyway, for every man. I can tell you that those who compete suffer many trials. They go without food or water and in the darkness of the labyrinth they find their souls. They emerge as Iakchos rises, reborn.”
His gaze narrowed but he obediently changed the subject. “What is that?” he asked, gesturing toward her hand.
She held out the silver charm. “My most prized possession. Damasen had it made for my mother and she gave it to me. It’s fashioned from ore mined on Mount Ida, near the shrine.” She pointed to the highest peak in the west, now but a purple shadow against the horizon.
He followed her gaze then returned his attention to the ornament. “It is fine work.” Breezes plucked at his hair.
“Once my brother Isandros accidentally broke the chain,” Aridela said. “It fell and I thought it lost, but it came back to me in the hand of a farmer. He said he found it while clearing stones from his field. With cleaning and polishing, it retained no damage at all.” She paused as he placed two fingers underneath the charm so he could see it better. “Rumors claim it actually comes from a lake of silver on the moon. It does surpass in shine and strength any silverwork I’ve ever seen.”
The Year-god's Daughter: A Saga of Ancient Greece (The Child of the Erinyes Book 1) Page 28
