Ariadne(83)
I heard the ragged breathing first, before I saw them. A sharp, shuddering hoarseness that sounded at first more animal than human. Like terrified prey taking refuge after a frenzied pursuit through the woods. They did not see me as they stumbled down the sloping path towards me. The maenads knew every inch of the forest – they flowed through it with grace and ease – but these two seemed dazed, as though they found themselves at once on unfamiliar ground. They clutched at each other’s arms for support and I could see from here the torn hems of their robes and the clotted crimson streaking their skirts.
My heart pounding in my ears, I drew back, behind the gnarled trunk of a great cedar. Its familiar scent flooded my throat; I gulped it in, its safe bulk anchoring me as I watched their haphazard progress.
As they passed close by me, I could see that dirt and tears smudged their fair cheeks. I thought of Dionysus’ even breathing when I had left him slumbering, his brow smooth and relaxed. Had he left these women in the woods? They were barely more than girls; girls who had fled cruelty and suffering to come here, a place of refuge.
What price had my husband exacted for their safety? What had taken place here before he returned to me? Did I dare to ask them what their god demanded in the deserted woods in the moonlight?
Perhaps something had happened after Dionysus left. Some kind of animal attack, a beast of some kind that had surprised them as they dawdled behind the others. I should ask them; follow them now and help them. Shaking myself out of my frozen bewilderment, I made to do so, but even as I stepped forward, I saw other maenads running towards them from further down the path, enfolding them in their arms and leading them away.
I watched them go. If I asked them what had happened, Dionysus would know of it. The only way to know for sure was to do what I should have done the previous night. I knew that I had no choice but to follow them and see it for myself.
30
That evening, we feasted once more until it was so late that our younger sons fell asleep in their father’s arms. The boys’ lashes fanned out across their smooth, rounded little cheeks as they lay tangled in his arms. He looked at me across the table and in that silent, companionable way we had, he inclined his head slightly and we both rose. He carried them easily. He looked so like a man at times like this, with his face gently flushed from wine and laughter, that I could forget he was a god until I saw him stride carelessly ahead with the three of them. He moved so smoothly, none of them stirred at all. I followed him to the dim room, where he settled them gently on soft pallets together. The moon cut a stark silver line across the tiles of the floor. I felt the cool air fan faintly across my face. He stepped behind me, blocking the light from the burning torches for a moment, and then he was gone.
Through the window, I saw them outlined against the silver glow of moonlight. A long procession weaving up the mountainside. Their thin white skirts fluttered behind them; their hair streamed loose and the low hum of their song drifted in fragments on the breeze to me.
The house was empty. Oenopion and Latromis had made their own way to bed already. Only the little huffs of the sleeping children made any sound at all. I knew that Tauropolis would wake soon with a shrill, hungry cry that would shatter the silence. If I were to follow, it would have to be now.
No one would dare to breach the sanctity of the house of Dionysus. Not even a prowling beast of the forest, a maddened boar or a hungry wolf, would cross our threshold. His divine protection rested on every doorstep, at every window. It kept us safe when he was far across the waves, or when he stole away in the night to the slopes of the mountains with his maenads. Still, I hesitated to leave the children alone in the darkness. In the distance, I heard the hiss of the sea against the rocks and the low, mournful cry of an owl hooting at the stars.
If it had just been what Phaedra had said, I could have dismissed it as malicious gossip. The bright, hopeful girl I had shared my childhood with in Crete had burned to bitter ash, and her words were nothing but the charred flakes of her anger drifting on the wind. She judged all men by Theseus. How could she not? But the bloodied stream, the weeping maenads in the woods . . . And somehow, blended with it all, I remembered the flash in Dionysus’ eyes as he spoke of the altars of the other gods heaped high with offerings whilst he was spurned. That image would not leave me in peace. Was it anger? Contempt? Or the burn of envy, raw and maddening?
There was no decision to make. I turned sharply on my heel. I would be quick; Tauropolis would not know that I was gone. I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders as I hurried from the house, silent as a ghost. The maenads were long gone by now, but I could follow the winding path that wove up the mountainside, and the gnarled oak trees that cloaked its sides would offer me ample cover as I stole closer. The night air was colder, sharper than I expected, and my heart was beating a fast rhythm in time with my hasty footsteps.
In the early days, I had sat beside Dionysus in the clearings whilst the maenads sang and poured their libations. I could not put my finger on when it had changed. True, when Oenopion was born I stayed at my baby’s bedside – and then there was Latromis so soon after. When night fell, I had been rocking an infant in my arms, my own eyes bleary with sleep, rather than climbing a mountain to sip wine from a golden goblet. But I had always felt that I could have accompanied my husband, that my presence would be welcome.
Now I felt the cold stirrings of nervousness; that if I was seen I would invoke his anger, and I did not know when or why that had come about. Where was the bold Ariadne who had stepped aboard Theseus’ boat, her old life in flames behind her and the future unknown? The girl who had unlocked the Labyrinth, the woman who had worn Dionysus’ crown, the mother who had sought every last reserve of strength within her body to bring forth her children into the world? How had I become uncertain of my right to walk upon the hills of my own island, where I ruled beside a god? Why did I sneak so stealthily through the trees, rather than striding confidently to my place at my own husband’s side?