Selene held Xanthe up to watch. The baby took it all in, seeming to laugh with her entire body.
“Do you see them?” A nearby woman, who had managed to retain a double chin and layers of fat through these bad times, gestured toward a group of Mycenaeans. “They’re everywhere these days.”
The men swaggered like conquerors, elbowing through the press of locals. Bearded and tall, they stood out among the small-framed, elegant natives. Selene frowned as she studied Chrysaleon’s brash countrymen. A royal upbringing may have smoothed his edges, but underneath he was like these men, arrogant and barbaric, itching to fight, to steal, to overpower. To take what he didn’t deserve by whatever means necessary.
“My sister is priestess at the palace shrine,” the woman said. “She told me she caught three of them sacrificing to Poseidon in there— right at the foot of the Lady’s statue. And they were drunk.”
One glance told Selene the woman was serious. Xanthe whined in protest at her angry mother’s tightened grip. “In the public shrine?” she asked.
“Oh yes. They wouldn’t know how to find the other one. She said she surprised them, and one of them pulled a knife on her. She got out of there in a hurry and hid in the maze. They stumbled around looking for her then gave up and returned to the courtyard.”
“Themiste should be told.”
“One of them wooed my niece awhile back,” the woman said with a sneer. “She wanted to imitate the queen, I suppose. He carried her off to the mainland. Now she sends word that he’s seldom home, rarely comes to her bed, and when he’s drunk, beats her. Why must the young be so foolish?” She added a disgusted “bah,” and stalked away.
Newly arrived clerks from Mycenae swarmed over Labyrinthos with their tablets, noting everything, making endless lists. After the harvest, these would be used to set up a first-ever tax collection. Chrysaleon had convinced the council it was necessary to help Kaphtor recover the greatness it enjoyed before the earthshaking, drowning ash, the Butcher, the loss of olive and grain stores and the theft of treasure. In the old days, farmers gave freely in support of their neighbors and country. Trade thrived; everyone benefited. Now their crops would be summarily taken, leaving them with little on which to survive.
Mild weather continued, bringing new growth and hope. Wildflowers bloomed. Saffron was picked. Heat wavered on the horizon. Next month would herald the start of winter and the olive harvest, but for now, Kaphtor enjoyed a welcome respite from the persistent frosts that had afflicted the island all summer. Many gave the dead hero, now almost exclusively known as Asterion, credit for this budding prosperity. To glorify him, a luminous blue-tinged beacon beneath the North Star was given his name.
For several days after the grapes were crushed, it seemed to Selene that she saw Mycenaeans everywhere. Wherever she walked, she heard Poseidon invoked, or this newer thunder-god the Mycenaeans called ‘Zeus.’ Some named him a spirit of the crops and claimed Kaphtor was his birthplace. Others said mainland warriors introduced him from the far north. Once she heard an absurd tale that claimed Velchanos and Zeus were one and the same. From what she could tell, worship of him was confined to a few villages at the foot of Mount Juktas. The Mycenaean farmers who had settled there must have brought the notion of him.
This was more evidence of the polluting influence of the barbarians, as even the smallest children knew that Mount Juktas had from the beginning times been dedicated to Athene’s lithe, beautiful son, Velchanos, who shared his name with no foreign god, and never would.
Strolling along the rocky cliffs near Amnisos, Selene was startled and angry to see Poseidon’s trident carved into a boulder outside Eleuthia’s cave.
The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as she ran her fingers over the scratching. Grabbing a handful of sand, she tried to scrub it away.
She stood, scowling at the boulder. The trident had been carved too deeply, and wouldn’t be erased. She turned her face to the heavens.
Lady of the labyrinth, of the moon, the mountains, the seas and wild beasts. Lady who gave us the olive and the secret of weaving. Chrysaleon steals Kaphtor from you. With guile and trickery, he overthrows us, exactly like Harpalycus, but for Chrysaleon, we make no protest.
Kaphtor was slowly disappearing into the maw of Argolis.
Suddenly cold, Selene rubbed at the shiver of goose bumps on her arms.
How well she remembered her pride in Helice’s youngest child. Aridela was called Shàrihéid, Daughter of the Calesienda— a divine gift given by Athene to mortals. Yet Aridela had sacrificed her closeness with Lady Potnia to appease her foreign lover from Mycenae. I am in my Mother’s hand, she used to say. Selene seldom heard Aridela refer to Goddess Athene anymore— usually only during formal ritual and ceremony.
He corrupted her. She no longer sees anything but what he places before her and wants her to see.
Buffeting winds from the north drew her gaze outward toward the isle of Callisti, lost to destruction so violent it had nearly obliterated Kaphtor as well.
She looked back at Knossos and the shining palace on the hill. Deep within Labyrinthos, the artist, Glauce, was busy covering the ancient paintings in the throne room with new artwork. The queen herself had ordered the change in celebration of her consort. When finished, strange, crouching gryphons would replace the awe-inspiring scenes of bulls. Chrysaleon had made the request, claiming he’d ridden on the back of one in his now-famed ‘death-dream.’
Even as she shivered, resolve flowed through her blood like a river of fire.
I hear you, Mistress. I will see Chrysaleon dead and his gods routed. To make the promise stronger, she slit her forearm and smeared the crude trident with her blood. I will not rest until all is as it was.
Slipping into the consort’s chamber while he and Alexiare were at supper with the queen, Selene opened cabinets, baskets and coffers— even lifted the covers and peered under the bed. What did she hope to find? He was too sly to leave evidence of his crimes about.
She drew up straight.
Alexiare. He would do anything for his barbarian king.
Though it grew late and she risked being discovered, she entered the small chamber next to Chrysaleon’s.
It was austere almost to barrenness. She would find nothing here. Hope fading, she opened the single olivewood chest and rummaged underneath the folded clothing.
Feeling the hard edges of a bronze coffer, she drew it out and opened the lid, inhaling the faintest scent of apples.
At the bottom of the box, beneath a jar of perfume, an ivory ring, and an old, frail cluster of pressed apple blossom, lay a craftsman’s saw, the kind a mason or joiner would use for fine, finishing detail.
Holding it up to the light revealed bits of wood stuck to the sharp grooves. A picture formed in her mind of the king-killer axe and the narrow cuts in the handle. A saw such as this would have completed that task perfectly.
“My lady…?”
The saw fell, clattering onto the tiles between them as she whirled. He’d managed to come in without making a sound, no doubt alerted and wary when he saw his open door, or heard her make some sound.
Alexiare looked from it to her. “Curiosity as well as beauty,” he said in his ruined voice.
She knew by the way he arranged his face into studied blankness that he was guilty. But Alexiare would never betray Chrysaleon, and a saw with bits of wood dust in the teeth proved nothing. She would have to trick him, force his hand. He must believe he and his lord were in imminent danger. “The father of my child should have lived as consort for his year,” she said coldly. “That is the Way. You stole it from him, from me, from Aridela, and from Athene. You and the coward, Chrysaleon. I will show Aridela what you’ve hidden. I will tell her what you did. You and your king will be declared traitors and finally, you will be put to death.”
“Forgive me, my lady. I don’t understand. What have I done?” He lifted his shoulders and pursed his lips in a fair imitation of puzzled innocence.
The more time she gave him, the less likely he was to give himself away. His mind was quite sharp.
“Aridela will see the evidence and decide,” she said. “I will show her the king-killer. I will show her how it was manipulated.”
He made a move toward the saw so she bent and picked it up. As she pushed past him, he seized her arm and from some fold or pocket in his tunic produced a dagger. Slaves weren’t allowed to possess weapons on Kaphtor. Apparently, this was another law Alexiare thought himself above.
“I cannot let you do that, my lady,” he said, almost gently.
Selene was taller, and looked down into his eyes with bitter contempt. “Then you must kill me too,” she said.
“How could you expect him to embrace such a death? He is a great king and must lead his people as his father did. He loves your queen and wanted to see his children born. Does that make him evil, or merely a man, like any other?” He shrugged. “Lady Athene accepts what we did. There was no punishment.”
She smiled.
His eyes widened then narrowed. Tightening his grip on the dagger, he raised it. She dropped the saw. With a shout, she threw herself against him, grabbing his wrist.
Each fought to gain control of the blade. Selene stumbled over a tripod, knocking both it and its bronze statue of Poseidon over. The statue in turn struck the lamp stand. It teetered and fell, sending oil-fed flames splashing across the floor. As she tried to recover her balance, Alexiare shoved her, and she hit her head against the corner of the chest.
It was a hard blow, sending her spinning into near unconsciousness. She fought to recover, blinking and taking deep breaths. The hand she put to her head came away wet with blood. She was oddly breathless and dizzy. Her muscles tingled as if she’d drunk too much wine. Even so, she had no doubt she would overpower him. He was an old man, constricted by a bad leg. He had no strength to speak of. She would try not to hurt him too much. That would be for the executioners.
Menoetius would be vindicated.
Alexiare threw himself on top of her, seeking to pin her arms, but she freed one and punched him in the mouth. His grip on the knife loosened and she took it from him.
She hesitated, reluctant to stab him. Taking advantage of her pause, he struck her breasts with both fists, bit her, and bashed her forehead with his own. As she reeled, unprepared for such a vicious attack, he hefted the statue of Poseidon from the floor and leveled it against her temple.
There was an instant of searing pain then she seemed to drift in and out of the room. She looked down from the ceiling, watching him straddle her. He was gasping, sweating, shaking, clearly at the end of his endurance.
“We’ve come too far to go back.” His broken, rusty voice returned her to her body.
The quick flash of the dagger blinded her. Numbness spread through her limbs. She wanted to throw her enemy off, but her strength had leached away. With the last of her will, she lifted one hand and placed it on the side of his face. “I curse you,” she whispered.
Heavy nets tumbled from the painted spirals on the ceiling. Behind Alexiare’s grizzled features she saw something. The pale outline of a woman’s serene face. With it came a vision of the future. Everything became clear— the reason Menoetius had to die. Aridela’s blindness. Chrysaleon’s plots. They were all part of a magnificent, complicated tapestry the Fates would weave over the next millennium— or longer.
Selene was given enough strength to speak one last time. “You and your master will wander,” she said as calm acceptance washed over her. “Glimpses of joy will be ripped from you. You will beg for death but death will refuse you. You will follow… and follow… without end.”
Alexiare’s face disappeared behind a thick inky cloud.
“Lady,” she asked. “Are you taking me?”
“I have come for you, Selene of Phrygia,” a melodious voice replied. The Goddess held out her ivory arms. “Your tasks are finished for now.”
Selene’s head dropped limply backward as Alexiare drew her to him. Burying his face against her throat, he wept and shuddered until burning oil threatened to set them both on fire.
He had to crawl his way up, holding onto a stool then using the wall to support his weakened body. Every bone made seething protest. He stared at Selene, astounded that he still lived while she lay dead. It was happenstance— mere unlucky fortune— that she’d struck her head so hard. If not for that, surely he would be the one soaked in blood, and she would be searching out Aridela to tell her the truth.
Things did not happen as they should have.
Panting, trembling from pain and exhaustion, he tamped out the fire with the wool cover from his bed. The palace remained quiet, wrapped in sleep. Chrysaleon must have joined the queen in her chamber.
Alexiare rolled Selene into the singed bedcover. But what to do next? He sat down heavily on the floor, weary beyond belief, defeated. Gradually his mind took over and formulated a plan, as it usually seemed to do. He heaved himself up and left the chamber, slipping through dark corridors to a set of storerooms, where he found what he wanted— ropes and an assortment of leather sacks, commonly used to make mead.
Selene was tall. He took the biggest sack in the storeroom, but still couldn’t stuff her completely into it. Using sturdy rope, he tied the bag around her neck, leaving her head exposed, and fashioned the rest into a crude yoke. He staggered through the deserted corridors, dragging the sack to the north entrance. There he waited in the shadows a long while for the sentry to leave his post.
He struggled through the warm, scented night. Many times he stopped to catch his breath. His heart pounded like a smithy hammer then skipped erratically as though struggling to find its proper rhythm. He felt dizzy, nauseated, and wondered more than once if villagers would find their bodies, side by side, at sunrise. The rope scoured his bony shoulders until they were raw and bleeding.
At last he and his burden reached a steep, isolated spot on the northern cliffs. There was no moon, not even a sliver. Alexiare listened to the sea wash against the shore below. He sat next to Selene, giving his heart time to slow, his breathing a chance to calm. When he felt strong enough, he collected stones, packed them in the bag around her body, and retied the sack at her neck with the rope.
He lifted her heavy flaxen hair in his hands. He buried his face in it, smelling its fragrance, feeling its softness. His mind brought forth images of the baby who now had no mother or father.
As the eastern horizon lightened to rich cobalt, he rose again. “I salute you,” he said. “You are a great lady and the queen’s true friend. I am sorry to have orphaned your child. We will miss you, Selene of Phrygia.”
He rolled her over the edge.
He waited at the precipice until the rising sun offered enough light to search the shoreline. There was no sign of the sack. “I will never tell Chrysaleon of this,” he said aloud, and turned away.
Themiste’s pains began late, after a long supper made longer by an eager traveling bard.
Aridela woke at a word from her maid and came to the oracle’s side in a sleeping tunic, her hair hastily pulled back.
“Darling Minos,” she said, clasping Themiste’s hands. “Soon our child will be with us. And it’s nearly the full moon. A good omen.”
“I’ve assisted women in labor, but I never realized how….” Themiste grimaced. “Sharp the pain can be.”
Aridela wiped her friend’s forehead with a cool wet cloth. “It’s hot in here.” She glanced at the other women who waited nearby, ready to help when needed. A brisk fire burned in the hearth, plus several stands held flaming lamps. Outside, it was a typical winter’s night, cold and raining, but any hint of chill, along with fresh air, had been chased out of Themiste’s birth chamber.
Neoma entered, yawning, also in her sleeping gown. She held Selene’s five-month-old daughter.
“Here is Xanthe, wanting to greet her new sister.” Aridela held out her arms to cuddle the baby. The child gurgled, kicked, and grasped Aridela�
�s nose.
It was easy to see Selene in the baby’s face, and hard to look at her without thinking of her mother.
Aridela had never voiced her secret fear in the months since Selene vanished. Had she abandoned Kaphtor because of Menoetius’s death? Had she gone because Aridela refused to believe their accusations against Chrysaleon? Would Selene leave this child, her lover’s only offspring? Aridela couldn’t believe it, yet those who searched for over a month never discovered any substantial clues to explain the sudden disappearance of the Phrygian warrior.
Chrysaleon had reminded Aridela of Selene’s singular hatred toward him. He was convinced she’d decided to return to her homeland and join the moon cult that allowed no men.
Aridela remained unsure. She and Selene were closer than sisters, as close, truly, as lovers. If Selene meant to leave Kaphtor, she would tell her best friend goodbye, and she would take Xanthe with her. Selene had never run from anything. But months passed, Aridela continued to wonder, and Selene’s confession played through her mind.
I never knew such love for a man could steal into my heart without my consent, and burn it forever to his.
Themiste broke into Aridela’s thoughts by asking for a sip of water.
“Only a little while longer.” Aridela handed Xanthe to a nurse. “My mother used to say that when a babe is born, all memory of pain vanishes into joy as radiant as the sun.”
Neoma settled on a stool next to Aridela’s.
Aridela held both her friends’ hands. “Let’s make certain these children are always together, like us. If I conceive, we could have three daughters, who will be lifelong comrades— that is my vision, my dream. I only wish Selene could share it.”
“Yes,” Themiste said.
“Xanthe has a look that reminds me of her father.” Neoma gave a conciliatory sign against evil. “It’s these long lashes over blue eyes. I remember his eyes from before he was mauled. His child offers memories of better days.”
In the Moon of Asterion Page 21