Ariadne(80)

29


Ariadne


Phaedra’s visit to Naxos, brief and painful as it was, left a lingering barb behind. I could not put out of my mind everything that she had said, no matter how I tried to forget it. She had come to me to seek a place of refuge for her and Hippolytus, but she had not thought of Naxos because of me. By her own admission, she sought the home of Dionysus, believing that we were a place for transgressors and that we would never turn away a pair of such sinners. What she suggested – the union of stepmother and stepson – was appalling to me, and I did not believe that the rest of the world was as sanguine about such an arrangement as she suggested. Why would she need to come here if indeed it was? But why did she say those words about Dionysus? You do not even know what your own husband is.

It was true that women did flock here to escape the bonds of unhappy marriages, I could not deny that it was so. But they did not bring lovers with them; they came to live in peace and harmony amongst women who longed for a freedom they could not have elsewhere. What had Phaedra implied about the rites upon the hillsides? I watched the maenads wend their way up the mountains as the sun set, flowers woven in their loose hair and jugs of wine held aloft to the sky. I had always been so confident in the sweet innocence and purity of their rituals, believing that they drank of the wine and loosened their souls to its rich intoxicating joys, strengthening the bonds of love and friendship between them. When Phaedra had spoken of it, she had contaminated her words with scandalous insinuation. She had described Dionysus leading a dance across the world as though it were a skein of vice and depravity that he unfolded in his wake. I knew it was not so. I was sure that the angry, bitter men that my maenads left behind them spoke of it as such, and I was surprised at her faith in their unjust words when she knew how cruel and false such narratives could be. When she herself might well become the victim of such salacious gossip if she went ahead with what she planned.

I knew it could not be true. But I could not quite forget how she had described my life on Naxos, the shrinking of my world. She was right that I did not know how things may have changed out there, and it was true that I had no real idea of where Dionysus went and why. Since she had come to Naxos, my perfect peace had cracked and the little doubts she left behind her nagged at me like a tiny chorus in the back of my mind, set always against the backdrop of the maenads by the red-stained stream, an image that I could not forget.

When Dionysus returned again, I found myself watching him more closely. The mischievous, impish boy-god who had come to my rescue all those years ago had changed a little in that time. Gods do not age; his golden loveliness remained unaltered, but I saw a difference in his eyes. They did not sparkle so with delight as they had once used to. We had rarely spoken of the outside world, beyond his funny and illuminating little tales of exotic lands and foreign customs. But now, he spoke more of the places he visited and a fretful note crept into his tone as he told me of the places that did not worship his cult. Places where they did not press the grapes, where they did not raise their cups in praise of Dionysus, the giver of wine. Places where they frowned on its consumption even, and spoke with suspicion of its intoxicating effects.

I looked at him for signs of the impulsive deity who had granted Midas’ foolish wish and then taken it back in a moment. Now he spoke of Mount Olympus, whence he had just come, and I awaited his biting wit; the descriptions he would give of the other gods and how wickedly he would laugh at their decadence, their dull wits and their petty preoccupations. He was recounting a conversation he had had with Zeus, and I anticipated any moment how he would mock his mighty father’s stern dignity and poke fun at his pompous posturing.

‘I complained to him, since he is father of Perseus, too, and should surely be able to take in hand his own son . . .’

The petulant edge to Dionysus’ voice caught me off guard. I had not heard him sound like that before. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

He scowled darkly. ‘You did not listen to a word I said,’ he answered. ‘Now you want me to say it all again?’ He sighed heavily. ‘Come,’ he said, taking the baby Tauropolis from my arms where he lay asleep, as usual, for I could never put him down without a terrible screaming ensuing – and since Phaedra’s unsettling arrival and departure, I had not found the strength of will to face it.

Dionysus cradled his baby son in his arms. Had anyone else attempted to move the baby whilst he slept, they would have felt the full force of his tiny fury, but all my children were angelic for their immortal father. Tauropolis snuggled into the crook of his father’s elbow, stretched a chubby arm from his swaddling and let it fall on Dionysus’ chest. His little fingers splayed on his father’s white tunic caught my gaze and I had to force myself to turn my attention back to what Dionysus was saying.

‘My mortal half-brother, Perseus,’ he said. ‘The Gorgon slayer with his flying horses who thinks himself too grand and powerful by half. He does not allow my shrines to be built in his city, Argos. He prohibits my worship within his walls and bans the Argive women from walking out to the mountains to practise my rites. He and I share the same immortal father; he should kneel before his elder brother, but instead he scorns me and Zeus allows it to continue!’

Perseus. Born of Dana?, whose father had imprisoned her in a tall tower with no roof so that no suitor could get to her. Alone all her days with just a circle of blue sky far above her head to look upon. A foolish father would leave so tempting a prize within sight of the heavens. Zeus had no competitors when he slid down the curved walls of her circular prison in a thousand droplets of golden rain. Perseus. Slayer of monsters and ruler of Argos. He sat on the throne, unchallenged, with his monstrous shield set with the head of Medusa to turn any would-be rival to stone in a glance.