In the Moon of Asterion

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “Are you certain you’ve made the right choice?” Menoetius swiped at the blood on his cheek. “I may be more eager to kill you than any Cretan on this island, given the chance.”

  Chrysaleon almost trembled in the throes of his rage. He wanted to reveal what their father had said on his deathbed. How satisfying it would be to bruise Menoetius with Idómeneus’s final words disinheriting the bastard while giving his true and rightful son permission to kill him. Cunning strategy, Alexiare had said. It’s the only way. He’d expressed doubt that Chrysaleon could control his impulses long enough to follow a delicate and complex plan.

  As they stared at each other, bristling like feral animals, Chrysaleon suddenly realized his brother had tricked him. From the instant Menoetius joined him on this plain, everything he’d said had been a ploy to ferret out his plan. Why else would he give a show of support, then, when he’d received every tidbit he thought he would get, inform Chrysaleon he was abandoning him to whatever design the Fates might weave?

  He needed to make Menoetius feel he had a say, that he had power. The bastard must believe it would, in the end, be up to him, that he would make the choice to either save Chrysaleon or kill him.

  “It’s true.” Forcing a smile, Chrysaleon said quietly, “I have not yet conceived a real plan. I named you my cabal hoping it may help when the time comes, that’s all. I need you, my brother. You’re the only man on Crete I can trust. I ask you to do this for me. You and I will work together. Together we will find a way to overcome the sacrifice that doesn’t involve invasion or slaughter. I know you care about these people, as do I. I don’t want to harm anyone. When we’ve succeeded, I swear I will outfit a ship for your use and you may go anywhere you like. What is a few more months? Surely you can give me that.”

  Menoetius’s inner struggle played across his face— loyalty fighting anger and distrust, and something else, something not so easy to read. It almost seemed like regret. Chrysaleon waited, hoping his mollifying tone would make Menoetius believe he’d triumphed in their little clash of words.

  “As you wish,” Menoetius said finally.

  At last, things were clear. Chrysaleon would feel no guilt. He would pull this thorn from his flesh and squash it underfoot. He would be free of that which had goaded him from birth.

  He gave Menoetius a friendly cuff on the bicep. “And,” he said, “if I fail to come up with a way to succeed, then you may have the joy of killing me.”

  Menoetius flushed.

  Chrysaleon laughed and went off, whistling to the eagle.

  Lady Mother, can you forgive?

  Nephele, who asked to serve me after Laodámeia’s death, doesn’t understand. She weeps, frightened of the terrible calamity she believes I have foreseen, but I cannot tell her this secret. I’m too ashamed.

  No one stays with me now but Io, my serpent. She won’t let me touch her. Can she not see how wretched I am? She has no pity, she who also dedicated her untouched womb to Goddess Athene… and has not broken her vow.

  I allowed the Zagreus of Kaphtor, our holy bull-king, to lie with me, to spirit away what was claimed at my birth by Goddess Athene. To use it for his own pleasure.

  I feel my longing for him even as I write these words.

  I understand.

  The Lady sees through my lies. Though I may kneel until I am a white-haired crone, this need I cannot quell is my truth. There is no genuine remorse within me. I tremble for him even as I weep before my Goddess in shame.

  No wonder she will not appear or send me a sign.

  Chrysaleon followed Alexiare into the palace’s lower passageways. “All of Knossos is buzzing about this. The moon waxes, and there is still no sign of her. Could she be dead?”

  “No, my lord. The queen would know of an event so tragic, and she would tell you.”

  “The seer of Sparta said nothing of this uproar.” Chrysaleon scowled. “What if Themiste confesses what she’s done?”

  “The holy oracle’s womb is dedicated to the Goddess. If she admits her crime, the queen will be forced to cast her out, or worse. There’s much for Themiste, and Kaphtor, to lose. I doubt she’ll confess.”

  They fell silent as they traveled deeper into the underground tunnels. “Are you sure this is the way?” Chrysaleon asked at last.

  “I marked it well.”

  Their lamps illuminated only a meager circle around them.

  “Why does Crete’s revered priestess hide herself down here in this tomb?”

  “She used to have chambers on the other side of the palace, but they were destroyed, along with, I hear, many irreplaceable tablets.” Alexiare peered around, frowning. After some time he murmured, “Ah yes,” and resumed walking. “I believe she prefers the underground. She’s accustomed to it, I suppose. And she cherishes her solitude.” After they’d walked several more steps, he added, “Guilt could be causing this withdrawal.”

  Chrysaleon rubbed his temples. “I’m the one who tricked her. Do you think I suffer no guilt?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t like the means of escaping your vow. It may not be too late to change the path you’ve chosen. Ask Themiste’s forgiveness. Accept whatever punishment will appease Goddess Athene.”

  “She may already carry my child.”

  With a sly glance, Alexiare said, “That’s unlikely. It was only once, was it not, my lord?”

  Chrysaleon stopped and faced his slave. “Toy with me, old man, but I believe I will take the advice you give in jest. I’ll tell her we made a mistake. I’ll pray to the Lady for forgiveness, and ask for Themiste’s as well. I’ll undergo the blood cleansing. I would rather die in their sacrifice than live this lie.”

  Alexiare’s doubts were betrayed by the slightest lift of one brow.

  At length they came to the innocuous wooden door leading into Themiste’s chambers. Alexiare stepped into the shadows while Chrysaleon rapped.

  “I cannot see you, Nephele,” a weary voice said. “Leave me in peace.”

  “It is Chrysaleon,” he said.

  After a long silence, the door opened a little. “Go away.” Her voice was muffled.

  “You have to speak to me, Themiste.”

  With a protesting squeak, the door opened farther. Chrysaleon’s lamp illuminated her pale, tired face, tangled hair and shapeless robe.

  He crowded into the room, closed the door behind him, and set his lamp on the floor.

  “Themiste.” He seized her hands, which trembled almost violently within his. “I ask your forgiveness.” He fell to his knees. “You have given Potnia Athene your whole life. She won’t turn away because of one crime I alone forced upon you.”

  She made no reply. Her breathing was shallow.

  He stood and led her to the edge of the pit. “We’ll pray. I will make sacrifices. I’ll do whatever is necessary to pacify the Lady.”

  Themiste stared at him. Dark circles and signs of weeping made the skin around her eyes look bruised and swollen.

  “Forgive me, Minos,” he said, struck by her misery.

  “How do you know that title? Did some careless child tell you?”

  “It was Aridela’s father,” he returned, not wanting to betray Alexiare. “Damasen. Remember? From my death dream.”

  Her expression turned awed and frightened.

  “Come.” He lit the censers. Sweet smelling smoke drifted as he knelt and pulled her down beside him.

  He closed his eyes, yet could think of no prayer to soothe the outrage of the Goddess he’d betrayed.

  Themiste’s scent brought back the memory of their union in vivid detail. He stole a sideways glance at her profile. Though she’d been inexperienced, she had pleasured him lustfully, without shyness or inhibition, three times.

  Her lips moved. She struck her throat then her breast. Fresh tears sparkled on her downcast lashes. Even thin and disheveled, she was beyond compare.

  Chrysaleon caught her hand, not knowing what he wanted, other than to touch her.

  She opened her
eyes. There was fear in them. Pulling her hand free, she leaped to her feet and backed away, wadding the front of her tunic in her fists.

  Consuming, greedy desire erupted. A lifetime’s acquiescence to his appetites took over. Jumping up, he stalked toward her. She turned to run but he caught her before she’d taken two steps. He yanked her around to face him, grasped handfuls of her hair to immobilize her, and crushed her mouth beneath his.

  A sob escaped from deep within her throat. She pulled him closer, digging her fingernails into his flesh.

  He forced her backward until the wall stopped them. Seizing the neck of her robe, he rent it in half and flung it aside. He lifted her, pinioning her against the wall. Her thighs crept around his hips; her arms slipped around his neck. She closed her eyes and released a primal sigh.

  The tips of her breasts were sweet as honey in his mouth. He no longer cared about Goddess Athene’s anger.

  Themiste held his head close. Her thighs did the same, as though she wanted to merge their bodies into one.

  Almost as soon as he entered her, unbearable spasms convulsed his body. Through blinding culmination he remembered the same thing happening the night of the Destruction, with Aridela. The memory roused a shiver of dread, as it would be forever linked in his mind with what came right after. What consequence might descend this time?

  He looked up at her face. A shaft of light from somewhere behind him struck her forehead, illuminating her tattoo, the mark of her sanctity.

  She slumped against him and began to weep.

  They slid to the floor. He felt her heartbeat pummeling. Helpless, almost paralyzed, he lay, both awed and horrified, glimpsing the fulfillment of something bigger than he could understand.

  “Poseidon Earth Shaker,” he whispered. “You did this.”

  He fancied he heard soft laughter echo in his head.

  Aridela watched her consort whittle a horse out of a chunk of soft pine. Resin-scented shavings floated over his lap and onto the grass as the horse, with arched neck and open mouth, took shape.

  Sunlight and relaxation made demands that couldn’t be ignored, much as she might want to. She gave in and lay back, closing her eyes against the welcome glare, reveling in a delicious scent of ripened grass and the seductive sense of nature renewing itself. This glorious warmth made it easier to dismiss the frost of just three days ago. Though they had entered the Moon of Fertile Willows and the time was long past when any freeze had ever struck their temperate island, this year, frosts continued to inflict sudden, swift damage, making today’s mildness a thing to treasure.

  She and Chrysaleon had fulfilled the morning’s requirements then slipped away to the nearby apple grove. They’d lazed in the grass beneath luscious white blooms ever since, listening to breezes ripple among the blossoms and laughing over how many at the palace must be searching for them.

  Most of these delicate trees were dead. It had taken laborers many days to chop down the withered skeletons and drag them away to be burned. But there was a pocket of survivors, exactly seven— a holy number— which had somehow, inexplicably, emerged triumphant from the stagger of the earth, poison gases, suffocating clouds of ash and black frosts even though all around, their companions expired. These seven trees were granted almost sacred reverence. People made pilgrimage to marvel and admire, to pray and leave offerings. There was much concern when they didn’t bloom as expected, but they were not dead. A full two months later than normal, they put forth blossoms, causing widespread celebration. It was a wondrous sign.

  Here, in this peaceful green glade, Aridela could briefly forget everything that had happened. She could put aside the duties and burdens that had, of late, been relentless. She and the Zagreus had begun falling into bed so exhausted they shared no more than a kiss or two, reminiscent of older couples who cherished rest more than lovemaking.

  Finding that she couldn’t fall asleep after all, she shaded her eyes from the sun and admired Chrysaleon’s loose, bright hair. How she would love to weave little plaits through it as she and Neoma had enjoyed doing to each other, back when life held seemingly endless pleasure and complacency. Knowing he would never stand for such a thing, she instead caught his little finger and pulled his hand to her stomach. “Soon we will feel our daughter move,” she said.

  He dropped the knife and carving to stretch out beside her. “I want sons as well. I want many children with you.”

  “An exquisite dream.” She sighed. “Daughters and sons.” She paused, fearful of saying it, then allowed the confession in a small voice. “I want that too.” If only it were possible.

  The breeze loosened a blossom above them. It floated down, landing on Chrysaleon’s head like a large snowflake. Aridela giggled. Troubles and anxiety fled, leaving them in a cocoon of intimacy. Not even their attendants, sitting at a discreet distance with their backs turned, could detract from the hushed, perfect harmony.

  “We should return to the palace,” Chrysaleon said at last. Yet he sighed and plucked a stem of wild grass, chewing one end and pillowing his head on one arm as though settling in for the remainder of the day.

  “How I wish we could have more than these pilfered reprieves.”

  “Aridela….” Chrysaleon stroked her cheek with the tufted end of the grass.

  “What is it? Something’s wrong.” The grass tickled; she pushed it away.

  “Remember when I was Harpalycus’s prisoner? Your father came to me in vision. He spoke to me at great length, of many things.”

  “Yes.” She smiled, proud and gratified that Damasen was taking an interest in her consort’s welfare.

  “He spoke of the king-sacrifices.”

  Her smile dissipated as the intensity of his gaze warned her. She sat up.

  Chrysaleon sat up too. “He said they must end.”

  Rubbing her arms, Aridela rose and stepped away, out of the charismatic circle that surrounded him and prevented her from thinking clearly. “If only it could be.”

  He came up behind her, pulling her to his chest, lifting her hair and placing a kiss beneath her ear. “I care nothing for myself,” he said. “Your father claimed the king-sacrifice was never what Athene intended. Men and women were created as a complement, like the stars in the heavens. We should sacrifice slaves instead— they’re easily replaced. Hundreds, if that’s what it takes to make the Lady happy.”

  She faced him and laced her fingers through his. “The sacrifice of the king is a complement,” she said. “Woman bears man. Man fructifies the crops. It has been so from the beginning. As Velchanos languishes in the killing heat and rises again with the winter rains, so must our consort. It’s his duty to follow in the steps of the god. Athene gave her beloved son. Can we do any less?”

  “Man is only man. He cannot rise again.”

  “But he does. He returns as serpent or crow, to tell the oracles. He might return as the north wind, to make women and beasts fertile. He comes back as a child, when a woman takes in his spirit with her food. His blood renews the land. Never have we needed this sacred gift more. If we betray the way, we also betray her, ourselves, and our children.”

  “Your people and mine share a word— moera. It’s man’s share, his portion of fate. The destiny he must serve. Mine isn’t to die in your labyrinth. I am Mycenaean.”

  “You accepted that destiny. You fought for it. You gave up Mycenae and became one of us, our Zagreus.” Shock and anger flooded, then agony at what duty forced her to say. Would he try, now, to escape his fate, when he’d had so many chances to abandon it before? “We have a word too. Khalada. Eternal. It is used only for our bull-kings— nothing else. Ever.”

  “You will make no protest when Menoetius kills me?” He, too, looked angry.

  “Why do you hold him here?” Her voice broke. His words stabbed her like knife blades. “Why did you choose him as your cabal? Why did he agree? I don’t understand.”

  “You cannot understand why I would want my brother, he who has been by my side my whole life
? You think it would be better for a stranger to cleave me with your axe?”

  She drew in a shaking breath. “Chrysaleon, if you will not honor your vow, the Lady’s wrath will descend again— worse, possibly, than before. Perhaps this time we’ll vanish into the ocean like Callisti. Our achievements will be obliterated. Only you can save us.”

  He pulled his hands free. “I’ve done everything you wanted. I gave up asking you to leave this place and follow me to Mycenae. My brother Gelanor sits on the throne there. I put your Lady above the Father of Horses, though my life was dedicated to him when I was a boy. I coupled with you in the presence of every humble peasant, every child on this island. No other man would have done as much.”

  “Every bull-king gives up his name and home. Every bull-king couples with the queen before the people, and considers himself venerated beyond measure. You came to us. We did not beg at Mycenae’s gate for a consort. We refused you because of our differences— it was you who insisted, again and again.”

  He had never looked at her like this. Pierced by such anger, she faltered and stepped back.

  “Have you forgotten the day at the bullring?” He spoke almost gently, though there was underlying ice. “I have not. ‘Carry the day and become my sister’s consort.’ And I did— because you asked me to.”

  At last she knew, beyond any doubt. He would not have entered the Games but for her. The wounds he suffered in that terrible struggle were her doing. Now she would put him to death and obediently, because every queen before her had done so, she would take Menoetius to her bed for a year. Then Menoetius would die.

  And on… and on… and on for as long as she lived.

  She stared into his eyes and he stared back. She opened her mouth to defend herself. I never said you wouldn’t have to fulfill the bull-king’s obligation.

  But she couldn’t say it. All she wanted to do was beg his forgiveness, give her promise that she would find a way to save him. Whatever she had to do, she would, though she herself would be put to death for it.