Bull God Read online

  The pictures she remembered were in the storeroom, and she found them with little trouble after she had washed, dressed, and eaten. But when she held them in her hands, she realized how unsuitable they were in the light of what her father had told her. Showing such outdoor activities as pruning vines and collecting grapes might only stimulate the Minotaur's desire to be abroad.

  She spent a little while longer looking through the stored items, but there was nothing she could use. Carvings offered to the shrine were usually of nymphs and satyrs cavorting—and that was another idea Ariadne didn't want to put into the Minotaur's head. While she was moving stools and peering into long chests, however, she recalled that there had been pictures on thin sheets of wood on the walls of the children's room in the palace—more practical than frescoes because they could be removed and washed when smeared by sticky little fingers.

  The pictures had become so familiar over the years that she hadn't “seen” them for a long time, but perhaps they were still hanging there or perhaps Phaidra would know where they had been stored. The walls, when she reached the children's room, were bare and the room—leaping from youth to age—was inhabited by a handful of old women folding linen. Ariadne went on down the corridor, glancing in through the door of her old room on her way to the Southeastern Hall where the royal family and household usually ate and sometimes lingered to talk. To her surprise, the bedchamber wasn't empty. Phaidra was there, sitting on a stool in front of the wall shelf that held her toilet articles and staring into a small, polished bronze mirror.

  “Phaidra?” Ariadne said.

  Her sister turned.

  “Do you remember what happened to the pictures that used to hang against the wall of the old children's room?”

  Phaidra stared at her, eyes widening, and then burst into tears. Ariadne hurried to her and took her into her arms. “What's wrong, my love?” she asked.

  For a little while her sister's storm of weeping was so violent that she couldn't answer, but finally she sobbed, “You only think of me as a housekeeper.”

  Ariadne gave her a hard squeeze and then let her go. “I'm afraid I only think of you as my darling little sister,” she said. “Nothing so august as a housekeeper. Oh, Phaidra, don't you remember how terrified we both were of that woman who was in charge of the laundry? She towered over us and boomed 'Dirty clothes again. Do you think I have nothing better to do than clean up little girls' messes?' “

  “Well, it seems that I have nothing better to do,” Phaidra said angrily. “And will have nothing better to do for the rest of my life than clean up the Minotaur's messes and attend to the household.”

  “Probably not,” Ariadne said sympathetically. “It's what most women do. I may be priestess of a shrine, but attend to the household is what I mostly do.”

  “You have your shrine,” Phaidra spat. “It's your place and you rule it. I have nothing that's mine. In this house I'm still the youngest child, the one who runs errands. But I'm not a child. I've passed nineteen summers. I should have been married three years ago. I should have a kingdom of my own, my own house, my own children. Instead I have been overseeing the Minotaur's clothing and meals, passing messages from mother to the servants and cooks—” she looked up at Ariadne, her eyes full of tears “—remembering where the paintings from the children's room are, where Androgeos left his sandals and Glaukos left his arrows, where the queen's rouge pot went and the king's favorite inkstick.”

  “Oh, dear.” Ariadne sat down on the edge of the bed that had once been hers. “I know it doesn't sound like much when you say it in those terms, but you're really the most important person in the household, Phaidra. Everything would fall into disorder without you.”

  “Perhaps that's so, but it does me no good. Do I have a seat of honor at any feast? Am I presented to ambassadors and other visitors from foreign places? Are cups of wine lifted to my name? Who even knows my name?”

  “There are very few women whose names are known by any other than their own households—and mostly those whose are, are of ill repute,” Ariadne said, smiling. “I doubt more than my priests and priestesses and this family know my name. Why is it important to you that your name be known?”

  “Why? If Phaidra of Knossos, daughter of King Minos, were spoken of abroad, surely some prince would come as a suitor. Who would sue to marry an unknown least daughter?”

  “Do you desire to marry and go so far? You remember when Euryale and her husband were so sadly at odds three or four years ago. If father hadn't been close by and of superior strength, she might have been set aside for some young slut.”

  “Oh, Euryale! Such a cold stick.” Phaidra glanced at Ariadne under her eyelashes. “I'd know better how to hold a man and how to make him my willing servant. I don't fear going away. I fear rotting here, as if I were buried in a grave.”

  Ariadne sighed. “I suppose you have told your mother?”

  Phaidra didn't bother to answer that, and Ariadne sighed again.

  “Then go to your father.” She hesitated, then went on. “I happen to know that King Minos is in the midst of negotiating a treaty with the Athenians. It's not impossible that the formation of a marriage bond to tie in the treaty would be a welcome idea to him.”

  “The Athenians?” Phaidra repeated. Her eyes brightened and she lifted the bronze mirror for a quick glance. Staring into it, she added thoughtfully, “There's a prince of whom the traders who come have spoken. Theseus is his name. Hero some have called him. I wonder ...”

  “I wouldn't fix my hopes too firmly on the Athenians,” Ariadne warned. “I've also heard that not all are content with this treaty and some say it's wrong to make bonds to worshipers of false gods.”

  “What false gods?”

  “The Minotaur.”

  Phaidra began to laugh. “Did you think I'd be offended by anyone saying so? Or that I would make enemies by defending the beast?”

  “Phaidra, don't be foolish. You needn't defend the divinity of the Minotaur, but you mustn't support any contention that he's a false god. Don't you see that what diminishes Knossos will also diminish you? Even if your husband comes to love you, the daughter of a powerful king will be of more account than the daughter of a scorned or ruined one.”

  “You say that whose own god has been diminished by the accursed Minotaur?”

  Ariadne shook her head. “No one can diminish my god. It's his blessing that brings half the wealth of this realm. That's real. His power abides, as does the strength of the Mother. But now, while Knossos makes a firm place in trade and builds its power, the Bull God is a visible symbol of divine favor. Don't tell tales of him. Let those who will, believe him a god.”

  Phaidra made a moue of distaste, but nodded agreement. “Oh, I know you're right. It just makes my gorge rise to see wise and powerful men bow and pray to him. For the Mother's sake, do you know that he can't always remember to raise his kilt when he pisses? I can't tell you ... Oh, never mind. It won't matter if I can only convince father to use me for the treaty with Athens.”

  “If you go, I'll miss you,” Ariadne said.

  “And I you.”

  The sisters embraced, but Ariadne felt sad. Phaidra didn't sound grief-stricken at the notion of leaving her sister behind and her embrace was perfunctory. A moment later, she felt ashamed because Phaidra said “Aha!” and told her where the paintings from the children's room were stored. Clearly her sister's mind had been attending to her needs even though she seemed absent.

  Fortunately there were three scenes that Ariadne felt she could use. Two she had carried up to Phaidra's chamber and stored there where she would be able to get them easily. She took the third with her. That showed a procession toward an altar: first came a youth carrying a rhyton, and in succession behind him, a fisherman with an octopus in one hand and a fish on a line in the other, several women with unidentifiable bundles in their arms, a man carrying a dead deer over his shoulder, and last another man leading a goat to be sacrificed. The painting was done in
lively colors and there were pillars behind the procession, hinting that it moved along an indoor corridor. Ariadne felt she would be able to spin out a tale for each of those in the procession, such as where the youth got the rhyton of wine and why he was bringing it as an offering and so forth for each figure.

  She didn't go so far along the corridor as the Southeastern Hall but went down the stairway that connected the children's wing with the queen's apartment below. No guards stood at Pasiphae's closed door, so Ariadne assumed the queen was elsewhere in the palace. Beyond were the rooms the Minotaur occupied. The guards saw her; both smiled, and one began to open the door. Through that, she heard an attendant say the second line from the Mother's ritual slowly and carefully, making each syllable clear. Immediately the words were repeated in the deep, rumbling bass of the Minotaur ... but mangled, consonants lost, vowels blurred. The words were recognizable—barely. Though his voice was deep and strong, it carried none of the assurance, of the restrained power that could woo and fulfill the Mother.

  Ariadne drew a sharp breath, caught her lip between her teeth, and shook her head at the guard, indicating that he shouldn't yet open the door further.

  “Said it!” the Minotaur exclaimed as soon as the last word of the ritual sentence was complete. “Now go out.”

  “My lord, you've only begun,” the attendant's voice was somewhat tremulous. “Those are only the first and second lines, only the beginning of the ritual. The queen insists that you learn it all.”

  “Not begun. Finished. You finished. I finished. Want bull court. See bull dancing.”

  “My lord, my lord, please! You can't! There's no bull dancing now. That's a different ceremony at a different time. Please!” And then, in a shrill shriek of terror. “Use the torch! Stop him!”

  There was a bellow of rage, another shriek, either of pain or fear. Ariadne slipped between the guards and opened the door just enough for her to enter. She pushed it closed behind her. One attendant had backed against the wall, clutching a scroll of parchment to his chest. Another was waving a burning torch in the Minotaur's face. Her half brother's lips were drawn back exposing his tearing fangs in a terrifying way and he let out another bellow. The attendant thrust the flaming torch at his muzzle, close enough for him to feel the heat. He bellowed again but backed up.

  “Minotaur!” Ariadne called. “I've brought the picture I promised. There's a whole procession on it, and I'll tell you all about the offerings and the people who bring them.”

  The attendant jumped aside so the Minotaur could see Ariadne but kept himself and his flaming torch between the other attendant and the angry beast-man.

  “Ridne.”

  Most of the rage was instantly gone from the deep voice. The Minotaur turned his head to look at her. His mouth relaxed, the bovine lips covering the predator's teeth. Ariadne held up the picture and walked forward slowly. The Minotaur came toward her, the attendants shrinking against the wall as he passed, but all his attention was on the brightly colored panel she held for him to see.

  “Come and sit down with me and I'll tell you the story I promised,” she said, and the Minotaur followed her docilely to the chairs he and the attendant had probably been using.

  “Outside?” the Minotaur asked, cocking his head to bring one eye into focus on the painting.

  “No, no,” Ariadne said, pointing to the pillars. “You see the columns. That's a corridor or a very large chamber where a religious rite is held. You've seen the chamber of the pillars below these rooms. You've passed through it on your way to your temple.”

  He nodded. “Other room. Not out. Only long dark to temple.”

  Long dark? It sounded as if a tunnel or covered passage had been built to convey the Minotaur from his chambers to the temple. Ariadne was relieved. She had wondered how he could be kept from escaping now that his mind seemed fixed on being free if they walked him, as they had in the past, down the long stairway to the temple. Someone, it seemed, had enough sense to take precautions.

  He'd been looking at the painting, turning his head from side to side to bring each eye to bear on it. “Now bring offerings to big room?” he asked. His brow wrinkled in doubt. “Like temple. Look out. See things. People.” The frown grew deeper. “Like temple!”

  “Yes, of course you do. And offerings to you will always be brought to your temple. Minotaur, this is a story. A story isn't true. It doesn't really happen. It's only told to pass the time. Sometimes the story did happen, but very, very long ago. See this youth? See his clothing? Such clothing hasn't been worn for many years. If this procession took place, it was when the palace was new, hundreds of years ago.”

  “Why story long ago?”

  “When we tell stories from long ago, we remind ourselves of both good things and bad things that happened. Then we can do the good things and avoid the bad ones. This is the story of a good thing, of a procession to make offerings to a god.”

  “Like me?”

  Ariadne didn't answer that directly, only stroked the silky fur on his shoulder. He seemed to accept that and in return bent his head to rub his cheek against her hand. So she told him about the rhyton of wine, about what was in the bundles the women carried, about the fisherman and the hunter. And when she was done, she suggested that he should keep the painting.

  Suddenly the large, beautiful eyes were very sad. “Won't 'member,” he said, looking away from her. “Used to 'member.”

  Ariadne's throat closed and she swallowed hard to clear the lump in it. “It doesn't matter, love,” she said. “I'll come and tell you the stories again. The picture is bright and pretty, so keep it.”

  He nodded happily and went off carrying the panel into his bedchamber. Ariadne went over to the attendants, still backed against the wall.

  “I wouldn't trouble him with the ritual any more,” she said. Tears stood in her eyes.

  “The queen ...” the man with the torch faltered.

  “Will he remember any of it when she comes?” she asked. “How can she know whether you tried to teach him or not?”

  The men looked at each other, but Ariadne didn't wait to hear any answer. She had another ugly decision to make now, which she considered while walking back to Dionysus' shrine and waiting for the dancers' chorus to come for rehearsal.

  She knew she wouldn't dance the welcome for the Mother if the Minotaur sang the male role instead of Minos. On his own, of course, it was impossible that the Minotaur could learn the ritual, but in her madness Pasiphae might try to find a device to let it seem he was taking that role. What Ariadne had to decide was whether she should confront the queen at once and tell her she wouldn't dance before the Minotaur—to save him from being tormented to learn the responses—or just wait and see what would happen. This year, she believed, it was too late for the queen to arrange anything and she suspected the attendants would take her suggestion for the few days remaining before the ceremony. For next year ... She put that thought away, concentrating on changing her gown for her practice dancing skirt.

  The grief that Ariadne had been warding off with her concentration on problems surrounding the Minotaur didn't fall upon her on the Mother's holy day as she had feared. The eve of the turning of the year was mild and clear, a good omen, and she knew as soon as she approached the dancing floor that Dionysus had come. Her heartflower opened, the silver strands streamed out to touch in joy and welcome the tall, broad-shouldered Cretan who waited just two steps down from the entrance. Nor was her welcome rebuffed. He saluted her as she came up the steps to take her place at the head of the dancers, and there was a wave of fists going to foreheads and right arms rising through the whole crowd. There were also nervous looks toward the dais, but Minos and Pasiphae hadn't yet come.

  No cloud of ill feeling between king and queen marred the ritual either. Ariadne was aware that the full concord that had once united them was missing—each had a walled-in place inside that excluded the other—but they weren't angry or hateful. They sang with good will, and each was lo
oking forward to some satisfaction—even if those might be mutually exclusive. For Ariadne there was no doubt that the Mother accepted her worship; she grew lighter and lighter throughout the dance, feeling the lifting of her hair, the tiny tweaks on the locks of consecration that denoted affection, and the warmth of the golden ribbons of blessing about her. And when she walked back to the shrine, Dionysus was there.

  That wasn't an unmixed joy. He greeted her, spoke to her, as if that lingering kiss had never been offered, taken, and then rejected. Ariadne could almost have believed that some god had wiped the incident from his mind ... if he hadn't been a god himself (or something like) and if he hadn't so assiduously avoided touching her. He did take her hand when they blessed the vineyards, but at the full stretch of his arm, as if to touch her body was unbearable to him.

  He didn't, however, simply disappear this night as he usually did. He returned with her to her chamber, reappearing suddenly in the middle of the room with a worried frown on his face. But he didn't speak until he had walked across to his chair and seated himself.

  “Will you eat, my lord?” Ariadne asked.

  He nodded, but not smiling and eagerly as he did when he was hungry, more as if he wanted the food to put off some other action. Ariadne swallowed fear and put it away as she ordered that the priestesses bring a meal—the best they had—for Dionysus. She no longer needed to bother with ringing her bell; now she simply projected her will into Hagne's mind.

  “The food will come soon, my lord,” she said

  Dionysus didn't seem to hear her. He looked at nothing in the middle of the room and said, “Chosen, you know, don't you, that the blessing of the vineyards in Crete is different from the blessing elsewhere?”

  To Ariadne's surprise, his white skin was flushed with pink, so darkly flushed that the color was visible even in the soft light of the lamps. And what he said was so far from anything Ariadne had been fearing that she just blinked like a witless owl. He cleared his throat uneasily.