Ariadne(47)

I had never spoken so freely with any man before, though I knew that Dionysus was more than a man, or something other than a man. Still, there was none of the portentousness of my talk with Theseus in those charged midnight hours that seemed a lifetime ago now. I felt as I had done in the lost, careless hours with Phaedra, chattering easily of nothing. Only in flashes would it strike me where I was and what was happening. But as the afternoon wore on, it became less and less startling. Dionysus told us of his travels to faraway places, not tales of his own heroism, such as Theseus had told – there were no monsters to slay or criminals to punish – but instead descriptions of exotic and foreign lands, with customs and people and creatures that had never figured in the stories I had been told. At length, the sun began to sink, casting a rich glow across the courtyard, and I saw that Acoetes’ eyes had grown heavy with sleep.

Dionysus noticed as I did. He smiled and extended his hand to me. ‘Come, Princess,’ he urged. ‘Let us walk a while and let this young man sleep. He has done me great service today and deserves his rest. We will not disturb him with our talk.’

I let him pull me to my feet from the soft heap of cushions: a god wanted to walk with me. I briefly wished I was arrayed in the splendour of my robes back in Crete. But what would be the point? Beside the magnificence of Dionysus, any finery or jewels would fade to nothing more than rags and dull rocks.

He matched his steps to mine. No chariot pulled by leopards escorted us, no feathered wings carried us. He walked beside me like a mortal man would do, with an easy, feline grace, and when we came to the beach, he let the surf break over his sandals and dampen the hem of his robes as though he could not hold the waves back even if he wished to.

I told him my story. The words flowed easily. The mingled horror and tenderness I felt at my brother’s malformed birth. The tortured futility of Pasiphae’s – and my – attempts to humanise the beast. The revulsion I felt at the sight of the Athenian sacrifices bound before us at our games and at our feasting. Even the heady, reckless rush that I felt when I looked into Theseus’ eyes; when I cast my lot with him. And the crushing despair when I awoke, alone on Naxos, and knew that I would die without ever seeing another human face.

He listened gravely. All of that day, his smiles had charmed me; the irrepressible laughter that punctuated his speech had lulled me into a state of trusting relaxation. He seemed to find the humour in everything, but he made no jest at any part of my story. Only when it was finished did he smile once more. ‘Then it was fortuitous that I came when I did,’ he said. ‘I am glad I was not a day later.’

‘I am, too,’ I said. A smile lifted my own lips; I could not pretend to be solemn even to show respect to his divinity. He could be gone again, in a day or a week or a month, and leave me here – alone once more. But he had given me this respite from encroaching death, and in that moment I could feel only joy that he had.

‘We have our mothers’ stories in common,’ he said, gesturing to a smooth boulder for me to sit.

I could not imagine that he was tired, but the exhaustion of near starvation had not fully left me, and I was grateful for the respite.

‘Not in the detail, but in the spirit at least. They were both the victims of the spite and wounded pride of the gods.’ A shadow crossed his face again, the same as when he had listened to me tell of Pasiphae’s suffering. ‘My mother was Semele,’ he told me. ‘A mortal woman. Although she carried me, she did not give birth to me and never looked upon me. She was nothing but ashes when I opened my eyes for the first time . . .’ He paused. How could a powerful deity look so vulnerable, so wounded? ‘I would like to tell you about her, Ariadne. I would like to tell you more than just the stories of my wanderings.’

He looked at me expectantly. Did he think I would refuse to listen? For a heartbeat, we looked into each other’s faces. The intimacy of the moment was overwhelming; the strangeness of the day and this sudden intensity made my head swirl with confusion. My ears were ringing and the air around us seemed to come alive.

‘But I think our friend Acoetes is stirring,’ he said, turning his head as though he could hear the sound of Acoetes’ eyes opening from across the stretch of sand, beyond the rocks to the now magnificent villa that had been my humble cottage. ‘He will doubt his own memory of what has happened today, and probably his own sanity.’ Dionysus smiled. ‘We will go back and convince him that he is not mad – or no madder than the rest of the world – and I will show you both your chambers.’

I felt a great loosening of relief as he said this. For all his charm and courtesy, I had not forgotten what he was, nor the fragility of my position here. I had come to Naxos a rebellious bride and become a condemned exile. Now I was the guest of an Olympian god – and I knew just what kind of hosts they could be to the young women they found on their travels.

‘I do have something to ask of you,’ he continued. ‘For you to think about.’

I stilled. Waited for him to go on.

‘You have left your home and it does not sound like Crete would welcome you back, nor that you would want to return,’ he said. ‘I can offer you an alternative – for now, at least.’

My lips quivered. ‘What kind of alternative?’ I asked.

He gestured carelessly to the island behind us. ‘Be the guardian of my home on Naxos. Say that you tend my shrine, that you are my priestess, if you like. I travel frequently; I would like someone to be here to keep watch whilst I am gone.’