by Laura Gill
Now Alaia needed to hustle Ariadne away before she went further and asked Keos to hold her hand or kiss her, or some other girlish silliness. “There are enough flowers left to fashion garlands for these other young men.” She indicated the noblemen, whose reactions spanned the gamut from confusion to amusement, to outright indignation that a commoner received honors before them.
Whether or not Ariadne made more garlands did not matter, as long as she stayed where she belonged. Alaia saw her settled among the blankets again, then, choosing her words carefully, conferred with Myrna. “I fear I do not know the ways of the Labyrinth, Mistress. How may I direct Lady Ariadne’s attention to those more worthy of her?”
“Mistress Myrna, let the men compete for our pleasure and the Lady’s honor,” Daphne, the sloe-eyed, brown-haired maiden attending Phaedra, urged without hesitation. “We wove more garlands than we can wear ourselves.”
Myrna demurred. “They have already exerted themselves rowing us downriver.” Idiot woman, Alaia thought. The pleasure craft was not that large, nor the distance that great, or else the noblemen would have conscripted slaves to do the rowing. Rather, from what Alaia had observed, the mule-headed nurse was content to claim credit for others’ ideas, yet was unwilling to be seen taking advice.
Within earshot, Phaedra inquired enthusiastically, “Are there to be games? Let us do something amusing.”
Now Myrna hemmed and hawed, caught between her stubbornness and her young mistress’s excitement. “Yes, we should have games,” she declared, as though, once again, the idea was her own.
First, they picnicked on the food they had brought from the Labyrinth’s kitchen. Grilled fish with herbs was served with crumbly white goat’s cheese, flatbread, pastries with almonds and raisins, and wine. Alaia did not help herself, accepting only that which was offered. Even then, she would have starved, had a gracious Phaedra not invited her to share her portion. “They have given me so much, and I am very small.”
Phaedra ate daintily, dabbing her mouth with a linen napkin, and pausing at regular intervals to dip her fingers in the bowl Daphne set beside her. Alaia would have liked to speak more with her, perhaps glean more information about her kinsmen and life in the Labyrinth, but the gravitas with which she broke bread made the prospect of engaging her in conversation seem like the interruption of a sacred rite.
Ariadne, meanwhile, scarcely touched anything, despite her nurse’s attempts to force food upon her. The exchange of pleading and disinterested refusal had the ring of long habit. Alaia knew a more efficient way of dealing with picky eaters, and that was to let them starve until hunger won out and they obediently ate what was set before them. Perhaps it was forbidden to let the daughter of a high priestess starve. She did not know, only that Ariadne’s childishness and Myrna’s inefficacy was wearing on her nerves. Argurios must surely be laughing over her predicament.
After the crumbs had been gathered and the fish bones thrown away, Phorus the steersman assembled the men for a footrace. “You reach that post at the edge of that sheep pasture, turn and come back. Now give the ladies a good show.” Which five of them were already doing, stretching, flexing, and limbering their muscles. Keos hung back, occupying himself with smothering the fire and carrying supplies back to the boat. Alaia noticed he was missing his garland.
“No, no, there must be six!” Ariadne cried.
Phorus held up his hands. “I’m far too old to compete, Lady. Might as well expect a turtle to—”
“No, him!” She pointed to Keos, who froze where he stood, cloth-wrapped hands holding a bronze tripod just taken from the glowing embers. “The young god must compete, too.”
The noblemen exchanged looks of annoyance. “Lady, will you not give us a chance to honor you?” the boldest of them asked. His companions nodded agreement.
“You and your companions are already very honorable men, Ktesarchos,” Phaedra answered gravely.
Ariadne glared venomously at her. “Keos must run, or there will be no race.”
Setting down the cauldron, Keos came forward to state his case. “Lady, I cannot compete against men of higher status.” He avoided acknowledging them. Alaia could tell he resented them as they resented him, not for anything he had done, but rather for the situation they all found themselves in. “It would not be a proper thing.”
Denial only stiffened Ariadne’s resolve. “The goddess speaks through me, and if I say you must race, then you must race.” She all but crossed her arms over her underdeveloped breasts and stomped her foot.
Keos grudgingly joined the noblemen as they assumed their marks. Phorus gave the signal, a sharp sailor’s whistle. With the other women, Alaia stood to watch the runners’ progress, while wishing she had had but a few seconds alone with her son to admonish him against taking the competition too seriously. Would he understand enough to throw the race without her prompting?
As the runners sprinted toward the halfway mark, Alaia could not tell who was most likely to win, nor would the observation have made much difference. The experiences of her youth, when she herself had raced in this same countryside, had taught her that the best runners paced themselves, sprinting out at the final stretch.
The runners reached the post, turned, and started for home. Now the women were cheering, waving, and calling out the names of their favorites. Only Ariadne urged Keos on, because Alaia knew better than to foster resentment by voicing a preference. Her maternal instincts clashed. On the one hand, she wanted her son to win accolades if he was worthy of them, yet on the other hand she prayed he would keep running into the distance and vanish, never to return.
Keos was not in the lead, or even second, but somewhere in the middle. Alaia thought she saw someone elbow him, for he stumbled mid-stride. It did not affect the results, though, because he finished third, behind a husky youth named Troxillos and Ktesarchos, who had spoken earlier.
When Ariadne refused to crown the victor, or anyone else apart from Keos, Phaedra again rescued the situation. “I will award the garlands.”
The broad-shouldered, husky Troxillos went down on one knee before her. “You are the King Horse among stallions, noble Troxillos,” she said, then planted a sacred kiss upon his brow. Alaia did not know how calling a man the King Horse was a compliment, as it implied that he was fit for a sacrificial offering. Perhaps denizens of the Labyrinth viewed the world through different eyes.
Then Phaedra raised her arms heavenward. “Troxillos is the victor, yet you shall all be rewarded.” Ktesarchos knelt at her command. The handmaiden Daphne came forward to set a garland of scarlet and white poppy anemones upon his brow, saluting his prowess, and kissed him on the mouth. Next, a comely Egyptian handmaiden holding a garland of yellow flowers approached the kneeling Keos, when a shrill cry broke the solemnity of the ritual.
“Do not touch him!” A wide-eyed, rabid Ariadne sprang to her feet. “He is mine!”
Alaia shot out a restraining arm with little thought as to the impiety she might be committing. “No, he is not.”
Ariadne responded violently, wrenching away. “You are not a goddess, but a hateful bitch-demon!” Spittle flecked her lips. “Keos is mine. Mine! I am the rightful high priestess, and I choose him!”
“I am his mother, and I say no.” Alaia regretted having been so impulsive. Everyone, even her own son, was staring slack-jawed at her. What was the penalty for manhandling the daughter of a high priestess? “You are behaving foolishly, refusing to honor these noblemen who have honored you.” What was she saying? She should have known well enough to close her mouth. Not only would the Minos be outraged, but the priests would probably fine her for blasphemy.
Without glancing away from the outraged young woman, she gestured to her son. “Mistress Myrna, ladies, gentlemen of the court, forgive us any unpleasantness we may have caused. That was not our intention.” Keos appeared in her periphery, without a garland, and clearly agitated by the fuss she was making. “We should leave.”
Ariadne reacted w
ith horror, latching onto Keos’s arm. “Please stay! Send your bitch-mother away, but stay with me.” Either she did not notice the disgust painted on his face and those of the people around her, or she chose to disregard it, and assume that the communal disapproval was meant for his mother. “I will be gentle with you. I will feed you and dress you, and you can sleep in my bed where—”
“Lady,” Keos began, “I—”
“Let that commoner go at once!” Myrna, all indignation and no substance, gestured to Keos. “He is not noble enough for you.”
Keos extricated himself when Ariadne refused to obey, and, following his mother, hastened from the bank. Half a mile separated them from the confluence of the Kairatos and Vlychia, and the nearest bridge. Alaia did not glance behind her, only lengthened her stride, hoping that moon-brained ninny did not pursue them. She already faced enough trouble in having laid hands on the girl.
Not until they crossed the bridge did Keos voice his thoughts. “What does that crazy bitch think I am, her pet monkey?”
“Think no more of her.” Alaia hurried past the storehouses and outbuildings of the industrial quarter, where the pungent ammoniac fumes of the nearby fullery stung her eyes. The next turn in the road would take her straight to the counting house and the comfort of Wedaneus’s embrace, but she preferred not to disturb him at his work, and certainly not about something against which he could do nothing. “And say nothing of it to your father or your friends, understand?” She was breathing hard. Sweat-damp tendrils of her hair clung to her brow. People were staring, she was sure, because nowadays they always stared at her, always whispered about Minos Argurios’s concubine, the married woman, the hussy. She had just given them something else to whisper about.
When she and Keos reached their home, a nondescript, two-story house north of the industrial quarter, Alaia discovered to her dismay that her husband had returned early. Wedaneus, still wearing his striped scribal robes, was scrubbing clay residue from his hands with a damp towel; she remembered then that scribes throughout Knossos spent early spring recycling last year’s clay tablets. Wedaneus knew about that morning’s excursion, but nothing more. It was an unspoken rule between them that she would never describe what she did in the Minos’s house, and he would never inquire.
He wore a displeased look. “Keos,” he said sternly, “you are shirking your duties again. What am I to tell Master Anaxoitas?”
“The fault is mine.” Alaia heard her voice trembling half a second before a wave of nausea passed over her. “The boat was short a rower, and I foolishly volunteered Keos.” Shutting her eyes, she drew a breath. “Keos, go upstairs. I must speak to your father alone.”
Before Keos even started climbing the stairs, Alaia heard her husband’s footsteps approach, then felt his arms gathering her close. “What is amiss?” he asked.
Alaia kept her silence a moment longer, while breathing in his familiar scent. Would he chastise her when he knew? Wedaneus never reproached her for her evening absences, or her lack of enthusiasm in their marriage bed afterward—which was not his fault at all—but there were occasions when his long jaw clenched and eyes narrowed, and it was only his ingrained habit of patience that forestalled an argument.
“The girl, the young Lady of the Labyrinth, she is moonstruck,” Alaia whispered. “Sacred madness. She thought Keos was Velchanos. She insisted, no matter what anyone said. She wanted him.”
Alaia felt his breathing, heard his pulse under her cheek. “For sacrifice?” Wedaneus asked, also in a low voice.
“Gods only know, but I think rather as a plaything than for the altar.” Even when whispering, Alaia could not relax; the security of earlier times was gone. Their children could hear very well, and for all she knew the servant woman Philomena was passing secrets to the Minos. Most likely the woman was, for how else could he know not to send for Alaia when she was menstruating?
“Then what has you so shaken?”
“I laid hands on her to restrain her. Rhaya forgive me,” Alaia hastily added, “but the mother in me could not stand her any longer. She was smothering him, humiliating both him and the noblemen the Minos sent to attend her.” She felt her husband withdraw somewhat, not from anger, but from a habitual need to sit apart and think. Alaia released him first, yet remained at a fingertip’s distance. “There were footraces. The girl insisted that Keos run. Oh, he did not win the race, he knows better, but she refused to crown anyone else. The noblemen were becoming resentful. So I excused myself and Keos, and brought him straight home. There was nothing else I could do.”
“You restrained her?”
Alaia nodded dismally. She could not bear to look at her husband. Even when angry, even when the Minos’s servants came to collect her, Wedaneus never raised his voice in objection. Why could he not be a typical man for once and protest, threaten violence, demonstrate that he cared more than he did? His silence had always seemed to her more forbidding than shouting or a beating would have been. “This is entirely my fault, Husband,” she said. “Had I not offered Keos as a rower to replace of the one who did not appear, the girl would never have seen him, and she would never—”
Wedaneus asked slowly, quietly, “Alaia, when did you lay hands upon the lady?” Fingers under her chin compelled her to meet his gaze. His skin felt cool, moist, and smelled clayey. “Whatever you did, it cannot have been so bad, otherwise they would have arrested you.”
Alaia refrained from closing her eyes. “When she tried to award Keos a victory crown without honoring the actual victor, I forbade her to touch him. Then, when she ignored me, I seized her wrist. It was just for a moment, but...”
“You touched the Lady of the Labyrinth?”
She sighed, “Yes.” Now Wedaneus would hit her, when he had never once struck or even reproved her for capturing the Minos’s attention. That had not been her fault, but this blunder was.
“And you only took her by the wrist to keep her away from Keos?” Wedaneus pressed. “There was no threat of violence? You did not curse her, call her a lunatic, or use profane language to chastise her?”
“Oh, why are you asking?” Why was he dragging this out? “I already told you what happened. Of course I did not curse or strike her! Who knows what demons she could have called down upon my head if I had! I behaved like a mother, as if she was Merope disobeying me.”
“Is that all, dear wife?” To her surprise, Wedaneus started chuckling. “I think they would have arrested you on the spot had you committed blasphemy.” Yet his eyes were not laughing. “If no one comes today to reprimand you, then the first thing in the morning you should go to the temple mount with an offering for the Potnia of the Labyrinth. Explain to the official there exactly what happened. Tell them you wish to do penance.” As he spoke, his voice lost its bemused tone, and reflected his inner sentiments. Yes, she thought, she had bungled the affair.
She hung her head. “The Minos will be furious. He said to observe, to be charming. What have I done?”
“Then he has only himself to blame.” Wedaneus’s declaration astounded her. People had been fined for saying less. Had Philomena heard him? She was without a doubt eavesdropping on them. “What was he thinking, sending a scribe’s wife to do the work of a noblewoman?”
*~*~*~*
“You must bring him!” Why was no one listening to her? She had been pleading all afternoon, and now it was after sunset. Were her women all deaf, or had that bitch-demon infected them with her lack of reverence? “Please, I will die without him!”
Ever since Ariadne had recognized the young god at the oars, a peculiar warmth had gnawed her belly, an aching emptiness that she instinctively knew needed a man to fill it. And not just any man, not for the Lady of the Labyrinth, but he who had been ordained for her: Velchanos, the divine year-consort. She did not know who the witch was who had denied her Keos, only that the bitch—bitch-witch, hah!—was not, after all, the benevolent goddess who had bestowed a kiss upon her.
Perhaps the woman was a demon
like the Erinyes, the fearsome sisters of vengeance who made the walls of the Labyrinth shrink upon her and the dreadful voices whisper in the stillness of the night. Or maybe the woman was a sorceress who held the young god under an enchantment that only Ariadne’s priestess blood could break. Yes, that must be it. Once she kissed him, the curse would evaporate, and he would love her forever.
“I am the Lady, and he is my consort!” she shrieked. Around her, the women were tidying up the main room after a supper which she had not touched. Had the witch poisoned their food to make them oblivious to her commands? Were they, too, under the woman’s enchantment? If Minotauros were but there, he would have shaken them to their senses. He would have rescued the youth and brought him to her.
Dashing about the chamber on bare feet, she harassed the women: yanking Daphne’s braid, pinching Tuya’s arm, and even shoving Myrna when the nurse did not move swiftly enough. “Bring him! You, Evadne! Dress my hair and fix my paint. Is my gown suitable? I must be ready.”
“For a man who does not even like you?” Phaedra, wrapped in a fleece for warmth, spun wool by the brazier. “Did you not notice earlier? He wanted nothing to do with you.”
Ariadne waved her silent. “That was the spell, you fool. The enchantment that the sorceress set upon him.”
“The sorceress?” Phaedra’s eyes widened as she suppressed her laughter. “Now who is the fool? That sorceress was his mother. She took Keos away because you were behaving like the imbecile you are.”
“Shut up!” Ariadne strode over and smacked her half-sister so hard that Phaedra’s spindle flew from her hand and rolled along the floor. Pretentious, perfect little Phaedra, presuming to act as high priestess in her place, to garner flattery and honors that rightfully belonged to her! Earlier that day, Ariadne had wanted to drag the little bitch by her immaculately coiffed hair to the river and hold her down in the muddy water till she stopped struggling. She had fought the urge only because such violence would have shown her in a misleading light, serving to push Keos away, but now she wished she had acted on it. Keos would learn sooner or later how far she was willing to go in order to have him, even to rescue him.