They dressed him in a white loincloth and bronze-studded belt. A lion skin was arranged over his shoulders, and a heavy gold circlet carved with holy designs placed on his head.
“Where is my cabal?” he asked.
“Being purified,” the youngest priestess replied.
He knew better than to believe Alexiare’s naïve claims that Menoetius would sacrifice himself rather than kill his brother. Alexiare was an old man. He had long ago forgotten how the blood could rage over a woman. Besides, too many unforgotten, unforgiven harms had built up through the years.
Menoetius would kill him if he could, and that made dulling his senses with poppy necessary. The reluctant debt birthed from the lioness attack had vanished. Aridela had decimated it with her smile, her black eyes and warrior’s body, her courage, her willingness to love, her devotion to the people of Kaphtor, her fierce loyalty. Menoetius must have surrendered his heart even as he had, that day they’d hidden in the forest and watched her swim with her companions in the pool on Mount Ida.
It was hard to hate his brother for sharing this particular weakness, yet somehow, at the same time, it fanned his hatred to murderous explosive heat.
The heavy flap over the pavilion’s entrance was thrown back and in she walked, the object of his obsession. She waved to the maids. As they bowed their way out, she approached him, her gaze never leaving his.
He stiffened. His jaw clenched. Your eyes hold neither guilt nor sorrow, queen of Crete.
She placed one hand on his chest, spreading her fingers over the coiling serpents painted there.
“Do you dream of your next lover?” He ground his teeth, inwardly cursing. He hadn’t meant to say that. But the picture of Aridela, mating with Menoetius before the people of Crete, flashed through his mind with cruel and bitter clarity.
Her gaze didn’t waver. “My role bids me accept whatever male triumphs at the New Year. This man I invite into my bed. I cherish him above all others for the length of his days. Then his cabal comes to me, and after that, another.”
Chrysaleon stepped back from her, breathing hard, his fists clenching and the tic beneath his eye throbbing.
“I will never care for any of them,” she said. “No man will touch my heart, for you possess it, and will until the day of my death. Long years of loneliness will I live until the time I can again see you, and touch you.” Her eyes grew hauntingly dark and shadowed. “Chrysaleon of Mycenae,” she whispered.
Chrysaleon heard the truth in her words— saw it in the set of her lips and obsidian eyes. She would remember.
Neither had slept during their last night together. Chrysaleon refused to recognize the desperation behind her kisses, and almost managed to forget his grim future in the seductive opiate of her embraces.
They stared at each other as untold crowds gathered to witness and celebrate his death. More had come than ever before, drawn by the enticement of watching the sacred battle, pulled by the fear and anticipation of seeing the terrible bull-man of the labyrinth. The number of bystanders was augmented as well by loyal Mycenaeans and members of Boreas, the secret council dedicated to overthrowing Crete and all like places.
He trailed his fingers over her brows, her cheeks, chin, and throat, where he felt the rapid beat of her pulse.
“We will share the communion,” she said. “Your blood will flow with mine. Your heart will beat with my heart. You and I will be one.”
“For as long as you live, if you speak my name in the night, I will come.”
She clasped his hands. “Then, Zagreus of Kaphtor, I shall call you every night.”
By the time Chrysaleon arrived at the killing field, the heavens had succumbed to deepest black. Iakchos would soon rise above the mountain summits, the brightest light in the sky, for there was no moon to give challenge.
His priestess companions chanted to the low music of flutes and drums. Chrysaleon heard the intoxicating potions in their voices. They had chewed laurel leaves, and even now must be struggling against the primordial urge to fructify the earth with the supreme talisman of his lifeblood. If he failed to sway the people, his genitals would be placed in a ritual basket and carried to the sea in offering to the waters. The two priestesses who had bathed him might soon wash in his blood. He was glad he had refused their amorous invitations.
Tall torches, placed around the clearing, crackled as they spat uneasy light across the ground. A hush fell over the gathering when he stepped, unarmed, from the litter.
He felt nakedly defenseless. But perhaps he wasn’t. At the king’s feast, after returning from his clandestine errand, Alexiare had given him a reassuring nod and the faintest of smiles. Chrysaleon had dismembered that smile a thousand times over the last three days, hoping he’d read it right.
Prince Kios assisted Aridela from her litter. He continued to hold her elbow, a sign of respect she gave to both him and her dead mother. On her other side walked a richly attired Gelanor; his lanky height made her appear even smaller than she was. Following close behind this threesome were Themiste, Selene, Neoma, the rest of the council and other high-ranking women, and behind them marched the priests and priestesses, heads bowed, hands clasped.
Aridela stopped before Chrysaleon. Her face was a queen’s, expressionless and regal, but he neither wanted nor needed tears and hysteria. The words she’d spoken in private were enough. He returned her gaze as a king would, knowing his own people were watching, and when she turned away, he exchanged a sober glance and the slightest of nods with his brother.
Themiste offered him a bowl of wine. Again, barely suppressing a sneer, he refused.
A covered structure had been erected at the north edge of the oak clearing, bordered by torches both tall and short that bathed it in light. Seven steps led up to a platform, placing the occupants above the crowd and combatants. A high-backed throne sat in the center, leaving just enough space around it for several people to cluster. Ivy wound around the corner pillars and hung from the roof.
Torchlight revealed images of the labrys and holy knots carved into the surface of a stone column, which rose from the ground directly beneath the throne. The priestesses had explained it to Chrysaleon, so he knew it for what it was, a powerful, ancient, mysterious symbol, representing the passage between life and death.
Aridela climbed the steps and sat upon her throne, taking on the guise of Goddess-of-Death-in-Life. Gelanor stood to her left, Prince Kios to the right, while Themiste and Selene fell in behind. A drummer boy sat in front of them, his bare legs dangling over the edge of the platform.
In a steady voice, the queen said, “Bring the cabal.”
Stillness fell. The crowd seemed to not even breathe in their excitement at glimpsing the Labyrinth Beast. Then a lone baby started to cry.
Three priestesses held Menoetius’s hands as they led him into the clearing. He wore a black loincloth with a scarlet tassel, and a boar’s skin over his shoulders. In his right hand he carried the ancient king-killer, the labrys-axe. Planting his feet unsteadily one after the other, he swayed, shook his head, and stared at the onlookers with a puzzled frown.
Alexiare had succeeded. Menoetius had been dosed with something. Probably poppy. Chrysaleon knew what signs to look for, having suffered a similar fate during his own struggle for kingship. Hopefully, no one else would notice.
Shuffling and whispered mutters rose from the onlookers. Most had never seen Menoetius. Many gasped. Some cried out in ridiculous artificial hysterics about his ghastly face. Women shuddered and drew their children close.
They saw what they wanted to see. A fearsome, inhuman beast. The devotion he’d enjoyed as Aridela’s twice-over savior was forgotten.
Lifting his face to the night sky, Chrysaleon sent out his prayer. Poseidon Earth-Shaker, Zeus of Thunderbolts. Gods who stamp great cities to dust. Here I stand, your loyal servant, High King of Mycenae, head of Boreas. Fill me with your strength. If you help me, I will destroy the ancient power of woman and bend her to our will.
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br /> Far to the west, he saw a glow of diffused lightning and heard the faintest rumble of thunder. He stretched out his arms in homage and brought his fists to his chest.
The drum echoed like a heartbeat. He likened it to Aridela’s, slow and even. Many times he had listened to that rhythmic sound as he rested his head between her breasts.
Menoetius raised the axe in both hands. His knuckles whitened on the handle. His eyes narrowed; the rise and fall of his chest gave away his shallow breathing.
No sound came from the crowd. This was the first king killing any had ever seen; they were awed and frightened. There was only a slight crackle of flames beneath the drumbeat, and the intermittent drone of cicadas.
The priestesses backed to the edge of the clearing, leaving Chrysaleon and Menoetius alone in the center.
“Remember the day we hunted lion?” Chrysaleon ripped off the lion pelt and threw it on the ground.
His opponent made no reply but his head twitched slightly.
“Boys,” Chrysaleon said. “Vowing brotherhood, wanting to risk our lives together. You bear the scars of the attack.”
“You killed her.” Menoetius’s voice was nearly as raw as Alexiare’s. “You threw yourself on her back with nothing but your dagger.”
Chrysaleon shrugged. “I would have died to save you.” The time has come for you to repay that debt, he left unsaid.
Menoetius swayed, awkwardly shaking his head as though trying to rid himself of the effects of the poppy. “I feel sick.” He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand then clawed at the neck of the boar’s skin, tearing at the clasp. The pelt slid to the ground behind him.
“I brought the cubs to the citadel,” Chrysaleon said.
“They became our father’s pets.” Menoetius lowered his arms. The axe dangled loosely from his hand. He squinted against the flickering torchlight then peered at Aridela on her throne. When he turned back, he was grimacing, the fury clear. “You have always wanted me dead, son of Idómeneus. But tonight, you’ll have to fight hard to get your wish.”
He leaped, raising the axe, aiming for Chrysaleon’s skull.
Chrysaleon bent at the knees, tensing to block the weapon on its descent.
Yet, as the blade curved downward, Menoetius paused, his arm inexplicably hesitating, giving Chrysaleon the opportunity to seize the ancient handle. Menoetius’s hands felt ice cold under his.
Their legs tangled as they fought for control. Chrysaleon dropped, pulling Menoetius down on top of him.
As the axe blade carved into the earth next to Chrysaleon’s ear, the head splintered free of the handle. A loud, hollow crack echoed through the silence.
Gasps and cries filtered through the crowd. Chrysaleon felt a wash of relief. Everything, so far, was proceeding as planned.
A confused frown darkened Menoetius’s face as he stared at the broken weapon. With a curse, he threw away the useless handle and fell on Chrysaleon, fighting for a stranglehold.
The two had wrestled countless times, but never had Chrysaleon experienced such desperate ferocity at his brother’s hands. Alexiare’s suggestion that Menoetius deliberately threw their matches to let Chrysaleon win was clearly true. It was also clear he had no intention of doing that now.
Could he overpower his brother, even with the added assistance of mind-numbing poppy? Twinges of doubt crept through him.
He grasped Menoetius’s wrists and jerked hard. At the same time his knee slammed into his brother’s groin.
Menoetius fell away, groaning, his eyes closed.
Chrysaleon scrambled on top of him, but, twisting to the side, Menoetius managed to unbalance his rival, just enough to break his hold.
Chrysaleon forgot their audience as the two sprawled, rose, slipped, and lurched. They battered each other’s faces until blood soaked the very air between them. Menoetius succeeded in looping his leg around Chrysaleon’s, yanking him off his feet. With uncharacteristic savagery, he twisted his brother’s arm as he fell. The bone cracked and Chrysaleon’s shoulder sprang out of joint.
Knowing his life depended on it, Chrysaleon used all the strength he could muster in his good arm to strike Menoetius in the chin. Menoetius’s head flew backward; his arms flailed. Chrysaleon pivoted, bringing his leg around in a powerful swing, and connected with the back of Menoetius’s knees. Menoetius crashed to the ground, striking his head hard. He lay there, eyes closed, gasping.
Chrysaleon released a hoarse groan as he shoved his dislocated shoulder back into its socket. For what seemed an eternity, he was blinded by jagged bolts of unstaunched agony. He bent over, swiped blood from his eyes, and panted, fighting to catch his breath as pain and hatred flowed in wave after shuddering wave.
Menoetius dragged himself to his feet. He staggered then collapsed onto one hand and vomited.
Chrysaleon waited just long enough for his brother to again rise. Before he could fully straighten, Chrysaleon took a deep breath, lowered his head like a bull’s, and charged, striking Menoetius in the stomach and knocking him flat.
Chrysaleon smashed his bastard brother in the face with his closed fist, once, twice, and a third time. The meticulously constructed plan almost evaporated beneath an irresistible need to crush every bone beyond recognition, but somehow, from somewhere, he found the will to stop, force himself off, to straighten, as best he could, to stand still and wait.
Menoetius lay unmoving, his arms and legs splayed. Blood spilled from his nose, eyebrow, and lip.
Chrysaleon peered at the crowd. No one spoke. Countless eyes stared at him. The boy with the drum faltered and glanced back at the queen.
Hippos Poseidon, he prayed. Bring the words. Make them believe.
Cretan guards ran into the clearing, their swords drawn, and prodded him to the base of Aridela’s platform.
She leaned forward as if about to stand. The only other signs of tension were her wide eyes, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, and her white-knuckled grip on the arms of the throne.
Gelanor remained calm and quiet, his arms crossed. Alexiare had obviously explained the plan to him.
“Kill him,” someone in the crowd shouted, and, in the next breath, a wild brawl erupted. Screams merged into a cacophony. Punches were thrown, hair pulled; smaller figures disappeared and were trampled. The horde undulated like a swarm of bees over the clearing, coming perilously close to Menoetius’s body.
A few individual shouts overcame the roar.
“Potnia will be angry!”
“Our crops will fail!”
“Athene cannot be defied!”
The palace guards jumped into the fray, slashing and hacking. Others clustered around the platform, pointing their blades toward the crowd.
Aridela removed her gaze from Chrysaleon. She stood. She walked to the edge. Looking out at the furious riot, she waited for the mob to roar itself into silence. Now that her initial shock was past, she appeared composed, resolute. Or maybe it was resignation he saw. Acceptance.
Gradually, the uproar burned out as people were wounded, beaten, or knocked down by the guards. Chrysaleon glimpsed his Mycenaeans scattered among the crowd, using intimidation to subdue those who were most volatile. Many stared up at Aridela; her stillness and silence seemed to exert an unconscious influence over them.
“Is Menoetius dead?” Aridela asked, when her voice could be heard.
“He lives.” Clenching his teeth against the pain, Chrysaleon yanked free of the two warriors who gripped his arms and stepped closer to her. “The cabal must live, to fulfill his sworn duty and take my place.”
He tried to read her expression. Was she remembering the day in the apple grove, when he asked her to stop the sacrifice? He couldn’t tell. Her eyes were impenetrable.
The nearest spectators hushed each other in order to hear. He waited until all was quiet, then he approached the mob, lifting his good arm. “I cannot die,” he said clearly. “I refuse the sacrifice.”
Angry murmuring instantly escalat
ed into shouts. Several in the crowd closed their fists and appeared ready to attack and kill him themselves. He hurried on, motioning for calm. “Many have heard of the vision I was given when Harpalycus of Tiryns invaded your country. While I lay near death, I spoke to one of your bull-kings— Damasen.” He swept his arm toward Aridela. “Queen Aridela’s father.”
Blanketing silence descended as curiosity overcame rage.
“That gossip is true. He told me to serve as your king for the term of a great year. I didn’t understand, being only a man, never initiated into the Mysteries. When I recovered, I asked Themiste what it meant.”
He waited again, prolonging the suspense. An owl hooted in the distance. Taking a few steps toward the platform, he gestured to Themiste, who had come forward to stand beside Aridela, her hand on the queen’s shoulder. “Tell them what you told me.”
She looked to Aridela, who nodded. “The sun and moon come into alignment every one hundred months,” she said. “Initiates call this holy phase the thinara, a great year.”
Gasps swam through the crowd. Conjecture flurried like an auguring wind.
Chrysaleon raised his voice. “When I traveled to Mycenae to claim my throne, I consulted the holy oracle, as is the custom of the new king. She spoke the same words to me. ‘Rule,’ she said, ‘until the sun and moon shift into perfect alignment.’” He paused to lift his chin, stating with all the confidence and arrogance he could muster, “I am the great-year-king your legends have prophesied.”
Some gazed at him silently. Others grumbled. Chrysaleon crossed the field to Menoetius, trying to ignore the radiating blaze from his shoulder and wiping away blood that kept seeping into one eye. He picked up the handle of the labrys, lifting it so everyone could see the broken, jagged butt. “The Goddess has made her wishes clear in vision, in trance, and here, on your field. Do you doubt it? Look upon this axe. Her sacred tool has worked its bloodletting for longer than anyone can measure, yet it broke before it could take my life. Surely defying her will call down another rage of fire upon this land.”
In the Moon of Asterion Page 18
