Ariadne(65)

In the flurry of moments that followed, someone handed him to me and I held him, small and damp and outraged in my arms. I did not have the words for this feeling. Gradually, the room stilled and quieted and I became aware of a fresh breeze blowing through the window. A pearl-grey dawn was lightening the sky outside and the underside of the clouds were infused with rosy pink. The baby’s perfect, tiny fingernails gleamed like miniature shells in the first rays of the morning light as he clutched his little fist around my finger.

No comet blazed across the horizon proclaiming the birth of Dionysus’ son. No earthquakes shook the ground or thunderbolts rattled the heavens. My son was not born to tear down mountains or battle giants. I never had to look on his small, sleeping face and see a mighty destiny looming in his tiny, furrowed brow whilst he slept milk-drunk and dazed against my skin. When his body startled awake, limbs flung out like a starfish in his surprise to be out of the close cradle of the womb, I never saw the shadows of a great future gather around to enfold him in their heavy darkness. His infant fists never had to throttle a serpent in his crib and no great secret awaited under a heavy boulder for him to fling aside and claim as his own.

We called him Oenopion, drinker of wine. I never wanted him to feel the weight of his father’s divine blood. I wanted him only to share his father’s merry nature and to grow up with the tread of the vine-press, the rich crush of the grapes and the convivial joys he could bring wherever he travelled. He would be no threat to the vengeful Hera; he would bring no discord to the halls of Olympus with any claims to glory.

I did my best to cloak my elation in a smiling, gentle calm. I did not exult loudly at my good fortune or boast to the skies of my delight. We carried on our quiet little existence and I was sure not to clap too loudly when my son achieved his tiny triumphs: the crooked curl of his first smile, his first wobbling steps, the sing-song of his first words. I held the joy and pride within me and pressed my beaming face into his perfect, soft-furred little head, hoping that the heavens would not notice how I breathed in his scent. I was determined that we would attract no divine attention.

I held my breath when Dionysus clasped him close and carried him down the beach, when he held his gaze and spoke perfect nonsense to him in so serious a tone, as though they were deep in conversation, when he contorted his face in a series of ridiculous expressions that elicited a peal of helpless and delighted giggles from Oenopion. Don’t let them see how much you love him, I urged him silently. But if any immortal gaze drifted the way of Naxos, they must have found our quiet domesticity too tedious to inspire even the whimsy of careless destruction. As seasons gave way to one another, each bringing a new delight to marvel over, as my womb swelled again, and then again, and it seemed our happiness poured like an ever-flowing river, I began to think that we had truly escaped the notice of the rest of the world forever.

It was only me who wanted to escape that notice, of course. Dionysus sought followers still – more maenads at our shores, more shrines raised across the world in his honour. I threw myself into motherhood, absorbed in every new discovery my children brought to me, determined that they would never look at me and see the blankness I recalled in Pasiphae’s eyes.

I did not accompany Dionysus to the woods for the rituals of the wine any more. He led his maenads up the mountains in their loose, swaying procession whilst I put the children to bed each night. I knew what the rites entailed: the hymns to his glory, the pouring of the wine and the dance of celebration. A god might need that adulation from his worshippers; I told myself that I was satisfied with the chubby arms of my babies locked around my neck and the clumsy kisses they rained upon my cheek.

I did not think that anything in the rituals would have changed, until the morning I walked with my youngest baby, Tauropolis, trying to soothe him to sleep with my pacing as he would not entertain the thought of rest in a crib. As I walked and his eyes grew heavy, I saw a group of maenads pounding white fabric on the stones by the river – a common enough sight – but I looked, and then looked again, that day. Where the water flowed over the rocks, it usually gushed crystal clear in a sparkling, translucent torrent. Instead, it cascaded now in a stream of dark crimson and at the bottom of the stones, where it flowed back into the river, a hostile cloud of ruby foamed into the water. I paused in confusion and as I breathed in, I smelled the tang of iron and salt on the air.

Animal sacrifice had never been part of the rituals when I had attended them. I had seen it many times in Crete, but never here, and I had been grateful that Dionysus had never demanded it from his followers before. I shrank back at the thought that this could have changed. I had always hated to see it: the flash of the knife, the gory rivulets that ran down the grooves of the altar, and the lifeless slump of the creature. The other gods revelled in such cruelty. Dionysus, surely, did not. But what other explanation could there be for the maenads to be washing blood in such quantities from their robes?

Dionysus had left at dawn across the sea and I did not know when he would be back for me to demand the meaning of this sight. Should I speak to the women now or wait for his return? I sucked in my breath. Could I trust that he would answer me honestly if I asked him directly? I hovered indecisively for a moment, but as I was about to step forward, I glanced at the ocean and for the second time that morning, a surprising sight stopped me in my tracks.

A ship drew near to our shores, bearing the white sails of Athens.