Bull God Page 25

  After a little silence, Dionysus lifted her chin so that she had to look at him. His lips were pursed with the effort not to smile. “You aren't a little thing but a great and terrible wheedler. Perhaps I'm a god in your mind, but that doesn't stop you from setting your will over mine, does it? You intend to have your way in all things. Ariadne wants Dionysus, but Ariadne won't come to Olympus so Dionysus must come to Knossos. Very well, minx. I'll come, but in the end a god must have his way.”

  PART THREE: THE MINOTAUR

  CHAPTER 14

  In the five years after Dionysus again made the shrine on Gypsades Hill his second home, the wines of Crete had reclaimed all the fame they'd had during the years the ancient Ariadne had been high priestess of Dionysus. Crete was richer than it had ever been and many nations sent ambassadors to the court of Knossos. Most accredited the wealth and influence of King Minos to the Bull God, the Minotaur, who sat regularly on the golden throne in his temple for all to see and worship.

  Some knew that the Bull God had nothing to do with blessing the wine that brought wealth and power to Crete, that Dionysus often dwelt in his shrine in Knossos and walked the earth hand in hand with his priestess. Those brought gifts to the shrine, but even those came mostly in the dark of the night as when the Bull God was newly born and king and queen had demanded worship. Now, however, Minos and Pasiphae had no need to command attendance at the Bull God's temple. Almost everyone came without urging. Even knowledge of who truly blessed the vines and brought prosperity to Crete could not compete with the steadily growing awe of the Minotaur, the Bull God.

  Over the years, his cult had spread throughout the island. Tales of the huge being that was visible to any who came to his shrine brought the curious—and then those became worshipers. It was true that no particular event, no supernatural act, could be attributed to the Minotaur's will, but the Bull God was no longer a restless little monster, horrible but not truly formidable. He now filled to overflowing the huge golden throne on which he sat, his pelt gleaming with brushing and jewels; his servitors came barely to his armpits and he was as wide as two men; his voice shook the thin trees growing in the courtyard and the sunlight glancing on his gilded horns dazzled the worshipers. To look at him made the throat close with fear and awe. Few noticed that his slightly wrinkled brow gave a look of permanent puzzlement to his beast's head and that the large eyes, still beautiful, were sad.

  That sadness continued to bind Ariadne to Knossos, although she knew Dionysus was growing impatient with her reluctance to leave for Olympus. Her excuses were growing fewer also. She couldn't truly say that to leave her position as high priestess would damage Crete. The young acolyte Sappho's ability to scry had been refined; she could reach all the other shrines of Dionysus on Crete and could also reach Dionysus' house in Olympus. Through Sappho, Ariadne could be aware of what happened on Crete and if she were needed to deal with Asterion.

  No, not Asterion, the Minotaur. Ariadne, who was still abed while Dionysus collected what he wanted to take back to Olympus from the offerings that had come in celebration of the turning of the year, shivered as her last meeting with her half brother came to mind. Immediately, her eyes sought out the dark figure of the Mother in Her niche, but She was all a mystery of shadows, unmoving, silent, adamant.

  Ariadne shivered again and drew the covers more tightly around her. She'd begun this terrible cycle by binding Dionysus to her, by desiring him as maid desires man instead of merely worshiping him as priestess worships god. Dionysus' response had incited Pasiphae to couple with Poseidon. Out of that coupling, the Minotaur had been conceived—and Ariadne knew herself bound in some way to him, bound in some way to close the cycle she had opened.

  She glanced again toward the dark Mother, but the form was implacable, the shadows impenetrable. She bit her lip, knowing but still struggling against the knowledge of how the cycle must be closed. Yet it was impossible for her to betray her half brother. He trusted her. He loved her. Tears filled her eyes again and this time ran out the far corners and into her hair.

  Yesterday she'd been forced to give up her tenuous hold on her belief he could remain Asterion to her. Although the chain linking her to him had grown longer and sometimes as much as a week passed without his asking for her, yesterday Phaidra had come twice within a few hours.

  The second time Phaidra had said, “Mother's been with the Minotaur.” Her voice was quiet and steady, but there was a pallor to her skin that wasn't all the result of winter's lack of sunlight.

  Ariadne remembered sighing impatiently. “You would think after all these years she'd know how to avoid making him angry. I really can't come again right now. I've just been there. It's only a few days to the dance for the Mother and I have to be sure the dancers know—”

  “This wasn't all mother's fault,” Phaidra interrupted. “Some fool must have mentioned your dance in the Minotaur's hearing and he told mother he wished to see you dance. And mother, of course, said he couldn't because he couldn't attend the Mother's ritual and you refused to dance for him in his temple.”

  “Oh, Mother bless me!”

  “You'll need some blessing,” Phaidra said sharply. “I don't see how you can explain this to him. He's not a two-year-old who can be distracted by toys any longer. He believes he's a god and can have anything he wants.” Doubt and even fear showed in Phaidra's expression.

  Phaidra's distress had stilled the further protest Ariadne had been about to make. Although she knew her sister had no affection for their half-brother, that his form was revolting to her, Phaidra hadn't been afraid of him since he was first born and she thought he was a supernatural monster. Thus, Ariadne said, “Very well, since it's my refusal that has set him off, I suppose I must try to quiet him,” and went to get a heavy cloak.

  She and Phaidra set off for the palace without further discussion. She heard Asterion bellowing as the doors of his apartment opened and as she entered with her hands over her ears, his attendants slipped out, placing lighted torches in holders to either side of the doors. Lighted torches in daylight? That was odd, but she had no time to think of it.

  “When you yell like that, I can't hear what you're saying, Asterion,” she said into a moment of silence while he was drawing breath.

  He turned on her, horns lowered in threat, and shouted, “No more Asterion. Minotaur! Bull God! No baby Asterion. Grown up.”

  Ariadne was shocked by the implied aggression of the lowered horns. Aside from the time he'd come to her defense, she'd never seen Asterion threaten anyone. The jolt seemed to clear from her mind a lingering image of a horribly malformed babe that clung to her because no one else would touch him. At that moment, she saw the beast-man for what he was: huge, powerful, very dangerous—more dangerous than his size and natural weapons made him because he didn't have the control over himself that went with his mature body.

  Moreover he had spoken the truth. He was no longer her Asterion. He was indeed the Minotaur. A prick of resentment stung Ariadne. A baby Asterion might need her protection, but the powerful Minotaur could fend for himself.

  “Then Minotaur you will be to me,” she said, her voice sharp, “no longer a little brother. You have no need to lower your horns at me as if you must drive me out. If the Minotaur is angry and doesn't wish to see me, I'll leave gladly.”

  “No go.” The threatening horns were lifted, the Minotaur's hand was extended, palm up, in a pleading gesture. “Pu-puh-pease—” he struggled to form a word his mouth didn't find easy to shape “—want brother. Ridne no go.”

  Ariadne swallowed. One moment so dangerous her breath had caught, now abject. You fool, she thought, despite his looks, he's only eight years old, and he hasn't even an eight-year-old's common sense; he's ruled by a two-year-old's passions.

  “Do you want to tell me why you're angry?” she asked more gently.

  “I god!” he roared.

  “Not my god,” she said firmly. “You are my brother, and I love you, but you aren't my god.”


  “Siphe says Bull God 'portant. Ridne dance for Bull God.”

  “No.” She said it calmly, quietly. “You may be a god, Minotaur, I don't contest that, but I don't dance for any god. I don't dance for Poseidon or Zeus. I don't even dance for Dionysus, who is my god because I was consecrated as his priestess. I dance only for the Mother.”

  His big eyes bulged. “You dance for Siphe?”

  Ariadne smiled and touched his neck, stroked his shoulder. “No, of course not. There's a goddess, a great and powerful goddess for whom we know no name. From the time that men and women were created from the primordial slime, She's been worshiped simply as the Mother—not our mother, the Mother.”

  She didn't think he understood, but he shrugged off the explanation and returned to his own purpose. “Want to see Ridne dance,” he said, his voice both pleading and petulant.

  “You'll be bored,” she responded, smiling again. “My dancing isn't nearly so interesting as that of your priests and priestesses. They jump and twirl and shine and glitter. I only step about and wave my arms a bit.”

  “You my Ridne. Want dance.”

  Ariadne stiffened and then suddenly relaxed, a broad smile curving her lips. “Why not?” she asked, having seen a way to satisfy the “little boy” who wanted to see his favorite sister dance and yet outmaneuver Pasiphae, who was still determined to bend Ariadne to her will. “If you'll help me pick up these toys from the floor and push these chairs aside, I'll dance for you right here and now.”

  “Now?” His mouth moved in what passed for a smile.

  “Certainly, if you help me clear the floor.”

  He did so with a will, moving three and four heavy pieces of furniture at the same time without effort while Ariadne picked up a number of discarded toys. Some had dust on them, she noticed, and made a mental note that she would have to find something different that would interest him.

  “Dance,” he said, and moved back toward a chair near the wall.

  Ariadne raised her arms, and began the dance of welcome. After a few moments, the Minotaur stirred restlessly. Ariadne continued, stepping east, then north, turning south, then west, swaying rhythmically. Actually she was finding the rehearsal useful, plotting the countermoves of the chorus in her mind, until the Minotaur spoke again.

  “Dance tell story?” he asked.

  “Yes, it does,” Ariadne replied, stopping, turning to face him, and explaining what the moves meant.

  To her surprise, the Minotaur listened attentively. “Like stories,” he said.

  Ariadne seized on that at once. It had been growing harder and harder to divert him with toys. His hands were so quick and sure, he made the simple ones work and tired of them in moments; the complex ones he couldn't understand well enough to operate and broke in a rage.

  “I could bring you pictures and tell you the stories of what they mean,” Ariadne offered. “Would you like that?”

  He rose from his chair and came to her, bending almost double to rub his cheek against her shoulder. “Ridne always make Minotaur happy. Love Ridne.”

  For a moment her throat closed and tears stung her eyes. That gesture was all Asterion. “And I love you, dear,” she said, stroking his fur. Nonetheless, she didn't wish to stay. He was tired of her dance and she had no other way to amuse him. Somewhere far back in her mind, cold and hard, was the glitter of the lowered, golden horns. “I'll go and look for pictures for you.”

  He'd let her go and she'd hurried back to the shrine, recalling some clay tablets on which scenes of wine making from pruning the vines to storing the pithoi were recorded. She could send those at once. Someone could make up a story about winemaking. However, she never had a chance to find the tablets or ask about them. Dionysus was standing before his picture, the priests, priestesses, and novices all in a half circle around him, looking terrified. Ariadne came to salute at once, left fist pressed to her forehead, right arm raised.

  Dionysus' frown was replaced by raised eyebrows at the formal greeting and he asked, “Where were you?” in a milder voice than she expected from his expression.

  “Pacifying the Minotaur,” she said, her lips thinning. “May I dismiss your votaries, my lord?”

  He caught her expression, and his brows went up again. Then he said, “Oh, yes,” and waved a hand. The circle of attendants backed away and then fled through the priests' door. Ariadne dropped her arms. Dionysus' gaze followed the departing votaries, then came back to Ariadne. “I only asked where you were. Why are they so afraid? You're not afraid.”

  “You were angry at my absence and they felt your anger, my lord.”

  “And you don't?”

  “I don't know how to answer that, Dionysus. I know when you're angry; I do feel your rage. But it's as if there's a gentle barrier between the heat and sharpness of that anger and myself.”

  “Is that why they call you when the bull-head rages? Does that mist preserve you from him also?”

  “Never, my lord. My heartflower opens only for you. What preserves me from the Minotaur is his memory of my caring for him when he was a babe and a child.” She hesitated, seeing again those lowered horns, but she went on, “Poor creature. No one cares for him, and he must feel it, so he still clings to me.”

  “And because he's pitiful, you put him before me. Even when I came to you in dirty rags, all torn and weary, you wouldn't leave him to care for me.”

  She laughed. “Because even dirty and torn you're a magnificent being—” the laughter checked and her eyes filled “—and he's ... little more than a beast. Oh, Dionysus, he's not growing in understanding; he's not what a child of eight should be.”

  The bright blue eyes slid away from hers. Dionysus wasn't going to discuss the Minotaur, she thought. Somehow she'd have to disentangle herself from the problem without his help. However, she was wrong about his determination not to discuss her problem. It turned out that he was going to add to it.

  After a glance around the open shrine, he started off without another word. Ariadne followed him into her chamber where they took their accustomed places. Still Dionysus said nothing, staring out the shaft window at the hillside, and Ariadne at last asked if he had examined the offerings that the household had set out for him and taken everything he wanted. He brought his head around.

  “The bull-head is dangerous.”

  Ariadne drew a sharp breath. Had she been calling for help again and brought Dionysus to her? Had he seen those lowered horns? Icy fingers ran along her spine. Did the Minotaur have enough of a mind for Dionysus to affect? If not, could the Minotaur hurt Dionysus?

  But Dionysus didn't seem angry, only troubled, and she didn't remember being really frightened for herself, only shocked at a ferocity she hadn't expected. She took a chance and asked, “What do you mean?”

  “He—the bull-head—”

  “He calls himself the Minotaur,” Ariadne offered.

  “He's been noticed in Olympus,” Dionysus said as if she had not spoken.

  A flush of hope that the Olympians would solve her problem for her was followed by a severe pang of guilt. But as Dionysus went on speaking it became apparent that it wasn't the Minotaur who was being threatened.

  “Bacchus is a scryer—it's his only Gift—and he sometimes spies on the greater mages for juicy gossip.” His bright glance flicked to her and away. “He always tells me anything that relates to you or Knossos.” He hesitated again and then went on, “He hopes to make trouble between us.”

  “As long as you know that, he can do little to hurt me,” Ariadne replied calmly.

  “You can't like him living with me. I wouldn't like you to live with someone who spoke ill of me. But I don't know what to do. He's been with me for many more years than your whole life, since soon after the first Ariadne died. If I put him out, he would come near starving.”

  “No, I don't like it that he speaks ill of me. I don't wish him ill—”

  He bent and pressed a kiss on her hair, but lifted himself away before Ariadne could turn
her head and try to meet his lips. “You never wish anyone ill,” he said.

  Why wouldn't he respond to her desire for him? Ariadne asked herself. But really, she knew. The women of Olympus were so much more beautiful than she. Still, if he didn't want her as a woman, it was cruel of him to urge her constantly to live with him. She curbed the bitter thought.

  “My lord,” she went on, “if you believe me a true Mouth, I have nothing to fear from Bacchus' venomous tongue. A true Mouth cannot lie. Was what he said about Knossos important?”

  “About that, I'm not sure. Bacchus said he heard Athena tell Apollo that the people of her city are angry because the people of yours are putting the so-called Bull God before all the other gods.”

  “The people of Athena's city—Athens?” Ariadne echoed. “It's none of their affair. We don't tell them what gods to worship. Why should they tell us? And why should we care about what they think—unless they're appealing to Athena to destroy the Minotaur.”

  “No, I don't think so. It seems they wish to use the worship of false gods to prevent the signing of some treaty King Minos is offering Athens. But you might lose your monster another way.”

  Ariadne said nothing, and didn't lift her head. She was torn between the memory of her pathetic half brother struggling to say a word he couldn't form to beg her not to abandon him and the memory of his childish, unreasonable demands on her. She couldn't bear for the poor creature to be hurt, but she longed to be free of the burden of his need.

  Dionysus must have understood her dilemma because he smiled. “I doubt this is something that need worry you. The Egyptian priests of Apis—the sacred bull—would like to have the bull-head for their own. But if they got him, they would do him no harm.”

  “They wish to steal the Minotaur?” Ariadne laughed as a hope flickered and then sighed as the hope died. “My parents wouldn't part with him for any price, and taking him by guile or force ... I would like to see them try. Likely if they asked him to come he wouldn't even understand them, and to abduct him—” she laughed again “—he isn't easy to manage. Still, it would do no good to antagonize Egypt or to have any ambassador from the pharaoh come to harm. I think I must tell this to my father.”