In the Moon of Asterion (The Child of the Erinyes)

by Lochlann, Rebecca

  Overthrow Crete, when the people cheered him through every town and village, proclaimed him their greatest hero, gave him the finest of all they had left, and showered him with trust? Chrysaleon couldn’t rid himself of this obstruction in his throat. In the garden, in the aftermath of love on the day he’d sailed, Aridela confessed her council’s initial fears, their distrust of Mycenae. The shame she felt was clear as she apologized for their suspicion.

  He would end the king-sacrifice. He wanted the glory of it, and refused to die in such an ignoble fashion, nor could he lose Aridela. And he would never give up Mycenae. He would find another way.

  Taking the ring, he jammed it onto his middle finger and met his father’s gaze. “Don’t worry, Father. Be at peace. Know I will triumph over our enemies.”

  Idómeneus again motioned almost desperately. Alexiare nodded and asked everyone in the room to leave, including Gelanor and Bateia.

  When they were alone, Idómeneus beckoned. Chrysaleon bent closer, acknowledging the imminent, pitiful death he saw in the once-great ruler’s eyes.

  “The star.” Water flooded from Idómeneus’s eyes. “Menoetius.”

  Chrysaleon stared at his father helplessly.

  “King Idómeneus refers to the star that flew across the sky when you were born.” Alexiare kept his features expressionless.

  “What about it?”

  “Have you never heard that this star actually appeared during your brother’s birth, my lord, and by the time you were drawn forth, it had passed on?”

  “Yes.” Chrysaleon frowned.

  “That rumor is true, and some have not forgotten. The king’s royal guard, for instance. Menoetius is captain in more than name.” The slave’s injured voice deteriorated to a harsh whisper. He broke off in a spasm of coughing.

  Chrysaleon wasted no more than an instant on Alexiare’s struggle to speak. No doubt there were many who believed Menoetius, first-born, acknowledged by the High King, adored by the elite force he commanded, and additionally blessed by a mystical heavenly event, should be next in line for the crown of Mycenae, son of a slave woman notwithstanding.

  Idómeneus watched Chrysaleon work this out. “You,” he whispered. “My son.”

  Alexiare covered the king’s hand with his own. “You both love Menoetius,” he said, “but he is dangerous to you now. Your father regrets acknowledging him, raising him with you as though he were a prince. You must do whatever is necessary to make your claim to the throne unchallengeable, by Menoetius or anyone.”

  Chrysaleon’s breath froze even as odd relief flooded through him. He bowed his head in affirmation and obedience.

  “Proud.” Idómeneus’s translucent eyelids squeezed closed. His lip drew up and his breath caught, then he exhaled in a long, final wheeze.

  Chrysaleon kissed his father’s forehead as Alexiare opened the door. “Trust me, Father. I won’t fail you,” he whispered, as the women set up a mourning wail and tore at their faces.

  Our future lies before us, open, unhindered, like moist clay ready to be formed into whatever design we choose.

  Long ago, through trial and error, priestesses on the lost isle of Callisti discovered something miraculous. If they collected ash from the holy mountain and worked it into their gardens, it increased the fertility of the soil. Too much suffocates, but there is an amount which, if properly applied, acts like a hero’s blood. We of Kaphtor don’t know the secrets those women had years to perfect, but if we want to survive, we must learn, and quickly, for our crops still languish, half a year after the Destruction.

  Our farmers predict nothing will ever grow again on the eastern half of our island, but the central plains and western precincts were not so damaged. Every able-bodied man, woman and child is eager to work the soil and plant the new seed brought by our mainland saviors.

  I record with gratitude that some of our ancient olive trees withstood the cataclysm of earth and sea. We haven’t yet determined how many. Without this small mercy, Kaphtor would quickly fall into decline and eventual oblivion. Many did die, though. Our Egyptian comrades bemoan the loss of the oil they crave. We graft what remains, dig new trenches, hoe, and add dung, as Lady Athene taught us when the world began. In our valleys and on our mountain slopes, we clear away dead grapevines and prune those that still live.

  Rebuilding continues as well. Laborers sweep up ash and haul it away to be covered over in pits. With prizes of pottery, weaving, and crowns of grapevines, we give the work a celebratory air.

  We’ve coaxed a few shipmasters from other countries to Kaphtor. Along with those of ours who survived, they oversee the construction of new vessels. From morning to night, one hears the crack of whips as woodcutters drive oxen from the forests, carrying supplies of lumber to the coasts.

  My old chambers in the labyrinth are slowly being unearthed. Every recovered tablet brings relief and joy, but so far, only shreds of the papyrus prophecies have been found. These are forever lost if I fail in my task to rewrite them from memory.

  Night brings dreams of Callisti and the malignant rage inside Alcmene, its once-lovely mountain. I don’t know who named this peak ‘Wrath of the Moon,’ but I suspect it was an oracle, acting in obedience to a vision of terrible foreshadowing.

  Chrysaleon had been gone half a month, yet Aridela still reached for him in their bed at night and longed for his company by day.

  Not surprisingly, when she contemplated what he might be doing, her thoughts often turned to Iros, his Mycenaean wife.

  Harpalycus’s devoted slave and lackey, Proitos, had described her as a “mere girl,” but Harpalycus had declared she was carrying his child when given to Chrysaleon as a prize designed to strengthen ties between Mycenae and Tiryns. Iros must be very near to her lying-in by now. What would Chrysaleon do about the baby? Aridela had no illusions about Harpalycus’s offspring being raised as a royal Mycenaean heir. She could only hope Chrysaleon would have mercy enough to let the infant live. What would he tell Iros of his commitment to Kaphtor, and Kaphtor’s queen? What would her reaction be? Had she wanted to be her brother’s lover, or Chrysaleon’s wife?

  Aridela’s mind dredged up question after question about this faceless woman. She obsessed over what was to come, and how it would affect the girl who hadn’t seen her husband in nearly a year. She hoped Iros would not feel hurt or abandoned, but the twist of guilt in her stomach offered a more likely, unpleasant truth. She knew how she would feel if Chrysaleon informed her he loved another woman and was going away, never to return.

  She also struggled with persistent weariness. It was almost impossible to concentrate during the endless interludes trapped in stifling chambers, listening to her council drone on about restorations and rebuilding. All she wanted to do was sleep away the days until her consort returned.

  Rhené grew increasingly concerned about this lethargy, worried her patient might still be losing blood from some hidden place. She boosted the portions of boiled bone broth and raw meat, insisting Aridela consume them three times a day, and covered the stab wound with smelly pastes of barley and old wine, ground up pine cones, olive oil, and goat’s fat. Another requirement was that her charge spend a portion of every morning on the roof terrace, for Rhené was a great believer in fresh air and sunlight.

  The healer forbade any council member except Prince Kios from visiting Aridela while she was taking her morning rejuvenation. She was to rest, breathe, and give no thought to duties or political concerns. Kios was the only one of the council who could be trusted to follow Rhené’s wishes and bring up nothing stressful.

  Aridela generally fell asleep while a musician plucked his phorminx and Kios described cooking with his favorite spices and herbs.

  For longer than you can imagine, I will be with you, in you, of you. Nothing can ever part us.

  As always, the idolized oath brought a sense of completion to Aridela’s mind. She was no longer sure whether Chrysaleon spoke it or Menoetius, but that didn’t seem to matter. The two brothers o
ften merged in her dreams, taking on each other’s characteristics, making her long for one, then the other.

  I will have victory, Aridela, Menoetius whispered against her ear.

  Not even death can part us, promised Chrysaleon.

  I am the one with true power. I have defeated death, and will live forever. One day, all people, all civilizations, will worship me.

  This voice drowned out the voices of love. Harpalycus bent over her, his blue eyes cold as a shark’s.

  If you don’t quicken soon, I will hand you over to my men.

  Aridela woke, sweating, shuddering, her heart thudding like it meant to break through her ribs and burst from her chest. She gasped, trying to breathe though it felt as if she were being throttled.

  Ashes. That acrid smell of smoldering burned things. The smell of Harpalycus. It surrounded her and filled her mouth.

  Her eyes flew open. She shrieked.

  A man was bent over her. The smell of Harpalycus was everywhere.

  She struck out, flailing, clawing at him. He held her upper arms, forcing them down.

  One brow lifted as he grinned. There was that look she would never forget, of lust and cruelty, of pleasure drawn from pain.

  Again she shrieked. Her throat went raw from screaming.

  She fought in earnest, kicking, thrashing.

  He won’t take me again. I’ll die first.

  “My lady?” The man’s smirk vanished. “My lady, please!”

  This was not Harpalycus. The man was much older. His hair was gray and his eyes darkest brown, not blue. He was dressed humbly, in the coarse tunic of a slave or manservant. His face was smooth-shaven, in the manner of one of her people.

  She couldn’t stop gasping like a fish thrown onto the deck of a ship. She shrank from him, moaning. He released her, fell to his knees, and covered his head with his arms. “I beg your forgiveness, my lady,” he cried. “I was collecting your soup bowl and saw your blanket had fallen. I was putting it back over you.”

  She hardly heard his terrified babbling through the roar in her ears.

  “Aridela?” Themiste’s worried face swam into view. She pressed her hands to Aridela’s cheeks. “Are you ill? Shall I get Rhené?”

  Still Aridela couldn’t speak, couldn’t catch her breath. She tried to blink away the tears making everything so blurry.

  More faces appeared, the musician’s and the handmaid’s. Both were frightened.

  “Leave us.” Themiste’s curt order sent them all scurrying away, none with more alacrity than the slave, who rose, bowed, and fled, no doubt to the shrine, where he would pray for his life.

  The smell of smoldering ashes dissipated on the morning breeze.

  Themiste sat on the edge of Aridela’s couch and stroked her hair. “What happened?”

  Aridela’s throat felt scorched. She drank from the bowl the oracle held to her lips before she could manage a croaking, “Harpalycus. He was here.”

  “Harpalycus!” Themiste continued to smooth her hair and wipe tears from her cheeks with a corner of the blanket. “Well, it was only a dream then. Here, drink.”

  Aridela obediently sipped the barley brew, though it made her want to gag.

  “Do you remember now?” Themiste asked. “Harpalycus is dead. You killed him. We can go and look at his rotted head, if you like.”

  Aridela sat up and peered from side to side, half-expecting to see the chamber where Harpalycus had raped her, his soldiers who had looked on, and Lycus, also bound and forced to watch.

  But she lay on a comfortable divan, on the roof at Labyrinthos. The sky was blue, with puffs of innocent cloud. A mourning dove called from the rafters. Themiste’s presence was close and comforting. To further quiet her fears, Rhené hurried across the terrace toward them, no doubt alerted by one of those Themiste had sent away.

  “What happened?” the healer asked as she drew near.

  “She had a bad dream,” Themiste said. “She’s better now.”

  Themiste rose so Rhené could examine her charge. She peered into Aridela’s eyes and mouth and smelled her breath. Pulling off Aridela’s tunic, she felt the queen’s heartbeat then cupped her breasts. The healer’s eyes narrowed and her head slanted to one side.

  Aridela shivered, though the morning was pleasantly warm.

  Rhené had always been diligent and painstakingly exact. Her ability to discern the slightest changes in body or mood, no matter how small, was legendary.

  She leaned back, her brows lifting. “You are with child,” she announced.

  Themiste’s mouth opened. Her eyes widened then she laughed. “Ah, now it becomes clear,” she said.

  Aridela wasn’t so easily convinced. “How can this be?” Only a month had passed since Rhené had freed her of the last baby. She knew she wasn’t wholly recovered. Such unexpected news, on the heels of believing Harpalycus had returned from the shadowlands bent on persecution, made her head reel.

  “I’m not surprised,” Rhené said in her usual blunt, almost caustic way. “I know you disobeyed me and lay with the Zagreus before he left.”

  Aridela flushed. It was true. The very morning he sailed to Mycenae, in the barren garden. Their lovemaking had been violent and satisfying. Knowing they would be separated for far too many days, she had put Rhené’s instructions out of her mind. She’d told herself that joining with the Zagreus in the garden would instill it, and her, with fertility and new life. Perhaps it had.

  “Surely it’s too soon to tell.” Themiste took Aridela’s hand. “You could be wrong, and making her hopeful for nothing.”

  “I am not wrong,” Rhené said. “There are too many signs. She’s been throwing up. She’s always sleeping. She won’t even taste honey now, she who has always wanted honey on everything. Her breasts have changed. And now these nightmares. I recognize the signs her body gives us. That’s all.”

  The bad dream was forgotten as Aridela allowed herself to believe.

  She was with child. Chrysaleon’s child.

  Themiste laughed and hugged her. Even Rhené smiled.

  “I must send a messenger to Mycenae.” Aridela leaped from the couch, already composing in her head what she would write.

  Chrysaleon’s hand smoothed the empty space next to him on the bed. The slave girl satisfied his lust before he sent her away, but did nothing for the deeper ache that, these days, none but Aridela seemed equipped to ease.

  A ship from Crete had arrived, bringing him an unforeseen and stunning message. His queen’s womb had quickened.

  The announcement immediately sent his mind back to their tryst in the ruined gardens, since that was the only time it could have happened.

  If Rhené had witnessed what they’d done, drenched in the iridescent glow of dawn, made more ferocious by the knowledge they wouldn’t see each other for many days, she would no doubt have gelded him herself, then and there, as she’d strictly forbidden any relations until the queen fully healed.

  Chrysaleon was pleased and proud, and could easily picture Aridela’s happiness. But deep inside, a dark, shameful irritation reared, wearing the face of Harpalycus. His detested rival’s triumphant, laughing image managed to taint what should have been a joyous revelation.

  He thrust this niggling repugnance into a far corner and returned his thoughts to the pleasure of that last morning in the garden, but his frustration only increased. What was she doing while he lingered on at Mycenae? He wanted her now, warm and willing against him. He needed to bury himself inside her and eradicate the sickening knowledge that Harpalycus had taken her too. It annoyed him that she was so far away, that he couldn’t board a ship and go to her, or better yet, summon her to him, as a High King should.

  As he rolled onto his side he felt the thickened scar on his thigh, a permanent memento from the night he’d killed Crete’s sacred king and won the title for himself. He remembered the suffocating, tear-inducing smoke in the labyrinth, the way the youth tried to escape his fate, the gold apple rolling across the dirt.<
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  Who will slay me?

  In his mind, he saw Aridela holding her ivory-topped scepter, standing aloof and regal while the winner of the Games lifted the double axe to separate his head from his neck.

  Renewed fury heated his blood from carnal simmering to a resentful boil. Jumping out of bed, he threw open both doors leading to the terrace. Chilly night breezes caught one of the heavy oak and bronze-inlaid portals, slamming it against the wall with a reverberating thud.

  He walked out and set his fists against the balustrade. The moon, waning but still fat, sent milky light over the surrounding mountains. Cool breath from their summits lifted goose flesh on his arms. The Mycenaean plains had not escaped the chill that transformed Crete from a place of sultry heat into one of snow and ice. All the seasons everywhere seemed turned on end since the night of raining fire and ash.

  At least the seas were tranquil. His people called this the month of sailing, for the waters between the mainland and Crete traditionally became passable; Cretans called it the Moon of Flowering Apples, though now, for the first time, many feared their fragile apple trees might never bloom again.

  To him it meant that in four months, he would fulfill his avowed destiny under the white light of the star Iakchos.

  He returned to his chamber and stirred the hearth fire. No matter how furiously his thoughts circled, searching for a way to achieve his desires, he couldn’t unravel the knot that proclaimed the king of Kaphtor must die.

  A hesitant knock broke the silence.

  “Who is it?” He threw the bronze poker into the corner, where it landed with a sharp metallic rattle and skidded across the flagstones.

  Alexiare opened the door. He remained there, looking uncertain. “You’re restless tonight, my lord,” he said, his voice still hoarse from translating the dying Idómeneus’s wishes. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Go away,” Chrysaleon said impatiently, but as his slave turned, changed his mind. “No, wait. Sit with me, old man.”