Ariadne(58)
Theseus laughed a little here and drank a long draught of wine. Wiping his hand across his mouth, he continued. ‘He demanded the return of his prisoner from the kindly king, who was horrified to discover Minos’ trick. Not willing to give up his clever guest, who had enriched his palace so much already with his cunning inventions, King Cocalus promised to accede to Minos’ demands but persuaded him to rest at his court before beginning the long journey home with his prize. He told Minos that his lovely daughters had already prepared him a bath with the finest scented oils and warm water to cleanse the dirt and travails of his long journey from his weary and aching body. Of course, Minos accepted this luxury as his due. He climbed into the bath, enjoying the flattery and fawning of the beautiful princesses, until they flicked open a valve on the bath designed by Daedalus for this very occasion. I hear that it released a great torrent of boiling water which scalded your father to death in an instant.’
I was sitting bolt upright as he reached the end of the tale, my hands clutching tightly at the curved rim of the couch. Theseus watched me intently, to see how I would react. As the truth of it broke over me, a strange laugh was torn from my throat. I wondered at the sound it made.
Theseus smiled. ‘I thought you would like to hear that.’
Perhaps he knew me better than I thought he did. I had considered him so absorbed in his own legend that he could not see another person as anything more than a minor part of his mighty story. But clearly he had listened enough to know how deep my hatred of Minos ran. ‘Thank you,’ I told him. And for once, when his eyes met mine, I did not look away.
I hated him for the secrets he held concealed within that solid skull of his. But he had granted me a life better than anything I had hoped for in Crete. He did not care for how I spent my days, and my interest in the court never threatened him. All that concerned him was that Athens continued prosperous and influential, that he did not have to truly bear the responsibilities of a ruler, and that he was free to go on his endless journeys.
But when he touched me, I shuddered. His hands – had they been the last to hold my sister? Had he really laid her remains in the ground with all the proper rites, as he claimed, or had he cast her body aside without a second thought? Did her spirit still roam the isle of Naxos, vengeful and distraught, unable to gain entrance to the Underworld?
On Crete, I had been dazzled by Theseus’ looks and his impressive tales. Now I could see my youthful infatuation for what it was – unsubstantial, melted away in the morning sun like the scattering of snow that sometimes gathered briefly on the hills. But I could never let slip the slightest sign of my frustration with him, for I knew that as much as I enjoyed the illusion of power, it was always within his grasp to whip it away. I might be an asset, charming the visiting dignitaries, soothing the restive inhabitants when they came to complain – with a tact and smoothness I had come to learn and hone – but I could never allow myself to forget that Theseus was the King. If I had to charm anyone, it must be him first of all.
It worked. He was contented with his Queen, with his quests and with the promise of eternal glory for his endless exploits. At times he was tolerable company, if I pushed away the suspicion that gnawed at my mind, if I forgot my sister. That was the key to my survival in Athens. I must not think of my sister. As the years rolled on, it became second nature.
Despite the haphazard pattern of Theseus’ visits, and the ever-increasing stretches of time that passed between his arrival back on Athenian shores, shortly after one of his sojourns at home my belly began to swell: all of a sudden I had something else to occupy my mind entirely. I pushed down my pain, my grief and my rage. I had taught myself well to rarely think of Ariadne at all.
21
Ariadne
After the nightmare of Hera, it was hard to shake off the claustrophobic sensation throughout the day. As I tended my vegetables in the warm sunshine, I still felt the stifling oppression of her eyes boring into me. Despite myself, I looked frequently up towards the mountains, checking they were empty still.
That day, thoughts of Dionysus crept in again, twisting around me like the vines that reminded me of him whenever I looked at them. Perhaps I had summoned them, thinking again of his mother and the cruelty with which Hera had set her revenge against him. I thought how Dionysus had not treated me as others had done. He had not sized up my worth; what I could do for him, and how I could be used. Instead, he had extended his kindness and his hospitality. I realised how much I missed him. My voice sounded thin, ringing in the empty halls when I sang. When I felt a glow of pride at gathering the fruits that I had nurtured in the gardens, I felt a hollow swoop in my stomach that he was not there to see.
I felt guilt at how I had reacted to the story of Ampelos. He had confided his grief to me and I had responded with fury. As the days passed and I had so much time with my own thoughts, I began to prise out the root of my anger. I was angry with the gods who held mortal lives in their hands so carelessly, but I had to acknowledge that wasn’t what Dionysus had done to Ampelos. I had felt myself falling under his spell and was angry that I had learned nothing from my foolish trust in Theseus, though I knew Dionysus was no bragging hero devoid of conscience or care. And perhaps, I admitted to myself in a hidden corner of my heart, perhaps I was angry that if it were not for a misplaced foot on a rotten branch, Dionysus might still be far away across the oceans, with the mortal he had loved first.