Bull God

by Roberta Gellis

  Ariadne had a moment then to look around and her eyes widened in disgusted amazement at her mother's pride and stupidity. The bed, as Phaidra had said, was gilded, which was silly but insignificant compared to the fact it was so large as to allow a child to roll about and grow more and more fearful of falling; the pillows, some of which had been moved to prevent Asterion from falling off the bed, were all brocaded cloth, embroidered with stiff gold thread, beautiful but only for show. The coverlet, which had never been pulled down to expose the sheets, if there were sheets, had also been an embroidered and embellished glory, but was now soaked with urine and spattered with feces. And Asterion's body showed dents and almost healed scratches where the unsuitable bedclothes had gouged him.

  “Come, love, come,” she crooned, stroking his thick mane, “I'll take you back to your own crib and your own nurses. They'll clean you and feed you, and then—”

  “Where are you going with Asterion?” Pasiphae asked from the doorway, the attendant who had fetched her peering over her shoulder.

  Ariadne looked at her mother, who was at her haughtiest, but didn't flinch. She stared back, her lips down turned with contempt. “To his accustomed place, madam,” she said, walking calmly toward the queen, “where his nurses know how to care for him.”

  “Put him down in his bed,” Pasiphae ordered. “A god must be fittingly housed and have fitting servants—noblemen, not common peasant women.”

  “Are you mad?” Ariadne cried. “This is no god. This is a three-months-old babe. Has he run or flown through the air, as Hermes is said to have done? Has he spoken divine verse, like Dionysus, or played the lute as Apollo did when he was a ten-day from the womb? Asterion is like any other uncared for babe—covered with filth, which your 'fitting' servants didn't deign to clean; he's starving, because doubtless they presented food in a way he couldn't eat it; he's sick with crying.” Asterion was hiccuping against her shoulder.

  “Be still!” Pasiphae shouted. “You lie. You don't wish to yield your power to the god born out of my body.”

  She ran forward and seized the child, yanking him free of Ariadne's arms. In that instant, Asterion turned his head and fastened his sharp little teeth in Pasiphae's upper arm, sucking at the blood he drew and striking out wildly with clawed hands that tore her face when one of them came in contact with her cheek. Pasiphae screamed and tried to thrust him away and drop him, but for a moment she couldn't free her arm from his teeth and Ariadne had a chance to catch him before he fell.

  He struggled for a moment, lowing hoarsely and straining toward Pasiphae, jaws snapping, but Ariadne knew how to handle him and she pushed by her mother, ran past the door to her mother's apartment, and then up the stair. Filthy as he was, she placed Asterion among the supporting cushions in the chair that had been made for him with a sort of little table attached to the front and set a large bowl of milk before him. His cries stopped at once, and he thrust his muzzle into the bowl and began to drink.

  Breathing hard, Ariadne stood staring down, tears streaking her cheeks as she remembered what she'd lost to preserve this creature. But she remembered, too, how he'd held out his arms to her when he was still screaming with rage and hunger, how he'd clung to her, nuzzled against her for comfort. A sob forced itself from her throat; Asterion lifted his dripping muzzle from the bowl, cocked his head, and blinked his eyes. Those eyes were no longer bulbous; they were the large, soft brown, long-lashed, beautiful eyes—of any cow. Ariadne sighed and reached out to stroke the black mane that began in a peak on his low forehead and grew down over his shoulders to the middle of his back. Asterion lowered his muzzle to his bowl to drink again.

  “How dare you!” Pasiphae said from the doorway, but her voice was not so loud or so certain as it had been.

  Ariadne turned to face her. Pasiphae's arm had been bandaged and the blood washed from the scratches on her cheek, and there was a kind of horror in her eyes as she saw Asterion bent over the bowl sucking up milk like any other calf.

  “I've dared more to save this child already,” Ariadne said bitterly. “Because to me he is a child. If you want a dead god, I'll leave him in the care of your 'suitable' attendants. I don't know how long they will find him godlike after wiping up his pee and his shit or presenting food to a beast with a muzzle. If you want a live son, you'll leave him in the care of Phaidra and the nurses until he can walk and feed himself.”

  Pasiphae shifted her gaze from her daughter's face to Asterion and bit her lip uneasily. “I suppose it's because he's half human that he's slow to manifest all his power,” she muttered, and then looked back at Ariadne. “But look at his size. Look at his strength.” She drew a deep breath and cried aloud. “This is the Bull God made flesh.”

  Asterion raised his head from his bowl and began to bellow, working his jaws as if he would like to bite again.

  “Queen Pasiphae,” Ariadne said softly, “wouldn't a god welcome the prayers and cheers of his people? Asterion rejected their salutations. Would a god weep or rage each time you named him? Asterion has done just that, refusing your claim. Have mercy on yourself, on this poor creature, on Crete. Take the warning that he, himself, keeps giving—”

  “Enough.” Pasiphae raised a hand. “Are you speaking as Mouth or as a jealous priestess? I've listened—as I swore to do—respectfully. I've uttered no threat against you, nor will I interfere with your worship of your little godling. Don't you interfere in the worship of a greater god.” She looked around at the people crowding the corridor behind her. “Meanwhile, since the god has made clear his preference for a familiar place, he may stay here in Phaidra's care.”

  She cast a challenging glance at Ariadne, but Ariadne had despaired of dissuading her mother from her madness and watched in silence until she swept away. Then Ariadne turned back to Asterion and, seeing he was lapping at the last thin layer of milk in the bowl, brought him a tray that had been prepared when the maids believed he would be brought back to the nursery. The meat on it was somewhat dried but didn't smell spoiled, and Ariadne presented it. She felt someone close behind her and turned, but it was only Phaidra.

  “When he's fed full,” she said, “the nurses will be able to clean him. He'll sleep after that. Most likely by the time he wakes he'll have forgotten.” She gestured Phaidra to follow her out into the corridor, looked up and down, and finally went into the room they had shared. “I think Pasiphae is mad,” she said.

  “A little, perhaps,” Phaidra replied, plumping herself down on her bed. “She really does want to believe that Asterion is a god.” She hesitated and then asked, “Are you so sure he's not? How can the head of a bull and the body of a man be mated, except in a god? Aren't all the gods of Egypt like that? And what ordinary three-months child could sit up and eat cubes of meat with full-grown teeth?”

  “Perhaps some of his father's qualities have flowed into his blood. I'm not saying that he isn't Poseidon's get or that he may not develop godlike Gifts. All I'm saying is that for now, Asterion, whatever he may become in the future, is a baby. He needs to be cuddled, to be loved, to be given toys and helped to enjoy his playthings.” She hesitated, her eyes resting on Phaidra and then, understanding her sister's character and that the best treatment for Asterion would be obtained through Phaidra's self-interest, added slowly, “If he should be a god, the best way to be sure you will be favored by him in the future is to make him love you now.”

  Phaidra shuddered slightly but then nodded. “You're right about that. I'll tell mother, too, but I don't think she'll listen to me any more than she did to you, and Asterion really doesn't like her.”

  Was there the faintest shadow of a smile on Phaidra's lips? Ariadne blinked her eyes, which were tired from too much weeping and too little sleep, and the expression, if there had been one, was gone. “She may listen to you,” she said. “She's taken me in despite ever since I was favored by Dionysus' response to my Calling.”

  “Oh, well, soon she won't care about that. She has her own god now and can make him do
and say whatever she wants. Didn't you know that father had sent out criers throughout the whole kingdom bidding everyone to assemble at the great temple near Knossos to worship the Bull God, born into flesh? Yesterday morning, when they should have been at the shrine to see Dionysus, they were all watching mother hold up Asterion and pretend to interpret his bellows.”

  Ariadne, who had just been about to come forward to sit on what had been her bed in the past, stopped and clasped her hands together in front of her. So Dionysus had been right. Her parents did plan to claim publicly that Asterion was a god. That would bring trouble; she knew it. Even so, she couldn't go all the way with Dionysus. Was her parents' foolishness, perhaps blasphemy, reason enough to end poor Asterion's life? He had done no wrong, poor creature.

  She closed her eyes and then reopened them. She had never doubted the truth of what Dionysus said, and doubtless her shrine—no, his shrine—would suffer. That horrible mating of bull and man, which could be displayed at any time, would waken awe and bring offerings. But wouldn't the people tire of sacrificing to a god that had no power?

  “I'd better go back to the shrine,” she said to Phaidra. “I'm dropping for sleep.”

  The words reminded her that it wasn't only being wakened unexpectedly and the anxiety of dealing with her mother and Asterion that had exhausted her. She'd been out in the fields nearly all the previous night and she had blessed them so that they would be fruitful. She stopped dead halfway down the long stone stairway that led from the palace to the road up Gypsades Hill.

  She had blessed the vines and they would flourish, but the few worshipers who had come to Dionysus' shrine at dawn the previous day—likely younger sons and younger brothers of families that wished to have a presence in both gods' holy precincts—would spread the word far and wide that Dionysus hadn't come. What then would the people think? Wouldn't they believe the fruitfulness of their vines had been bestowed by the Bull God? Ariadne started down the steps again. Now was the time she needed to Call Dionysus. Should she bless the grapes at midsummer? Withhold the blessing? Wither them?

  Dionysus had spoken of the death of Asterion in terms of the good of all of Crete. To further that good, she should bless the vines and the grapes no matter to whom the good was accredited. But had he meant that? Would he care for the good of the people of Crete if they no longer brought offerings to his shrines? In the past he'd neglected them even when they had sacrificed, just because he didn't like the priestess. Ariadne began to walk more quickly, hurrying to the shrine so she could stand and look at the painting behind the altar.

  The face was beautiful, but it didn't invite confidences. She remembered the rage he had allowed to suffuse him, a rage that could have killed her parents, her dearest brother. She remembered the words “stupid native with your tiny mind” and the curl of his lips when he spoke of “your teeming masses.” No, she wasn't sorry she couldn't Call him and ask for advice. She thought she knew what his advice would be. As long as she could help the people of Crete to be well fed and happy through making and selling fine wine, she would do so. If he were angry ... Well, he couldn't be much more angry than he was already.

  One small pinpoint of hope came to light the darkness of Ariadne's mood on the night of the full moon following the spring equinox. She danced for the Mother that night, although Pasiphae had tried to convince Phaidra to do it. Actually, Ariadne had been surprised that Phaidra hadn't seized the opportunity. Phaidra had grown much more assured over the year that had passed, much more sure of her own worth. And Ariadne learned from her sister that she had relinquished the role only reluctantly when she asked why Phaidra didn't wish to dance.

  Shrugging, Phaidra said, “Wishing is nothing to do with it. I can't do it. I tried. Daidalos showed me the pattern of the dance and read to me how the steps must be taken, but when I stood up and tried to do it, it was as if a heavy weight pressed me down. I tripped and stumbled, my knees knocked together and were weak.” She shrugged again. “I may not be the dancer that you are, but I have never been so clumsy or so exhausted.” She sighed and glanced sidelong at Ariadne. “To speak the truth, sister, I don't believe I am welcome to the Mother. Perhaps I'm not very wise, but I'm not stupid enough to try to force myself on Her.”

  “I'll dance, of course, if you wish it,” Ariadne said, keeping her face still although she was suffused with a sensation of warmth and lightness that eased the burden which lay on her chest.

  The warm expectation remained with her, intensifying in the afternoon of the day preceding the rising of the full moon. As the sun dipped to the west, Hagne began to dress Ariadne's hair with one of the little girl novices to help while Dido sought out the wine-red, gold stiffened skirt and bodice. When she was ready—the sun was low, but not low enough for the rays to gild the dancing floor—Ariadne set out.

  Her timing was good. The procession from the palace had also just arrived at the theatrical area, the “god” and “goddess,” standing before their chairs on the sacral dais. But at the top of the stair, the dancers were not in good order. They had closed in on each other and appeared confused and disorganized. Ariadne's lips thinned. Apparently neither Pasiphae nor Phaidra had told them who would lead the dance. Well, that was easily amended. As soon as Ariadne's small procession of priests and priestesses and novices came into view, a soft call of relief came from two or three members of the group and several leaned forward and waved welcome.

  One step below, at the edge of the aisle left for the dancers to descend, a tall form with broad shoulders caught Ariadne's eye. Her heartflower flicked open and a lance of joy pierced her. He had come! In the next moment the silver strands that had risen, wilted; the flower folded, and she saw that she didn't know the face. The hair and eyes were dark. How could she have mistaken him for her lord?

  Shocked and bemused she pulled her gaze away only to meet her mother's angry eyes. Her father, however, nodded to her, and she responded with a courteous bow. Having gestured to her attendants to find places for themselves, she went past the dais that held the royal seats and through the aisle opened for her by the waiting people to the top of the stair. Calling herself a fool, she still turned her head to see more clearly the man who had waited a step below the dancers. He was not there.

  As Ariadne took her place and the dancers sorted themselves out into their proper formation, the dancing floor glowed golden. Arms raised, step by step, Ariadne descended the long stair. The crowd sang; the “god” and “goddess” gave the ritual responses; Ariadne's bare feet almost caressed the smooth polished stones of the dancing floor as she crossed to stand formally before the dais and salute the “deities” who seated themselves between the sacral horns.

  At the sound of the sistra and the flutes, Ariadne dropped her arm from the salute, turned, and glided to the center of the floor in the sliding stride of a votary. As she turned back to face her parents, arms lifted to shoulder height, palms up, while the other dancers wove a complex pattern around her, she saw him again, this time just below the dais. But she didn't feel her heartflower respond. It was not Dionysus. It was again the dark-haired, dark-eyed person whom she had earlier mistaken for her god. She closed her eyes, but before grief could pierce her as sharply as joy had when she first thought she saw Dionysus, that strange sensation of the touch of feather-light ribbons drew her thoughts to her dance.

  She had no time for conscious thought after that as she danced all life from birth to death. When darkness fell and she sank quietly to the floor to wait for the rising of the moon, the image of that broad-shouldered celebrant returned to her. She deliberately called his face to mind, but only became more and more sure that she didn't know it. But how could that be? She knew every member of the court of Knossos and that big body, so arrogantly held, could be no common man, nor could she confuse it with another.

  Vaguely she heard the singers chanting the ritual pleas and first her mother, then her father, singing the replies. The “god” began to woo the “goddess.” Ariadne told herself
the man she had seen must be a visitor, perhaps a foreign visitor. No, he wasn't foreign; that was impossible. His dress, his looks, his manner, were all Cretan and he wore the cincture around his waist, which had to be worn from youth to achieve the traditional narrowness.

  If he couldn't be foreign and he couldn't be Cretan . . . The two together made a paradox, but Ariadne was distracted by the memory of a similar shadowy but magnificent figure when she danced the previous year. Then she had assumed it was Dionysus in disguise. A thrill touched her. Why not now? She “looked” within herself and, yes, the heartflower was open. Deliberately she gathered the silver strands and cast them wide about her in a seeking net.

  They snapped back with such speed and force that the thin, wirelike threads would have cut her had they any physical reality. And then the heartflower sprang shut. Ariadne didn't know whether to laugh or weep. No one but Dionysus could affect her heartflower; she was certain now that he had come to watch her dance and that filled her with hope and a tremulous joy. She couldn't help being amused, too, by the irritation at being found out betrayed by the behavior of the threads that connected her with her god, like that of a little boy who had been caught peeping. It was true that Dionysus' irritation wasn't something with which one should trifle, but even so the worst of her burden of grief and loneliness eased. He hadn't turned from her completely. He still cared.

  The comfort that thought brought her weakened the shield of self-absorption that had armored her against outside impressions. Now the flaring light of the torches on the dais where the “god” and “goddess” sat exposed the tension of their bodies, the half-turned heads that betrayed conflict. What now? she wondered. This was new. From everything she had seen and heard in the palace since Asterion's birth, her father had come to terms with what Pasiphae had done, even begun to be glad of it. Surely he had done all in his power to support her when she claimed Asterion was the Bull God made flesh.