Bull God Page 22
“I will speak to Persephone, of course, but I don't think her intervention will be necessary. I tell you the Mother gives to Ariadne without asking. No, I meant, would you be kind to her if I brought her here or would she be shunned as Semele was?”
“Dionysus—” Aphrodite leaned forward and touched his face gently “—Semele wasn't sensible. She wanted Zeus back.” She laughed merrily. “Who can hold Zeus? And when we told her that and also that, strange as their relationship is, he truly loves Hera, Semele didn't take what we told her as well intentioned. She felt we were against her because she was of native stock. Ariadne will be treated ... well, by most of us; I wouldn't swear to the behavior of Athena or Artemis or Apollo ... as she invites.”
“It is what—” Dionysus began, but a door latch snicked and Aphrodite was on her feet, running into the corridor.
Dionysus followed close behind, stopping a courteous distance away as Aphrodite accosted a tall, thin man with a gentle expression.
“There's no danger now,” Asclepias said. “He'll live and without any harm done, but he must rest and do no magic, which would be very painful, for at least a moon. Another thing, he mustn't be worried or anxious about anything. He's fearful that someone will hurt a Psyche. I assured him she was safe and wouldn't be harmed a dozen times, but—”
“His lover. He's afraid I'll be angry with her. Well, I am! I'm furious!” She sighed. “But I'll do her no harm.”
“Then the best way to reassure him is if you will stay with him yourself. Right now he's still fighting the drugs. By morning he should be sufficiently calm for you to leave him.”
“I'll go to him—” She remembered Dionysus then and turned toward him.
“Go, go,” Dionysus urged anxiously. “Since I'm not the only one warning you about Psyche, I'm no longer needed here.” Then, looking at the physician, he said, “Thank you for saving Eros, Asclepias. I haven't so many friends that I can spare one.”
“No one can spare a friend,” the thin man said. Then his hand tightened nervously on his strange staff. “Eros should be as calm as possible,” he added. “I don't think you should visit him. Any excitement will cause him pain, any strong emotion might do real harm.”
He had only meant to thank the physician for his care, and this was how he was rewarded, Dionysus thought. Anger and resentment woke at the tacit hint he should go because he was so stupid or uncaring as to incite Eros to rage or lust. Before common sense could remind him that the physician would have said the same thing to any visitor, Dionysus' emotions flooded outward. Asclepias gripped his staff even harder. Aphrodite gasped. Before the fear of him could fuel still more intense flame and hurt a person of great value, Dionysus leapt for Knossos.
Two small arms caught him tight as his knees buckled, but these were loving, supporting, not angry. Still they weren't much larger or much stronger than those of the children who had tried to defend Aphrodite. He had never hurt a child. The flames turned inward, but before they could sear him, they met a cool, soft barrier and died.
As the rage died, so did the remains of his strength. His weight became too much for both his knees and the arms that supported him. He began to slip toward the floor, but with a clever twist and push, he was turned so that he collapsed into a cushioned chair.
“You came back, my lord, you came back,” Ariadne cried, sinking to her knees and kissing his hands.
Joy and peace filled the emptiness that his lost anger had left. Warmth from her grip soothed his cold hands. His body recognized the chair; he looked around and saw the gilded table, the golden bowl that had always rested on it, the cushion Ariadne had risen from. She had changed nothing in the years he had been away, and she had been waiting for him in “his” place.
The dimly lit room was as he remembered it from a time when rage didn't overcome him unbidden, when he could grip his fury and pain and use them as weapons he could control. A shudder ran through him. He was slipping away into real madness, he thought, but the rhythm and harmony of the groupings of the furnishings and the adequate open space around them let him breathe and kept panic at bay.
“Yes,” he said. “I came back, and I never should have stayed away so long.”
She looked up, eyes full of tears. “Will you forgive me for saying such dreadful things to you? For defying you? I'm sorry for that, very sorry, my lord, but ... but I haven't really changed. I won't abandon poor Asterion nor allow hurt to come to him if I can save him.”
Defiance again, but he felt only amusement and comfort because, even while she clung to his hands and her expression pleaded with him, she stubbornly maintained her position—and she wasn't afraid. He laughed.
“No, you won't, will you? Well, you needn't fear for the bull-head on my part. I'll do him no harm, nor ask you to harm him.”
Ariadne sighed with relief and bent to kiss his hands again. When she looked up, she saw that his expression had changed to anxiety, the mouth downturned in self-loathing.
“In the end, you were quite right,” he said when he saw her attention on him. “I am more of a monster than he—”
“No! No, you aren't. You are as much—no, more—a victim of those around you—”
He raised a shaking hand and stroked her hair. “If I don't force you to see me as I am, you will look aside from the evil I do, won't you, Chosen?”
“I love you,” she whispered. “Perhaps I shouldn't look aside, but I love you. I can't help it.”
“I believe you,” he said, bending forward so that he could rest his head on hers and murmur into her hair, “I don't know of one other being anywhere in the upper- or underworld who loves me.”
She put her arms around his neck. “That can't be true, my lord. You are—”
With her arms around him, Ariadne became aware that his skin was cold and clammy, that he was trembling. She raised her head carefully so that she didn't disturb his, shifting position gently until her cheek was against him.
“You're cold and wet and shivering,” she whispered. “Are you ill, my lord?” As the words came out, she wondered how a god could be ill and whether he would be angry with her for noticing.
“No, not ill. Just tired. I've done too much leaping too quickly. Even my well of power can be drained.”
Could the Mother's well of power be drained? Ariadne didn't think so, but she had no intention of asking questions to which she didn't really want the answers. Instead and before her curiosity could play traitor to her heart, she asked, “But you came in time to save the woman, didn't you?”
“Woman?” he repeated vaguely, then remembered why he was so exhausted, why he needed to be comforted by Ariadne. “The woman who cast that spell on Eros. Yes. Her name is Psyche. I was in time, but Aphrodite already knew she mustn't harm her. Eros—ill as he was—had already pleaded her cause. So a Vision that frightened me half to death was again useless.”
“No, my lord, that's not true. You belittle yourself unjustly. That Eros pleaded for Psyche doubtless told Aphrodite how important Psyche was to him, but that is a two-edged sword. Intending to do no more than castigate Psyche for the harm she had done, jealousy might have lent just that sharp prod that could make Aphrodite forget herself. Your warning from the Mother will curb that likelihood.”
That was very likely true, but it hadn't occurred to him. The hard bands that bound his neck and shoulders eased. He lifted his head, drawing back a little—but not so far that Ariadne's arms were pulled from his neck—stared down at her, then said, “Chosen, I have done much harm in the time we have been parted.”
“Perhaps.”
Ariadne smiled at him tenderly, feeling the mist of silver tendrils shift from a wall that held something confined into a comforting blanket that enveloped him completely. He must have felt it too, she thought, because he drew a deep breath and straightened a little more. She let her hands slip gently down his shoulders so she could grip his arms.
“But it will do you no good to sorrow over the past,” she said, “nor,
really, to try to think of how matters might be amended. You're too tired now. Come, my lord, my love. Come lie down in my bed and rest. In the morning, together we'll consider what has been done, what might be undone, and what can be restored.”
As the words came from her mouth, she was appalled. She, a common native telling a god she would help him decide how to treat his worshipers? But he certainly wasn't angry. If his expression changed, it showed a lessening of tension and anxiety. She rose, pulling at him very gently, and he came to his feet also.
Their bodies were very close. Dionysus' arms tensed to pull her hard against him. He was tempted to do more than rest in her bed. But the arm that encircled his waist was as small and delicately rounded as a child's and the face she raised trustingly to his came barely to his shoulder. She was too young; he couldn't couple with a child.
He let her lead him to the bed and pull aside the covers so he could lie down. When she drew up the blankets they were scented by the perfume she wore. As his eyes closed, he recalled how her breasts had lifted her robe and how the curve of her hips filled it . . . but only for a moment before sleep took him.
He was aware several times during the night that the bed he was in was not his own, but that wasn't so unusual as to wake him completely. He merely bent his body into a more comfortable position. But when light beyond his eyelids and the cold metal of the foot of the bed pressing his ankle reminded him that native beds were much shorter than those of the taller Olympians, he did rouse.
The first thing he saw was the black statuette in the niche of the opposite wall. “You found Her!” he exclaimed, as the door opened and Ariadne came through.
He was not at all surprised that she knew he had wakened. That touch between them that was hers, which he now realized had been missing and by the emptiness it left behind had added to his misery, had warned her.
“Yes.” Her face was troubled. “She was hidden away in an old chest, wrapped in torn rags. Why, my lord? Who would so treat this marvelous image of the Mother in such a way?”
“Likely the woman who took my priestess's place. She had no touch of the Mother in her. Perhaps the image raised some fear or some sense that she was lacking ...” He smiled at her. “The things you ask me. How should I know?”
She acted as if she had not heard his last question, just smiled again and said, “Your bath is ready, my lord.”
He climbed out of bed, stretching his cramped legs before he put his weight on them and becoming aware from the acrid aroma that he had slept in his tunic, sweat-drenched from his efforts and fears the previous night. As he pulled it off and dropped it on the floor, he was reminded of his desire for Ariadne and glanced at her.
Unlike some other peoples, the Cretans were not in the least disturbed by nudity. Ariadne was looking at him with frankness and admiration, still smiling faintly, but she was no larger than a child, and he could detect no desire in her expression. And then it changed to mild concern.
“Oh dear, you are scratched and bitten again. Shall I bring the salves ...”
He laughed aloud. “The wounds aren't deep. It was Aphrodite's children. She and Eros are both so beautiful that adult servants invariably develop most unsuitable passions. Aphrodite has solved that problem by having small children, under the age when they know the difference between man and woman, serve her. They adore her, of course, as she's the kindest of mistresses and very fond of children—”
“Fond of children!” Ariadne exclaimed, laughing too. “I'm so glad to hear that. I was always terrified of her because little children are demanded by her priestesses and are never seen again.”
“Believe me, they're happy and well cared for, much better than they could be in their parents' homes—” He stopped abruptly and smiled. “Why don't you come with me to Olympus? I'll take you to Aphrodite's house and you can see the little ... ah—” he grinned, “ ... blessed ones.”
Her eyes grew so large and round he thought they might fall out of her face. “Me?” she breathed. “Go to Olympus? I—oh, my lord, I'm afraid ...”
He could see that; he could feel it in the dimming of the warmth of her touch inside him. He put out a hand, and although her face was gray with pallor, she came forward and laid her own in it. Fear usually sparked a terrible violence in him, but hers was so mixed with trust that he felt only tenderness. When nothing worse happened than a gentle squeeze of her fingers, she sighed deeply.
Dionysus drew her close and kissed her forehead. What had set off her fear, he wondered? Did she think he would whisk her away without any other preparation? He chuckled softly, realizing, with a touch of amusement, he might have done so if she hadn't reacted so violently. Then his amusement was gone. Had he done that to Semele? If so, he had made a mistake, yes, but at least she hadn't fled some loathsomeness in him. The pain of his mother's rejection was less sharp—and that, too, was a gift from Ariadne. He smiled again.
“Well, you've nothing to fear before I bathe and have breakfast,” he said briskly. “Then we can talk about it. I think you would like Olympus. It's very beautiful, but doubtless I'll be more convincing when my mouth doesn't taste like a midden and I don't smell like a stable. That tunic must be washed, too, and will take time to dry.”
“You left two tunics here, my lord, and I have cleaned them and made them ready for you.”
“You expected me to come back then?”
She shook her head. “Expected? No. But I prayed. Oh, how I prayed. To the Mother, to you—”
Dionysus smiled and squeezed her hand again, then moved toward the bathing chamber. Were those prayers to the Mother what brought the Vision of Eros and Psyche to him, he wondered? Perhaps what Ariadne said was true, and his warning to Aphrodite was an additional protection to Psyche, but surely the Mother could have more than one purpose.
As he passed he glanced at the dark figure in its niche. A flood of warmth enveloped him and the last remnants of his exhaustion were gone. Did the shadow-mouth smile? Could the Vision, so terrifying to him, have also been designed to reunite him with Ariadne?
Bathed and clothed in a fresh tunic—clearly lovingly cared for and scented with a rich but not cloying perfume—Dionysus sat down in his chair and addressed a surprisingly massive breakfast. Not, he discovered a bit to his surprise, that it was more than he wanted. He was starving. If her “touch” had told Ariadne how hungry he was, he would have to be very careful when he brought her to Olympus. She would know far too much about him.
She nibbled this and that when he invited her to join him, but it was clear that she had no appetite.
“There is nothing to be afraid of in Olympus,” he said somewhat mendaciously after a last swallow of a remarkably fine wine.
“Not for you, my lord,” Ariadne said, smiling faintly. “You're a god and to live among gods is natural and right to you. For me—” she shuddered “—I don't want to die.”
“Die?” he echoed, grabbing for her and gripping her shoulder. “What do you mean, die? What has dying to do with going to Olympus?”
“Doesn't one have to die before going to the blessed lands?”
He let go of her and breathed out explosively. “I wonder who put such weird ideas into your head. Olympus isn't the so-called 'blessed land.' It's the place where we, the Olympians, live. And we're all very much alive.” His mouth twisted wryly. “Sometimes too much alive, I think.”
“You mean you wish to take me, as I am, in my mortal flesh, to live among gods? Oh, Dionysus, that can't be right. How can it be possible for a common person like me to live among gods?”
“You are no common person, Ariadne. You're the Mother's beloved daughter and your strength, like mine, comes from Her. It wasn't I who blessed the vineyards, even when I went with you. The blessing came from Her, and it was through you that it flowed into the land.”
“I acknowledge that. I praise Her with all my heart every day and I dance for Her on Her special festivals. But that doesn't make me fit to live with gods, my lord.”
“We aren't gods, Ariadne,” he said.
CHAPTER 13
Ariadne felt the blood drain from her face and clapped her hands over her ears. Strong hands gripped them gently and pulled them away, and she heard Dionysus laughing.
“Silly child,” he said. “Why do you try to close your ears? You've suspected for a long time that I wasn't a god.”
Her eyes, which she had squeezed shut, snapped open. Her glance met his. The bright blue eyes were sparkling with amusement.
“How do you know that?” she asked sharply. “I never told you or asked a question. Only a god can know what is in a person's mind without—”
His renewed laughter interrupted her. “Anyone not an idiot would've known what you suspected. I'm sometimes bemused, Chosen, but I'm not stupid. The very care you take to hide from your priests and priestesses that I can be sick and sad and tired, that when I am wounded, I bleed and don't heal instantly, that when I overwork it my body stinks like that of any peasant in the fields—that care betrays that you know and don't trust them to know.”
Ariadne looked down. Dionysus put a finger under her chin and lifted her head. “You're only saying that because you want me to come to Olympus.” She heard the shaken pleading note in her voice and tried to steady it. “How can you not be a god? You were here, as you are now, in my ancestress's time. You have lived as a young man for four or five lifetimes of my people. You must be a god.”
“It's true that I want you to come and live with me in Olympus,” he said, “but why don't you want to hear me confirm what you already know, Ariadne?”