Bull God Read online

  In her sister's chamber she had found red eyes and sad features—but not, she discovered, for the loss of Androgeos.

  “What will become of me?” Phaidra wailed. “I'll never find a husband or freedom from this place.”

  Ariadne shook her head, and left. She passed Glaukos on her way back to the shrine. His face was set and there was grief in it; he and Androgeos, so close in age, had shared many things. But Ariadne saw, beneath the surface grief, a sense of gratification. Androgeos, the elder son, had always been first; unless he was shown to be unfit, he would have inherited his father's throne. And Androgeos hadn't been unfit. Now Glaukos would inherit.

  Sick at heart from seeing too much and too clearly, Ariadne hurried back to the sanctuary of Dionysus' shrine. None here had known Androgeos and their formal expressions of grief and sympathy didn't trouble her. They were sincerely sorry for her, and beneath the formality was nothing but a reasonable indifference about someone they didn't know.

  Ariadne sighed and dropped onto the cushion beside Dionysus' chair, although they seldom sat that way now. Mostly they shared a sofa or chairs opposite each other across a small table to play some game. As the thoughts passed her mind she sighed again. Even her own grief was muted. Androgeos had been the best and kindest of her brothers, but they'd grown apart. She remembered him mostly as a boy, though to her he had seemed like a god then. He'd protected her from Glaukos, fixed her toys; once—when no one was there to see—had carried a heavy bucket for her. The man had been harder, more fixed in purpose, like his father, Minos.

  Well, he'd be avenged. Dionysus always Saw true, and his Vision had showed Minos victorious. Oddly the thought gave Ariadne little satisfaction. She remembered how feeble the defense of Athens had been, how beaten and broken King Aigeus had seemed—and he hadn't even led his fighting men. That was strange. He was old, but not that old.

  Ariadne sat up straighter, recalling the Vision, and looked reproachfully across the room at the wall toward the hidden image of the Mother. She understood now why so many Athenians had seemed reluctant to defend themselves and their city. It was a great impiety to kill an invited envoy, and they felt the attack and conquest by Minos was a direct punishment of their sin. Tears pricked her eyes. Likely Androgeos' death had nothing to do with Crete and was designed to humble the Athenians. Perhaps it was Athena's doing? Or Poseidon's? Should she ask Dionysus?

  In the end she didn't ask. What could Dionysus do? Punish one of his fellow gods for the death of a common native? Ridiculous. Spite and hatred might follow or outright retaliation, pitting god against god ... or all the gods against Dionysus. And Androgeos would still be dead.

  Later, when Dionysus had come and simply taken her in his arms to hug, then sat down beside her, she realized she didn't want to know. If she went to Olympus as Dionysus wished, the last thing she needed was the knowledge that one of the Olympians had condemned her brother to death, carelessly, without even knowing him or anything about him, for a purpose that had nothing to do with him.

  It was a silent evening. Once Dionysus said, “Do you still want a person who can lock and unlock the maze, now that your sister won't be leaving?”

  Ariadne nodded. “I think Phaidra will refuse to serve the Minotaur any longer. It was the price she paid to be proposed as a treaty bride. She expected the service to end when she left Knossos. Now, I think, she'll simply refuse and Minos will be too busy with his war to care.”

  “A woman—a girl, really—will come in a ten-day or so. She's a priestess from the Bull God's temple at Zakro. My priestess there said she has a strong Gift, which will make the binding of the spell to her possible, and that she's a true believer in the Bull God. You can tell her that bringing the food—call it an offering—is a ritual practiced where the Bull God actually appeared.”

  Although she had some reservations and begged Phaidra to continue attending to their half brother—which Phaidra absolutely refused to do—Ariadne also looked forward to training the new priestess. It was a task that would divert her mind from the comings and goings at the palace, which too clearly spoke of preparations for war. And when Hesper arrived, Ariadne was amused by her fanaticism. Hesper truly believed the Minotaur was a god who had shaken free of the dross flesh with which he had been burdened by his birth and become a pure spirit.

  Ariadne had to hide a grin. She couldn't help thinking of that “pure spirit” Dionysus' solid flesh and hearty appetite for bread and cheese and olives. Then her smile twisted wryly. There was nothing dross about his flesh—it was all too attractive. But Ariadne had no intention of arguing with Hesper. She simply used the girl's fanaticism by warning her that the Bull God, like her own god, Dionysus, did from time to time visit his childhood home and appear in his temple.

  “However, he doesn't like to be spied on,” Ariadne said, “so if you should catch a glimpse of him, immediately invoke the maze and take a few steps away. That way he'll know you respect his privacy. Don't speak to those within the chambers. They are condemned criminals selected to be scapegoat sacrifices if the Bull God should be offended. Hand them the meat. Invoke the maze immediately, and go your way lest one try to follow you and escape. When you're sure you're alone—don't look; listen for footsteps following you—dissolve the maze and leave.”

  She went with Hesper for the next ten-day, sometimes accompanying her openly, sometimes following quietly behind, making sure that the girl was able to lock and unlock the gates, clear and invoke the maze—Hekate had given Dionysus a spell, which he had given to Ariadne, to make this possible—and would do so at the correct times. It also made clear to the criminal servants, of whom only three remained, that Hesper was being guarded. Now, Ariadne thought, if only she could arrange a sighting of the Minotaur, she would be sure that Hesper would believe that he did appear and remain alert.

  In the end, it was easy enough to do. Ariadne had no objection to Hesper thinking her more powerful than she was so she told the girl it was time for her to see her god and that she, Ariadne, would summon him. Then Ariadne called the Minotaur aloud, removed the maze, and continued to call until he came to her.

  “Ridne!” he bellowed.

  Hesper dropped silently to the floor in a dead faint. Ariadne didn't feel too steady herself. The Minotaur had grown even larger and the bull's head was somehow coarser and more bestial. Worse, he was no longer the clean, shining creature he had been, with gilded horns, attired in a beautifully embroidered kilt and a jeweled collar. The collar was gone, the gilding mostly scraped away from the horns. His fur was matted, his kilt tattered and stained with urine and feces. His nails had grown into long, curved claws—and he stank.

  “ 'Member Ridne,” he said raising an arm to reach out to her.

  He was looking down at her, and the arm crossed his sight. The dull, tangled fur held his gaze, and then, as if awakening, he slowly looked down at himself.

  “Minotaur,” Ariadne breathed.

  “No god!” he roared. “Siphae lie. Minotaur no god. Beast! Beast! Ridne. Ridne. Help Minotaur!”

  “I will, love, I will,” she sobbed. “Come to your room and I'll comb you and bathe you.”

  She reached toward his hand and started to take a step in his direction, when suddenly he bellowed, “Mine! Maze mine!” and struck at her. Starting back, she tripped over Hesper's prone body so that she fell, escaping his blow and crying as she went down, “Ridne. I am Ridne.”

  He stepped back, then back again. “No hurt Ridne. Love Ridne ...” It was a whimper. “Not 'member. Beast not 'member.” He stood staring down at her, eyes glazing, lips pulling back from his tearing fangs, then suddenly turned and ran away, crying as he ran, “No eat Ridne. Love Ridne.”

  ”Anoikodomo apate,” Ariadne breathed through her sobs and knew that the Minotaur wouldn't find them again.

  She was afraid that Hesper, having seen the beast, would no longer believe in the god and be unwilling to serve, so she concealed her own revulsion and terror, but the girl hadn't really seen a
nything beyond the huge looming figure. Fear and fervor had felled her before she could be disenchanted. When they were safe in the temple grounds, she told Ariadne that it had been wrong of her to summon the Bull God.

  “Mortals are too weak. They aren't fit to see a god. You're too proud and presume too much. I'll be a better priestess and never offend him.”

  Ariadne didn't say she was not the Bull God's priestess or that she saw a being much nearer a god than the Minotaur every evening and presumed to tease him and laugh with him. She simply nodded and agreed. And aside from making sure that the priests and priestesses of the Bull God's temple would report to her if Hesper didn't return to her quarters each day and occasionally questioning Hesper herself, she did her best not to think about the Minotaur.

  She was not entirely successful. “Help Minotaur,” he had cried. Slow tears trickled down Ariadne's face. There was nothing she could do to help him. As always, Dionysus had Seen true when he told her it was for the misshapen creature's own sake as much as for that of others that the poor monster should die. She wiped away the tears. The Minotaur was past weeping for; she could only pray that Hekate was right, that the spell would unravel and her poor half brother would be released from his torment.

  Meanwhile, the fervor of preparations for war reached a peak and then stopped. On the last day of the month of high summer, Minos led his fleet out into the ocean toward Athens. Ariadne didn't forbid those of the shrine to go, and the young acolytes, as filled with martial fervor as any other, went down to mingle with the people of Knossos who stood on the docks and on the hills that looked over the harbor. The men cheered; some of the women wept and prayed for good fortune for those who sailed.

  Ariadne wasn't among them. She had no fears, no doubts of Minos' safe arrival or of his victory. Dionysus always Saw true—if he could understand what he Saw, and if no greater power than his meddled. Pasiphae was not among the watchers and well-wishers either. She was still, Phaidra told her sister, down in the ancient shrine. Food was brought to her, soil carried out, but no one had seen the queen since she had whimpered, “Lost ... Lost ...”

  The tasks of summer filled the days, hoeing and weeding, gathering early fruit. Slowly over the weeks, Ariadne healed from Androgeos' death and the horror of the Minotaur's decay. With the absence of the Bull God from his great throne, even the gyrations of the priestesses and priests of his cult couldn't draw the number of worshipers that had once come. Nor did any pressure from the rulers of Knossos urge the people to worship and sacrifice. Minos was gone to war; Pasiphae seemed to have disappeared from the life of Knossos. However, the grapes swelled on the vines, their skins growing richer and darker as the hot sun kissed them, promising a bountiful harvest and a precious vintage.

  More offerings came to Dionysus' shrine more openly. Ariadne was occupied with spelling the perishable stuffs to stasis, with displaying and setting aside what Dionysus chose and selling what he didn't want. For a while she pretended to be puzzled by his choices; much of the cloth was more delicate and feminine than he ever wore, and the little tables and other items of statuary and furniture seemed smaller and more fragile than he would find comfortable.

  Eventually, however, Ariadne could be blind no longer and had to admit to herself that he was choosing items to give to a woman. Restraint broke its bounds, and she accused him bitterly, but she got no satisfaction, not even an argument or an order to hold her tongue. Dionysus laughed immoderately but he wouldn't deny her accusation nor would he explain beyond suggesting that she come to Olympus and see for herself.

  “Besides seeing what happened to the offerings, there are lots of things I had no time to show you,” he said, glancing at her sidelong. “Wouldn't you like to see how Hades works metal? It's really wonderful to see him take a double handful of earth and rock and squeeze it until gold and silver dribble out between his fingers.”

  “Dribble out between his fingers?” Ariadne echoed. “He is a god, indeed. His hands don't burn?”

  “No, he doesn't burn when the rock heats by his will, but that doesn't make him a god. I've seen him burn his tongue on a hot dish of food or a drink. On the other hand, he can't heat food or burn a person by his will. Only stone and metal—anything that takes part of the earth—respond to his Gift.”

  “I know Hades helped build your house in Olympus and you said you went hunting with him, but isn't the Underworld . . . strange?”

  “Strange, yes.” Dionysus smiled at the widening of her eyes. “But Hades is a friend. He wouldn't trap me there—not that it would be so terrible. It's a beautiful place, parts of it so beautiful they take away your breath.”

  “I shouldn't imagine you'd have any breath to be taken away if you were dead,” Ariadne said tartly.

  Dionysus laughed. “Hades isn't dead. Neither is Persephone. And I'm not either, although I've been there many times. They wouldn't mind if I brought you. And before you cry out and refuse, I swear that you won't be dead either before you go or after you return.” He sat silent for ten or twelve heartbeats and then said slowly, “And you'd like Persephone, I think. She's a true daughter of the Mother, although the power granted her is of a different kind than that granted you when you dance.”

  “Persephone.” Ariadne again echoed his word. “But she's the most awesome avatar ...”

  “She can be. I wouldn't care to cross her, I admit. But mostly she's full of fun and teasing and very loving to Hades.”

  “But didn't he carry her off to the dark Underworld against her will, steal her from her mother's care?”

  “I suppose he did.” Dionysus grinned. “But she was a bit beyond the care of a mother when he took her—she was all of nineteen summers—and had been trying to escape Demeter's overprotection for some time. Do you know her mother had never named her and called her always Kore, which means girl, because she wanted Persephone to take her place and thus give her immortality.”

  “But the great mages are immortal already!”

  “Only almost.” Dionysus shrugged but then went on without hesitation, “Which meant, that Persephone would never have had a name and life of her own. I think Persephone didn't mind much when Hades carried her away from Olympus—although she still teases him when anything goes wrong that it wouldn't have happened if he hadn't abducted her.”

  Ariadne shook her head. “I'm still not ready for the Underworld.”

  “Then perhaps you'd like to go to Egypt with Hermes? He likes company and I try to go with him as often as I can. He's such a devil that I fear for him sometimes. The Egyptians call him Anubis, and stick the head of a jackal on his shoulders. He doesn't seem to mind. Well, he loves bright things as much as a jackdaw and since he's most often called in Egypt to lead the dead spirit, and Egyptian funeral goods are very rich, he finds good pickings.”

  “The god Hermes is a thief? He steals from the dead?”

  “Oh yes, he's a thief.” Dionysus laughed. “A very good one. And the dead are safer to steal from than the living. They don't complain. Moreover, since the tombs are sealed after the body is disposed within, there's little chance that anyone living would notice.”

  Ariadne rolled her eyes. “Hades and Persephone are surrounded by the dead; Aphrodite, Psyche, and Eros are one long bedtime story. Are any of your friends respectable?”

  Dionysus thought for a moment. “No,” he said finally. “All the serious, sober gods are too uncomfortable in my presence to count me a friend.”

  There was an undertone of hurt in Dionysus' voice, and Ariadne shrugged. “I have a feeling that's just as well. Just think how dreadful it would be if they were friendly and you found that you were bored to death in their company. That happened to my poor sister Prokris after she was married. She had always resented being left out of the gossip and talk of the older ladies of the court. Once she was a wife, all the stuffy matrons of the noblest families, whom she didn't dare offend, insisted on visiting her for hours and giving her advice.”

  “Are you comparing Apollo, Ar
temis, and Athena to a bunch of stuffy matrons?” He burst out laughing, and the hand with which Ariadne had covered her lips dropped to show her answering grin. “Giving hours of advice. That's all too possible. But it means I have very few friends.”

  “Do you miss your homeland?”

  He frowned over that. “I don't know how to answer that. In one way, not really. I didn't have friends in Ur either and Olympus is much more beautiful. My house is mine and my life is my own, as it was not in Ur—but then I remember that I was much younger when I was in Ur; perhaps if I'd been older ... But there are things I miss: the fields of barley and wheat; the flocks of sheep and goats. The lambs and kids are endlessly amusing in the spring. In Olympus such ordinary sights are kept well away from the city, which is why I have my garden of fauns. On the other hand, the rulers of Ur held a tighter grip on their people and were very cruel.”

  “That's sometimes true here also,” Ariadne said soberly. “My own grandfather replaced a very cruel tyrant. And my grandmother—she who was priestess after the first Ariadne—was that tyrant's daughter. I've heard my father say she wasn't an easy person.”

  “Perhaps I should've killed her when I found her in my priestess's place.”

  Ariadne giggled. “No, because then the succession of priestesses would've been different and likely I wouldn't be your priestess now.”

  He laughed too. “You're right. That would've been quite dreadful.” And then he added, quickly as if on an impulse he couldn't resist, “Come to Olympus. I have something special to show you also.”

  Her amusement was suddenly gone. He didn't sound as if he really thought it would be dreadful if she hadn't become his priestess. And what did he want to show her? The woman for whom he had taken all the feminine offerings? Ariadne shook her head as a new fear engulfed her. What if what he wanted to show her was the woman he had chosen as life companion?