Bull God Page 19

  “I won't travel that road again,” he said aloud to the empty room. “I'll make my peace with my priestess. I know the bull-head, poor creature, must die. When she Sees it too . . . but not by my hand or hers.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Although Ariadne realized that Pasiphae would probably bar her from visiting Asterion, immediately after her confrontation she had no idea what a large hole the prohibition would make in her life. Nor did the knowledge of how much time she'd spent with Asterion, of how she'd used him to assuage her own loneliness, come to her at once. She hardly recognized that loneliness until the scab was pulled off the unhealed wound of her separation from Dionysus when she had Called him at the ritual and been actively rejected.

  She had become accustomed to passive rejection. For two years, the scrying bowl had rippled, flashed, and gone dark and Ariadne knew that Dionysus had refused to answer her. She expected no more for this ritual; however this time the bowl cleared and she saw golden hair and white skin. For a moment her heart almost stopped with joy—and then she saw a strange face looking back at her.

  The face was male but pretty as a girl's with long, golden hair and full pouting lips. It watched her throughout the completion of the ritual, giving her time to recognize that the prettiness was not nice; the eyes were too small and the nose was thin so that a tinge of viciousness marred the expression. And then she realized she knew the face from Dionysus' description.

  “I am Lord Dionysus' priestess at Knossos,” she said silently, not knowing whether Dionysus had told Bacchus anything about her. “I am instructed to Call the god for the ritual at this time of year. May I speak to Dionysus?”

  Bacchus shook his head so that his golden curls danced and he smiled with a kind of glee, showing small, sharp teeth. “No. He doesn't wish to speak to you. He's still angry with you—oh, very angry. You are also to cease from Calling him. You disturb his sleep. I'll know if there are offerings, so there's no need for you to use the scrying bowl at all. Dionysus says you may watch over your precious brother.”

  The words did something to her heart so that the silver flower that enclosed it tightened painfully. “But I can't—” she cried, about to explain that there was no way for her to avoid using the scrying bowl. Her duty as a priestess demanded she perform the rituals and Calling was part of the ritual—only she wasn't permitted to finish. The scrying bowl went dark.

  Half blind with tears, she rose, removed her clothes, and lay down on the icy altar. Only then did she hear the hopeful murmurs of her priestesses, who had understood by the delay as she held the scrying bowl that she was speaking and being answered. Since Dionysus had been the one to answer in the past, they were eagerly watching the painting, expecting Dionysus to appear before it. Ariadne got up at once and dressed. The god wouldn't come. He'd never come. Swallowing sobs, she waved a symbol of blessing at the few people in the shrine and fled to her chamber, knelt in front of his chair, laid her head on the seat, and wept.

  By the time she rang for breakfast, she was cried out and in her misery had come to a decision. She would ignore Bacchus' order and Call her god at the times she should. If that made him angrier, perhaps he'd come to make her mad. At least she would see him.

  For some reason that defiant decision cheered her up. She ate her breakfast and before her mood could slip into sadness again, Hagne appeared with a servant carrying a small old chest.

  “It was right at the back of the old storeroom in the very darkest corner, covered with some boards,” Hagne said, “almost as if someone wanted to hide it. So I thought ... I thought there might be something special in it.”

  “Let's open it at once,” Ariadne said, directing the servant to put it down and fetch tools.

  If it were only a precious cache of jewels, she thought, she'd have an excuse to flout Bacchus' order immediately, but when the servant knelt to examine the lock and see what tools he would need, it became apparent that the chest wasn't locked at all. Ariadne and Hagne both sighed with disappointment, but Ariadne signaled for the man to open the box anyway.

  Within was a bundle of threadbare silk garments, disintegrated too much even to be used as rags. Ariadne was just about to direct that they be discarded without further examination, when the servant lifted them out to see what was below and suddenly held the bundle toward her.

  “Something is within, Lady,” he murmured.

  Ariadne looked at the bundle of rags and smiled. She was aware of a warmth, a sense of comfort, coming from what the servant held. She rose and came forward to take it from him, unaware that her hand had risen to her forehead in salute and that she had then knelt and held out her arms for the bundle. She gestured for the table that sat beside Dionysus' chair and laid the bundle on that to unwrap.

  As the silks fell away, shredding more than unfolding, a gleaming black statuette was exposed. Without a sound Ariadne set it upright, first bowed her head, and then raised it and stared. It was an extremely simple, even stark, image of a woman. One could make out only a tall form, not obviously clothed but yet not naked, slender and yet with abundant breasts and full hips. The face was a mystery of hollows, the head crowned with a circlet of doves.

  “Mother,” Ariadne whispered, and felt a flicker of warmth, as if a finger had touched her cheek.

  She rose then, surprised to see that Hagne and the servant were also kneeling. They got to their feet when she did, looking astonished at finding themselves down on their knees, but Ariadne made no comment, only telling them to take away the chest and the rotting silks. When they had left the room, she carried the statuette into her bedchamber and realized that there was a niche in the wall just opposite the bed. The statuette fit into it perfectly.

  The image must have come from there, Ariadne thought. Who'd dared to remove it? And why? Dionysus? He was a jealous god; he had told her that. But the pang of anxiety she felt didn't last long. Dionysus had given her permission to dance for the Mother and said that everyone honored the Mother. And the comfort that flowed from the dark form was too precious to give up.

  A small cup for incense was hollowed into the front of the niche. Ariadne put a ball of the stuff into the cup and pointed a finger to light it. As the smoke curled up, she examined the statuette more closely. It was clearly ancient, in a primitive style only seen in the deep caves used even before the palaces had been built. So old and so strong.

  “Thank you for giving me the comfort of your presence, Mother,” she murmured, and unable to resist, danced a few steps of the Welcome she would perform more fully only two days later when the moon was full. She could have sworn when she made a last bow that a shadow shifted among the hollows of the face so that it seemed to be smiling.

  Returning briskly, completely refreshed, to the main chamber, she summoned both Hagne and Dido, telling the latter to bring the novices. She'd been teaching them simple supporting roles in the praise dance and now reviewed them to be sure they were move perfect. Then with the two older priestesses, she discussed what she and the girls would wear for the awakening ritual. By the time they had settled on the white dress flounced in gold and had the children try on their simpler costumes, it was time to eat.

  Ariadne slipped asleep that night smiling, the last image she saw before she snuffed out her light, the dark form back where it belonged. Her chamber was suffused with peace, with hope.

  Unfortunately what had been offered to her did not seem to extend over to her parents. After that first quarrel over Asterion's attendance at the Mother's festival when the child was three months old, they had seemed to settle into a kind of unity. If it wasn't as close as it had been before Asterion had been conceived, at least they were not so distant as to cast a pall over the ritual.

  Tonight was different, worse, perhaps, than that first quarrel. They nearly spat the words that were supposed to be full of tenderness and exultation at each other. Ariadne felt leaden, oppressed. She was gasping with exhaustion when she sank down to wait for the moon to rise and there were no golden
ribbons from which to draw warmth and strength.

  “Forgive them. Forgive them,” she prayed, but she could think of no reason to offer the Goddess to forgive and no excuse for her parents' behavior.

  This night was dedicated to the Mother and all other problems should be set aside. Ariadne had buried her own sorrow and dismay when Dionysus no longer came to watch her dance. Why couldn't her mother and father think of the joy and the hope of renewal at the turning of the year? A warm breeze out of season fanned her hair as she pleaded for mercy without justice and gave her strength enough to finish her dance. She, as representative of the people of Crete, was loved and the Mother would let the earth awaken and new life begin, but the Goddess was not happy.

  Ariadne expected that Phaidra would be at the shrine soon to discuss what had happened, but she didn't come. Less acutely aware of Phaidra's absence than she should have been because a surprising number of offerings had been delivered—a few stealthily but more quite openly—Ariadne did not inquire further. She wondered instead whether the Bull God's influence was waning. Perhaps that was why her mother was so desperate to force her to acknowledge and dance for him?

  For almost a ten-day, Ariadne was quite busy arranging the gifts on the altar and placing any perishable material in stasis. She was vaguely aware that she no longer suffered cold and fatigue when doing magic, even the draining stasis spell, and if she did feel chilled she had only to go look at the black statuette to be warmed. That was a most pleasant surprise; an unpleasant one was when everything was taken from the altar. Dionysus had never before been greedy and had usually left behind most of the offerings for the use of the shrine.

  It saddened her because she thought it another sign of his continued anger, but the warmth of the Mother that flowed from the dark image saved her from despair. However, once the flurry of activity generated by the offerings was over, Ariadne realized she had nothing to do. She couldn't, as Bacchus had sneeringly suggested, watch over her brother because she was forbidden to enter the palace. She'd tried once and a guard, although his face twisted with anxiety, had turned her away.

  Now Ariadne came face-to-face with the results of her defiance of Pasiphae. Idleness began to plague her, and she began to seek occupation. Her first move was to practice the magic that Dionysus had taught her, but it came easily to her now and she was quite proficient enough to awe her priests and priestesses and any worshipers who came to the shrine. She examined the accounts that the priests kept—not that there was much in them anymore. She checked on the lessons that Dido was giving the novices and discovered that one, Sappho, could scry. She exercised her in that ability.

  Somehow the days passed and it was time to bless the vines. She did the vineyards around Knossos, aware of shadowy forms watching her pass in her white gown and saluting, fist to forehead, when they saw her glowing staff. No one watched in Minos' vineyard; Ariadne hesitated before she blessed them but in the end she passed through. She wasn't so eager to be with Asterion as to punish her family over Pasiphae's prohibition. Perhaps Asterion would forget her; it would almost be a relief. If she never went near him again, would Dionysus forgive her?

  She had no answer for that, but she had duties enough now. As she had, four times each year, she set out to visit the other shrines to Dionysus. These, she discovered, were far more prosperous than the shrine at Knossos. There were one or two temples going up to the Bull God, one near Phaistos and another near Mallia, but Pasiphae had not dared try to bring Asterion to them, so response to the new deity was tepid. The worship of Dionysus was still strong in the outlying places, since the harvests of grapes and the wine pressed from them were marvelous. More people watched her pass; she heard snatches of praise songs.

  Still she wasn't sorry to tell her servants to turn her chariot toward home. In each place, although she was treated with honor, she was asked when the god would manifest himself to them again as he did the first time she came. It was Dionysus they wanted to see, not her, even though they knew she carried his blessing. She had no answer for them; her pride wouldn't let her say he was angry with her and would come no more.

  When she arrived at the shrine at Knossos, she was relieved to hear from Hagne that her sister had come several times. Phaidra's long absence had been a worry at the back of her mind. Still, she was less than thrilled that as soon as she had washed and eaten, Hagne asked if she could send a messenger to the palace. Phaidra had demanded most anxiously to be told as soon as Ariadne was at home.

  Ariadne sighed. She wasn't really in the mood to hear Phaidra complain—or gossip—but said one of the boy novices should bring Phaidra the news. The child was back too fast. He hadn't seen Phaidra, he admitted. The guard hadn't allowed him to seek her. Ariadne shrugged. She would hear her sister's troubles and gossip soon enough.

  The idle thought was all too true. Ariadne had just finished her simple evening meal and was wondering what she should do until it was time for bed, when she heard Phaidra's voice.

  “You must send for her.” Phaidra was sobbing. “Is there no way you can send her a message to come home?”

  “I'm here, love,” Ariadne said, coming out into the courtyard.

  She stopped abruptly and drew breath. Phaidra looked haggard and her eyes were staring wide.

  “Oh, thank the Mother!” Phaidra leapt forward and seized her arm. “Come. You must come at once. The Bull God has gone completely mad.”

  “Oh, poor Asterion!” Ariadne exclaimed, allowing Phaidra to pull her a few steps forward. Then she stopped and shook her head. “They won't let me in.”

  “They will now,” Phaidra cried, tugging at her. “Father has countermanded mother's order—and this time mother won't fight him. I tell you, the Bull God's gone mad.”

  Ariadne called behind her for someone to bring a cloak. “But why?” she asked as she hurried out with Phaidra, running along the road in response to her sister's demand. “What have they done to him? He was actually getting to like the ceremonies.”

  “It's because you haven't come to see him. He began to cry for 'Ridne' the day of the praise-dance for the Mother and bellow your name as if he thought you would hear him. Father wanted to send for you, but mother said she'd never allow you to see him again until you acknowledged him as a god and danced worship.”

  “That's true,” Ariadne said, stopping suddenly and jerking Phaidra to a halt beside her. “I'll gladly go to Asterion and soothe him if I can, but I won't call him a god and I won't dance for him. If that's what mother demands—”

  “No.” Phaidra pulled her forward again. “She must allow you to see him now. You see, she promised that if he went to the temple for the vine-quickening ceremonies she has devised, that you would come to see him again—she sets them for a few days after you've been out blessing the vines ... as if that will fool anyone. He was angry when you didn't come at once, but mother told him you were visiting Prokris. Then today she wanted him to come to the temple and ... and he went mad. He said—well, as much as he could—that he'd never go to the temple again until you came. So they tried to force him ...”

  “Fools!” Ariadne exclaimed.

  “Oh, yes, they're fools. He nearly killed two of them.”

  “Oh, poor child—”

  “Child!” Phaidra screeched. “You should see him. He's a foot taller than I and growing stronger by the minute.”

  “He's still a child, Phaidra,” Ariadne snapped. “I don't care how tall he is or how strong. He's two years and two months old. It's because you all forget he's nothing but a baby that you have all this trouble with him. All two-year-olds are difficult.”

  “I tell you two men are nearly dead. One likely maimed for life. Two more are so bruised, they can barely walk—”

  “That's because Asterion is strong as a man and has the sense only of a two-year-old. The fools always hit him instead of tempting him to do what they want in a way that will make him like to do it. If they aren't cleverer than a two-year-old ... Does he ever strike at you, P
haidra?”

  “No, but he pushes me away and says I'm not Ridne.” Phaidra's voice was redolent of resentment.

  Ariadne ignored that, knowing it was because Phaidra would never touch Asterion, never offer him affection even though she fed him and sometimes even played with him. “But he doesn't hurt you,” she insisted, concentrating on what was important.

  “No ...” Phaidra drew out the word doubtfully. “Although sometimes,” she added, as they entered the palace and threaded their way through the passages, “when he says, 'Where Ridne?' I don't like the look in his eyes.”

  “He's probably trying—”

  Ariadne stopped abruptly after they passed her father's apartments and the sound of Asterion's bellowing reached them. She wondered how Pasiphae, who was much closer could bear it but only began to run, stopping, shocked at the volume of sound coming through his closed door. Closed and barred.

  “What is the need for this?” she cried.

  “He's trying to get out,” one attendant said, his voice quavering. He was badly bruised all along one side of his body, as if he'd been thrown against a wall or to the ground with great force.

  “You idiot!” Ariadne exclaimed. “How are you going to feed him? How am I going to get in to calm him?”

  “I won't open the door. I won't! He'll rush out and kill us before he even sees you. He tried to kill the queen.”

  What the man said was all too likely. A two-year-old in a tantrum isn't the most reasonable of creatures. It was indeed likely that Asterion might do considerable damage—to her as well as to his attendants—if he got out.

  “Asterion!” Ariadne shouted, pressing herself against the door. “Asterion, be quiet. It's Ariadne. If you are quiet, I'll come in and play with you.”

  The effort, although she repeated it several times, was a waste. Her voice could hardly be heard above Asterion's bellowing even on this side of the door; it must have been completely obliterated on the other. She was at her wits' end, weeping a little as she remembered how Dionysus had come to help her in the past. Fortunately thinking of him recalled to her mind a trick of magic he had taught her to impress those in a large temple or an open shrine. She could make her voice go far from her and sound in a person's ear.