The Year-god's Daughter: A Saga of Ancient Greece (The Child of the Erinyes Book 1)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “Until the rise of Iakchos.”

  Chrysaleon sneered. “With the throne secured, it would be an easy matter to halt that custom.”

  “How many dead men have believed that?” Menoetius pointed. “What have we here?”

  Three ships moved toward them from the direction of the land ahead. Chrysaleon felt a twinge of concern before he remembered. “Relax. Father told me no vessel enters Queen Helice’s seas without an escort. But how do they always know?”

  “It was the same six years ago,” Menoetius said. “They may seem lazy and overconfident, but here is proof they aren’t. Even the god-like Pharaoh holds Helice in high esteem. They visit each other and exchange wondrous gifts.”

  Leaning against the rail, Chrysaleon said, “Their ships are large and heavy, yet look how they skim the water.”

  “The Cretans cannot be defeated at sea.” Menoetius kept his voice low, though chances were slim any of these sailors could understand them. “They have more ships than we could build in two years, and they know how to use them.”

  “There are weaknesses.” Chrysaleon drew in a deep breath of moist salt air. “We’ll not go home and tell our father we’ve failed. Harpalycus won’t win.”

  Chrysaleon studied the man standing in the prow of the foremost approaching ship. He must be the captain. Possessing an arrogant demeanor, he was flanked by two lines of warriors armed with bows and round shields. He was naked but for a sky-blue loincloth, the front long, tapered, sporting a dangling scarlet tassel. Armbands gleamed against his dark skin and his hair hung well over his shoulders in perfectly crimped ringlets.

  The three ships bound for Crete dropped their sails and the approaching ships drew alongside. The captain of Chrysaleon’s ship greeted the captain of the arriving ship with fist to forehead. There were good-natured shouts. The two captains held a short conference, punctuated with laughter.

  Chrysaleon observed the exchange as he accepted a cup of wine from a bowing attendant. “Iphiboë no doubt believes herself superior to those men who fight over her. They will call her Goddess-of-Life-in-Death as well as queen and priestess. Grand titles. But if the man who wins her in the Games this year comes from the Argolid, she’ll rank no higher than a slave.”

  “He would be a fool to ill-treat her,” Menoetius said sharply. “And he may even accept his fate. Crete has never lacked for heroes who embrace death in exchange for honor and glory. I’ve heard Lady Potnia beguiles them so they walk to their death holding the hand of their murderer.”

  “They suckle their fate in their mothers’ milk.” Chrysaleon’s snort was eloquent. “It’s in their blood. For us it’s different, especially now. The wolves gather. Helice shouldn’t relinquish her throne.”

  “She isn’t dead. She can take back that throne any time she wishes.”

  The captains said farewell. The escorting ships swung around and lifted their sails, displaying fierce black bulls’ heads with long, curved horns. The trio of ships from the mainland did the same, and soon all were again underway.

  “Helice’s daughters were beauties six years ago,” Menoetius said. “Iphiboë was slender as a willow, and it struck me that her little sister would blossom as well. Of course,” he added, in an odd suppressed tone, “time can bring unforeseen changes.”

  “They could look like lizards. It makes no difference. Crete is the prize. Our captain gave them due credit, of course. He said dewy-eyed Athene, who visits men’s dreams and plants the desire, had an easy task this time.”

  His words revived razor-edged memories of the dream— the taut-skinned woman pressing her warm breasts against him before lifting her dagger to steal his life. The image sparked foreboding even as it sent his cock twitching hungrily.

  * * * *

  The last time Chrysaleon visited Crete he’d scarcely reached as high as his father’s waist. He’d stared awestruck at the riotous crowds and activity that comprised the renowned northern port of Amnisos.

  Now he reared head and shoulders above the tallest Cretan male and stalked through the jostling throng with haughty disregard.

  He and Menoetius oversaw the unloading of their horses, chariots, and men before being taken in litters to their host’s villa on the Cretan coast. A Mycenaean merchant, this man was a trusted member of Boreas and the king’s confidant, a fact no one shared with Menoetius.

  After baths, refreshments, and pleasantries with their host, Chrysaleon and Menoetius armed themselves with flasks of wine and made their way to the marketplace.

  Plane trees shaded the square where throngs gathered every day. A voluptuous woman, carved in gypsum, stood above the central water fountain, pouring water from her ewer; clay pots, filled with jasmine, decorated every niche and the subtle scent of crushed thyme flavored the air. Famed Cretan hospitality soon found the two foreigners seated and included in the local gossip. It didn’t take long to determine that people in the marketplace at Amnisos loved to talk, and politics was a favored subject.

  The discussion turned to the upcoming festival and king-sacrifice. Having learned the language when he was small, Chrysaleon followed along well enough. He unplugged his flask and filled every container within his reach.

  “Iphiboë,” a nearby man shouted, raising his cup. “May she reign with as much wisdom as her blessed mother.”

  “Tell us about her.” Chrysaleon refilled the man’s cup, waving off his gratitude. “I’ve never seen Queen Helice’s daughter. Is she fair?”

  “Both daughters inherited their mother’s famed loveliness. Have you ever heard, friend, of the lightning that accompanied the birth of Princess Aridela, and the mark placed upon her?”

  “No.” Chrysaleon stifled a yawn. It sounded far too similar to the stories about the star that supposedly flew across the sky when he was born. No doubt kings and queens wove these fantastic tales to lend their royal children an air of mystical power, but couldn’t they invent something new? “What do you think it meant?”

  The man gulped more wine before answering. “Our people believe her specially favored. In fact, many think her the true offspring of Velchanos, son of the Goddess. She holds the title Shàrihéid, Daughter of the Calesienda. Someday, we believe she’ll save us from unimaginable calamity.”

  This local wine, even watered, was much stronger than any he’d ever tasted. Chrysaleon sipped sparingly. “What about the elder?” he asked. “What are her special gifts?”

  “She… is shy.”

  Chrysaleon and Menoetius exchanged a glance. Why did the man’s voice, so boisterous before, turn suddenly reserved? Before he could probe further, a blind old woman stepped up to the stone ledge on which they sat.

  “Our princess has gone away,” she said.

  Chrysaleon waited for someone to put her in her place with a kick or two, but no one did. He turned away, annoyed, but Menoetius asked, “Where has she gone?”

  The old woman squinted as though trying to see their features. “You are a foreigner?”

  “A warrior, yes,” Menoetius said. “From the plains of Argolis.”

  “There are others of your kind here.” She grimaced, revealing broken yellowed teeth. “You think to compete for her hand?” Her long fingers searched for, caught and scratched at Menoetius’s arm.

  “Not I, old woman,” Menoetius said, removing his arm from her reach. “A warrior is all I ever wish to be, not a bull-king.”

  “Many seek glory beyond their station,” she muttered. Louder, she said, “The princess has gone to the mountain of Ida to hunt.”

  “Crete has no hunters, that its princess must take on the chore?”

  “She wished to escape these men who fawn over her.” The old woman’s laugh made the hair on Chrysaleon’s neck rise. “They oil their skin and curry favor. They think it will serve them when their time comes.” Sneering, she added, “Their scents and bright armor will never sway the Goddess-of-Life-in-Death. They must battle each other in the old way if they wish to bed her and don the eternal robes of Zagre
us.”

  “I wonder which task will prove more pleasant?” Chrysaleon quipped.

  The old woman’s uneven laughter died away. Her sparse white eyebrows lowered. “Who is that?” she asked.

  Sending Chrysaleon a warning glance, Menoetius said, “Tell me, old woman. Is your princess as agreeable as I’ve heard?”

  “Yes,” she said, but her brows remained knotted. Her voice rose. “She’s no prize for barbarians, men who don’t honor the Lady. Her line is consecrated, extending backward to the beginning of all things.”

  Bored and impatient, Chrysaleon toyed with his wine and turned his attention to the goings-on around them. A curtained litter paused at the far edge of the market square. From within, delicate fingers parted the drapery and beckoned to a group of young men. A boy in a short tunic, eyes shadowed with kohl, black hair long and curled, leaned inside then withdrew, holding up a shining seal-bracelet. As the litter moved away he followed, sending a slant-eyed smile back at his friends while they whooped and made obscene noises. Chrysaleon grunted. Here boys played the same role as did many females in Mycenae.

  He stood and glanced at Menoetius. “Let’s go.”

  “You.” The old woman’s voice whined. “Who are you?” She extended dirty fingers.

  “Get away from me.” Chrysaleon struck her hand.

  “Gold-maned spawn of Poseidon.” The old woman, though her voice fell almost to a whisper, still attracted curious attention from every corner of the sunny marketplace.

  Chrysaleon frowned. His hair was still clubbed, and he’d covered it with a buckskin hunter’s cap. Besides that, the woman was blind. A milky film clouded her pupils, making her look as though she’d crawled from a grave.

  “Please, pity my grandmother.” A woman hurried forward and put her arm around the crone’s shoulder. “Her mind wanders these days, but in her youth she served at the mountain shrine with the oracle. She isn’t dangerous. Would you let her touch you, my lord? It would calm her, and she might tell your future.”

  It felt as though every eye in the hot open square was turned on them. Chrysaleon, with a disgusted snort, allowed the gnarled fingers to graze his cheek.

  “Lion killer….” The old woman’s sightless eyes stared past his. Her fingertips dropped to Chrysaleon’s arm and pinched like talons. “The wolf will distract you while the bull spirits away our treasure.” She jerked her hand from him, curling her fingers into a fist. “Beyond all men, living or dead, you are cursed.” Her filmy eyes squinted. “Are you such a fool, to wage war on she who cannot die? All will suffer for your conceit.” When she spoke again, her voice shook. “Sail home before you go too far. You still have a chance, though it’s as fine as a thread.”

  “What talk is this, of bulls, curses and wolves?” Chrysaleon scoffed. “Take your grandmother back to her cave before I cut out her tongue.”

  The crone’s granddaughter, giving Chrysaleon a fearful glance, put her arms around the old woman and spoke soothing words.

  “Time to go.” Menoetius perused the now quiet throng. His hand hovered a bit closer to his knife.

  “Stupid witch,” Chrysaleon growled as they shoved their way toward one of the side lanes. No one tried to stop them.

  They exited the marketplace and walked away. “She knew who you were,” Menoetius said.

  “She guessed,” Chrysaleon said.

  “‘Lion killer?’ That’s a good guess.”

  “You think she knew something?” Chrysaleon glared at Menoetius. “If so, what? What did she mean with her oracle-ramblings?”

  Menoetius shrugged.

  They continued along the crowded road toward Labyrinthos. From a distance they saw people streaming in and out of the palace precincts.

  “We should avoid that,” Menoetius said. “Someone else may recognize you.”

  “Why not go to Ida?” Chrysaleon grinned as he met Menoetius’s gaze, and gestured toward the immutable high mountain range that somehow dominated the horizon even though it appeared to float as insubstantial as a dream behind a bluish-green haze of wavering heat. “Perhaps there we’ll find quarry worthy of our arrows.”

  Chapter Ten: Moon of White Light

  “Hold, beauty.” Selene pulled the bowstring taut. The arrow flew with a soft hiss, stealing the ibex’s life before its horns struck the earth. A fine shot, one her mother might admire.

  “Well done.” Neoma ran into the clearing to lift the limp head. “It never knew we were here.” As the others joined her, she added, “Goddess blessed this hunt.” Giving Iphiboë a wide, innocent smile that didn’t fool anyone, she said, “Perhaps she means to bless you as well, like she nearly did Aridela a while back.”

  Aridela glared at her cousin. Her fists clenched. Iphiboë blushed and averted her face.

  Selene suppressed a sigh. Yesterday, Helice had paid a visit to her chamber. “You’ll go with the princesses tomorrow on their hunt?” the queen asked.

  “Of course,” Selene replied.

  The queen had moved to the balcony. Peering into the sky, she said quietly, “I want you to convince Iphiboë that leading Kaphtor isn’t something to be feared.” A lark landed on the rail, singing, but Helice seemed not to notice. “She looks up to you, Selene. You can make her see her future differently.”

  Selene squinted against the strong hot sunlight as she drew her dagger. How could she accomplish the queen’s request? Iphiboë’s timidity was strange and unreasonable. Two years ago, she’d announced she would accompany the other women to the annual fertility rites. Selene cringed as she recalled the occasion. It was Iphiboë’s fourth attempt since she’d come of age. Most young women were eager to join in the festival— once old enough and with the permission of their mothers, the rite ushered them into new status. Not only could they make their own choices of mating and giving birth, but they also earned the right to control their family property. Many left offerings of honey in Eleuthia’s Cave, hoping the Goddess, in her aspect of motherhood and childbirth, would make their wombs fruitful.

  True, most who attended the festival had lovers, sometimes husbands, whom they met beneath the oaks, but Iphiboë didn’t. As the day passed, the heir to Kaphtor’s crown grew more despondent. She cowered in her bedchamber, weeping at the thought of a strange man touching her in the most intimate of ways. She worked herself into such a state that finally she vomited. The healer declared her too ill to participate.

  Now, again, she had declared her intent to go into the grove and offer her girdle to the god. So adamant was she that a special night, seven days before the bull-king’s sacrifice, was chosen by Minos Themiste and the astrologers. After studying the portents and stars, they determined this particular phase a time of power and change if not exactly auspiciousness. All the fanfare was being arranged. Few believed Iphiboë would actually go through with her plan, but Helice wanted everyone to act as though they did. The queen never gave up hope.

  Selene wished Aridela could go along. She had a calming influence on her sister. It was too bad.

  In a light, casual voice, Selene asked, “Why do you blush, Iphiboë? Do you think of the joyous night when your new husband will slumber beside you, holding you in his arms?” Without waiting for an answer, she bent over the ibex and slit its throat.

  Neoma held a silver cup beneath the flow of blood. When it was half-filled, she extended it to Iphiboë. “Make the offering, cousin.”

  Iphiboë hunched her shoulders and crossed her arms over her chest. “You think I’m foolish,” she said. “You’re ashamed of me. No doubt Potnia wants nothing from me either.”

  Aridela seized the cup with an impatient sigh. “We give thanks, Lady. Thrice have you blessed our hunt.”

  The women touched their foreheads as Aridela poured the libation.

  Selene contemplated the younger princess.

  If only Aridela were the eldest.

  Such thoughts changed nothing, and might even offend Athene. Aridela was not heir to the crown. Iphiboë would rule Kaphtor.
Iphiboë, this shrinking, blushing girl. Goddess knew the beginning and the end. There was a reason for everything.

  Last summer, the king of Pylos visited Kaphtor with one of his sons. Theirs was a powerful kingdom on the northern mainland; those two men were awe-inspiring, tall and proud in their polished armor. Their faces were fierce, strange, too, with their impressive beards. Many a mother used tales of the war-hungry Achaeans to keep wayward children in line. It was said that killing, for them, was as easy as the act of love. The coldness in their eyes suggested this rumor held truth.

  Iphiboë hid in a large wooden coffer to avoid being presented. A maidservant found her huddled there. The ensuing uproar was terrible. Helice threatened her with a whipping and ordered her to attend the guests. The poor trembling child dropped the welcoming cup and spilled the wine. Selene hadn’t missed the expression of dismissive amusement on the prince’s face, which he masked when he saw the queen watching.

  Here in the cooler air on Mount Ida’s high slopes, mint and wild thyme flourished, saturating the air with scent. Pale sunlight wavered like new-pressed wine; Aridela’s white Egyptian hound rolled joyously on its back, biting at a fly.

  Selene closed her eyes. She pushed away the disturbing memory and struggled to imbue herself with confidence.

  The most accomplished tutors in the world had worked to prepare Helice’s royal children from the moment they uttered their first baby words. Aridela responded well to every challenge, yet Iphiboë grew ever more withdrawn.

  The menservants helped Selene skin the carcass. They wrapped the meat in green leaves and bundled it into the hide. The men set out for the palace with it and their earlier kills.

  “It’s getting hot,” Aridela said. “Remember that pool we passed in the forest? Let’s go for a swim.”

  Selene wiped her bloodstained hands on the grass. “We’ll find it if we follow this stream. But the water will be cold.”