“Oh, be quiet. We have troubles enough of our own, without foreseeing doom for all.” Bacchus paced a little longer, then came to stand before Silenos. “He thinks there are the seeds of the needed power in this priestess. Remember that she's blessed the fields for two years without him and the vineyards are as rich as if he'd been with her. No other priestess has ever done that, not even his old favorite.”
Silenos' eyes widened. “Is that so?”
“I watched her through the scrying bowl.” Bacchus grimaced. “I thought he'd be angry all over again when I showed him what she was doing, but he wasn't. He looked through me—you know how he does when he Sees something he understands—and he smiled. Are you sure he knows we kept reminding him of her defiance for our own purposes rather than out of indignation for his sake?”
Silenos laughed and lay down again. “Why do you think I am all swollen and black and blue? At first his hurt and rage because she wasn't absolutely, mindlessly, his, because she could defy him, didn't let him think, but that's worn away. He has been thinking. You'll be next to be chastised. And one of these times his rage will take him over completely and he'll laugh as we are torn into bloody gobbets and strewn over the vineyards to make them fertile.”
“You're saying I must tell him that she's learned her lesson and worships only him and mirror for him her defiance of her mother?” Bacchus' lips turned down into a petulant pout. “But she'll turn him into a model of sweetness and light. They'll run together—” he sneered “—laughing and singing. We won't be invited—and the good times, the drinking and coupling, will roll no more.”
“They're ended for me anyway,” Silenos said very softly, closing his eyes. “There's been too much blood, too much killing, for me. Even if I didn't fear I would be the next sacrifice, I'd withdraw from these 'blessings.' When it happened once or twice a year in widely different lands, it was exciting.” His jaw set for a moment as a remembered thrill passed through him. “Now I'm only sickened by the pain and blood. I'll crawl away and live as I can without him.”
Bacchus stood looking down at him for a little while. He thought Silenos a soft old fool. The pain and blood always added an orgiastic pleasure to the wild coupling for him, but if Dionysus lost himself entirely to the madness that always coiled in him and allowed the maenads to turn from sexual excesses to killing . . . Dionysus had barely managed to save Silenos, and he was truly fond of the old idiot. And if Silenos was right and Dionysus suspected that he had interfered in the relationship with this priestess, he might, indeed, be next to be beaten instead of futtered.
Worse, if Dionysus was as far gone as Silenos believed ... The old fool was right, Bacchus thought, his brow creasing as he tried to recall Dionysus' behavior before he had taken this priestess as his Chosen. Yes, there had been a lot of killing in the last two years, and more and more recently. Could he be next? Gnawing at his lip, he glanced toward the door, then he picked up the scrying bowl and carried it carefully with him.
As he moved, he glanced about the apartment he and Silenos shared—two bedchambers and a luxurious bathing room adjoining a large central chamber. The walls were alternately hung with tapestries depicting merry orgies, everyone laughing and coupling in twos, threes, and fours with cups in their hands or flasks spilling wine. He stared for a moment at the lively works; it hadn't been like that for a long time.
Between the tapestries were shelves filled with wine flasks, goblets of precious glass or jewel-set metal, and pretty bibelots—and books, many scrolls and clay tablets. They were dusty; Dionysus hadn't asked to share the merry tales with Silenos ... for a long time. The furnishings were lush, cushioned couches and chairs, carved tables of precious woods, of ivory, even of silver, set with delicate porcelain or with game boards and pieces of equally precious materials. Those, too, hadn't been used in far too long.
Silenos must be really frightened to leave all this, he thought. Likely none of the other great ones would take him in. What would he do? Not expect Bacchus to provide for him. He wasn't that much a fool. Doubtless he would take a little room above a shop in the Agora and tell stories for food and a few coins, as he'd done before Dionysus had bade him guest with him. Bacchus shuddered.
He started toward the door knowing there was no help for it. He would have to tell Dionysus that his priestess, if not mindlessly his, was utterly faithful and mirror the scene between her and her mother in the scrying bowl. Better too much sweetness than broken or dead. He hesitated as he stepped out the door into the short corridor and turned his back to the extension that led to the servants' rooms. All was not lost. If he could keep Dionysus from bringing the woman to Olympus, there might be a workable compromise.
Smiling now, he went down the corridor to the central atrium, which one would swear was a sunlit forest glade. Pillars of rough brown marble that could have been trees, except for being cold stone instead of bark, seemed to divide into branches that held up a roof in which that strange, clear substance only Hades could produce let in the sun and glimpses of sky and clouds. In that light flowers, shrubs, trellised vines, and even small trees grew, a fountain played, and more vines bedecked the pillars and balustrades.
Bacchus looked around while passing through but saw at once that the benches and sets of chairs and tables in the arbors were empty. His smile disappeared. It was too early for Dionysus to have gone out, so he must be brooding in his own apartment. That wasn't good. When he had nothing to occupy him, he Saw too much and too often. At least while he was with the priestess he had had only one Vision, and that had been related to her.
Another corridor led from the atrium to Dionysus' rooms. Bacchus breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the door to the antechamber was open. At least he wasn't closing himself away from all contact, as he'd done the first few days.
The antechamber was empty, as always. In Dionysus' case, it was a useless room. The other great ones sometimes received suppliants—not all the inhabitants of Olympus had real power. Most, in fact, were ordinary folk who herded flocks, tilled fields, threw pots, and performed the tasks that let the great ones live in comfort. Those people often had favors to beg, especially from Aphrodite and Athena and Hermes. Sometimes even from Zeus. But not from Dionysus. They were terrified of him. If he asked for something, it was delivered immediately and without charge.
Bacchus wrinkled his nose. He could have done very well out of requests to jewelers, weavers, and suchlike, but Dionysus wouldn't permit it. He would watch men torn apart and laugh, but wouldn't seize any lesser offering like gold and jewels. Unconsciously, he snorted.
“You may enter, Bacchus.”
He barely suppressed a start strong enough to slop the wine out of the scrying bowl, set his teeth for a moment, and then entered Dionysus' sitting room. This, Bacchus thought inordinately gloomy. The walls were of dark green malachite, polished to a gloss that didn't hide the natural mottling, which by some artifice gave the appearance of a thick canopy of leaves. Shutters covered the windows, carved into vine patterns through which bright flowers of Hades' translucent artifice peeped. Had the shutters been open, the room might have seemed a soothing, enclosed bower of peace, but of late Dionysus had kept them closed, allowing only the light that came through the flowers and that of lamps to light the room.
Bacchus moved slowly to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom and he soon perceived Dionysus lying on a padded couch. Clearly, since he had spoken directly to him, Dionysus knew he was there, but he hadn't turned his head to look at him. He seemed to be staring across the chamber at the dark opening into his bedchamber, his eyes fixed and protuberant. Silenos was right, Bacchus thought, the madness was closer to the surface than ever.
“I've seen something very interesting in the scrying bowl,” Bacchus said, setting the bowl on a table and moving a chair behind it. “I think it's something you should see yourself. If you'd come here, I'll mirror it for you.”
“If it's another flood of offerings, just ask Hermes to collect th
em. Tell him to take what he wants in payment. I don't care.”
He finally turned toward Bacchus, coming fully into the light of the lamp beside the couch, and Bacchus saw that one of Dionysus' eyes was blackened and nearly swollen shut and his arms and shoulders were deeply scratched and almost as bruised as Silenos's. He must have had an even more difficult time wresting Silenos from the maenads than Silenos realized, which meant they were more out of control than Dionysus had expected. Bacchus suppressed a shudder.
“They fear you, my lord,” he said. “They hope the offerings will appease you.”
“And that if they give enough, I will come no more.” Dionysus laughed—so ugly a sound that Bacchus swallowed, but before he could find a soothing comment, Dionysus added, “Knossos made offerings to draw me to Crete ... But they don't want me any more either. They have their priestess and their new god.”
He turned his head to stare into the dark again, and Bacchus felt a horrible mingling of rage and despair wash over him. The misery that engulfed him confirmed Silenos's fears. He bit down hard on his lip. The pain freed him enough to be able to speak.
“It's true that the offerings have all but ceased from Knossos and that most of the people go to the temple of the Bull God ... But not your priestess.”
Dionysus sat up, now fixing his gaze on Bacchus. Did the eyes have more sense in them Bacchus wondered? But Dionysus' voice was sharp and bitter when he said, “What? Has she stopped cuddling that misbegotten monster?”
“No. She still visits him often and treats him kindly, bringing him little toys—wagons and tops and suchlike—but I've just learned she doesn't accept him as a god and won't give him her service as priestess. Come, my lord, let me mirror for you her defiance of her mother, who demanded she dance for the Bull God.”
Dionysus rose slowly with some care for his bruises. “So she wouldn't dance for the Bull God but still dances for the Mother?” Despite a wince of pain, pleasure hummed in his voice.
Relief urged Bacchus to confirm the news that had eased Dionysus' mood. “She said she worships only you ... and the Mother.”
“I gave her leave to worship the Mother,” Dionysus said quickly, and seated himself before the scrying bowl.
Bacchus drew a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, they were fixed on the scrying bowl. Scrying was his gift. He could see what anyone, anywhere, was doing, if he knew some characteristic of the person on which he could fix. That permitted Dionysus—or anyone else for whom he scryed—to know what was happening in distant temples even when the priests and priestesses could not Call their gods.
Unfortunately he was not alone in his talent. Quite a large number of Olympians, who had no greater Gifts, could scry and mirror what they'd seen. Like Silenos, he had been eking out a living, mostly scrying for the least powerful mages and sinking his frustrations in drink and women, when Dionysus had come across him. His wholehearted enjoyment of Dionysus' indulgence in wine and wild fertility rites had made him welcome as a companion. Later his ability to scry and keep Dionysus in touch with his mostly unGifted priests and priestesses brought him an invitation to be a permanent assistant and guest.
Under Bacchus' gaze the surface of the wine clouded, then cleared, to show an image of Ariadne turning to face Pasiphae, who had just stepped inside the doorway. The entire scene unfolded, ending with Asterion spinning his top and carefully butting his head against Ariadne so that the sharp horns wouldn't touch her. “Love Ridne,” the misshapen mouth pronounced.
“Hold that,” Dionysus said.
Obediently Bacchus froze the image of Ariadne and Asterion together. Dionysus continued to stare down into the bowl, studying first the monstrous bull's head, with its beautiful bovine eyes turned up to Ariadne, and then her face, the huge black eyes shining with tears, the mouth turned down just a little with pity and ... distaste. Dionysus sighed.
“The poor creature,” he muttered, and the brilliant blue of his too-large, too-bright eyes misted to softness with tears. “No one loves him. No one ever will, not even his Ridne.” He shook his head. “He's so pitiful—in a way so innocent. I understand now why she must protect him, but the cost . . .” He looked away, this time at the bright flowers that starred the carved shutters, and gestured for Bacchus to cut off the vision.
When Bacchus saw Dionysus' thoughtful expression as his gaze fixed on the bright beauty that Hades had created, his mind leapt to what Hades's wife Persephone had done for Semele. His suspicion that Dionysus was thinking again of giving an Olympian's length of life to a native who would “love” him intensified—and he liked the idea less now than when it first came to him. He did not want that woman here, but he could think of no way of approaching the subject that wouldn't spell disaster for him. Dionysus had turned his head back to the scrying bowl and was staring into it, although nothing but a dark mirror showed.
Apparently his mind was still on the bull-headed boy, for he said, “Yet, if he doesn't die soon, he'll stain Crete with blood. I've Seen it. My Mouth has spoken it. I don't know what to do.”
“What's a little more blood? You usually water the earth with human blood to feed the vines, so—”
Dionysus looked up at him. No wild emotion followed that gaze, but Bacchus took warning and swallowed what more he'd been about to say. Then Dionysus smiled at him and there was a reminiscent delight in his expression that had nothing to do with him and that Bacchus didn't like.
“You wouldn't understand,” Dionysus said, a tinge of contempt coloring smile and voice. “Crete is clean of blood and has been for a long time. There's no human sacrifice there. In the bull dancing, if a dancer should be gored, it is considered a bad omen, a failure of the ritual that must be expiated and explained by the queen/goddess—and the bull is driven away into the mountains as not fit for sacrifice. I remember now. It was my own priestess, the first Ariadne, who changed the old ways. She was queen and had the power.”
“Power? Doubtless she drained you to bless the vineyards without lust or blood.” Bacchus tried to sound indignant.
Dionysus laughed, and his expression now held a softness of joy in it that almost sickened Bacchus. “She gave to me, not I to her,” he said. “She went with me as this Ariadne did, running and laughing. She was old, but the Mother gave her strength and she gave it to me. I could feel the power pour out of me and into the vines, and though we shed no blood and incited no lust, Crete had the best wine in the whole world.” He drew a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, it was a lesson, but I didn't understand it then. Now I do understand. If I had taken Ariadne with me—”
“Do you think she would be happy here?” Bacchus interrupted quickly. “You remember how the great ones treated Semele. She didn't stay.”
“My mother didn't know me. She was afraid of me.” Dionysus hesitated and looked toward the dark for a moment; then a faint smile bent his lips and his eyes went back to the bright flowers. “That, as I know too well, will never be Ariadne's problem. And I should have known that my Ariadne wouldn't touch death. She's all life.”
Bacchus' heart sank. Clearly the reminder that his mother had demanded to be sent back to the Underworld rather than live in Olympus hadn't turned Dionysus' mind from planning to bring his priestess to Olympus. Trying another gambit, Bacchus asked, “Will she be willing to leave the bull-head?”
Dionysus frowned, but in thought, not hurt or anger. “Not yet. She won't turn her back on him nor on the trouble he'll bring to Knossos. I know that. She has a caring heart—perhaps that's what makes her Mother-blessed.”
The evidence that Dionysus was thinking instead of just feeling and acting made Bacchus even more unhappy. He didn't want Dionysus reasonable and acceptable to others; he didn't want Ariadne sharing Dionysus' house and changing the being who had satisfied all his lusts into a singing, laughing idiot. He would almost rather see Dionysus completely mad. It would wear off; he was sure the grief and rage would wear off. So, if Dionysus committed what to this stupid nativ
e was an unforgivable sin, she would withdraw herself.
“If the monster died by some 'accident' and she didn't know you were involved ...” Bacchus ventured.
Dionysus shook his head. “I don't think I could do it now. Before he was a person, I could have stopped his heart to save everyone hurt and pain. Not now. I saw how the poor creature craves love, how hurt it is already ...” Dionysus sighed. “Besides, she would know. There's something within her that touches me.”
“Women always pretend—” Bacchus stopped abruptly as Dionysus got to his feet.
He stared at Bacchus and the corners of his mouth tucked back. Bacchus' mouth went dry. He held out a hand in a placating gesture, but he knew that Dionysus did know what he'd done, had weighed and measured him and found him worthless. He didn't dare speak and anyway nothing he said would matter, so when Dionysus waved him away, he took up his scrying bowl and fled.
When Bacchus was gone, Dionysus stared at the door he had closed, but he wasn't thinking of Bacchus. As soon as Bacchus' irritating presence was gone, Dionysus had dismissed that self-absorbed animal's existence from his mind. He had a more important problem—how to reestablish contact with Ariadne.
“I don't See anything,” he said to the bright flowers Hades had set into his shutters to keep him, Hades had said, from shutting himself off in the dark.
He smiled, thinking of the passionate devotion of Hades and his wife Persephone. So much love flowed between them that it overflowed, bathing those hungry for it in warmth and understanding. Ah, if he could convince Ariadne to come to him, even the dark would be bright. But it would be useless to try before the problem of the bull-head was solved. Why could he never See what he needed to See? he asked himself impatiently.
Had an answer to the problem of the bull-head come in a Vision, Ariadne would have Seen it also and known what to do. He thought back. The Vision had shown the bull-man killing, not being killed. His offer to end its life was a mistake and his Mouth had rightly rejected it. His lips thinned as he remembered how he'd allowed Bacchus to make more trouble between him and Ariadne.
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