by Laura Gill
Opening his mouth, Tripodiskos started to speak again; he paused, reconsidered his words and tried a second time. Because of the revels outside, he had to raise his voice somewhat. “Your father, he told me I have to untie the knot. You know, the sacral knot behind...” He indicated the nape of his own neck by way of demonstrating his meaning. “I’m afraid I’ve never...”
“It’s not complicated.” Dikte would have undone the sacral knot herself had custom allowed, just to get it over with. Her nerves showed in the quivering of her voice, but she did not feel quite so self-conscious about that now that she knew Tripodiskos was as anxious as she. “You just draw one end and it comes loose.”
He hobbled over and with his free hand reached behind her head to unfasten the knot. The ribbon, stained with oil from her hair, easily pulled free. Tripodiskos offered it to her. “What do we do with it?”
Dikte took the ribbon. Should she place it on the bed? Her belongings had not yet arrived. “Give it to Mother Rhea.” An uncomfortable silence followed. The time for conversation was running out. She did not know how to transition from standing there dumbstruck to doing the deed. Simply removing her clothes and lying down would be too forward, as would blurting out that they should perform. Men were supposed to be the experienced ones, the seducers—Akastos certainly would not have had a problem—yet Tripodiskos seemed as stuck as she.
After a moment, he shyly inquired, “May I kiss you?”
Dikte was surprised that he asked permission. Was he not her husband? Men were supposed to take the lead. She nodded.
Tripodiskos’s lips were soft. Though brief, the kiss was not unpleasant, but it did not take her breath away, either.
“We should do this,” he suggested, sounding more anxious by the second. “They might come in if we don’t hurry.”
Dikte hiked her skirt up to her waist and lay down on the edge of the bed. Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate on something other than the discomforting realization that her bridegroom, whom she did not know, could see her most private parts. She could smell the blooms used in the garlands, as well as the sweetening herbs with which the women of the household had sprinkled the fleeces.
When a hand touched her inner thigh to nudge her knees farther apart, it was all Dikte could do not to flinch. This was marriage, she told herself. Tripodiskos belonged between her legs.
The act was intrusive, painful and, even with his apology afterward, embarrassing. She wiped the smear of blood from her thighs and rearranged her clothing while struggling to hold back tears. Dikte never, ever wanted to have sex again, and she certainly did not want to celebrate.
Tripodiskos seemed to read her thoughts. “We’ve no choice but to go out there again. We’re trapped.” With one hand, he fumbled with his wreath as he tried to make himself presentable. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. Father warned me that it might be uncomfortable at first.”
Had he not been with a woman before? Dikte did not care. “It’s all right,” she lied quietly.
They each drew a breath and went out again, to be swallowed into the celebrations. Although she was glad to see the chariots had vanished, her malaise lingered. Her kinsmen paraded the bloodstained fleece as eagerly as if she had married within her own class. Not trusting herself to remain composed, Dikte evaded questions about the consummation, even though she could not avoid sitting beside Tripodiskos at the feast. She regarded the food, especially the roast goat, which was a rare treat, with disinterest, but drank liberally from the wedding kylix to dull her nerves until her aunt and mother-in-law declared that she had had enough.
At sunset, the celebration ended with a final ritual as Dikte’s kinsmen formally relinquished her to her husband and his family. “Let her make an offering to the gods of Agathon’s hearth,” Ormesilas intoned. Dikte’s head ached as she found herself holding the rhyton again. “Let the gods of Agathon’s ancestors welcome our daughter Dikte. Let them accept her.”
The door stood open. A fire blazed on the hearth, around which had been arranged Tripodiskos’s household idols. In truth, they were Lysandra’s gods and would leave with her daughter Baubo when she married, allowing Dikte to replace them with the gods of her ancestors; until then Dikte was obliged to pray to and honor them as faithfully as her own gods.
Perhaps that was why Lysandra whispered so harshly in her ear, “Don’t fumble your prayers as you did your wedding vows. My Eleuthia is an unforgiving goddess. Everything with her must be perfect.”
Dikte was sober enough to comprehend her meaning. Blinking, she concentrated on carrying the rhyton across the threshold without stumbling. She knelt on the packed earthen floor and, careful not to spill a drop of the kykeon the vessel contained, raised the rhyton to summon the attention of the immortals. “Gods of the hearth of Agathon and Lysandra, hear me!” Was she slurring? Her voice sounded clear enough to her ears. “I am Dikte, daughter of Ormesilas, bedded bride of...Agathon.” Thank his gods and hers that she had used his proper name in time! “Receive from my hands this kykeon of water mixed with barley, mint, and cheese. Let it nourish you as my breast will nourish the sons and daughters of Agathon my husband.”
Dikte was shaking by the time she ended the prayer, but she managed to hold onto the rhyton long enough to anoint each god. She started with Zeus and Rhea at the center, and carefully worked her way outward. This was the most crucial part. Forgetting a god meant suffering their everlasting enmity.
At last, Tripodiskos hobbled into the house to raise her to her feet. Lysandra took the rhyton, replaced it with the battered vessel the family used in their rituals, and returned the original to Ormesilas, a gesture signifying that Dikte belonged to her husband’s circle of worship, not her father’s.
Then her kinsmen entered the house to bid her farewell. Her father embraced her, held her for a long moment while she flung her arms around him. Timaios, her father-in-law, struck her as kind enough, but to judge from his uxorious manners during the feast, he seemed henpecked by his wife.
“Be a good daughter and the gods will reward you with fine children,” he admonished sternly.
“Oh, Father!” Dikte held back her sobs. She did not want to think about children just then.
For Klymene, she wept openly. She clung to the woman who was as a mother to her, while her kinsmen and her husband’s stood around awkwardly. Moments passed. It was a misfortunate omen for the parting to go on too long. Dikte did not want Lysandra to find additional cause to dislike her, yet at the same time she did not care what the woman thought. Klymene was her link to the gods and to the exalted bloodline they shared. How could Tripodiskos’s family compare with that?
Klymene herself finally withdrew from the embrace. “Dry your eyes, girl, and put a smile on your face.” Dikte stood, sniffling and forlorn, immune to such encouragement. “See, look over there by the bed? There are your belongings.” Klymene addressed the in-laws. “You’ll have to forgive her. She’s young and homesick, and she’s drunk too much honeyed wine.”
“Of course!” Timaios exclaimed.
Harrumphing, Lysandra pressed a cloth into Dikte’s hand. “There’s water by the bed. Wash your face. Your paint is running. Agathon, dear, you should lie down. You’ve had a trying day.”
“I’ll wait for my wife,” Tripodiskos answered.
“Nonsense, boy. Your leg always aches when you’ve stood too long.” Lysandra’s tenderness with her firstborn was a complete reversal from how she spoke to everyone else, including her younger children. As Dikte bent over the ceramic basin and sluiced a handful of water onto her face, she dared not hope that her mother-in-law would ever show her the same solicitude.
“I said I would wait, Mother.” His vehemence, too, surprised Dikte. She had assumed with a sinking heart that Tripodiskos was his mother’s darling, and that, lacking a backbone, would always take Lysandra’s part. Was she mistaken?
Dikte’s kinsmen departed without fanfare, leaving her alone with her in-laws. Baubo helped her untwine the ribbon
s from her hair and shyly admired her priestess skirt—would she ever wear it again? Once she stripped down to her smock, Tripodiskos displayed an unanticipated gallantry by limping forward to escort her to their bed where he settled their sleeping arrangements. “A husband always sleeps best on the outside.” He showed her the dagger he kept tucked under his sack pillow. “Father gave it to me to protect you if we’re attacked.”
How he thought he stood any chance of protecting her from anything, she had not the slightest idea. All that concerned her at that moment was whether he intended to lie with her again.
A bark saved her from having to answer. Timaios, who had gone out, reentered the house with a shaggy black dog. “Korax!” Tripodiskos exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “Come here, boy. Hold out your hand, Dikte. Korax’s a big brute but as gentle as fleece with his family.”
Of course they had a dog, she chided herself. All herdsmen did. Many of her father’s neighbors kept dogs, too, to warn of intruders, but Ormesilas was old-fashioned. “Priests and noblemen don’t keep hounds except for hunting,” he had said when a younger Dikte had badgered him for a puppy. “I’m not a huntsman, I don’t care for mongrel dogs, and therefore you may not have one.”
Korax barked at first, she hesitated as she always did with strange animals, then finally she let him lick her hand. After a few moments of licking and being scratched, he lost interest and flopped down beside the door. He was a nice dog, she decided, quite handsome and as raven-black as his name implied, but she was under no illusions about his ability to tear into an intruder.
Tripodiskos showed no inclination to lie with her again that night, which came as an immense relief. Once the household retired, he stretched out beside her and went straight to sleep. Far from reassuring her, however, his snoring kept Dikte awake. While she was accustomed to sharing a bed, she had never shared one with a man. His body when he moved and brushed against her felt solid and hirsute where she was used to softness, and the bed smelled of him. Would he become aroused and reach for her in the middle of the night? She was still sore from the first time.
At some point, she must have drifted off, because all of a sudden Tripodiskos was shaking her. “It’s morning. Mother wants you.”
Yawning, Dikte sat up and rubbed her eyes. Wine and sleep soured her mouth. Her eyelids were heavy, and she felt stiff all over from having lain in the same position all night. Lysandra was already badgering Baubo, who was helping prepare breakfast from yesterday’s leftovers. Baubo shot Dikte a reassuring smile, while Tripodiskos’s eleven-year-old brother ignored his new sister-in-law altogether.
Dikte started to reach for her priestess skirt, until she abruptly recalled that she was prohibited from performing her duties in the shrine. Her father would be escorting Klymene alone.
Timaios bade her a drowsy good morning. “Your aunt asked me to bring you to the Labyrinth shrine to dedicate your ribbon.”
“I don’t see the need for all the fuss.” Lysandra waved the knife with which she was slicing bread. “Only priestesses have sacral ribbons, and she’s not consecrated. Besides, the Labyrinth’s full of restless ghosts and forgotten gods.” She frowned. “It’s not a wise thing to bring them home.”
“But Klymene says the place still has power.” Timaios wore a grave look. “We can’t afford to offend the Earth-Shaker or any other spirits that dwell there. It’ll only be for this morning, dear.”
As Dikte’s new father-in-law escorted her up the temple mount to the shrine, he took pains to reassure her. “You’ll have to excuse my wife. She can be a difficult woman when things don’t go her way. Best to do what she says.” Timaios paused, looked around. “You know your way about?”
Dikte nodded. “We’re in what was the central court, where the Bull Dances were held. Don’t wander away on your own. Some places are blocked because it’s dangerous.” It would have been wiser to knock down the unused buildings, as people did in the village to prevent earthquake damage or fires, and cart away the stones for use elsewhere, but no one dared approach the Labyrinth’s ruins, much less salvage them. Snakes inhabited the shade under toppled orthostates. Bits of broken objects bore scratches that might have been curses. The Minotaur’s ghost sometimes rumbled from the hollow spaces where stairs vanished into earth-filled crevices.
From the court, Dikte headed southeast to a small building that had been repaired many times over the last two centuries. She navigated a short, narrow corridor that took her past doorways that had been intentionally blocked with rubble long ago; her destination was the single room still in use.
The Labyrinthos shrine had not changed much since the days of the great Daidalos. For much of its history, its stone bench had accommodated Mother Labrys and other cult equipment, but now that the double axe had been moved to the cult house, the shrine had been converted into a catch-all sanctuary dedicated to all the gods. Plaster horns of consecration flanked a pair of stands upon which stood ceremonial copper axes green with age. Votives faced the idols of the gods in perpetual worship.
A single oil lamp burned in a corner, casting patterns of light and shadow onto the offering table below the bench. Dikte did not enter, as the chamber was not large enough to accommodate both her and her aunt, who was paying her morning reverences.
Touching her hand to her forehead, Klymene backed away from the altar until she reached the threshold. Once clear of the gods’ domain, she was free to turn her back and greet her niece. “There are circles under your eyes, child. I hope your sleepless night was due to love-play and not worry.” Dikte hung her head. How could Klymene possibly expect her to sport joyfully with her bridegroom when she was so heartsick?
After a moment, Klymene chucked her under the chin. “Your wedding night wasn’t happy? Was he rough with you?”
“He slept. Everyone slept but me,” Dikte confessed. “I couldn’t. Tripodiskos—Agathon, I mean—was kind enough to make a place for me. He even had a knife under his pillow to protect me. They have a dog, Korax. But it’s not home.”
She held back tears even as her aunt hugged her. “Of course,” Klymene said. “Your homesickness will fade in time.” Dikte felt her aunt’s hand clasp hers. “Do you have the ribbon?”
Before leaving her husband’s hearth, Dikte had tried unsuccessfully to scour the oily smudges from the ribbon; it was still damp when she drew it from her smock. Then her aunt instructed her in what prayers to say.
Dikte had to hear the invocation twice before she felt confident enough to attempt it. Removing her shoes, she entered the shrine, knelt down, and coiled the ribbon alongside the grain and salt already sprinkled on the offering table. She raised her hands in the attitude of reverence and began, “Rhea, Great Goddess, Earth Mother and Queen of Heaven, receive now this offering. I, Dikte, your faithful servant, dedicate to you this ribbon, this sacral token of my virginity. Keep it in trust, oh goddess, and bless me with fruitfulness, as I in good faith reverence you and keep your rites holy.”
As she rose from the offering table, and knowing that she would probably never see the shrine again, Dikte’s heart was heavy.
Klymene kissed her cheek when she emerged into the passage. “I’ve seen brides as downcast as you go on to have happy, fruitful marriages.” Twining her arm through Dikte’s, Klymene started to escort her outside. “Why, your own mother was homesick in the beginning. It’s a burden women have to bear.”
Outside in the court, a surprise awaited her in the form of Tripodiskos, engaged in quiet conversation with his father and hers. “Daughter,” Ormesilas announced, “look who’s decided to join us.”
Dikte could see that, but how had he managed the hill? “I didn’t expect you,” she told Tripodiskos.
“The hill’s not that steep.” His knowing glance forced a blush. She cast her gaze to the broken pavement. “I thought you might want company going back.”
Did he not have goats to herd? Dikte swallowed back her anxiety and answered, “I’d thought to stay a while and go down below.�
�� What did she care that Lysandra wanted her to grind wheat into flour or help do laundry? She would have the rest of her life to break her back over quern and cauldron. This was her time to say farewell to the Labyrinth, and she had hoped to do it alone.
Tripodiskos frowned. “Below?”
“Yes,” Ormesilas interjected. “There’s a basement below the court where we keep items for the maintenance of the shrine. There’s not much to see except for the great staircase and the fragments of fresco still clinging to the walls. Dikte, daughter, why don’t you show your husband what the Labyrinth means to our family?”
She hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“Why not?” Ormesilas laid an encouraging hand on his son-in-law’s shoulder. “You’re family now. The gods will welcome you. And you can manage the staircase. The steps are broad and shallow. Go. You’ll never see their like anywhere else.”
Dikte’s heart sank. Why did her father have to force her husband’s company on her? Tripodiskos would fumble and stumble and take forever. Nonetheless, she had little choice except to obey. “It’s this way,” she mumbled.
Great Daidalos’s master work, the multi-level staircase of what had been the east sanctuary, had survived fire and earthquake, and now the indignity of near-total abandonment. In the last conflagration, the upper floors containing the sanctuary of Rhaya had buckled, pancaked, and crashed into the basement, leaving only what remained below the central court. Priest-Architect Daikantos’s laborers had cleared much of the basement and shored up the structure before all work had ceased.
Dikte knew none of that, only that the space was sacred to the ghost of the Minotaur who had dwelled below and feasted on human flesh before being slain by the hero Theseus. She used to imagine Akastos as her Theseus and herself as Ariadne, until her father in a fit of irritation reminded her that Theseus had abandoned Ariadne, and that men like Theseus were the reason the world was in such upheaval.