Picking up on the muttering around him, Menoetius realized he was staring at Queen Helice herself, and one of her daughters.
Bards described Helice as a fierce bare-breasted giantess who, in her youth, entered into battle alongside her warriors and slaughtered her share of Crete’s foes.
His slave chuckled at such stories; he didn’t deny or support them. Looking at her, Menoetius understood why. Helice was no giantess. She possessed the small, fragile bone structure of pure Cretan blood, smooth olive skin and almond-shaped eyes. Her black hair, greying at the temples, fell in loose ringlets but for an intricate knot wound over the crown of her head, proclaiming her special sanctity and connection to Goddess Athene. Gold chains twined with the curls and fell across her forehead to her brows. Wrought serpents with eyes of lapis lazuli wove around her upper arms. A belt, crusted with gems, cinched her waist and accented a tight, embroidered open-faced bodice framing breasts tipped with rouge. She bore a striking resemblance to the ornamental statues of Athene he’d seen being churned out in the Knossos workshops. Surely this woman was too delicate to have ever lifted sword or spear.
He almost forgot the present crisis as stories and claims leaped one over the next. Here stood a leader, a female at that, whose naval fleet kept the entire arrogant gaggle of war-hungry Kindred Kings skulking on the mainland like punished children. Spots danced through his vision. For a moment, in his awe, he’d stopped breathing.
Then he realized the gored princess must be Queen Helice’s other daughter.
A couple of boys stood nearby, excitedly chattering. Their dress, the typical loincloth and belt, suggested they were Cretan. Menoetius moved as close as he dared behind them and listened, trying his best to follow the language.
“How did she get past the guards?” one asked as he flung his long, oiled hair behind his shoulders, giving rise to a strong musky scent.
The other shrugged.
Laughing, the older boy said, “If it turns out her brother sneaked her in, the queen will let us all watch his balls get sliced off.”
Several women shoved past Menoetius and between the boys. One shouted, “Was she trampled?”
Her companion said, “I couldn’t tell through the dust.”
None of them seemed to notice they’d knocked down the younger boy. Menoetius helped him to his feet, brushing dirt off his shoulders and offering sympathy on his scraped knee as the boy screamed curses.
Menoetius gave a polite bow and asked, “Did you see what happened?”
Instantly distracted, the boys scuffled and bawled over each other, each trying to show off superior knowledge. “We were there,” the older boy said. “The queen’s daughter—”
“Aridela—” The younger boy’s eyes gleamed.
“Was gored,” the elder finished.
“How old is she?” Menoetius asked.
“Ten,” said the younger. “Same as me. I could go in if I wanted.”
“No you couldn’t.” The older one cuffed his companion on the head.
Before he could ask if it was customary to send such young children into their bullring, a woman waded through the crowd and grabbed both boys by the arms. She glanced at Menoetius as she yelled at them for not staying by her side and hauled them toward the city.
Menoetius worked his way closer to the front. He knew something of dressing wounds. Maybe he could help.
He paused beside a woman of about thirty or so, who was crying miserably. Menoetius couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. “Do you know the child?” he asked.
She swiped her hands across her cheeks. “All her life,” she said, her voice catching. “If she dies, everything will change. Everything.”
“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say.
The man holding the bowl of bloody cloths knelt to accept another. There was a frightening amount of blood in that bowl.
“I might be able to help.” Menoetius started forward.
The woman seized his wrist with surprising strength. “Who are you?”
“No one. I— I’m not from here.”
“Those guards will skewer you if you take another step. That’s the royal healer tending her. If she cannot save the princess, no one can.”
Menoetius gave a reluctant nod and remained where he was.
Two warriors dragged a youth before the queen. His wrists were bound behind his back and dirty tearstains marred his face.
The queen gave the boy such a merciless stare that Menoetius took an involuntary step backward, accidentally trodding on another man’s toes.
“Lock him in the labyrinth,” she said, her voice ringing, for all stopped speaking; even the birds fell silent.
The guards prevented the boy from prostrating himself before her. He cried, “I thought she would be protected, my lady,” but the queen waved and the guards hauled him away.
Menoetius knew little of what happened, but he pitied the boy. It no longer seemed surprising to hear this queen described as a “terrifying giantess.”
“Who was that?” he asked.
“The princess’s brother.” Her brows lowered in a puzzled frown. “He must have got her into the ring. Those two are always getting into mischief.”
Menoetius’s time on Crete had proved exotic and enticing. Yet an underlying hint of unease nagged his senses. He shivered at a strange sensation, like someone was breathing against the back of his neck. Faint queasiness rippled and his armpits broke into a sweat.
“You look pale.” The woman frowned at him. “The heat makes many foreigners ill.”
Menoetius’s mouth was too dry to answer. He felt a confusing need to honor this queen and her accomplishments. An overpowering desire grew within him to kneel before her, to win her approval.
The woman in amber robes stood and beckoned to the litter-bearers. They lifted their burden and followed her up the inclined lane and out of sight, into the palace precincts. Queen Helice, seizing her daughter’s hand, hurried after.
Word flowed over the crowd that the child lived— the bleeding was under control.
Menoetius exchanged a smile with the lady beside him. Her face infused with new hope, she went off; Menoetius watched her enter the palace behind the others.
His gaze lifted to the imposing bull’s horns above the entryway. Drifting wisps of high clouds made them appear to soar, like prows of ships running before sturdy breezes.
Layers of ancient, changeless custom formed Crete and its outposts. The fragile outer crust, first to be seen, dry and crumbly from exposure, excited the senses with luxury and pleasure. Deeper, beneath the shell of wealth and goodwill, something elusive, moist, and old pricked at Menoetius’s instincts.
He glanced up, shivering. Perhaps a storm approached. But the sky remained still and hot. The sparse clouds dissipated.
Closing his eyes, he touched his fingertips to his forehead in homage. “Peace be with thee, Mother Athene,” he whispered in Cretan. “Peace.” Long had he yearned to see this place, the elixir of his inner world. Yet, as he stood before the famed palace, Menoetius struggled with a rush of unexpected disquiet, almost fear.
He thought of other tales he’d heard.
It was hinted that on Crete, there was one blade that opened the veins of neither beast nor damsel. It was reserved for the holiest sacrifice.
He shivered again as his mind formed the words.
This land drinks the blood of kings.
Chapter Three: Moon of Field Poppies
Pain bit like the fangs of a serpent. Aridela remembered the bull’s horn lifting her then flinging her to the ground. She remembered the hot breath and growling snort as the bull stood over her, the stomp of hooves close to her head.
I am Aridela, beloved of Athene. She won’t let me die.
She’d once watched a boy perish after being gored in the stomach. Though poppy made him senseless, his screams had reverberated through the labyrinth. Blood and fluids gushed from his mouth.
She might now suffer that sa
me agony. Isandros, too, might die. She pictured her handsome half brother, his curled hair with its black sheen, his tough, scarred torso— old wounds from bull dancing, which he showed off by oiling his skin. He was only fourteen, but that would mean nothing if Aridela died. Grief would make the queen lash out at anyone who helped her daughter get near enough to a bull to be injured.
Aridela had a vague memory of shouts. Bring me Isandros. People had scurried to obey. Her head ached as she tried to determine how long ago that had happened. Time was as hazy as her reasoning for entering the ring.
Hands touched her stomach where thick cloth and smelly unguents covered the wound. She opened her eyes.
The healer again. Rhené.
“Don’t let me die.”
Rhené met her gaze, eyes dark and solemn, lips tight. “Pray to the Lady of the Wild Things. Tell her you meant no sacrilege.”
Aridela wanted to scream. I did it to honor her. She knows that. But Rhené held a cup to her lips.
“Drink. If the Goddess allows, I’ll keep you with us many years.”
Aridela sipped. Poppy juice. It tasted strong, more poppy than barley. If she drank, she would fall asleep. More time would melt away. It might be too late for Isandros when next she woke.
If she woke.
She would do something. He couldn’t lose his life because of her.
* * * *
Menoetius crept to the door, careful to make no sound. His slave snored, unaware that his young charge was slipping out from under his watch a second time.
With one last glance, Menoetius closed the door and left the villa. He assuaged guilt by asking a manservant who was sweeping the courtyard to reassure the slave when he woke.
Again he made his way toward the city. This time, his intent was to find and enter the Lady’s famous shrine at Labyrinthos. He would offer Athene his devotion and his life, as he’d planned to do since the moment his father ordered him to come here.
Even in the shadowy hours before sunrise, he had no trouble following the road. He worked his way through Knossos, ignoring the few people he saw. Once at the palace, he ascended the incline between walls and pillars, and stepped into the central courtyard just as the eastern horizon began to reflect a pinkish haze.
“Who are you?” A squat, sleepy-sounding guard lowered the point of his spear but didn’t seem particularly disturbed.
“No one. I’ve come to pray.”
“You can pray in the city with everyone else.”
Menoetius held out his bribe: matched armbands fashioned of gold and studded with obsidian. A master’s work.
The guard’s eyes widened and studied him with more respect. “Just over there.” He pointed his spear with one hand and scooped up the bracelets with the other. “Be quick about it though. The priestesses will be going in soon, and they won’t take to a foreigner.”
“May Lady Athene give you many blessings.” Menoetius hurried across the flagstones to a dim set of steps leading down from a black, sepulchral doorway crowned with carved stone horns.
* * * *
Aridela clutched her stomach and moaned. “Leave me alone. You know I hate poppy.”
Rhené protested but eventually gave in, as most did to Aridela’s renowned stubbornness. She bowed and backed away from the bed. “If you need me, I’ll be just outside.”
The healer went into the next room, leaving the door ajar. Aridela threw off the fine purple sheet some diplomat or trader had given her, and tried to sit up.
Speckled lightheadedness made the chamber spin. Her ears rang; she gagged, but, gritting her teeth, she swallowed, knowing the slightest sound would alert Rhené.
Pain burned under the thick pad around her middle, a consuming blaze that made her want to gasp, fall back, curl into a ball.
She must get to the shrine, make offerings, and beg for intervention. Weakness, pain— such things could be overcome with enough will.
Aridela pushed off the bed with both hands. It was the first time since the goring she’d risen without assistance. She wasn’t sure what would happen, but years of training in fighting skills and endurance leant her a warrior’s determination.
I will walk or I will die.
She took a step. Another. She reached the door leading into the corridor.
Odd, that her nurse was gone. Usually she slept on the pallet at the end of the bed. Goddess Athene must have arranged it. The Lady wanted Aridela to extend her mind and body, to triumph over weakness. If Aridela succeeded in reaching the shrine, Isandros would doubtless receive mercy.
Most of the ceiling lamps in the corridor had gone out. It was very early in the morning.
Aridela loved to run. The queen said her youngest daughter carried a cauldron of fire in her belly that kept her at a simmering boil. It felt unfamiliar to press one hand against the wall and the other to the gash, take one slow step, pause, draw breath, and take another. The stairs proved a nearly impossible ordeal. By the time she reached the courtyard, sweat was pouring off her. Every breath made the wound pulse and scorch.
Dawn shot the sky with arrows of pink and lavender, throwing the palace walls into silhouette. Strands of amber and honey brushed the upper stories and highlighted the seven pairs of horns adorning the west roof above the shrine. Puffy clouds in the north glowed green and violet, like a cluster of forest flowers. Only moments remained before enough light penetrated the courtyard to give her away to some early-rising servant or guard.
For an instant, everything disappeared into spinning blackness. She was losing consciousness. Torturous pain seared. Her legs wobbled. She clasped a pillar and willed herself to seize control.
She would make it to the far side.
* * * *
Menoetius stared at Athene’s smooth wooden face. He knelt, pulled a dagger from his belt, and laid it on the ground, resting his forehead on one knee. Unshed tears stung his eyes as the full import of where he was, at last, flooded him. Deep within, the hum of fortune vibrated.
I kneel in Goddess Athene’s holy shrine.
His very flesh felt her presence. He tried to speak but couldn’t without swallowing several times.
“Instruct me, Mother.” He peered up at the dispassionate face, carved from tender cypress. “I beg thee.” Torchlight flickered, creating the illusion of a smile.
A dance of light and shadow made it seem those pale arms were extending toward him.
He blinked, half-believing the statue would vanish and he would wake from a dream.
* * * *
Aridela locked her gaze upon the west side of the courtyard. Leaving the support of the walls, she limped into the open, counting on the Lady making her invisible. She pressed both hands against the bandages, but she knew, from the wet, sticky feel of things, that her wound had broken open.
One more step. One more. One more.
At last she arrived at the shrine entrance and grabbed the nearest support pillar. Leaping spots of color half-blinded her; her ears buzzed. Blood drenched her palms. She held onto the pillar as though it could impart some of its impassive strength, but part of her knew she might be beyond saving.
Gritting her teeth, she descended into darkness, setting her gaze on the back wall where she could just make out niches filled with votive offerings. She inhaled the scent of musky incense, of honey, of damp clay. These smells, for her, were the essence of the Goddess, she whose oldest name, from the homeland, was translated as ‘I have come from myself.’
It is but a few more steps. Give me strength, Mother.
Aridela stumbled to the far end. Using the wall as support, she turned to the right.
Past the looming sacrificial pillar, black at its base with dried blood, stood the Goddess image. Twin torches angled outward, ember-bright as always. Wall niches held glowing lamps and offerings. Baskets, bowls of honey, tiny clay statues, and a child’s toy fashioned of straw lay at her feet.
“I follow thy will,” Aridela said.
The light flickered as though
moved by breath.
Aridela felt the purity of success like cool water on her tongue. Her mind ascended into ecstasy. She saw Athene’s head move as she came into the chamber. Divine dark eyes gazed straight at her. Carved arms lifted in welcome.
Though she tried to be quiet, Aridela couldn’t help the harsh gasp that underlay her breathing. The gore-wound throbbed and her limbs quivered.
“Lady.” She dropped to her knees. “I beg thee for the life of my brother. Isandros meant no harm. Punish me, Potnia. Spare him.”
She swayed as consciousness wavered. No matter. She hadn’t yet made an offering, but knew she’d achieved her goal. Isandros would receive mercy.
Yet she didn’t collide with the earth. Arms encased her. Warm breath touched her cheek, and she rested her head against a sturdy shoulder. Goddess Athene held her securely.
The embers atop the torches flared into wild, undulating flame. Doves, in their ivory cages along the east wall, set up a cacophony of mournful cries. The sound of beating wings filled the air like restless flurries of wind.
She didn’t know what disturbed them or caused the torchlight to waver. Somehow, though she tottered on the edge of awareness and everything seemed dreamlike, she sensed a difference in the way the air felt and smelled— alive, as though at any second it would explode into visible color like the fireballs she sometimes saw floating in the sea. She shivered. Her scalp prickled.
Thunder caused the clay bowls to rattle on their shelves.
A gentle caress stroked back her hair. Her legs were lifted. She was held like a baby against the Goddess’s strong, loving body.
The Year-god's Daughter: A Saga of Ancient Greece (The Child of the Erinyes Book 1) Page 2