Bull God

by Roberta Gellis

  “Poseidon!” Dionysus exclaimed.

  Ariadne clasped her hands tightly, but her voice was steady as she went on. “And from a trance, the priest of Poseidon told my father that his sign would be a white bull that would rise from the sea and go with him. And that bull was to be sacrificed to Poseidon.”

  “One is better off not meddling with Poseidon,” Dionysus said thoughtfully. “But he sent the bull?”

  “Yes. Just as you Saw it in your dream. The bull came from the sea. Half of Crete saw it rise from the waves, and Radamanthys and Sarpedon bowed down to my father and accepted him as king.”

  “But if the bull was sacrificed—”

  “It was not,” Ariadne said. She started to look away, but Dionysus caught her chin and held her face so that her eyes met his. “My father was seduced by its beauty. He couldn't bear to put the axe to its neck. He sacrificed three fine bulls at the altar of Poseidon's shrine, but not that bull.”

  Dionysus stared into Ariadne's eyes a moment longer, his face now blank as a marble mask, and then looked away out the window. Ariadne licked her lips and waited. He didn't look angry, she thought, although he might be after her confession that her father had cheated the god who had consented to help him. Would that not connect in his mind with the priestess who used what came to the shrine to enrich herself instead of offering it to her god? But the silver threads had subsided, although she could feel that the flowerlike place where they usually nested was open wide. Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips again as they dried with the thought that he might be disgusted with her for betraying her father to him. Her lips were forming her defense when he turned toward her.

  “Ah,” Dionysus said; his eyes were bright and clear—and completely sane. “Now I understand why I have been dreaming of the bull coupling with the cows and then changing to a monster and destroying everything. And the man's head—” he frowned “—but the face was not Poseidon's.”

  Ariadne shook her head. “I don't understand that, my lord. It's as if something is missing from the dream.” But she was hardly paying attention to what she said. Her attention was still fixed on her own anxiety so that she went on quickly, “I hope you don't think it wrong to have spoken of my father's sin to you, my lord. When I was consecrated priestess this morning, he told me that I was no longer his but yours. Ahead of his right as king, as father, as blood of my blood, my first loyalty, my first responsibility, is to you. Is that not right?”

  The slight look of puzzlement he had been wearing shifted to a clear expression of satisfaction when she spoke of her father relinquishing all right to her, and she remembered the rage that had roused in him when he thought she wasn't the best her father and mother had to offer. There was kindness and gentleness in him—he had shown enough of them to her—but to belittle or overlook him was to rouse a monster. This was indeed a jealous god, but she wasn't afraid of that. He was first for her. She had no need to pretend or to worry about that pretense showing. Praise and admiration was what she felt, and praise and admiration would keep Dionysus calm.

  “You are mine and only mine,” he said sharply, confirming her thoughts. “No one has any claim to you but me. Your father can be no more than any other man to you.”

  “He isn't,” Ariadne affirmed steadily. “You are all men and all women, too, to me. You are all in all. My god.”

  Dionysus nodded. “That is how it must be. How else could you serve me and speak of my Visions? For they must be told to free me of them. You must warn your father, as my Mouth, that the bull from the sea must die on Poseidon's altar or great evil will follow.”

  Ariadne swallowed hard. “I must speak of this Vision to my father?” she said faintly.

  “He must be warned.”

  “He has been warned. Poseidon's priest has told him over and over that the bull must be sacrificed. He won't listen. He says he must have cattle bred from that animal.”

  Dionysus caught her chin again. “You don't wish to be my Mouth, to speak to your father of my Vision?”

  “I do wish to be your Mouth, my lord, but I am also afraid to speak of this Vision.”

  “Why? You are mine, under my protection. Of what are you afraid?”

  Ariadne took a deep breath. “My father spoke the words of renunciation that are part of the ritual of consecration, but I know that to him those were only words. I have been thirteen years his daughter; he expects silence and obedience from me. I have felt your presence; your touch is on my soul. His awe at seeing you, will be short-lived, I fear.”

  “You mean he will punish you if you say I told you that the bull must die?” Dionysus' voice was dangerously gentle. “He won't do it more than once.”

  Minos touch his priestess? Dionysus smiled. He could almost See his human hounds coursing on Minos' trail, hear the king's screams as his flesh was torn. Then, because he still held her chin, he felt Ariadne shiver convulsively; he looked and saw her eyes close. Tears ran from under her lids. She raised them and looked at him without trying to wipe the drops away.

  “You are my god,” she said. “You are first in my mind and in my heart, and I will do as you bid me regardless of punishment or any other ill. But, Lord God, Minos is my father. Whatever you do is right, and yet, I cannot bear that he should be hurt because of me. He's not an evil man. In most things he is noble, just, even generous. It's only this accursed bull that has seduced him from the proper path. I will be your Mouth and speak your warning, but I beg you, Lord Dionysus, if he will not hear and obey, admonish him gently.”

  For the third or fourth time that morning the red frenzy that had begun to flicker behind his eyes faded to nothing. Dionysus cast a rather bemused glance at the lovely face—a little marred with tear streaks and smudges of kohl—that was raised pleadingly to his. Most often when he felt Called to mingle with the natives, the Call ended in trouble—an orgy or a murder—but that had not been true when his priestess had Called him in the past, and it was not true with this priestess either. He ran a knuckle down her tear-wet cheek. She was so very young, so very beautiful. What did it matter if she didn't speak the Vision that had come to him?

  He was shocked by the thought. What did it matter? If she didn't speak he might go on dreaming of or Seeing that man-headed bull until proper warning was given. He frowned. But warning had been given. The priests of Poseidon had told Minos that evil would come of the bull if Minos didn't sacrifice it. He hadn't known of that warning, but he knew of it now. Surely that would be sufficient. He felt remarkably relieved. If that warning was sufficient, Ariadne wouldn't have to confront her father, Minos wouldn't be tempted to punish her, and he wouldn't be required to chastise Minos for treating his priestess with a lack of respect.

  He smiled down at Ariadne and patted her shoulder. “All's well. If Minos has been warned already, there's no need for you to speak to him about the matter—at least, not now. If the Vision recurs, you may have to relate it to Minos, but for now ... Poseidon is very well able to deal with those who disobey him. Probably he wouldn't even thank me for my interference.”

  His hand still lay on her shoulder; she bent her head and kissed it. “You are merciful and indulgent, my lord.”

  It was heartfelt praise, but Dionysus realized it was also too true. He was too comfortable, too happy, sitting with her beside him, nibbling olives. He had already made her need his purpose. He suspected if she asked for anything else, he would be sorely tempted to give that to her also. Discomfort warred with ease and satisfaction, warning that the pleasure she gave him made him vulnerable. Suspicion pricked him, making him so uneasy that he began to feel disappointment was better than doubt. Smiling, to hide his disgust—at her? at himself?—he made an offer that would taint his happiness and comfort and armor him against her.

  “I'm now indulgent,” he said. “You would be wise, since my mood is so good, to ask for what you desire from me.”

  “What I desire?” She shook her head. “But I have asked for that already, my lord. You said you would
come and bless the vines and the wine. You will, won't you?”

  “Yes, I'll do that as I promised.” He stood up. “But I meant you should ask something for yourself.”

  “For myself?” She rose too, her hand clinging to his as it began to drop from her shoulder. Her face flushed slightly and her eyes were magnified by tears. “You're making ready to leave. I know I mustn't beg you to stay. You are a god and have interests and duties far more important than me. For myself? Oh, if you would give me a gift for myself, come again, my lord. Come again soon. Come often. That's the greatest gift, the finest gift, you could ever give to me.”

  She wanted him, only him? Was she then Mother-sent? His priestess come again? Dionysus remembered the pain when her Call no longer came, the renewed pain when he realized she was dead and would never Call again. Was that future misery worth his present joy? It didn't matter; at this moment, he couldn't ignore the fear, the pleading, in this priestess's face, the tears in her eyes.

  “I will,” he promised. “I'll come to you whenever you Call.” And then doubt shook him again, but he no longer could bear the notion of disappointment and he warned, “But that promise will hold only so long as you do not misuse it.” And before he yielded even more, he loosened Ariadne's hand from his, whispered “Dei me exelthein Olympus,” and “leapt” home.

  CHAPTER 3

  Ariadne stared unbelievingly at the spot where Dionysus had stood, then whirled around to look for him in the room, although she knew perfectly well he wasn't there. He had disappeared right before her eyes; she had seen it happen. She knew he had come the same way, but she hadn't seen that; he'd been behind her. She swallowed hard and sank down on the floor, her knees suddenly refusing to support her. He was a god. She'd spent the entire morning with a god, feeding him coarse bread and cheese and olives and bad wine, letting him get his own washing water and carry furniture.

  She felt weak and dizzy and breathed in gasps, almost expecting to be smitten with lightning for her behavior. But nothing happened, and after a while the panic receded. Her eyes had been resting unseeingly on the table bearing the dishes of food, and slowly she made sense of what she was looking at. Little remained. God he was, but Dionysus had eaten very heartily of the coarse food and even drunk most of the terrible wine. Ariadne shuddered at the thought of offering such wine to the wine god and then giggled weakly as she remembered his ready laughter, the kindness with which he invited her to share his meal, the way he'd grinned like a mischievous boy and said that the nice thing about being a god was that anything he chose to do was fitting.

  The memory of his gentleness tempered the awe that had overcome her and let her climb to her feet and sink into the chair he'd used. His scent was still on it, spicy sweet; it evoked a new cascade of memories, the first of which was far less comforting. He had been gentle to her, but he wasn't a gentle god. Ariadne saw again those pale eyes turned on his worshipers, later turned on her mother, eyes hard as gems and quite mad with quick, senseless rage—rage he seemed unable or unwilling to control.

  Ariadne slowly shook her head. Why had she not fainted with terror? screamed and run from him? How had she known what to say? She remembered the flower around her heart, the silvery, misty threads that carried to her an understanding of what drove him to fury because he didn't understand it, but now that he was gone she didn't really believe in them.

  If she had imagined that, could she have imagined Dionysus also? Anxiety rose and was instantly dispelled. No, the priestesses and priests, her father and mother, and all the other worshipers had seen him. A small smile curved her lips. She, Ariadne, seventh child and of no importance at all, had summoned a god, had talked with him, eaten with him, had received his promise to bless the vines and the wine and that he would come again at her Call. She let pleasure wash over her, but it lasted no longer than the panic had.

  Gods, she remembered her father saying somewhat bitterly, had a tendency to make known their desires and then disappear and leave humans to struggle with fulfilling them. Not that Dionysus had asked for much, just to have the room made comfortable. Then Ariadne's lower lip crept between her teeth: even without making demands, Dionysus had left behind more trouble than he knew. She'd seen her mother's face, both when he first appeared and when he bid everyone leave. Ariadne shivered and hugged her arms around herself.

  Would her mother try to usurp her place because she'd seen the god appear? Ariadne bit down on her lip, recalling how Pasiphae had held out her hand to him and smiled. She'd been about to say that she should have been the priestess. Ariadne let her lip go and ground her teeth, tears rising in her eyes. Pasiphae was so beautiful, and she was not unripe fruit. Then Ariadne sniffed, reminding herself that Dionysus had looked right at her mother and not only gestured her to go away but when she persisted and spoke again, had been angered enough to do her harm. I am his priestess, Ariadne thought; I was consecrated to him, he accepted me, and no one can take my place.

  Her sense of satisfaction was liberally tinged with apprehension. Pasiphae wasn't going to be pleased and she could make life remarkably unpleasant for anyone who prevented her from having her own way. Ariadne shivered and gritted her teeth again, then jumped to her feet. She wouldn't think about that now. Her first duty was to Dionysus and his stated wish to have her rooms made comfortable.

  She summoned the priests and priestesses; it was very soothing to have them respond immediately and then salute her as worshipers. But, she reminded herself, they were old and they were accustomed to the old queen's ways. Perhaps they even thought the high priestess's chamber needed to look like an overcrowded shop. She'd better give her orders, Ariadne thought, while Dionysus' aura still touched her and before they remembered she was only thirteen years old.

  “The god,” she said, “bade me clear away what was unjustly accumulated by the old priestess. He wasn't pleased by her behavior and showed it by turning his back on us, although no one seemed to understand. But having come to my Call, he'll no longer overlook being robbed of his just due. The best in this chamber and the bedchamber is to be put aside for him and offered on his altar when he demands it. The rest is to be sold and I'm to use the money to repair the shrine and to furnish proper clothing and decent food for his attendants. It's time, also, that novices and acolytes be found.”

  One of the priests dropped his fist from his forehead and met her eyes. “No one wished to serve before,” he said, “because the god never came nor vouchsafed a sending and the grapes rotted and the wine soured. Now ...” He took a deep breath and his face almost glowed. “Now we'll need to turn away those who wish to serve, the vines will need to be propped to support the weight of the grapes, and the wine will be as rich and sweet as ambrosia.”

  But what if it doesn't happen, Ariadne thought, more accustomed to having her hopes dashed than fulfilled. “The god Dionysus appeared before his painting on the altar,” she said. “He accepted me as his priestess. He promised to come if I Called to him and that he would bless the grapes and the wine. He said nothing about ambrosia.”

  The four old attendants drew together, perhaps reminded by her repressive tone that Dionysus wasn't the easiest god to serve. “How will we know what the god Dionysus feels is best?” a priestess asked in a rather quavering voice.

  “I will know,” Ariadne replied. “I will choose for him. And on my head will it be if I am wrong. I'll also choose pieces that are to be left in the room and arranged for the comfort of eye and body.” She met their eyes boldly. No one contradicted her and she nodded. “We can begin now.”

  One priest bowed and went to get the shrine slaves. Ariadne walked slowly through the clutter, choosing a few pieces here and there and marking the furniture she wished to keep in the chamber with bits of ribbon one of the priestesses brought her. She kept the bowl she had drunk out of and in which she had seen Dionysus' face for herself. From its weight, she thought it might be pure gold. Aside from a few other vessels of precious metal, some studded with jewels, and two exquis
ite ivory tables that she ordered put aside to be offered to the god, most of the contents of the chamber went into the storeroom behind the altar.

  The chests were last. Several were filled with cloth. That she bade the priestesses use to have new robes made for themselves and the priests and even for the shrine slaves, depending on the quality. She did warn them, however, that if they found anything very valuable, cloth set with gems or woven with gold, to put that aside as an offering to the god also. Other chests contained scrolls and wooden bound sheets of parchment and papyrus. Two she looked in and hastily closed: one seemed to be filled with jewelry, the other with gold and silver. Those, like the chests full of writings, Ariadne said were to stay just where they were. The god himself must decide what to do with the contents. She hoped no one had seen the hoard, but she felt that even the slaves would hesitate to steal from a deity who'd been manifest so recently.

  After that, there was really nothing more for Ariadne to do. She would have to go home, she thought, stiffened against a shiver, and looked around a little desperately. With a sense of relief she saw that the sun was almost at its zenith; she could put off going to the palace by eating her meal with the priests and priestesses. Then, still delaying the evil moment, she spent a little more time giving directions about the bedchamber. However, she couldn't deceive herself any longer; she knew she couldn't avoid facing her mother and refusing to give up her god.

  The priests and priestesses escorted her from the shrine down the hill. One comfort, which also increased her anxiety, was the way all others on the road made way for her and the profound obeisance offered by those working in the fields and vineyards. If her mother heard of this, she'd be even more furious, but surely she wouldn't dare do anything to the acknowledged high priestess of Dionysus.

  As they walked toward the Royal Road, Ariadne briefly considered whether she should keep her escort with her. It didn't take her long to decide that four old and threadbare attendants wouldn't impress her mother or affect her actions in any way. Also it was better not to allow her priests and priestesses to see her scolded and punished.