Ariadne(57)
‘Then how will they be ours at all?’ He looked sulky.
I smiled. ‘I think I might have an idea.’
‘A huge festival,’ Theseus announced the next day to his somewhat startled advisers, who had grown unused to seeing him at all. ‘We will bring every settlement on this peninsula to Athens for feasting and games and worship of the great Athena who gives our city its name and her protection. We will welcome them all under the kind gaze of the goddess, and they shall share her patronage with us.’
The preparations were immense. My dusty, unused loom gave me an idea for my part; I suggested that we call for good weavers across the region to gather together. Under my direction, they would weave a huge peplos to be placed on the statue of Athena at the commencement of the celebrations. They came from as far as Cithaeron and Parnes, from the borders of Oropus and the banks of Asopus, a joyful gathering of young women. When I had them gathered together in the wide chamber I had commandeered for such a purpose, before the great loom upon which the sacred garment would be woven, I felt the clutching of my heart to see their fresh, happy faces and lustrous hair.
The memory of Ariadne and I, weaving together, flashed in my mind before I could stop it. The feel of the wool under my fingers, the sun warming the room, my sister’s soft and soothing tones. The threat of tears burned in my eyes for a moment before I swallowed and spoke. ‘Girls, I have given you the most important task of the festival.’ They quieted. Their serious eyes and earnest expressions touched me. ‘We will weave a bigger peplos than has ever been seen before, big enough for the statue of Athena at the heart of our city and magnificent enough to please the goddess. You have all been chosen for your skill in weaving; now is your chance to show your talents to all of Attica.’
But for me, the true gift was to watch them work and talk unconstrained. No men chaperoned them here, in this space sacred to women and to the goddess. I could watch the animation light their young faces and I could hear in their breathless, excited conversations the echo of two sisters who had loved each other all those years ago in Crete.
It took months of preparation but, at last, we rose one dawn at the start of spring. The air was cool around me and the great western skies were still dark and spangled with faint stars. The girls wound their way up the steep hillside leading to the acropolis and the thin strain of their song floated on the breeze to where I watched from the palace walls, a soft and unearthly melody that seemed to haunt the dim morning air.
They bore the peplos before them; a truly fine tapestry woven in saffron yellow, edged with hyacinth blue, depicting the story of the mighty battle between the gods and the Titans at the beginning of time itself. Athena, warrior goddess, stood at the centre of the fray. At Theseus’ side, I felt a smile of victory spread across my face.
After the procession came the sacrifice; the kanephoroi leading forth the oxen. These virgin priestesses took up the long, ululating howl as they handed the sacred knives to the men to cut the throats of the beribboned beasts. By the time the sun sat high in the sky, plumes of smoke from the altars carried the aroma of roasting meat up to the summit of Mount Olympus itself.
And then the contests began in earnest. Back in Crete, I had seen games, but never had I seen such a rich variety as this. From all quarters of Attica had assembled an array of contenders. The centre of Athens roared with noise, with bustle and colour. I was glad of Theseus, that he kept his strong hand wrapped around mine as he led me through the crowds. Youths challenged each other to foot races, cheered on by deafening spectators. Men bulging with muscles oiled themselves, sizing up their opponents, ready for boxing and wrestling. I could feel the warmth of Theseus’ admiration upon me and in the thrill of the success of the festival, an unaccustomed harmony settled between us as the day rolled on. The rich melodies of lyre playing and singing mingled in the heat and the haze above us all. When Theseus distributed the prizes at the end of it all, a great shout went up in his honour: Theseus, who had brought all of Attica together in this wondrous celebration. I saw him grin, delighting in the adoration and the success. Although I knew the idea had come from me, I did not resent him taking the credit. It was satisfaction enough for me to see what I had achieved.
The admiration from all quarters grew – not just the region of Attica – and our city was well on its way to becoming the most powerful in Greece. Only the lingering anxiety about the return of Minos sometimes soured my thoughts. It was years since any news had come of him but I did not dare hope that he had died a lonely death on some far-off shore.
Whenever my husband returned from his travels, I found his company far more bearable for its brevity, though only one of his stories truly interested me. Perhaps a year or so after our wedding, he finally came home with news of Minos. For once, my ears pricked up, eager to hear what he had to say.
Theseus told me that whilst my father had searched from city to city, across the far-flung shores of the world, he carried with him a spiral seashell and issued a challenge at each court he came to for a man able to guide a thread through all of its curves.
‘Something only Daedalus could do,’ I surmised.
‘Of course!’ Theseus agreed enthusiastically. His eyes were sparkling in the torchlight. He sprawled on his couch, a cup of wine tilted lazily in his hand. I could not deny that he was still magnificent to behold, however dull his conversation. ‘When he arrived at the court of King Cocalus in Sicily, the old king asserted that he knew the very man who could solve such a puzzle and brought forth Daedalus himself. Minos stayed cloaked, his face concealed, whilst Daedalus contrived to tie a thread – so thin it could barely be seen – to the foot of an ant which he then set to walk through the shell, dragging the thread behind it, until it reached the very end. Minos then stood, tossing the hood from his head, and declared his identity as the mighty and feared King of Crete.’