He drew his arms across his chest. “Lie with you? But you're a little girl, a child! I may be a killer but I've never harmed a child.”
“Child? Are you mad? Just because I don't look like that heavy-uddered cow who is your priestess in Naxos? I am more than twenty-one summers old. Look at me! Dionysus, look at me!”
She stepped back suddenly, unclasped her belt, and tore off her travel-stained gown. She stood before him naked, except for the loin cloth that covered her genitals.
“Look at me,” she insisted. “I may be small. All Cretans are small compared with Olympians, even compared with Achaeans, but these aren't the breasts of a child. These aren't the hips of a child. I'm a woman, as full grown as I'll ever be. Haven't you looked at me in all the nine years that I've served you?”
In truth he'd done his best not to see her. He was afraid if he acknowledged her a woman, if he inflicted on her the violent lust that was all he knew—the face of sex that Aphrodite in the Cretan dress had exposed—he would lose the comfort and friendship, the peace and stability she brought him. He'd refused to see what she was now forcing on him. What had been barely swelling buds when he first saw her naked before the altar were now fine, upstanding breasts, round and smooth, the nipples protuberant with excitement; the waist was narrow, the hips broad, the buttocks full. Dionysus drew a deep breath. She was no child. They were not touching, but he felt her heat.
He stepped forward abruptly, lust rising. Knowing no other way, he was about to seize her, throw her down and himself atop her, but she reached out a hand and took his. Her other hand moved, not to grope for his rod or pull up his clothes, but to smooth back the hair that had tumbled over his forehead. Something flowed from her in the cool, silver mist that always enveloped him when she was near, an eagerness that was also innocent, and when she smiled at him, he saw Aphrodite in her guise of love as pure sweetness.
“It will be the first time for me,” she said. “Will you be gentle with me, my lord?”
His eyes widened and filled with tears. “I don't know gentleness,” he whispered. “Can you teach me?”
Her smile broadened. “We'll learn together.” And she tugged at his hand and led him toward the bedchamber.
Dionysus would not have believed so many lessons could be crammed into so short a space of time or be so utterly indelible. He knew he would never forget a single moment of the playful loving that roused without maddening him. He would not forget that coupling, slow, careful, to ease the hurt of a virgin's broaching. Nor would he forget the caresses and explanations that had followed their mutual joy.
What had happened to him—not the satisfaction of his body, which he could obtain anywhere, but the knowledge about himself, the confidence in himself, that he had gained—was of ultimate importance. In the back of his mind he knew that later what Ariadne had given him would bring him balance, the ability to laugh at his self-dramatization. But now, still breathing hard, still feeling the faint tremors in his thighs and groin that echoed his release, he thought that he would have ended his life if he hadn't known he could renew the peace and joy he had found in his union with Ariadne whenever he liked and as often as he liked. But could he?
“Ariadne,” he whispered, “why did you run away and hide yourself from me?”
“I never did,” she said, cuddling close and resting her head on his shoulder. “Oh, I know I was gone, but it was none of my doing. It was a mistake.” She paused and then asked, “Did you know the Minotaur was dead?”
“Yes. Sappho was so frightened because there were riots and you were missing, that she scryed Olympus to beg for help. I came, but I couldn't 'feel' you at all. I ... I thought you blamed me, but the bull-head's death was none of my doing.”
“I know that. I was there. And you couldn't feel me because I had been deprived of my senses.” She felt him tense and she stroked his cheek. “No, now. There's no need to murder anyone. It was a mistake and meant for the best.”
Whereupon she told him the whole tale, weeping quietly when she repeated the Minotaur's last words and shuddering again with horror as she described how his body had virtually fallen apart in moments.
“The spell was undone,” Dionysus said, tightening his arm around her, “and as Hekate said, only the spell was keeping that body together. I suspect that gray-bladed sword that Theseus used was one of Hephaestus' iron weapons. Athena has a fondness for Athens and for that family. She might have given that sword to Aigeus and Aigeus gave it to Theseus when he thought his son might be going into magical danger. Iron and magic don't mix well. Hades can manage both, but Hephaestus hasn't Hades' power or art. So, when Theseus stabbed the Minotaur, the spell was broken. But I don't see—unless you lost your wits from horror—why you lost your senses or why I couldn't find you for three days.”
So she had to tell him about Theseus striking her to save her from the mob and intending to take her to Athens. Dionysus released her and sat up. Ariadne grabbed him.
“No! Theseus will be my sister's husband. I think she is making a mistake. Athenians seem to believe that women are lesser beings—”
“It's a problem with nearly all the Achaeans. Pentheus wouldn't let the women worship me.” His eyes were dark. “Perhaps Theseus also needs a lesson.”
“Not that kind!” Ariadne said sharply. “It's too permanent, and Phaidra wouldn't like to be a widow—at least not so soon.”
He looked at her. She shrugged. “I didn't take to Theseus. I suspect Phaidra will find him less appealing as time goes on, but after it became known she went into the maze with him and he killed the Minotaur so publicly, it was best for her to be out of Crete. He was better than King Minos' wrath.”
“True enough. I was here, seeking you, and I took the form of the Cretan so that I could mix among the courtiers to hear if you had been hurt or ...” his voice shook “ ... killed. I heard Minos railing against the Athenians, saying that they had broken the terms of their surrender because only Theseus had been through the maze.”
“No, they'd all been through the maze,” Ariadne put in. “I can speak for them if needful. Theseus explained that when Phaidra removed the illusion, the Minotaur must have sensed them and he began to roar. Theseus' companions then forced Daidalos to open the gate and rushed after their leader to help him. But they didn't know the true path, so they didn't catch up until the Minotaur was dead and I was unconscious.”
“It doesn't matter. Minos never set out for Athens. That day his army had enough to do to keep down the rioting. There was considerable fury over the false god.” Dionysus' face went stiff and gray. “I thought you were dead. I was afraid that was why I couldn't feel you.”
Ariadne sat up, too, and embraced him. “I'm sorry I made you suffer, love. I never intended that. I was only so frightened that you would slay all aboard the ship for carrying me away that I closed my heartflower.” Then she put both arms around his neck and smiled at him. “It won't happen again, beloved.”
“No,” he said, also smiling but with twisted lips. “I doubt I'll have the courage to cross you for any reason.”
“But I didn't do it apurpose, not at first.” And then she drew a sharp breath. “Oh. If my father is planning to fight Athens again, I'd better tell him that he'll have no easy victory this time. The reason Theseus wouldn't turn and bring me back to Knossos was that he didn't want to waste any time before warning his people and telling them the Minotaur was a false god and that it would be no blasphemy to defend their city with all their strength and skill.”
“It won't be necessary. Pasiphae came forth just as Minos was about to judge as traitors those who'd led the riots against him—”
“Pasiphae!” Ariadne exclaimed.
Dionysus shrugged. “She came as avatar. She sat between the horns on the dancing court. The Mother was so strong in her, that she even drew me there.”
“Pasiphae,” Ariadne repeated wonderingly. “But she was like one with near no mind, a dead thing walking, the last time I saw her.”
>
“No more,” Dionysus assured her. “The queen was reborn, stronger than when I first saw you dance for the Mother. But she has paid a price—a great price. She rivals you in beauty no longer. Her body is worn away to bones and wrinkled skin, her face no more than a skull. And it is not her face; it is ... there was something in it of the face of the Mother in Persephone's shrine.”
Ariadne sighed softly. “I don't know why Androgeos died. Perhaps it was Her doing because she desired Pasiphae as avatar or because she desired to curb my father's lust to hold more power. It's not so difficult to know the purposes of the Olympian 'gods,' but She is beyond understanding. Or perhaps Androgeos' dying was nothing to do with Her and She simply used another 'god's' ploy to punish Athens. Poseidon, I have heard, hates Athens. Perhaps She used that to cure my mother's madness.”
“It's certainly cured,” Dionysus said. “First Pasiphae made Minos pardon the leaders of the uprising, saying it was just to be offended when a false god was forced upon the people. Then she took them and all Cretans to task for failing their duty. The time to have rebelled with the blessing of the gods was when the Minotaur was first brought before them. She acknowledged her guilt and Minos' for incurring the curse, but blamed all Cretans for grasping at what she and Minos had offered because of pride and greed.”
“It's a wonder they didn't leap on her and kill her.”
“Not her!” Dionysus shook his head and hunched his shoulders as if he feared a blow. “She shone with power. But then she softened her tone, admitting the Minotaur had been a punishment, but that the evil she and Minos had done had been expiated, that Athens had also been punished for civil unrest and evildoing and had expiated its sin. I have never seen the Mother's will so clearly stated and so ... so firmly enforced. Every man who had rebelled then saluted Minos as king and renewed his vows of fealty.”
“Poor Minotaur,” Ariadne murmured. “Poor innocent tool.” Then she remembered the momentary warmth of the breeze on the ship and the caress on her locks of consecration. “He is at last at peace and in the Mother's care, I believe.”
Suddenly Dionysus got out of bed. “I wonder what excuse you'll find now to refuse to come to Olympus.”
Ariadne laughed. “None. Would you like me to come now? I am ready.”
He blinked. “Now you are ready? Without even putting on a gown? Why did you fight me for so long?”
“Sometimes it's easy to tell that you are only a man and not a god.” She giggled. “You're also an idiot! I fought you because you wouldn't take me to your bed. I had visions of watching a procession of cow-uddered nothings enjoy your favor while I was left alone to the scorn and snickerings of your friends and household.”
Dionysus' mouth hung open. He closed it and swallowed. “But I don't bring women to my house. I have enough coupling out in the fields. I—”
“Liar,” Ariadne said succinctly. “I saw a woman in your bed when I Called you one morning.” His mouth opened and closed again. “And you won't make me believe you're innocent by pretending to be a fish,” she continued tartly. “Nor will lying help you in the future. I intend to be in your bed, so there will be no room for other women, and I intend to accompany you when you bless the vineyards and the vines so if coupling is necessary, I'll be there.”
“Yes,” he said simply, his eyes lighting. “It's better to couple your way. But Ariadne, I'm not a liar. The woman you saw in my bed was Aphrodite. One doesn't ... One doesn't refuse Aphrodite. And she had come to thank me for a gift I'd given her.”
“I forgive you,” Ariadne said loftily. “At that time I still was a child and wouldn't have enjoyed you so much.”
“You're laughing at me,” he said, laughing suddenly himself.
“Of course. I'm not such an idiot as not to know that men will be men. Likely I will have to forgive you many times, but—”
He shook his head and color rose to dye his cheeks. “I won't... It's ugly!” he burst out. “Mostly when I'm finished I feel sick. Those priestesses would have coupled with a dog as quickly as with me.”
She came to him and took him in her arms. “Perhaps the coupling and the killing won't be needed if we're together. Here in Crete we only run and dance among the vines. If we are together I hope your divine madness will be turned to other expressions... I See a dais, like that where the sacral horns are displayed, but on it men declaiming and around it in serried rows watchers weeping and groaning and laughing too ... and learning lessons of the heart. Perhaps your Gift of moving the emotions will go into the telling of tales in a manner so real that hundreds will be cleansed without injury or bloodshed.”
“Mouth, I have Seen that also, and never understood it, but I never asked to have it explained, for the Vision has been with me all my life and it always made me happy. Now I know—and I am even happier.”
Then he took her, just as she was—as she had jestingly said he could—to Olympus. They didn't arrive in his apartment, however, neither in the sitting chamber or the bedroom she had glimpsed when Calling him. They came into the chamber that had been hers on her visit, but now it was all changed, filled with light from huge windows that were somehow shielded by Hades' glass.
She would have exclaimed with amazement, but she laughed instead. All the fine furniture, the dainty statuary, the elegant carpets that she had accused him of collecting for a woman were here. And when she shivered slightly, more with excitement than cold, he hurried her into an equally lavish bedchamber where the chests yielded up all the fabrics he had taken, all made up into Olympian-style gowns in her size.
Nor, before the day was done, did she need to wonder what she would do with her time. The servants came to her cringing and weeping with joy, begging that she would give them orders as she had during the wonderful five days she had been with them. Or if she didn't wish to be troubled so much that she at least make some rules that they could follow for they were often punished for not knowing what to do.
Ariadne reassured them. She would see that they did their work, she warned them, but she would also protect them from the erratic demands of Dionysus and his guests. So she would have the household in her hands and, very likely, knowing Dionysus and suspecting what Bacchus and Silenos were, the management of the offerings Dionysus chose to keep for himself.
Silenos came and joined them for the breaking of their fast, almost bouncing with joy and planning all sorts of expeditions into the shops and slave markets. They would get a decent cook first and then see about other matters Dionysus would never attend to. Bacchus didn't appear, but later he made an excuse to run into Ariadne in the forestlike antechamber and told her with sly glances that there were lands he would travel alone, serving as Dionysus' surrogate.
Ariadne didn't permit herself to laugh until he was gone. So Dionysus had thrown him a bone and the hungry cur had snapped it up. She suspected the vineyards Bacchus would “bless” produced such bad wine that even Dionysus could not improve it.
Still, later that night she was quiet after they had made love in her rich, new bed, and Dionysus said, “You are not happy. What have I done wrong?”
“Nothing, love.” She kissed him tenderly. “I am not unhappy. I was just wondering who would dance for the Mother in Knossos. The time is very near and—”
“You will dance for the Mother,” he said. “Do you think I wish to have Her hand fall upon us? I'll carry you to Knossos as often as needed to prepare the dancers, and you can bring the black image here. I'll build Her a golden shrine where the fauns play. Or I'll stay with you in Knossos. I don't care, so long as we're together. I won't be parted from you again, Ariadne.”
She turned to him and kissed him. “We'll always be together,” she said and, after a pause, went on with strong assurance. “I am a true Mouth and I have Spoken because I have Seen what is in your heart and mine.”
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