Bull God Read online

  Ariadne was distressed. To carry enmity to the rites for the Mother was dangerous. She'd always been aware that there were differences between her mother and father, but those had never been allowed to carry over into matters of state or the greater rites. In politics, Pasiphae was a wise counselor and an adamant supporter of her husband; at the rites of the Snake Goddess and the Mother, Minos was a dedicated votary of his priestess-wife.

  Eventually the edge of the full moon crept over the horizon and lit the dancing floor. Ariadne rose to dance the awakening. She offered herself, her love, her little bud of hope, and knew from the warmth that enfolded her that her offering was accepted. Nonetheless, a pall hung over her and the other dancers. The Mother wakened, but without joy.

  CHAPTER 10

  The next day Ariadne learned the source of the quarrel that had tarnished the joy of the Mother's awakening. Phaidra trotted up to the shrine to report that there had been a truly royal battle between the king and the queen when they returned to the palace and that it had been settled by Minos giving permission to Pasiphae to build a temple in which to worship the Bull God. That was interesting, but didn't really touch Ariadne.

  “But they had quarreled before the rite, hadn't they?” she asked.

  “Yes, well that was all part of the same thing. It started when mother decided to dress Asterion in cloth-of-gold.” Phaidra shook her head. “Well, you know how he is about being covered. And now that hair is growing over his chest as well as his back, he's even worse.” She shrugged. “And, of course, he doesn't like mother. Well, he began to whimper as soon as she came in, and when she told the nurses to dress him and they tried to obey her, he began to roar.” Phaidra shuddered delicately. “I hate when he does that. He sounds like a beast, not like a child—and certainly not like a god.”

  “He's only a baby,” Ariadne said. “He just yells when he's annoyed or frightened. He doesn't care how he sounds as long as he gets what he wants.”

  Phaidra shrugged again. “I tried to tell mother that Asterion didn't like to be dressed, but father came and asked what was wrong. He didn't wait for an answer, though. As soon as he saw that cloth-of-gold tunic, he told mother that she couldn't bring Asterion to the rite.”

  “She intended to bring Asterion to the Mother's rite? Why?”

  “Because, she says, he's the god of Crete and all worship must be to him or through him.” Phaidra looked uneasy. “She told father that Asterion must be seated between the sacral horns and their chairs to either side.”

  “But the rite is for god and goddess to be united by the Mother so the cycle of life may begin. There's no place for a babe or even another god ... true or false.”

  “That's what father said, but mother insisted that the Bull God must be first in Crete.” Phaidra sighed. “And all this while Asterion was bellowing like the bulls of Baoshan so that father and mother had to scream to be heard. Then mother tried to pick Asterion up to quiet him and he almost got his teeth into her again. Maybe that convinced her or the fact that father said if she insisted on bringing Asterion he wouldn't attend and that Asterion could sing the responses.”

  “Which he cannot do ... and may never be able to do,” Ariadne remarked flatly.

  “But then in the morning he agreed to build her a temple for Asterion,” Phaidra said.

  Ariadne nodded. “Father is arranging safeguards. If Asterion is a god, he has shown piety by building him a temple and giving him his place and times of worship. If he is not, his worship won't intrude on that of the true gods.”

  A place was chosen, at the foot of the palace adjoining the road to the caravanserai. There was plenty of room for a crowd to gather in front of the temple, and the crowd would be clearly visible from the shrine near the top of Gypsades Hill. Ariadne wondered whether that fact had influenced her mother to choose that place. Did she hope to make Dionysus angry, to drive him to abandon Crete by showing how eagerly the people came to work on the Bull God's temple, how they brought offerings even before the temple was finished? Dionysus had said he didn't care about the worshipers or the offerings, that he cared only for his chosen priestess, but as the ten-days passed and nothing came of her belief that he had come to watch her dance, Ariadne began to wonder.

  The building of the temple proceeded apace. It wasn't a complex or elaborate structure, merely a large rectangular building with a rear and two side doors, fronted by a deep porch supported by four typical columns, narrower at the base than at the top. Perhaps to compensate for the simplicity of the design, ornamentation was lavish. Centered between the pillars was a large opening to the dark interior surrounded with carved and gilded bulls' horns. To either side, murals of charging bulls confronted each other. Between the murals and framed by the dark opening was a gilded throne, with arms ending in bellowing bulls' heads as well as a tall back carved with charging bulls.

  It was on the throne that Pasiphae intended the Bull God to appear in glory, but for a time Ariadne wondered whether her mother could accomplish her purpose. Asterion wasn't cooperative. He screamed and fought against the clothing Pasiphae wanted him to wear. He wouldn't sit on her lap on a pretend throne, striking at her and snapping as if he wished to tear out her throat. But his instinctive rejection of the trappings of majesty seemed to increase rather than quell the queen's determination. She had him seized and bound, then covered the ropes with a golden cape so that she could bring him to the blessing of the temple grounds. His bellows she interpreted as roars of welcome.

  From then on he screamed as soon as he saw her, but he was not yet capable of the speed or agility to escape and she forced his presence for several ceremonies. By the time he was six months old, however, he was walking and as large as an ordinary child of two and her original methods of coercion would no longer work. Doubts would certainly be aroused in worshipers about the powers of a “god” who seemed to be permanently immobile, so Asterion could no longer be bound and carried. The fact that Pasiphae overcame his resistance and succeeded in her purpose in the end was the final proof to Ariadne that Asterion wasn't a god but only the poor deformed victim of Poseidon's spite.

  Her pity kept her from abandoning the child, even after he had been moved from the nursery to the over-ornamented quarters Pasiphae had originally created for him. He was now served by “suitable” male attendants—strong ones, armed with “rods of office” that could also be used to hold Asterion off or administer a stinging blow—but not one of them seemed to remember how young he really was. His physical development remained phenomenal; at the next winter solstice when he was a year old, he looked five or six.

  Perhaps it was Asterion's size and strength, or her own desperate need to believe, that drove Pasiphae to insist he was a god. There was no other sign of godliness about him: he didn't, or couldn't, speak; he still wet and fouled himself; he didn't seem to understand even the simplest commands. Nonetheless he had been trained as one trains a beast by a mixture of bribery (with portions of raw meat, which was his favorite above all other things) and punishment to cease trying to attack Pasiphae and to allow a golden crown to be placed around his now-prominent horns and a golden kilt to be strapped around his waist.

  He also learned to sit on the throne, which had been completed long before the building was ready so that it could be used for his training, and to endure a belt of gilded metal mesh to hold him in place. He didn't like that, but could be distracted from the confinement. Ariadne had inadvertently shown her mother how to get him to sit still. Remembering he was only a baby, she brought him toys, brightly colored blocks and sparkling gewgaws that turned in a breeze or moved by pulling a string. When she piled the blocks upon one another and allowed Asterion to knock them down or jiggled the sparkling toys, he would sit quite still to watch in fascination.

  Pasiphae, coming upon them playing, didn't, as Ariadne feared, order her away from Asterion. The queen, almost in despair for a way to make the child climb onto the throne and sit, seized upon the idea that Asterion could be induc
ed by amusement and enlarged it.

  Priests and priestesses were promptly selected to serve the Bull God by dancing before his altar, and Pasiphae ordered Daidalos to design garments for them that would glitter and move to bind mind and spirit. The votaries in their shining, animated finery would perform all sorts of acrobatic feats, such as climbing into a pyramid, which they would allow to collapse into a heap of sparkling glitter at a wave from Asterion, or they would increase the pace and convolutions of any dance in accord with his gestures.

  Ariadne never attended any of the ceremonies, which brought about a sharp clash with her mother on the day before the winter solstice that would mark Asterion's second birthday. Pasiphae confronted her daughter, who had just brought Asterion a box of bright new toys to mark the day. He could speak a few words now, and his happy shriek of “Ridne,” which was as much as he could pronounce of her name, had apparently alerted her mother to her presence.

  Asterion, who had been rushing forward to embrace his sister, stopped short when Pasiphae appeared in the doorway, his bull-like lips curling back from a predator's teeth, which looked even more menacing in the bovine muzzle. Snarling, he backed away and Ariadne, who had seen the reaction before, put down the box of toys and turned to Pasiphae.

  The queen looked at the carved horse and cart, with its bright-painted wheels set with bits of shining metal that would glitter as the wheels turned when the cart was moved, at two whirligigs and several tops, all also bright with sparkling bits. The toys acknowledged that Asterion's agility and manipulative skills were the equal of the ten-year-old he seemed to be. Her eyebrows lifted.

  “So you acknowledge the Bull God's power,” Pasiphae said, smiling. “What two-year-old could use such toys?” She laughed aloud. “And since you curry favor with the Bull God with such trinkets, you can dance for him on his birth day and join in our worship.”

  “No,” Ariadne replied. “I dance only for the Mother. I worship only Her and Dionysus.”

  “Dionysus is gone from Crete!” Pasiphae exclaimed. “He abandoned you as soon as the Bull God appeared in the flesh. Don't be a fool. Dance for the Bull God and I'll allow you some portion of the offerings that come to his temple.”

  Ariadne smiled slowly. “Dionysus isn't gone from Crete. Don't the vines flourish? Aren't the grapes full and sweet? Isn't the wine the equal of the greatest in Crete's past?”

  Fury thinned Pasiphae's lips. Not only was what Ariadne said true but Pasiphae had made a few mistakes in the early months of the Bull God's worship. Then, when she felt her most pressing need was to divert worship from Dionysus to Asterion (and when she still believed that Asterion had power she could direct), she had threatened several nobles who continued to send offerings and lesser members of their families to Dionysus' shrine with the blasting of their vines. The threat had been shown to be toothless. When Phaidra reported what Pasiphae had done, Ariadne made sure that those nobles had the richest crop of grapes and the sweetest on the whole island.

  Now Pasiphae confined her threats to matters she could control. If she prophesied misfortune for a family, it was the kind of misfortune that could befall at the hands of armed and masked men who wore no house badges and disappeared after the damage was done. And if she prophesied good fortune it was the kind that political or trade favors could produce. She didn't use the device often. Minos wouldn't stand for it and her own political sense constrained her from excesses. But the crown of her glory would be to bring Dionysus' priestess to acknowledge the Bull God.

  “That is by the Bull God's will,” Pasiphae said loudly. “It is nothing to do with the blessings of a little godling who has abandoned his priestess. I demand that you dance at the Bull God's ceremony at dawn.”

  “At dawn I will be performing the ritual to Call Dionysus to the vineyards,” Ariadne said steadily, although her throat was tight with unshed tears.

  “Which your petty godling will ignore!” Pasiphae spat. “Which all Cretans will ignore! You'll be alone with your ancient priests and priestesses and six little children who bitterly regret being consecrated to a dead godling and wish fervently to come down the hill to the Bull God's temple.”

  “Be that as it may, Dionysus is not dead, as our wine attests. He's my god and I'll worship only him and the Mother, who is above all, even the gods.”

  “I am your mother and your queen!” Pasiphae shrieked. In the background Asterion bellowed, but she ignored him. “I command you to dance for the Bull God. You must obey me.”

  “No,” Ariadne said. “Only Dionysus can command my service.”

  “Dionysus is gone! Dead! I tell you if you don't dance for the Bull God, I'll have your shrine razed to the ground. I will—”

  Ariadne laughed in her face. “And I will blast the vines of the king and queen of Knossos so they will never put forth another leaf. Only the vines of the king and queen. All others will flourish as never before.”

  Pasiphae uttered a scream of rage and ran forward, raising her arm to strike Ariadne. Asterion bellowed again and one of his attendant shouted a wordless warning. There was a crack, as of wood against flesh. Asterion screeched in pain and Ariadne whirled about to see what had happened to him. A thin streak of blood marked his muzzle, a male attendant was on the floor, scrambling to rise, and Asterion, teeth bared, hands clawed, and murder on his bestial face, was charging toward Pasiphae bellowing, “No hurt Ridne!”

  “No, no,” Ariadne cried, catching her brother by the arm and pulling him around to face her. “No one is going to hurt me, love. You know mother shouts a lot. Never mind her at all. Come, love. Come play with your new toys. Come and make the tops spin. You know I can never do that as well as you can.”

  He strained against her for a moment, but she put her arms around him and kissed his cheek. His mouth closed and he blinked his beautiful eyes. “No hurt Ridne?”

  “No one will hurt Ariadne.” She kissed his cheek again.

  He looked across his shoulder—and over hers, and Ariadne realized he was almost as tall as she—and a strange noise, not unlike an animal's growl rumbled in his chest when he caught sight of his mother. Ariadne saw one of the attendants sidling along the wall toward where Pasiphae had been. The growling and tension faded from Asterion's body and Ariadne hoped that the attendant had convinced Pasiphae to leave. She pulled again at Asterion's arm.

  “Come, sit here on the floor beside me,” she suggested, tugging at him gently. She reached into the box of toys. “Look. Look at this golden top. If you spin it, you'll see red lines run up and down it.”

  He butted his head against her. “Love Ridne,” he said, and spun the top so quickly and dextrously that the red lines raced over the toy and sparkles Ariadne hadn't known were there flashed brightly.

  “Well, that was very interesting,” Bacchus remarked, lifting his head from the bowl in which he'd been scrying.

  Wincing, Silenos turned his heavy body to its side on the couch on which he was lying. His face and the untidily draped himation showed him to be thoroughly bruised. Seeing he was attended, Bacchus described the scene he'd just witnessed between Ariadne and Pasiphae.

  “I think you must mirror it for him,” Silenos said, studying the handsome blond, whose beauty was marred only slightly by too-small, red-rimmed eyes. Then, before Bacchus could produce a stinging retort, he went on hurriedly, “You know I agreed with you when he first entangled himself with her. But now I think differently.”

  “You certainly did agree,” Bacchus snapped. “You spent half of every night whining to me about what we should do to get him to leave her and come back to his usual ways.”

  “Well, I thought it was for his own good.” Silenos groaned as he levered himself upright. “I remembered what happened when the first one he was so fond of died, and I thought soonest over, soonest mended, so when she defied him that way, it seemed reasonable to harp on her disloyalty and disrespect and turn him against her. I thought he might kill her—or get her killed—mourn a little, and then forget her.�
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  “He never really forgot the other one,” Bacchus said. “He thinks this is she, reborn, a special gift from the Mother.” His lips twisted on the last word.

  Silenos nodded. “I think you're right. And he isn't mending, Bacchus, he's getting worse.”

  “Do you think he will really go completely mad?” Bacchus asked, his voice now uncertain.

  “How far is he from that?” Silenos asked. “He let the maenads turn on me. On me! And he laughed.”

  There was a long silence while Bacchus looked down into the scrying bowl again. “He didn't let them kill you,” he said at last, sounding as if he almost regretted it.

  “You'll be next,” Silenos hissed with unaccustomed energy. “You think he doesn't know what we did. Well, he does. He's uncaring about most things, not stupid.”

  Bacchus bit his lip. “But this may be far worse. She makes him care. The little people we use for our games are her kind. I think he intends to bring this one here. And she'll watch more closely what we do than he ever did. That's why I worked so hard to wean him away from her.”

  “Bring her here?” Silenos echoed, staring. “Watch her grow old and wither and die ... here?”

  “He doesn't intend this one to wither and die,” Bacchus snarled. “Don't you remember that he 'convinced' Persephone to grant immortality to his mother—oh, very well,” he added in response to Silenos' wordless protest, “to intercede with the Mother to grant Semele life as long as an Olympian's?” He rose and paced the room. “But it was Persephone who did whatever was done to Semele. Why is it necessary to him always to say the power came from another?”

  “Because it did,” Silenos said quietly. “And that's one way in which he's wise. Perhaps he Sees Her ... If you want to forget that we ... they—” his eyes glanced toward the part of the house in which Dionysus lived “—are not gods, he doesn't, and I don't. Too many of them are like you. The Mother overlooks much, but one day ...”