Ariadne(77)

I had not been able to bear Theseus near me even before I had learned the full extent of his treachery. I hated him for leaving my sister, for leaving me, for his lies, for all of it. But now I found his every habit grating; his droning chatter seemed to me so dull and endless. To think I had ever hung upon his words or gazed at his green eyes and thought him handsome or exciting or noble! I was ashamed at my foolishness. I looked at my own sons and shuddered to see the cast of Theseus’ jaw or his profile in their faces.

The more I had come to know Hippolytus – although our conversations had been but brief, still I felt I knew him, that I could see what was within him – the more I saw what a man could really be. And all of my resentment towards Theseus boiled up into a torrent of hatred. I could find no peace in my soul, no sleep in my bed, no solace in my children’s laughter.

I could not right the wrongs – so many wrongs – that he had committed in all of the years that had passed since our marriage and before. But I could act on the knowledge I had gained so long ago and feared to do anything about. I could at last sail to Naxos and see my sister.





27


Ariadne


The wind turned, a fresh breeze blowing out to sea now as Aeolus conducted the currents of air according to his whims. It brought with it the intermingled scents of lilac and thyme, thick and intoxicating. Tauropolis wriggled and cried aloud, jabbing his hard little forehead against my chest. I loosened my dress so that he could feed and after a moment, we had quiet once more.

What was it in Phaedra’s voice? The softness with which she spoke Hippolytus’ name. The dreamy cast in her eyes as she turned to look out to the horizon, in the direction of Athens. Her face glowed and she did not look at me, so rapt was she with the vision she wove in her own inner gaze. I could see that she was no longer on a cliff path with her sister, but helplessly lost in a place from which I could not hope to retrieve her.

Her words alarmed me, but far more concerning was the shift in her tone. When she had spoken of Minos and Theseus, her words had been laced with bitter scorn; the hard edge of contempt infused every word. Now, as she told me of her stepson’s arrival in Athens, her voice was like the smoothest honey. Sweet and viscous, the words flowed one after the other; inevitable and unstoppable.

‘Phaedra,’ I interjected at last, searching for the words. Tauropolis jerked his head back, milk dribbling down his front, and I clumsily sought to wipe it away with a corner of my shawl and to make him more comfortable, but my fingers were heavy and fumbling and confused. I needed to think carefully about exactly how to place my next words to her, but I faltered, distracted by the baby at my breast, and the sisterly wisdom that I sought did not flow. ‘You speak of Hippolytus with so much . . . you sound perhaps as though you feel more than a mother . . .’ I trailed off, the final part unspoken, though I felt the words ringing loud and clear through the air between us.

‘Oh, Ariadne!’ She sounded impatient with my stupidity and my slowness. ‘What had I ever known of love before? When Theseus came to Crete, I was a child. I was dazzled by the illusion he cast, but I learned soon enough what he truly was, and so my heart has remained pure and untouched. Until Hippolytus came, I did not know how full and rich my heart could feel. He is everything that Theseus is not. He is serious where Theseus is careless, tender where Theseus is cold. And so strong in his virtue – unlike his degenerate, vile father!’

The impassioned ring of her voice struck dead any reply I could have given before I had conceived the half of it. Phaedra thought she was so different from the girl I had left behind, but I recognised that steely intent, just as dogged as it had ever been. She pushed her hair away from her face, twisting the curls in her fist, seeming just for a single instant unsure of what to say.

‘He dedicates himself to Artemis,’ she continued after a moment. ‘He hunts with spear and bow and dedicates all that he kills to her glory. Like her, he vows to stay chaste. In that, we are alike, for I have never known love, and so in my heart and soul I am as pure as he. We would discover each other anew; come to each other as fresh as the first bloom of youth.’

She looked so like she always had done; the mulish, defiant jut of her jaw was so much the same that my heart throbbed painfully to see it. But the harsh glare of the sun exposed the slight droop of her skin and the faint but unmistakeable trace of lines creeping their way from the corners of her eyes. She was beautiful still, but the long years of her unhappy marriage – marriage to this noble youth’s own father – could be mapped on her face. I wondered how she could not see the odds so clearly stacked against her. How could she be so blind to the story she herself was telling?

She laughed, a brief and mirthless yelp, and shook her head slightly. ‘Or so I tried to tell him; once, twice, three times I tried! The words stiffened in my mouth, became like hard rocks and I could not speak at all. Instead, I asked to hunt with him – I who had never wielded a spear in my life! For Hippolytus, I could brave the forests and run to the mountains, a pack of dogs at my feet. I feel like one of your maenads, lost in the pleasure of the chase, with no cares to weigh me down and no thought of the propriety or the dignity a queen must always have. If he would take me with him, out in the open, I thought that Hippolytus and I would find somewhere beyond the reach of any prying eyes, where I would open my heart to him. Like Aphrodite with her beautiful Adonis, I dreamed that we could find a secluded place together, to rest from hunting. I knew how Eos, the goddess of the dawn, had gone many a time from her ancient husband to tryst with the young and handsome Cephalus in the woods.’