Over the passage of millennia, it was decided that a sacred king must be the swiftest of men, so footraces were added. At some point, the council decreed a bull-king should possess a mind as swift as his feet and as strong as his arms. Thus a third competition developed.
It took place in the Labyrinth.
* * * *
Wind gusted from the south, bringing heavy, grey scudding clouds. Sprinting through the slopes in the Cretan countryside, Chrysaleon skirted rows of grapevines, ducked beneath tree branches, and splashed through streams to prepare his muscles for the footrace.
He would win. He would ascend Crete’s throne. He would eradicate her ancient ways, and he would have Aridela, not for one year, but for the rest of her life. His confidence built to a blood-steaming peak.
He’d never felt so strong. The wound Harpalycus inflicted had stiffened his arm only for a day; Menoetius commented on the uncommon speed of its healing. Chrysaleon woke from his night with Aridela filled with this unstoppable energy, like nothing he’d ever experienced, and it hadn’t yet begun to fade. Was this sense of invincibility a gift from Athene, or a blessing from Poseidon?
Menoetius stepped out from behind the trunk of a massive plane tree as Chrysaleon ran toward it. Unsurprised, Chrysaleon grinned and beckoned, running on.
“I saw you from the terraces,” Menoetius said. “Why have you come out here without me?”
“Why not?”
Menoetius caught Chrysaleon’s arm, jerking him to a stop. “Idómeneus sent me to guard your life. Haven’t you noticed the Cretan warriors? They hate you. Aridela and Iphiboë are always in your company.”
“Rise from bed earlier, if you wish to protect me so much. The lady Aridela has given me a task, and I won’t disappoint her.”
“What is that, my lord?”
“To win. She confessed she wants me to find victory this day.”
“So you can become her sister’s consort and die in a year?”
Chrysaleon paused, breathing hard as he stared beyond Menoetius to the regal Ida mountain range. “She doesn’t want me to die. If she were the oldest, our plans would be simple, for she would displace that mountain there to save my life. Is she not magnificent? There was no fear in her face when she bowed to the queen in the bullring. More royal blood runs through a strand of her hair than in the veins of many a king on the Argolid.” His spine tingled. “Did you see her laugh when they threw her onto that bull’s back?”
“I saw,” Menoetius said. He turned his face away, squinting toward the palace. “I saw it all.”
“I thought I might have to rescue her from a whipping.” Confidence and anticipation surged like a wave, similar to the warm euphoria created by strong mead, yet it didn’t fade and caused no headaches. “Princess Aridela is the prize to be won today.” Stretching his arms over his head, he added, “From the moment I saw her in that pool I’ve been blind and deaf. Maybe her goddess bewitched me. I didn’t intend to compete in their Games. Even when she asked me to and I promised, I was just saying what she wanted to hear. Then she leaped that bull.” He moved his arms behind his back to stretch his shoulders. “I don’t know if it’s my resolve or Athene’s. I don’t care. I mean to compete, and I won’t fail.”
Menoetius’s frown made his eyes barely discernible between black lashes. His jaw muscles clenched.
“What is it?” Chrysaleon asked. “You bristle like a cat.”
“I can see these priestesses leading you by the nose to your death. Who will laugh then? Where is your promise to your father, that if one of us had to compete, it would be me?”
“Aridela deserves a prince, not a bastard, or half a man.”
Menoetius’s fists tightened and his head reared back.
“There are worse things than short life with glory.” Chrysaleon rode exultation into a crest of anger. “Old age is for old men. I will inspire bards to sing of me for ten thousand years. I, Chrysaleon of Mycenae, will be the man who conquers mighty Crete. Do you understand? I will blaze like lightning, and you had better not stand in my way.”
“There’s an old saying that when Crete’s Goddess lies with a man, she beguiles him. She gives him undefeatable strength, but underneath she plants the desire to die for her. Looking at you, I see the truth of it.”
“Don’t bury me yet.” Chrysaleon bent over, flexing his calves and thighs, reveling in a simmer of omnipotence. “I’ll make Crete a vassal of Mycenae and I’ll marry the princess, the woman of my choosing, even if I have to go through the other one first. I’ll suffer my death at the god’s calling, but only after I’ve accomplished these things. It will be the greatest triumph any man could desire, and I, my brother, will achieve it. Run with me. I must prepare, and this is the last day I’m allowed to eat. Just the thought makes me ravenous.”
* * * *
Two groups, each containing five men, would run the footrace on a crescent-shaped track lined with wild olive branches and saffron dyed rope. The first two of each group to finish would continue to the wrestling and the triumphant contenders of that would descend into the labyrinth, of which there were many rumors and few facts. All Chrysaleon knew was that the men who made it that far must find the king and kill him.
Cretans eagerly placed wagers. Women, colorful as tropical birds in their finery, sat on tiers of benches, conjecturing on the amorous merits of each competitor. Bystanders jammed the plain to the east of the bullring.
The queen, at the forefront of a bannered, vine-draped lodge situated near the track’s finish, was surrounded by her consort, Aridela, Iphiboë, Selene, several handmaids, and council members. Chrysaleon noticed Selene sat so close to Aridela their shoulders touched. Jealousy flared as he remembered their intimacy by the mountain fire and the way the woman ordered Aridela from her lover and the cave.
Helice wore her imposing crescent-moon crown and a skirt laden with disks of hammered gold. Sunlight, glinting through a swiftly moving layer of clouds, lit upon her like flashes on water. Head lifted, she moved with purpose away from the lodge, closer to the competitors and audience so all would hear her words.
Drawing the Zagreus to her side, she lifted the primordial labrys-axe that served today as her scepter, holding it high so everyone could see. Aridela, Selene and the others bowed their heads.
“We are brought here by Holy Mother Athene, who is the Way and the Life,” she announced. “Her will determines the strongest, swiftest male, drawing him from the maze in victory to rule at the side of Iphiboë, Princess of Kaphtor. He will be reborn through his trials, and become the blessed horned god, Zagreus. He rises with the ascent of his new father, Iakchos. Together we will drink the honey mead, and he will be consecrated.”
Clean-shaven in the Cretan manner, the bull-king stood next to his queen and stared above everyone’s heads. Eddies of wind blew his long hair out like one of the banners at the corners of the lodge. What was he thinking? Did he hope to thwart his fate? It didn’t seem so. He appeared still and resigned. No doubt men had tried to fool the Games in these goddess-lands since the beginning. Yet one way or another, the earth always received the offering of blood it required.
Chrysaleon routed an instant of uncertainty. It was his choice to compete. Every man who stood here this day made the choice freely.
But only Chrysaleon, son of Idómeneus, would thwart the Goddess and her island’s long history. This craving that set his body on fire promised success.
Themiste and her priestesses poured the libations. The royals retired to their fancy lodge at the end of the track.
As Chrysaleon dropped to a crouch, he noticed a young Cretan staring at him. He was somewhat used to this as a foreigner fighting in their Games, but this man’s expression seemed too intent to be mere curiosity. He looked familiar. Ah yes, he was one of the leapers who caught Aridela as she jumped off the bull’s back. This youth was no dandy. He was lean, and would be fast.
Chrysaleon set his gaze upon the line he would run and tensed for the crack of th
e rope.
When the signal came, he leaped forward, carried on the roar from the stands and the power in his limbs. Then he slipped into focused concentration, allowing only one thought. I will take her hand before all these people. He knew he was at the pinnacle of youthful vitality, yet he acknowledged this strange potency and will, which had filled him with the force of an invisible sword as he’d watched Aridela leap the bull.
His lungs pumped air like a bellows. His legs propelled him forward so effortlessly he almost felt he was flying.
He saw her ahead. She rose. Next to her, Selene rose too, laying her arm across the princess’s shoulders, giving him a smile cold with threat.
I will take her. Chrysaleon stared back just as coldly. His will expanded. She will forget you as though you never lived. I will cause it to happen.
His muscles tingled— not in exhaustion but with flowing, fire-like energy. His mind told him he could run for miles— maybe the entire length of the island.
Aridela leaned over the balustrade, laughing, reaching out to him as he came close. Tears stood in her eyes. She brought his hands to her lips and kissed them.
Helice, her face dark with anger, jerked her daughter back, speaking close to her ear through tense lips. Iphiboë gazed at one then the other, wide-eyed.
Chrysaleon turned. He’d left the finish line behind. The other runners stood some distance away, staring as they caught their breath. No one, it seemed, had missed the little tableau.
He didn’t even know who won. He glanced at Aridela again. All sign of pleasure erased from her face, she sat motionless. Helice rested a firm restraining hand on her daughter’s shoulder, pinching so hard her fingertips were white. Selene gave him a bitter sneering stare.
He walked as casually as he could to the other men, trying to ignore their scowls.
Menoetius met him. “You left them in your dust, my lord, as though lions chewed your heels.” He didn’t sound happy. No doubt he’d hoped Chrysaleon would be defeated at the outset, so that Idómeneus would never have to know of his son’s defiance.
A priestess stepped to the edge of the platform and held up a clay tablet listing the winners.
“Lycus of Kydonia,” she called. “Chrysaleon of Mycenae.”
“I was not first?” he asked Menoetius.
“No. First was that one.” He indicated the winner. It was the same young man who stared at him before the race. Lycus was staring again. Before, he’d looked suspicious, puzzled. Now his expression held open rage. When he spoke to the man beside him, his teeth bared as he cocked his chin toward Chrysaleon.
A true Cretan. The spectators, including the queen, would support him. Lycus of Kydonia was Aridela’s countryman. Perhaps this vague memory of a shared glance when Lycus caught her around the waist in the bullring was imagination. Perhaps not.
Cheers broke out along the track. “Lycus, Lycus,” the people cried, and a few women swooned, or pretended to. Their maids fluttered fans to revive them.
The next batch of runners formed at the starting line while members of the first race moved away.
None of the losers spoke to Chrysaleon, but they observed him with mingled curiosity and hostility. One, a prince and cousin of the queen’s, remarked to his companion, loudly enough for Chrysaleon to hear, “Has he forgotten which princess inherits the throne?”
Chrysaleon’s teeth gritted.
A youth, tasseled, jeweled and oiled, approached from the spectator stands. He hesitated, cocking his head to the side as he came closer, then said simply, “I am Aridela’s brother.”
Chrysaleon inclined his head. “You were in the bullring with her. I am Chrysaleon, son of Idómeneus, high king of Mycenae.”
One of the youth’s brows lifted. “My sister shows you marked favor,” he said. “She seems to think you worthier than her own kinsmen.”
“What is your name, my lord?” Chrysaleon replied.
“I am Isandros. Aridela and I share the same father.” The young man’s gaze moved from Chrysaleon to Menoetius and traveled over his face. He blinked then frowned. “I feel I’ve seen you before.”
Chrysaleon glanced at Menoetius, who made no reply and kept his stare leveled on the second group of runners.
“He is my guard,” Chrysaleon said.
Isandros’s next action took him by surprise. He seized Menoetius’s arm, forcing him to turn. “Carmanor.”
Menoetius opened his mouth but said nothing.
“It is you, isn’t it? You’re changed, but I recognize you. Don’t you remember me? Have you forgotten the time we spent imprisoned together? Did you see Aridela leap the bull? It’s what she’s always wanted. You did see it, didn’t you? It would make her happy to know you saw it.”
Chrysaleon watched dull color creep through Menoetius’s face. On the night of Iphiboë’s dedication, as they’d waited outside the cave for darkness to fall, Menoetius had fallen asleep. For a time he’d lain as though dead, motionless, hardly breathing, one arm thrown across his face. Then he’d sucked in a deep breath. “Aridela,” he’d whispered, and sighed.
“Have you seen her? Have you told her you’ve returned?” Isandros didn’t seem to notice that neither foreigner made any response to his chatter. He probably thought they were stupid. “She didn’t mention you when I saw her this morning.”
“She— I haven’t seen her,” Menoetius said.
“She might not recognize him.” Chrysaleon kept his gaze pinned on his brother. His hands curled into fists. The tic beneath his eye pulsed. The king’s bastard knew Aridela. Knew her better than he’d let on.
Isandros hesitated. “A few scars are natural. Our bull dancers show theirs off. They’re quite proud of them.”
Menoetius backed away.
“Look,” Isandros said. “The next race is starting.” He glanced at Chrysaleon but asked Menoetius, “You don’t compete?”
“I’m here to watch the prince’s back, since he will not.”
“A good thing,” Isandros said after a slight pause. “Many are unhappy with the favor our queen shows the prince of Mycenae. That barbarian-er-foreigner, Harpalycus, mostly. His hatred for you and your kin is ill-concealed.”
“Thank you for the warning,” Chrysaleon said, keeping his voice soft.
“When I see Aridela, I’ll tell her—”
“No,” Menoetius interrupted. “Don’t. Don’t tell her I’m here.”
The rope cracked. Men streaked over the track. It didn’t take long to see who would win. Dendrites, a prince from Crete’s western city of Tarrha, and Harpalycus of Tiryns.
Menoetius uttered a vile curse.
“You fret like a mother,” Chrysaleon said, but inside, began to prepare for a deadly confrontation.
Amid the cheering and confusion, Isandros turned to Chrysaleon and said, “Good fortune to you, my lord. Just remember, the farther you go the harder become the trials.”
“I’ll remember,” Chrysaleon said.
Isandros cuffed Menoetius on the shoulder and grinned. “I hope I will see you again before you leave. I want to hear the story of your battle. You must be a great warrior, to survive such wounds.”
Menoetius said nothing, but Chrysaleon saw him swallow. Isandros ran back to his friends in the stands.
“The men here resemble women,” Chrysaleon said. “No wonder Princess Aridela gave me her heart so quickly, along with her body. It was the easiest conquest I’ve ever had.”
Because he was looking for it, he caught the almost imperceptible stiffening, the flash and narrowing of his brother’s eyes, the sudden dilation of his nostrils. Ah, now everything made sense. Chrysaleon understood the moodiness, the sullen restlessness, and the unexpected fight his brother put up in the cave.
“You haven’t yet won.” Menoetius’s lips were white, his words chopped. “The final champion will be the man who puts Zagreus in the ground.”
“And becomes Zagreus in his stead.” Chrysaleon glanced toward the lodge. The bull-king stared at the
field of competitors, his expression unreadable. “It was his choice.”
“Or the will of the Goddess.”
* * * *
The council decided Chrysaleon should wrestle Harpalycus, as they were both foreigners and of similar build. Lycus and Dendrites were fairly matched as well, Dendrites being slightly taller and heavier.
The people screamed encouragement to Lycus and Dendrites, their Cretan heroes. The men returned waves and grinned at women who professed undying love. Catching a skin someone threw him, Dendrites held it high; scarlet wine streamed into his mouth and over his chin. He exuded confidence; so did Lycus, who also enjoyed an abundance of slavering attention from the females in the stands. When Chrysaleon heard repeated shouts of Bull Dancer, he realized the scars on the man’s torso must be old wounds from the ring.
The sun came out, throwing a dazzling glow against jewels, polished bronze and bright pennants.
Harpalycus glared at him but said nothing as his slave rubbed oil over his skin to make him slippery.
Again the rope cracked. Chrysaleon stepped away from Menoetius, giving his opponent a challenging glare.
The screaming intensified as Lycus and Dendrites engaged. Dendrites threw Lycus and joined him on the ground. He caught Lycus’s flailing arms and yanked them behind his head. Chrysaleon had heard there were no rules of fair play in this wrestling. Brute force alone, or ruthless trickery, would win the day.
Harpalycus grinned. “When you lose to me, prince, will you blame the wound I left in you?”
“You barely broke the skin,” Chrysaleon said.
“Good. I need no advantage.” As he spoke, he dove into Chrysaleon’s legs, knocking him hard to the ground, trying to crush him, or at least break a few bones.
People on the sidelines booed.
Chrysaleon’s hands slipped in the oil on Harpalycus’s skin, yet he managed to flip onto his side and dislodge his foe.
The Year-god's Daughter: A Saga of Ancient Greece (The Child of the Erinyes Book 1) Page 30
