“An image of Goddess Athene, giving the bull-king three golden apples.” Chrysaleon balled his fist around the ring. “The apples promise glory and eternal life in the orchards of Hesperia. It has always been the consort’s ring. Aridela gave it to me after the ceremonies— after someone removed it from the finger of the king I killed.”
Alexiare nodded.
Chrysaleon couldn’t stop gritting his teeth. His rage was almost too much to contain, making him feel he might burst. “Who wore it before him? Aridela would know. No doubt she knows the name of every male who has come to the throne in her lifetime. It would be wrong to forget, since they are such great heroes.” He looked at the polished balustrade, where dolphins leaped between crescent moons, and doves carried sprays of poppy in their beaks. He longed to splinter the wood with his fists, but it was oak, and he would probably break every bone in his hands.
“I suspect she has committed their names to memory.”
“She could recite them?”
Alexiare paused. “Here, as on Argolis, speaking a dead man’s name is tricky. Displays of grief might summon his angry spirit and cause mischief. Only after the required offerings are made, if there is no sign of trouble, only then is it considered safe to speak of a fallen king— and it must always be done with caution.”
Chrysaleon bandied the ring from one hand to the other for a few more breaths. His jaw clenched, released, and clenched again. Then he cursed and threw it. It sailed over the balustrade, flashing before it vanished among the cypresses.
“My lord,” Alexiare said, his voice grating, “your suspicion is clear. You are strangely eager to believe Queen Aridela betrayed you.”
“Menoetius’s face had an air of truth about it. You think he’s lying?”
“I think he is consumed by the fires of passion and guilt. He burns alive and seeks relief, as any man would in such pain. Can you blame him? She is young, beautiful, a queen, a born leader. She possesses qualities of courage and dedication that set her apart from ordinary women. Every man covets her. This is something you must accept.”
“Eloquent words, old man. And this passion. Was it born in the cave, when they believed me dead?”
“Do you want the truth? I believe it was born when she was a child, before he was mauled. Before she knew you.”
It was the last thing he wanted to hear. Jealousy vivisected his gut. “What of Harpalycus? Did she welcome his attentions too? A Mycenaean can kill a wife or daughter who has done what she’s done. I’ve tried to ignore it, though I feel the Kindred laughing at me. I wonder if she lied about him forcing her—”
Alexiare seized Chrysaleon’s arm, prompting an affronted stare of surprise. “I cannot believe you would say such a thing. No one hated Harpalycus more than Queen Aridela.”
Pointedly and none too gently removing his slave’s hand, Chrysaleon said, “In truth, I long to put this aside and go to her. My time is short. If our plans fail and the rise of Iakchos brings my death, who will take my place? With Menoetius condemned and me dead, it will be as if we never came here. We’ll be absorbed into Crete’s soil and forgotten. Mycenae will fall. My line will end. No doubt their goddess finds it all vastly amusing.”
“Sir.” Impatience, of a level Chrysaleon had never heard before, tinged Alexiare’s voice. “You must not die.” He stood, clenching his fists. “If you are truly convinced Queen Aridela betrayed you, your course is clear. Bring your armies. Invade and set up Mycenaean rule.”
“My course is no clearer than it ever was. She’s committed no crime. These women do as they please— as you well know, old Cretan. They lie with whomever they fancy and care not which one of their lovers plants the seed. They know who the mother is. That’s all that matters.”
“It is the way of the Lady,” Alexiare said. “But don’t forget— the queen ended the life of the first child in her womb.”
“She didn’t do that for me. It was for herself and her country.”
“The queen has sought in every way she can to recognize and honor your beliefs, though they’re foreign to her and her people.”
“Then why give herself to Menoetius?” Chrysaleon slammed his fists against the wood. “Is that her way of mourning, to find a new lover as swiftly as possible?”
“What if she told you the truth?” Alexiare spoke as strongly as his throat allowed. “I believe her. I don’t think you realize the depth of esteem and respect she’s given you. She didn’t have to. Moreover, I doubt Menoetius would have killed you today. All his life he has watched over you, defended you, though you may have blinded yourself to it. Remember when Idómeneus announced your betrothal to Princess Iros? You were so angry. Menoetius drew everyone’s attention, giving you a chance to calm yourself. Otherwise, there might have been bloodshed right there in the king’s hall. What about the times he’s allowed you to win at wrestling? Or the times he’s watched over you in battle? It has always been thus. Don’t pretend you didn’t know. Not with me, my lord.”
“You’re wrong,” Chrysaleon said. “All the loyalty of which you speak is gone. Burned away. You weren’t there. I looked into his eyes. He meant to kill me or see me condemned. He wants Aridela, and he believes if it weren’t for me, she would want him, too. That’s why he risked everything, even his life. You tell me, old man. Why would he believe that if there were no reason?”
With a lift of his bony shoulders, Alexiare conceded. “I wasn’t there, as you say. He was alone with the queen a long time. Perhaps it’s simply my foolish wish to believe the best of a young woman I admire.” He paused, pulling at his lower lip and staring meditatively. “Menoetius will be put to death for what he’s done. There is no more serious crime on Kaphtor than harming the sacred king out of his time. We’ll have to find a new cabal. We should look for a native, one smaller than you, perhaps, and less skilled in warfare, though I’m not sure how we can manipulate the choice now.”
Chrysaleon turned a furious squint on Alexiare. “I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone. If it comes back to me, I’ll know who to blame.”
Alexiare inclined his head.
Chrysaleon peered into his bedchamber to make sure they were alone. “That day Menoetius and I hunted lion. Remember?”
“Your brother’s face is a constant reminder, my lord.”
“He didn’t want to go. I pestered him until he agreed. This was when my father and he were at odds over his dedication to the Lady.”
“I recall it well.”
“I liked it when they fought. I kept hoping Father would banish Menoetius or have him killed.”
Alexiare said nothing, but looked suddenly wary.
“I have always hated the bastard my father forced me to live with.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I belittled his devotion that day. I thought if I could goad him, maybe get him to leave a bruise or two on me, it would be an easy matter to turn Father against him. But as usual, I failed. We came upon the lioness and her cubs. She was hiding them in a cave; we had her cornered. I yelled, I shot arrows, but she stayed out of sight. I told Menoetius to flush her out. He refused, and I called him a coward. He said I was spoiled, and that Mycenae would fall to ruin when I was king. He turned his back on me.”
Alexiare sat very still, expressionless but for blinking three times in quick succession.
“I pushed him, and he fell, close to the mouth of the cave. The lioness charged. You know what happened next.”
“Why has Menoetius never accused you of this, my lord?”
Chrysaleon laughed. “Surely you’ve heard the gods protect those they admire. Menoetius has never remembered what caused the attack. All these years he’s believed I saved his life, selflessly, with my little dagger.”
“Why did you?”
“Because just as I thought my troubles with him were over, two of my father’s slaves ran up the path, shouting. They’d been sent out to find us. I should have killed them too, but I hesitated. Then it was too late. When
I look back on it now, I curse myself for letting the chance go by. I could have killed all three of them and blamed it on that lioness.”
Alexiare frowned and glanced away, toward the trees.
“Do you understand me?” Chrysaleon leaned forward and grasped the neck of Alexiare’s tunic in his fist. “More than anything else, more than winning Crete, more than being High King, I want my brother dead. I want him to go to his death under the star Iakchos, knowing I sent him there. I want to breathe in the unraveled threads of his moera. When I take Aridela into my bed, I want to know that’s where he longed to be, fought to be, and I cheated him of it.”
Alexiare opened his mouth then closed it again, saying nothing.
“What is it, old man?” Chrysaleon asked. “Are you ashamed?”
“No, my lord. Never. I was thinking this must be why Menoetius was born. It’s his purpose to die for you here on Kaphtor. Because of that day he was mauled, Menoetius will always believe he owes you his life. He will never let you go to your death, not without giving everything to prevent it— of this I am certain, no matter what you say. His sense of loyalty will allow nothing less. Because he attacked you, the people see you as enemies now. They’ll be far less likely to believe in some trickery or plot when things don’t go as they should. If you can keep the council from slaughtering him, I will take care of the rest. We will turn Menoetius into the Lady’s Earth Bull, and Daphoenissa’s prophecy will be fulfilled. Oh, yes. I am ever amazed, my lord, at how destiny always falls into place, one way or another.”
Alexiare often visited the marketplaces of Knossos. He used the time away from the palace to ponder Chrysaleon’s situation, and how best to help. He liked gauging the mood of the people, and he loved listening to gossip.
When he first heard the rumors, he was intrigued. His mind began to chew on it. Ideas sparked, one after another, like dry brush ignited by lightning.
It seemed the queen’s attendants, those who wrestled Menoetius to the ground and dragged him from the apple grove, had become very popular in the city. They were asked, over and over, to describe the events of that fateful day. Could anyone blame these men for embellishing the truth? One of the more colorful stories making the rounds was that the Zagreus’s brother had lost control of his wits. He roared like a bull, they said, and attacked these men with his hands and teeth, using strength beyond anything they’d ever seen. They claimed he overpowered the guards and ran off into the labyrinth’s black depths. Even now, the attendants whispered, he was down there, slaughtering hapless victims, from rats to humans. Warriors were posted at every entrance to prevent his escape.
Such tales recalled Chrysaleon’s long habit of referring to his half brother as a ‘beast,’ in contemptuous reference to his scars and disfigurements.
It was a perfect foundation on which to build. Alexiare couldn’t suppress a delighted guffaw.
Seeking out a spot on a crumbled rock wall, he sat down and began his observation of the myriads of people, high and lowborn, as they congregated in the marketplace.
His gaze followed two middle-aged females loitering beside the spring-fed well. They gossiped and laughed with other women, showing no sign of haste or, for that matter, shyness.
They would fill his needs nicely.
He wandered over, bowed, and asked if they might provide him with a drink of water. One of them shrugged and gestured to her amphora. Both were sadly indifferent, returning their attention almost immediately to others in the marketplace. He thought back to the days when his appearance drew the lustful regard of females and males alike. Old age was a disheartening thing, when one still felt young inside.
He cleared his throat. “I’ve escaped the palace,” he said, leaning on his stick. “The king is angry, and when my lord is angry, he often becomes spiteful.” He gestured toward his throat. If they thought Chrysaleon had harmed him in a fit of ill humor, he didn’t mind. “It’s nice to come here and not have to worry about doing something that may call down his ire.”
They leveled skeptical stares upon him. Then the heavyset one, hampered by a large, sagging bosom that made his stomach curdle, perked up. “I remember you. Before the trouble with his brother. The consort and queen came through the city on their way to the harbor. You were with him in his litter.” She appeared quite proud of her recollection skills.
He smiled. “Yes, my lady. I have been with the king since he was born.”
She inclined her head, seemingly a bit flustered, as though he had suddenly gained importance merely by close association with royalty. Her companion, after a pause, also gave him a little bow. It was a pleasant feeling. His smile widened. The woman who had recognized him shook out her skirts and set her jug on the edge of the well. “How is the Zagreus?” she asked, dipping her ladle in the water and holding it out to him. “Broken, no doubt, by his brother’s cruel betrayal.”
“The Zagreus is far too strong a man to be broken by anything, my dear,” he said, nodding thanks as he cooled his throat. “But yes, the betrayal wounded him deeply. In truth, I worry more about his brother. For many years, the beast within has been kept at bay, suppressed with special elixirs, provided by no less than Goddess Hecate, who took pity on him. But when he ran away from the guards and into the labyrinth, these could no longer be administered, and they must be given every day to be effective.”
“Beast?” Her eyes veritably gleamed and she leaned closer, causing her coarse tunic to gap. Enough cleavage was displayed to make his gorge rise. He had to swallow sharply and avert his gaze. “What do you mean, ‘beast?’” she pressed.
“Yes, what are you saying?” the other woman asked.
“Oh, I shouldn’t,” he demurred, but peered around cautiously, bent in closer, and spoke softly. “You must not repeat a word of this. It would draw the king’s wrath upon you if you do, and upon me for having a loose tongue.”
The first woman licked her lips. “Of course, I understand.” The other nodded, a little uncertainly.
“Beneath Menoetius’s unremarkable exterior there lives a vicious beast.” Alexiare magnified his story by peering around them again before continuing. Almost whispering, he said, “His mother was not mortal. She was a magnificent black cow that drew King Idómeneus’s fancy. In his day, the High King quickened legions of wombs. His seed was so potent it could cause even beasts to bear offspring. Most of these unholy creatures died before birth, but not poor Menoetius. When the antidote isn’t given, he transforms into a half bull, half man. He becomes so ferocious no one is safe. In his beast-state, he has killed many unwary men, women and children, and, I hate to say, has feasted upon their flesh.”
Their eyes widened. They clasped each other’s hands. “A beast in truth,” the first woman said.
“Loose within the tunnels.” The other shivered. “Lady protect us!” Making the sign against evil, she asked, “What can be done?”
“Perhaps you should keep your children inside.” Alexiare patted the nearest woman’s hand. “Innocents often don’t recognize danger, and their curiosity will sometimes bring them to a tragic end. I suppose the queen will have to send a contingent of warriors down there to find and restrain him— perhaps even kill him.” Alexiare scooped another drink of water to soothe his inflamed throat, then peered at the looming walls of the palace. He didn’t want to go too far, just far enough to whet their imaginations. With a courteous bow, he said regretfully, “I ought to return before I’m missed. I don’t wish to be beaten. Please, my ladies, give me your solemn oath you’ll repeat none of what I’ve told you. I do feel badly for my lord, and for his poor, stricken brother.”
“We won’t,” the first woman breathed.
The second nodded. “Our Zagreus has endured so much.”
As hard as they tried to hide it, he recognized the impatient itch of desire that affected true gossipmongers. By tomorrow’s sunrise, all of Knossos would have heard the story of the Beast in the labyrinth.
Aridela’s eyes felt dry and gritty, he
r body weary and sluggish. Sleep eluded her but for short interludes wherein she suffered disjointed, oppressive nightmares. Her womb continued to clench, though Rhené covered her in dittany wraps, designed to quiet an unborn baby, and ordered her to remain in bed.
Days of forced inactivity sent her mind circling in endless ruminations. Anger, humiliation, and disillusionment toward Chrysaleon warred with guilt and bewilderment over Menoetius.
The announcement of Iros’s death— or murder, as Chrysaleon so indifferently put it, weighed upon her as well. She lay in bed watching morning fade into night, remembering for some reason the tiny snail she’d befriended while Harpalycus’s captive, a creature so small and fragile she had never been able to find it after the eunuch hit her and knocked it away. She thought of how Iros had been foisted upon Chrysaleon while pregnant with her brother’s child. Had she found Chrysaleon handsome? Had he ever whispered words of sweetness and ardency to her? The few instances Chrysaleon and Harpalycus had spoken of her left Aridela sensing she’d been used in some political ploy, and had no say or choice in the matter. Chrysaleon had dismissively offered to “send her back to her father” if Aridela would join him at Mycenae. Poor, fragile Iros. Aridela had no doubt the babe was dead as well, though Chrysaleon hadn’t told her so. What had Iros’s short life been like? Who had murdered her, and why?
Aridela couldn’t help remembering, uneasily, Chrysaleon’s rage at Lycomedes, Tiryns king, for foisting a pregnant daughter off on him.
Please, Mother, bring her joy in the shadowlands, Aridela prayed, to block out the nagging suspicion that Iros’s murderer may well have been Chrysaleon.
On the third day of her confinement, Aridela’s handmaid confided that something had happened to Menoetius. Repeatedly making the sign against evil, the maid described what she’d heard— that the Zagreus’s attacker was no longer mortal. That he’d become, through some horrifying divine curse, both man and bull. She claimed she’d heard his terrifying bellows herself, when she took her mother some barley cakes. They’d echoed through a weed-choked grate, one of the airways into the labyrinth, and almost stopped her heart. The pitiful girl actually shed tears as she shared even more gossip. Her lover, a guard posted at one of the entrances, had glimpsed this creature. He called it an abomination— a gigantic man with a bull’s head and enormous hooves where his hands should be. This Beast’s eyes were huge and bloodshot. His mouth dribbled foam and blood as he slavered and raged in incomprehensible delirium.
In the Moon of Asterion Page 11