Ariadne(50)

Together, we would stroll through the bustle of the marketplace where traders competed energetically to sell glistening heaps of olives, rich golden honey, amphorae of dark red wine, piles of jewellery and ceramics. I knew why Theseus liked to walk amongst his people. They revered him almost like a god; the man who had saved them from the inhuman brutality of the Cretans. But they would press their goods upon me as well, smile at me and call out my name, too. I can’t deny I felt a little frisson walking at the side of a man so adored by his public, his glory reflected on me, his chosen consort.

Through the busy centre, we would make our way to the western edge of the city where a reverent hush prevailed. The mighty gnarled olive tree, its branches so laden with fruit, twisted its way from the earth where Athena had struck the ground to make it grow when she had competed with Poseidon for the city where we now stood. Beside it was a shrine where a constant stream of priestesses went about their worship, presiding over the rites of the goddess.

I enjoyed the exploration of Athens more than I expected, even though it did not yield up the truth I longed for from my companion. The closest that Theseus came to discussing it with me was when he warned me to keep my silence.

‘Do not tell people here of your part in the matter,’ he told me, early on.

I looked at him. His face, so handsome but so uninteresting to me now, was set sternly and he did not catch my eye, staring resolutely ahead instead.

‘What matter?’ I asked. I wanted to make him say it – the killing of the Minotaur, the saving of the hostages that both Ariadne and I had played a vital role in. Who had restored his precious club to him? And now he wanted me to pretend it was all his doing; another story to build his legend.

His features darkened. ‘The Cretan matter.’ His tones were clipped. ‘The people here are sympathetic to you. They know that you were a prisoner of your father, just as much as our own Athenian children were. Of course you would hate and fear the monster, of course you are glad to be free of it now. But if they knew that you and your sister were prepared to betray your own city, your own family . . .’ The threat remained unspoken but I heard it clearly enough.

And, although it galled me to admit it, he was right. He advised me that it was better to feign ignorance, to say that he conquered our Labyrinth alone and rescued Ariadne from the tyrannical rule of Minos out of pity for her soft heart – which had bled for the quivering hostages – so that none would suspect what a rebellious heart I might nurture within my breast.

It was Theseus’ city. I did as he said. And for a time, although I had feared I would break apart entirely, everything held together surprisingly well. There were great celebrations across the city for the Minotaur’s death and every harvest thereafter, when no tributes were sent across the waves to a terrible fate. Theseus revelled in the glory it brought him each year. In between times, however, I observed a listlessness to his demeanour and I thought I knew how I could work it to my advantage.

‘The people are still so grateful to you,’ I commented to him one day out in the palace courtyard. He was sprawled on a couch, his whole pose radiating a certain sullenness, a languor which I could tell chafed against his nature. ‘Your feats in the Labyrinth have truly earned you a fame beyond imagining.’ I watched him closely. Flattery was the key to Theseus’ will; I had needed to learn the subtlety I had so far lacked, and I had been refining it for this very moment. I forced myself to assume a casual tone, to stare up into the sky as though I spoke inconsequential thoughts. ‘I wonder how long their gratitude will last?’ I commented. ‘How long they will remember.’

That irritated him. He was so easy to inflame. He sat up, bristling. ‘I have saved the lives of their children, over and over again,’ he snapped. ‘They should remember it every day, when they look into their smiling faces, and be thankful that their bones are not scattered in a Cretan dungeon.’

‘Oh, of course they should,’ I hastened to agree. ‘But you know what people are like . . .’

His brows drew together, confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, they forget what could have been and focus only on the irritations of today. “Never mind that he saved our children from being devoured alive, why does he not stop the city thieves or repair the walls?”’ I saw the clouds darkening his face and quickly added, ‘Just an example.’ I swallowed, laid a soothing hand on his arm and looked him in the eye. ‘But people are fools,’ I said gently. ‘Why would the mighty Theseus stoop to the conquering of common thieves? Such a thing is beneath you, the greatest hero since Heracles.’

I waited whilst that sank in. I knew that it was not enough for him to follow in the footsteps of his great mentor. He longed to surpass the feats of Heracles. But Heracles had slain many more monsters than just one Minotaur.

‘Who cares what they might think?’ I said, after a pause. ‘Their opinions do not matter. Now, I must away, to prepare for the feasting later.’

Theseus loved a feast, and it would always take time for my handmaidens to arrange my hair, my dress, my jewels all to his satisfaction. It was the opportune moment to leave him, with my parting words fermenting in his breast. Theseus cared only for the opinions of others, and I knew it.

It worked, far more quickly than I had imagined. Within only a matter of days, Theseus strode across the throne room with great excitement to tell me that he was to set sail shortly – another quest had presented itself to him and he would answer its call. The day-to-day business of ruling a city did not excite him, I knew, though he would not admit it. He was more than happy to relinquish the minutiae of it all to his advisers. There were tyrants to vanquish across the world, and monsters to defeat – and only he could do it.