Ariadne(12)

‘I’ve never watched them before,’ I said.

‘You always run away,’ she answered.

It was true. There had been two harvests so far – two ships bearing fourteen weeping children of Athens – and both times, I’d hidden myself away in the furthest chambers of the palace. I had caught only glimpses of pale faces, drawn with terror. Whenever I had heard the distant rattle of the chains that bound them, I’d fled as far away as I could. When my father had forced me out, parading his daughters to flaunt his good fortune, I’d always stared straight ahead. I would not allow myself to look into their eyes – I could not imagine what I would see if I did.

Now, though – now, I looked. Maybe it was the knowledge that this would be the last harvest I would see on Crete. Or maybe it was that I felt the weight finally lift of my craven desperation not to see the truth. Tomorrow a ship would take me away, at the side of the repugnant Cinyras. A slower fate than that which faced the young Athenians, now being led from the deck on to our shores in the last sunlight they would ever feel warming their skin. I felt a trembling in my lower lip but I twisted my face into a mask and I watched them walk.

They clung together. Some stumbled and the Cretan guards yanked them sharply upright. I felt an impotent fury building in the pit of my stomach as the guards laughed. Was it not enough to bring the youths to their death? Why treat them so harshly, why revel in the power of cruelty?

As a girl at the back of the group slipped – either she fell or tried to turn back in desperation as though she could board the ship and sail home to her parents again – I noticed a man emerge to catch her. He was taller and broader than the other hostages, and I thought at first that he must be one of the Athenian crew or an emissary come to oversee the sacrifice. I saw the tender kindness with which he helped her to her feet, the comfort of his arm around her, and I was glad to see some gentleness amidst the brutality of the scene. I was grateful that someone had come with them – a friendly face for them to see at the last. But to my confusion, I saw then that he too was held by the chains that linked them all.

And then, for a moment, he looked up.

He cannot have seen us clearly, with the sun blazing overhead. But it seemed for just a second that his eyes met mine. I had a fleeting impression of cold, calm green – a sudden stillness amidst the commotion.

And then the Athenians were gone, disappeared beyond the harbour walls. I glanced at Phaedra to see if she had noticed him as well. Her face was contorted with the same disgust I had felt watching it happen.

‘Let’s go,’ I said, steering her away.

‘Stop!’ Her voice rang out clear and sharp. ‘Ariadne, don’t run away again! This is the third year!’ She clutched at her hair. ‘How can we let it happen again?’

The intense sun beat down on my back and black spots began to shimmer in my vision. ‘How can it be stopped?’ I asked.

‘There must be a way,’ she said.

Phaedra never could accept anything that wasn’t as she wanted it to be. But I knew that even her steely determination was nothing in the face of Minos’ will. ‘What way?’ I asked, a sob rising in my throat. I gulped it down, steadied myself. ‘How can we stop what Minos wants?’

‘There must be a way,’ she repeated, but I could hear that even her conviction was wavering.

‘Come away, Phaedra,’ I said. ‘This is the third year and no one’s found a way to prevent it yet. We have no power to change their fate any more than our own.’

She tossed her head but did not answer. She shrugged away my hand and stalked away alone. Wearily, I gathered myself to follow.

But before I turned to leave, I cast another glance over the cliff edge. I knew that they had gone, but I couldn’t help looking again.

The cold green of his eyes. Like the shock of the chill waters when the sea floor drops away unexpectedly beneath your feet and you realise that you have swum out far beyond your depth.





4


The third harvest had indeed come and this one I would not be allowed to ignore. My father wanted to show off his princess to his newly promised son-in-law. Every year, when the hostages were brought, Crete held funeral games in honour of Androgeos, and this year I was to attend. No more hiding in corners would be permitted. Although several years my junior, Phaedra had prevailed on him to include her as well. My handmaid set a crown upon my head, bound silver sandals to my feet and robed me in rich blue fabric that fell like water through my fingers. Although the clothes were beautiful, I felt as though they did not belong to me and I cringed at the prospect of so many eyes being drawn to my finery. I had had quite enough of being stared at and talked about for one lifetime. And so it was that I slunk rather than glided to my seat at the very side of the arena.

Of course, Cinyras waited for me, already lounging on the cushions heaped up for his comfort. At his elbow was a jug of wine that I gathered he had already drunk deeply of judging by the reddened flush of his face. I hesitated, looked at where Minos stood at his podium in the centre ready to open the ceremonies. His face flared with satisfaction like a bright coin as he watched my discomfort. My legs moved against my will. I would not let my father see me falter or let him luxuriate in my reluctance. Cinyras smiled lasciviously as I sat, rigid, beside him.

I was grateful for the shade that protected me and sorry for the competitors who would toil beneath the sun’s searing glare. I could hardly make out what was happening in that great golden dazzle but the buzz of the crowd died away and I heard the panicked snorting and low bellows of the bull, bedecked with garlands, as it was led out before us. Although it rolled its big round eyes and skittered at first, a soft calm descended upon the creature as it approached the altar. I’d seen it many times; the peace that soothed an animal on the point of death. It couldn’t see the concealed blade but, all the same, perhaps it knew its blood would spill for the glory of the gods and perhaps such a worthy death seemed like a prize. It stepped forward, docile and placid, the rituals were performed and the knife plunged into its smooth white throat. The blood gleamed in the sunlight as it gushed from the altar. The gods were honoured and would smile on our celebrations. The beast’s noble head slumped, the crimson ribbons that decorated its horns lustrous above the thick ruby river that flowed across the stone.