Aridela gave a slow, surprised smile as Chrysaleon’s gaze shot to hers.
Through blazing sparks of pleasure that he fought to hide, he noticed Themiste’s reaction to the queen’s offer. The oracle’s mouth opened then closed like a fish and her face reddened. “Queen Helice,” she said. “You cannot mean to send Aridela so far away right now.” She glanced at Chrysaleon, her expression unreadable. “And it is inappropriate to send a royal princess to serve as a mere guide. Perhaps one of the priests would be a better choice.”
Hushed muttering ran through the room. Chrysaleon sensed the queen stiffen beside him and saw her ominous frown. “The Lady brought me a dream last night,” she said coldly. “I saw Aridela standing with our Zagreus on the terraces at Phaistos. She was happy. When Iphiboë takes the throne, Aridela will descend into your shrines and you will have authority over her. Until then, I am still her mother and can make this choice without consulting you.”
Rage flared across the oracle’s face before she bowed her head. Her hair fell across her cheeks, hiding her expression, and she said no more. Helice turned her attention to Iphiboë and Chrysaleon used that brief opportunity to send Aridela a reckless grin.
Yes, he’d defied his father’s orders. He’d deliberately placed himself in line to die in one year. He’d offered himself as husband to this pale quavering fish of a woman.
But a year was a long time, during which he would constantly search for ways to thwart the destiny set for him by the people of Kaphtor.
Aridela’s return smile was faint yet redolent with intimacy.
Confidence crept back in, bringing whispered words echoing through the cave, kisses, and the fusion of their bodies. That smile made promises. For the first time since he’d killed the king, he felt lust rouse. Wake.
“Your suggestion sounds delightful, my lady,” he said to the queen, and bowed low to hide his lecherous glee.
What is this? Aridela could hardly believe what she’d heard. Had her mother truly just offered her as personal guide to Chrysaleon? Suggested he take her with him clear to the other side of the island? Themiste’s hand tightened around hers. Aridela peered at her, noticing the way she seemed to fold into herself; her head lowered as though she wanted to… to hide something. But explosions of excitement and joy took precedence; she turned to stare at her lover, fighting as hard as she could to maintain a noncommittal air.
She read the same fight in his eyes, saw the same smile twitch the corners of his mouth that she felt at hers. Her mind screamed at her to break his gaze, to look at anything else. Anywhere. But she couldn’t. Her lover appeared to have the same dilemma. If anyone were watching closely, their secret would be out.
But the queen was now wholly concerned with Iphiboë. She clasped her daughter’s hands and spoke to her quietly, seriously. Themiste kept her face pointed toward the floor and the audience spoke among themselves as they shuffled to the exits. The only one who really seemed to be paying attention was Menoetius.
As long as the pyramids stand in Egypt, Chrysaleon mouthed.
Aridela felt his promise pour through her veins like fire-warmed wine.
Current dating at the time of this publication places the construction of the cyclopean walls and lion gate at Mycenae in either the twelfth or thirteenth centuries. These dates often change; long ago I began viewing “secure” dates with suspicion. When Mary Renault wrote The King Must Die, then-current dating placed the Thera eruption in the fourteen hundreds quite confidently, but with better technology, that date has moved backwards to the sixteen hundreds, about 300 years before Theseus. At any rate, I decided to include both the walls and gate, as they are familiar to modern readers.
An intriguing theory is the possibility of a link between the lion gate at Mycenae and the “Lady of the Beasts” on Crete. A seal ring found at Knossos shows two lionesses in an identical pose as at the lion gate, with their front paws on a central pillar. The seal also contains a goddess, standing atop the pillar holding out a spear, and a youth, saluting her. Current dating shows the seal ring to be about the same age as the lion gate.
Several of my sources place Athene’s origin in Africa rather than Greece. She is considered by many mythologists to be much older than the well-known Classical pantheon of Greek gods and goddesses, and her name suggests she is “un-Greek.” One possible meaning of her name is “I have come from myself,” and her title, “Great Virgin,” would not have held the same connotation it does today, but instead meant she was not married, or under anyone’s control. The famous myth of Athene being born fully grown and armored from Zeus’s head is a much later construction.
There is a bibliography at my website: http://rebeccalochlann.com
To the members of my writing group, Refiner’s Fire, for patient, multiple readings, critiques, copyediting and friendship:
Linda Orvis, Lisa Peck Harris, Betty Briggs, Judy Anderson, Deanne Blackhurst, John Thornton and in memory of Sandy Hirsche and Max Golightly.
To those who came later, from all around the United States and the world, who gave so generously of their time, insights and emotional support:
Sulari Gentill, Gemi Sasson, Cheri Lasota, Anthony Barker, Lorri Proctor.
April Hamilton: her willingness to pioneer a “new way” for writers helped give me the courage to try.
To my family: Jennifer and Kat, who nearly had to raise themselves through all the years of research, writing, and rewrites, and most of all to my husband, who has made my dreams come true.
If you enjoyed the first book of The Child of the Erinyes Series and would like to see what happens next, please look for the second installment.
Read on for a preview of The Thinara King.
On their third day at Phaistos, Chrysaleon and Aridela went along with a team of bull leapers to watch the capture of a wild bull.
All too soon, they would make the return journey to Knossos. Chrysaleon would become consort to Aridela’s boring sister, Iphiboë. The thought was intolerable. What of the prediction he’d overheard the Phrygian woman, Selene, make on Mount Ida? She’d claimed a mystical voice, carried on the wind, told her that Aridela would become queen of Kaphtor. But what if she’d been dreaming? The possibility made his guts grind.
The troupe painted themselves with stripes of green dye to help them blend into the foliage; they tethered a cow near the bull they hoped to attract then hid downwind and waited.
Chrysaleon and Aridela set up a picnic on a slope beneath the shady branches of a poplar, where they could view the scene without interfering. Aridela’s attendants and the litter-bearers sat nearby, within sight but out of earshot.
“She’s ready to mate,” Aridela said. “Her scent entices the bull. He’ll mount her and the team will hobble his back legs. When he finishes, they net him.”
“Cruel sport for the bull.” Chrysaleon popped an olive in his mouth.
“Dancing with the bulls helps us keep peace with the Lady. For time beyond measure, she has harnessed her earth bull in our mountains, beneath the rocks where no mortal can reach. When she is angered, he roars and the land heaves. No matter what stone we use nor how thick we cut our pillars, everything we have built crumbles like twigs.” Her voice lowered. “Once, long ago, Potnia ordered her bull to pull all Kaphtor to the ground. Multitudes were killed. Our palaces and cities were destroyed.”
“What had your people done?”
“Some say we had turned away from her, that we thought ourselves as strong as she, or as wise. Others claim the queen allowed one of her bull-kings to live beyond his time. Athene did send warning through one of our oracles. Some escaped onto the sea in boats. We rebuilt, as you’ve seen.” She twined her arms over her head in a sinuous movement, stretched, and turned her face to the sun. Golden light bathed her cheeks, glinted through her eyes and lashes like a lover’s touch, sparking more colors than Chrysaleon knew existed.
“Look,” she said, scooping a handful of ivy from the trunk of the tree. She placed her hand
on one of the leaves, spreading her fingers over its surface. “Each leaf has five fingers, honoring the hand of Athene. Artisans fill their homes with vases of ivy to spur imagination and creativity.”
Aridela, a goddess in her own right, with her black eyes, that delicate yet defined bone structure she’d inherited from Helice, and a mouth that made his groin ache. He could almost picture giving up everything for her, even his life, without regret. Perhaps the old saying was indeed truth—that Athene planted the desire to die within the heart of the bull-king.
The image of her triumphant leap in the bullring would never grow dull—that and the first time he’d seen her, swimming naked in the forest pool on Mount Ida. On the heels of those memories came more, of their coupling in the cave, of her erotic desire and fierce response. Yet something else nagged him, something harder to define. He hadn’t expected wisdom, reckless courage, or the trust she’d so quickly and loyally granted him. He felt dazzled, as though he stood in the path of a falling star, and feared she could fast become a compulsion.
Below them, the cow flicked her tail at flies and grazed, untroubled.
The wound on his forearm itched. He rubbed the dressing and said, low, “I cannot bear this.”
Aridela continued to watch the cow, but the muscles in her jaw tightened and a shadow formed between her brows.
“It’s you I want, you I fought for. Not your sister.”
She met his gaze. “Do you understand what you’ve done? Your father—is he truly willing to give you up?”
Chrysaleon considered. He didn’t want to lie to this girl, with her obsidian eyes, not completely, anyway. He would take a chance and see where it carried him.
“He and I see the benefits of a closer alliance. He wants our two countries united. Yet he respects your mother, and ruled out any talk of invasion or war.”
“So you competed to strengthen this alliance.”
“He forbade me from competing. I defied him because, when you entered the ring, when you leaped over the bull’s back, a god’s noose slipped around my neck and bound me to Kaphtor—to you. I’ve known from that day to this I won’t leave.
“Before I saw you, I railed at my fate, ordered to travel so far to watch other men fight for some dust-dry princess. How was I to know that here, in the bullring at Labyrinthos, I would discover my perfect mate?”
Shock passed over her face. “I felt Athene’s hands pushing me into the bullring that day. I’d known since I was small she wanted me to dance with a bull. I knew it would change something, but I never knew what. Now I see. It changed you. She wanted you to enter the Games, so you would win and become our Zagreus. The bull dance was how she spurred you to it.” She paused, tilting her head, frowning. “I don’t think—no, I’m sure. I haven’t had the dream of leaping a bull since that day. Not once.”
Her acceptance of deliberate divine intervention reminded him of a child.
He started to smile, to tell her she shouldn’t give deities too much importance, but the scene below changed, calling for their attention.
The underbrush shook and a massive brown-spotted bull crashed into sight. The cow stopped grazing. With a gruff bellow, the bull pawed the earth and trotted to her, smelling the air.
Chrysaleon offered the scene a cursory glance before turning back to Aridela. He sensed the advantage he’d created and didn’t want to lose it. “How could I have known,” he said, “before I came here, that your waist would fit my hands like it was made for them? That your body would mold into mine and mine into yours as though we were twined within the same womb?”
Appreciation flickered across her face, but then the frown returned. Someone had warned her against him; he saw it in her eyes.
Receiving some sort of acquiescence from the cow’s uplifted tail, the grunting bull mounted her hindquarters.
Chrysaleon plucked one of the leaves off the vine and traced it from Aridela’s shoulder to her wrist. “The bull cares for nothing but a moment’s pleasure, and when it’s done won’t remember the cow. But it isn’t that way for us. Whether I want to or not, I love you. Have I not proved it through the battle I waged in the labyrinth? By these wounds I suffer for your sake?”
His argument formed without planning or preparation; for the first time he wasn’t sure if he was still telling lies.
“Goddess paired you to my sister,” she said, her deep black gaze softening. “You’ll ascend Kaphtor’s throne at her side. The council made the decision.”
“Your decision holds me, not the council’s. If they forbid our union, we can leave. Your home will be the citadel of Mycenae. We have mountains in plenty to remind you of Kaphtor, but I’ll never leave you alone long enough to miss it. And our palace, though not as magnificent as yours, is the finest on the Argolid. I’ve seen how much you love honey. I’ll stock a thousand jars, and serve you honey-cakes three times a day. You’ll know honor and respect as my wife, as Mycenae’s queen. Would you not rather come with me than waste your life buried in caves praying and breathing smoke?”
“And what of Iros, who is already your wife?”
Ah. Her doubts came from Harpalycus. He should have known. “That means nothing to me. It was arranged without my knowledge or consent. I’ll send her back to her father.”
“And in doing so, make me the cause of war between Mycenae and Tiryns.”
He shrugged. “I would gladly flatten Tiryns if you join me at Mycenae.”
“You ask me to abandon my people, betray my mother and sister, defy Lady Athene. Do you imagine we would be allowed a single day of happiness?”
The painted team crept out of hiding and roped the hobble around the bull’s hind leg. His furious bellow reverberated up the slope.
“Do you want that to be my fate?” Chrysaleon asked, nodding toward the bull. “Hobbled, cheated, helpless?”
“You would take me from all I was born to do and leave Kaphtor in turmoil.” Aridela shuddered. “My mother would never stop hunting you until you were dead.”
The dancers fell back, laughing, and allowed the bull to finish his business. Afterward there was some thrashing, but in the end, the bull lay trapped and exhausted in strong nets.
“I’m restless,” Aridela said. She started to take his hand in her own but, glancing toward the attendants, brushed off her tunic instead and rose. “There is no purpose in debating things that will never be. Why don’t we hunt or explore?”
He couldn’t tell if this meant her outright refusal, and bit his lip to hold back angry demands. He’d always obtained everything he desired. Seldom was he forced to wait for what he wanted, whether it be a pomegranate, a well-crafted spear, or a virgin. When had he ever bothered to speak so many flowered words to a woman? And why did he offer marriage? She was right; it would mean war, not only between Mycenae and Tiryns but Mycenae and Crete. He’d declared his willingness to fight for her, but was he willing to see thousands killed for the sake of this unreasonable lust?
Litter-bearers carried them back to the palace. She went off to exchange her blue gown for a sturdier tunic while Chrysaleon wandered the terraces on the hillside and stretched his leg, which had stiffened from sitting beneath the tree. He saw Menoetius and Selene below, walking along a low rock wall. Selene laughed. Menoetius bent and kissed her.
Aridela reappeared, clad in muted brown and a plain leather belt. She carried two bows but warned him that the hills around Phaistos didn’t offer much game, as the farmers did their best to keep animals away from the crops.
“My friend is taken with your guard.” She nodded toward the unaware couple. “She called his lovemaking a pleasure beyond belief, and blushed as though he was her first.”
Even as Chrysaleon gave a skeptical snort, he was struck by a transient expression on Aridela’s face. Sadness? Nostalgia? He saw again in memory how Menoetius had reddened when the boy, Isandros, revealed that the bastard and Aridela knew each other.
“Perhaps she was dreaming or drunk,” he said. “He spares little
time for women in Mycenae.”
Aridela dismissed her attendants in a tone that brooked no argument, something she had been specifically forbidden from doing by both her mother and the oracle, Themiste. His hopes leaped. She’d put him off so far, citing his wounds and all those who watched them so carefully. Perhaps she’d finally realized he was perfectly capable of making love to her.
In answer to their timid protests, she said she was taking Chrysaleon for a short walk along the road, pointed where she meant, and promised they would remain in sight. They reluctantly agreed. Wasting no time, she led him south along the well-worn road. At first they passed fishermen, women carrying baskets of laundry, litters and oxen, but the farther they walked, the fewer people they encountered. Eventually, trees and rolling hills hid them from the palace altogether.
Chrysaleon’s hopes crept upward again.
“Tell me about the first time you met Menoetius,” he said. The request stuck in his throat like bad cheese; he hated the idea of his brother sharing secrets with this woman, no matter how innocent the circumstances. He needed Aridela’s side of things.
“He didn’t tell you?” Aridela’s gaze turned up to his and he was freshly astonished at her eyes, which seemed to consume half her face. They’d never held a hint of trickery or deceit. He wanted badly to rip off that tunic, to feel her beneath him, and he suspected she’d arranged this walk so he could, but it would wait for the right moment. Then he would have her, again and again, and forge her to him as a sword blade forged to its hilt, leaving no room for Menoetius, Lycus, or any other man.
“No,” he said. Now that they were out of sight of the palace, he clasped her hand. “I learned of it the day of the Games, from your brother.”
The Year-god's Daughter (The Child of the Erinyes) Page 37