In the Moon of Asterion

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Only then did Chrysaleon smile. It was his first in many days. Alexiare’s exultation soared. The time was ripe for change. People drank in his suggestions like honeyed milk. They were more than willing to see the king-sacrifice end, as long as it didn’t anger Athene or wake the Earth Bull.

  Alexiare returned to the Knossos marketplaces, eager to hear how his carefully crafted gossip was affecting people. Many bewailed their hero’s upcoming death. He lingered near one of the wells, where he could eavesdrop on the common women who gathered there every day. It was easy to listen. No one ever paid a bent old man any mind.

  “What of the cabal?”

  “The Beast, you mean?”

  “Is it really true? Has he been… changed?”

  “The Lady did it— a just curse and punishment for attacking our Zagreus.”

  “My daughter heard him bellowing one night. She was terrified.”

  “The council decided to spare his life. He’ll still perform his sacred duty.”

  “Asterion won’t die?”

  “The Zagreus himself requested leniency.”

  The women shook their heads and clucked.

  “Queen Aridela’s dearest friend grows heavy with the Beast’s child and begged her to intercede.”

  Amid a flurry of fingers making the sign against evil, someone breathed, “She will give birth to a monster!”

  “My sister is handmaid to the queen’s cousin. She said the consort loves his brother too much to see him put to death, though it’s surely what he deserves.”

  “Do you think the Solemn Ones drove Prince Menoetius to such an act?”

  “And now they punish him….”

  This was far more frightening than the Goddess’s levied discipline. All the women made swift signs against evil and murmured prayers to ward off the attention of the unspeakable Erinyes.

  “They don’t plague mortals over any transgression,” one gray-haired woman said. “Who did Asterion outrage?”

  “All the gods,” Alexiare volunteered. “He is cursed beyond any mortal.”

  The women stared at him, doubting yet fearful.

  Prince Gelanor arrived at the head of a massive naval convoy. The fleet’s sails, adorned with images of open-jawed lions, made a powerful impression as they snapped in the wind and caught the glint of the evening sun.

  Alexiare heard unhappy conversations about how Mycenae now exceeded Crete in riches and might, and how High King Chrysaleon could no doubt overthrow Kaphtor. Yet he held back his warriors and consented to his doom at the Lady’s hand.

  He turned away, grinning as one woman, then her two daughters, burst into dramatic, heartrending sobs.

  Gelanor and the Mycenaean counselors, barons, and retinue traveled in bronze-trimmed chariots to Labyrinthos. Their somber expressions suggested no approval of their king’s decision to stand by his death-vow.

  At the bull-king’s final feast, Chrysaleon was given the queen’s throne. Aridela sat in a smaller chair next to him.

  Keeping to the shadows behind the throne, Alexiare was able to listen to the conversations of royalty without being noticed. When he saw the queen lean in to Gelanor, he crept closer.

  “My lord,” she said. “I hardly know what to say to you. I can only imagine how you feel.”

  Gelanor inclined his head. “My brother should be rewarded for what he, and my people, have done to help you. Chrysaleon himself is the only one keeping us from going to war.”

  Alexiare nodded, impressed at the strength in young Gelanor’s voice and manner, and the bluntness in his speech. Who knew how this might aid Chrysaleon’s cause? It certainly seemed to add to the queen’s guilt.

  “Forgive us,” Aridela whispered. She put her hand over his and kissed his cheek. “I am trapped, as is Chrysaleon. I have tried—” she stopped, shaking her head. Tears spilled from her eyes. “I cannot say it, for fear of what might happen.”

  “I know you don’t want this,” Gelanor said. “Then why? You are queen of these people. Why can you not do something?”

  Chrysaleon broke in. “It is the council who wields the power on Crete, not the queen,” he said. “And even more, it is the Destruction. No one, from queen to poorest peasant, wants to draw the fires and ash. You don’t know what it was like, my brother.”

  Their high priestess, Themiste, interrupted this exchange by entering the chamber and making her way to the queen’s table. Aridela rose to greet and embrace the oracle, who had slowly recovered from her illness at the mead-making rite. During the ensuing forty days, she had remained cloistered in her mountain shrine, refusing to see anyone. Tonight was the first time she’d left her self-imposed seclusion. Alexiare perused her, but saw no sign of her pregnancy, and could only hope she hadn’t ended it somehow.

  He remained hidden behind the Zagreus, observing Crete’s holy oracle as he considered the words she’d spoken in her smoke-induced trance, her threats of devastation, sorrow, war, and punishment.

  Even as prophecies went, the one Themiste spoke was difficult. It sparked in him a niggling unease.

  Aridela moved so she could sit next to Themiste at the end of the table, leaving Gelanor and Chrysaleon to talk in relative privacy.

  Chrysaleon drank too much. His eyes glittered. He swayed and slurred. Alexiare willed his master to show some control. Did the young fool not realize he had to keep his wits, now more than ever? Yet right after, the slave lost all coherent thought as he imagined touching Chrysaleon’s cheek and receiving an ardent caress in return, though he well knew such a thing could never happen unless Chrysaleon was drunk beyond reason.

  At last the bard finished his long tale of Kaphtor’s victory over Harpalycus and the part Chrysaleon played. Banging their cups, the grim-faced Mycenaean nobles cheered… and muttered.

  Alexiare moved as close as he could to the queen and Themiste, counting on his status as a slave to keep him invisible.

  “My friend.” Aridela rested her hand on the oracle’s arm. “I must ask something of you, something monumental.”

  Themiste blinked. She clutched the curled tendril of hair in front of her ear and pulled on it. “Yes?” Her voice was like a faint exhale, quick and breathless.

  “Chrysaleon and I want to give your child the veneration she deserves. Such a holy gift from Athene should be properly recognized.”

  Alexiare’s throat closed in sympathy at the startled terror that flashed across Themiste’s face. “G-gift…?”

  Aridela squeezed the oracle’s hand. “I have loved you like a sister. Like a second mother. I would do anything for you.”

  “I know.” Themiste’s gaze faltered and fell. Her face turned alternately white and red.

  “Though I pray and make offerings, I have not conceived. Chrysaleon and I have tried so hard, yet nothing.”

  Themiste covered Aridela’s hand with her own.

  “I beg you don’t think me heartless or selfish,” Aridela continued. “If you have a daughter as the omens suggest, I want to name her my heir and Chrysaleon her mortal father. This child is a wonder— of course the true father is a god, perhaps Velchanos, or there may be no father at all. We will never attempt to hide that. But we can give her power and glory, and she will inherit the country. Your child will be queen.” She paused. “I don’t know if Chrysaleon’s seed won’t live, or my womb won’t bear. Perhaps something happened to me after I lost this last baby. My most ardent wish is for a child I can call his, and now, unless I’ve conceived in the last few days, it’s too late for us.”

  Themiste blushed as her gaze left Aridela’s and met the consort’s. They stared at each other while Alexiare cringed and worried his drunken prince would give away their secrets.

  “Yes,” she said at last. “Surely Goddess Athene placed this child inside me to carry for you. When she is born, I will place her into your hands. I pray that with her birth, an era of prosperity will begin, even as our new crops blossom.”

  Alexiare sensed her grateful relief. She actually smile
d. Chrysaleon had upended the woman’s life. She had vowed to remain untouched by man and she’d guided the citizens of Kaphtor, enjoying unquestioned awe and respect. Now she was forced into reluctant collusion with the barbarian, and had to lie— not just to Aridela but all the people. Twinges of guilt plagued him as the oracle lifted one thin hand and pulled again at her hair, a nervous gesture he’d never noticed before. Perhaps she could convince herself that this was Athene’s intent all along, and she had only done what was necessary. He hoped so.

  “Our brave year-king gives everything he has,” Themiste said. Tears flowed from her eyes and Aridela’s too. “But Velchanos always rises, renewed 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.” She stumbled over the last part. She and Aridela embraced.

  Chrysaleon’s fists struck the table so hard the crockery clattered. “We are moved like playthings to the whim of the Immortals. No matter what we want, they have their unfathomable way.”

  Themiste flushed, but Aridela rose and went to him. She put her arms around his neck, kissing him repeatedly. “That is as it should be,” she said. “Be easy, my love. I am with you.”

  Alexiare slipped from the room, stealing through deserted corridors and down gloomy stairwells, for nothing but the slightest crescent of a moon remained in the sky. At length he came to the underground shrine.

  Faint lamp glow illuminated the chamber. Alexiare stifled a shiver as he approached the silent, looming goddess pillar, flanked on either side with six-foot cypress poles topped with double-axes, and over a thousand years of blood at the base. Beyond the pillar was the image of Athene, carved who knew how long ago? The delicate wood had turned black with age and smoke but she was still beautiful, and seemed to stare at him without surprise.

  Lingering musky incense hung in the air.

  Seven years ago, in this very chamber, the child-princess Aridela would have died if not for Menoetius. Alexiare remembered fearing that the king of Mycenae’s son would be put to death and war would come to Crete. Instead the bastard had been lauded and praised for his singular role in saving her life.

  Now he was again imprisoned in their labyrinth. ‘The Beast,’ he was called, and his life-thread was nearly unraveled.

  “Forgive me, Mistress.” Alexiare picked up the holy labrys from its stand and by the light of a clay lamp, unwound the leather strapping on the handle, exposing pale virgin wood. He set to work making deep narrow cuts with a fine craft saw. When finished, he filled the incisions with softened beeswax and smoothed the edges. He shortened the leather strap and abraded the underside until it was thin and fragile, and would easily snap. Then he carefully retwined it, taking his time so his interference would be undetectable.

  He replaced the axe in its stand and bowed to Athene’s image. “My king will make a fine ruler, Lady. He will give his best to you and his home country. How can he do this, if he is dead?” Stretching out his arms, palms up, he sent his mind into deep contemplation. “If you are angry, send me a sign, and I will undo all I have done.”

  Nothing happened. The earth didn’t shake. There was no whisper of thunder, no warning call from raven or owl. The lamps didn’t even flicker.

  He gave another respectful bow and left, pondering the ways he could slip a debilitating amount of poppy into Menoetius’s wine. For he knew, though he was wise enough to keep it to himself, that Menoetius was the better combatant, and would defeat Chrysaleon unless extraordinary measures were taken.

  As he’d done a year ago, Chrysaleon entered into seclusion to prepare for his battle, alone but for a trio of handmaids who would wait upon him and see to it he had no food and only the prescribed amount of water. No handmaid could be persuaded to attend Asterion in his labyrinthine prison, so all he had was Selene.

  Aridela went into seclusion as well, too grief-stricken to bear the company of anyone. The future could no longer be postponed, denied, or ignored. Next time she saw Chrysaleon, he would die.

  She wept until no more tears flowed. Then she lay, staring at the wall. Fed by her despair, the shadows that once sought to engulf her during her month in the mountain cave leaped up with revived energy.

  One hand pressed to her stomach kept alive her grief for the baby who might have anchored her and returned some happiness. Now there was nothing. No reason to continue. She didn’t possess Helice’s strength, and could not pretend she did. Not even the knowledge that Menoetius would be pardoned after he fulfilled his deadly obligation could lessen her misery.

  Deep in the stillness of her second sleepless night, she thought she smelled ashes, just a whiff then it was gone, but it sent her thoughts back to what happened in the clearing on Mount Juktas. The smell of the man, the threat he exuded, the panic he caused. She felt as though someone was in her chamber, hidden by darkness yet staring at her, and she came up out of bed with a cry that brought her handmaid running. The girl lit lamps and searched every corner but of course she found nothing.

  When Aridela remembered the comfort Chrysaleon’s slave provided after her miscarriage, she sent for him. It seemed to her Alexiare was the only one who could understand her agony. Perhaps they could suffer together over what was coming. He arrived promptly, coaxed her onto her balcony, and sat beside her like a devoted dog, respecting her need for silence yet somehow lending her solace simply by being there.

  It was little surprise that at some point she would confide in him about what happened on Mount Juktas. He’d always been gentle, he seemed to truly care about her, and moreover, he was extremely intelligent.

  She related the incident as best she could remember it, and was shocked at the intensity of his interest.

  “Call Kaphtor’s warriors out for inspection,” he said. “I will help you. We will search until this man is found. He is dangerous, my lady. I find it hard to believe nothing has been done about this before now.”

  She shrugged, giving an embarrassed laugh. “No doubt because I claimed he was Harpalycus. Everyone knows that cannot be, so they dismissed it as a bad dream.”

  “He could be one of Harpalycus’s men, though, who managed to hide from us. Did no one think of that?”

  This made so much sense she thought perhaps she wasn’t being persecuted by the Erinyes or descending into a frightening sickness of the mind after all.

  She gave the order.

  Alexiare hobbled along with her as she came out of the palace. Her soldiers stood in precise lines, dressed in polished battle gear.

  Each one inclined his head or went down on one knee as she passed, searching for the one face she never saw.

  “He isn’t here,” she said after the last man was perused.

  “Not here, perhaps,” said Alexiare, “but that doesn’t mean he isn’t on Kaphtor. These are only the soldiers and guards of Knossos and the palace. He could be anywhere by now.” His aggravation was clear to see.

  The general who walked with them asked her who or what she was seeking. She gave him a description, at which point he frowned. “That could be one of my men— a troublemaker called Duripi, but unfortunately he was found dead yesterday, my lady, in one of the back alleys in the city. He had many enemies.”

  Alexiare insisted on seeing the body.

  “I warn you,” the general said, “it is badly decayed.”

  The putrefaction and smell was so severe Aridela had to keep her nose and mouth covered with a swatch of perfumed linen.

  A pinkish, stinking, gelatinous substance covered the body and seemed to be rapidly decomposing it into liquid. Even as she gazed upon it, a finger fell off the hand and disintegrated into formless goo.

  Hadn’t she glimpsed a similar secretion oozing from Harpalycus’s sliced throat the day she’d killed him? She couldn’t be certain. Her memory of that event had never been easy to recall, no doubt because she’d been only half-conscious, and nearly blinded by his blood.

  Alexiare did
n’t seem repelled by the stench or horrific moldering. He examined the corpse with great interest, even squishing the goo between his fingers. He nodded when Aridela said she thought it was the man who had terrorized her in the mountain clearing.

  “There will be no way to find him now,” Alexiare said, “unless he wants us to.”

  “What?” Aridela said, startled out of hypnotized revulsion by this unfathomable statement.

  “Forgive me, my lady.” He dismissively waved away his comment. “It appears your tormentor is gone, and can no longer bother you.”

  “Yes, thank you for helping me,” she said, and gave him leave to go rest. He did look tired. His eyes were shadowed, and his wrinkles seemed deeper. No doubt he was as grief-stricken as she at the imminent loss of his master. She watched him limp away. No way to find him now unless he wants us to.

  She had great affection for Chrysaleon’s old slave, but he really was odd at times.

  Chrysaleon rose from the bath. Two doe-eyed priestesses patted him dry then intoned the holy words as they waved branches heavy with oak leaves.

  Our brave year-king gives everything he has. 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.

  They painted his eyelids and drew bold scarlet serpents across his back and chest. As they bound his hair, praising it for its uncommon color and softness, they brushed against him, their fingers creeping between his legs to make him erect and powerful.

  The third priestess offered him wine and bread. Chrysaleon was monstrously hungry after three days of fasting, but he would never forget how their concoctions had nearly unmanned him at the last great sacrifice, and curtly refused.