Ariadne(85)

I ran back to the house, as fast as my feet could carry me.





31


I watched my children sleep that night until the pink line of the sunrise on the horizon burned my heavy eyes. I watched the rise and fall of their little chests and the fluttering dreams play out across their smooth eyelids. I remembered the Minotaur, stalking rats in the stable in his infancy. I recalled their shrill squeaks as he pounced and the squirming of their entrails spilling across the dark earth of the floor. I thought of flesh splitting and bones pulled from sockets and blood soaking through the thin white dresses that the maenads wore. I thought of tendons and gristle and the squalid, foetid ugliness of the world. I dragged my knuckles against the bruised-feeling flesh around my eyelids, wondering if I would ever close them again without seeing Dionysus’ face stark and staring in that cold silver light.

The children awoke, clamouring for breakfast, for cuddles, for their favoured toys. Despite the lead weight of fatigue, I welcomed their chatter and their demands. More than anything, I clung to the feel of their arms clamped around my neck and I breathed in that special scent at the crown of their heads, the sweet smell of my babies. When they had eaten, Staphylus went into the olive grove at the back of the house to play at hunting, whilst Thoas busied himself looking for sticks with which to hit the tree trunks and make a noise pleasing only to himself. I strapped Tauropolis to my front and went to gather grapes from the heavy branches in the vineyard. It was usually a task I enjoyed, but today their sweet stink made me wince at the memory of the fermented air in the clearing, the night before. Heavy, ominous-looking clouds were gathering on the horizon and the air felt ready to explode with heat. I yanked the clusters down and filled my basket until I became aware that I was being watched.

No trace remained of the revels. Her skin was clear and unstained, her hair no longer clumped and matted with dark clots. No dimples today, though; her face was serious and unsmiling. She looked so young – perhaps the same age that I was when I first found myself on Naxos. It seemed so very long ago.

‘Euphrosyne?’ It was a tentative question, though I was sure I had it right. Her name meant joy, or merriment. It had seemed to suit her when I had seen her arrive, wreathed in smiles. I was not sure what name would encapsulate the smooth, blank mask that had transformed her features last night.

She nodded. She seemed uncertain, unsure of how to approach me. I wondered if she knew what I had seen. I wondered why she had come to this island. Had the lure of blood and ecstasy in the midnight woods brought her sailing over the glittering blue waters?

I wondered why she was here now, in the vineyard. A wave of tiredness was swelling within me and I passed a hand over my eyes, wishing that I could lie down and sleep. I was not in the frame of mind for carrying on a conversation, and her reluctance to speak irritated my already inflamed mood.

‘I wonder . . .’ she began and paused.

‘Please speak,’ I said, impatience no doubt audible in my frayed voice. I saw her eyes widen a little. I sighed. I gestured to the stump of a tree, wide and flat and worn smooth. ‘Let us sit a while. The day is hot and I slept little last night. I wonder how you rested?’

Silence fell between us. She did not answer the question, though she sat beside me. In her fist, she pleated a section of her skirt. She was afraid of me, I realised. I was the wife of Dionysus, of course, and she was anxious not to anger me. Did she think my fury would incite Dionysus to burn her to cinders? As though I had the vengeful spite of Hera, and Dionysus the broiling ferocity of Zeus. We were not like them; we had always told ourselves so, and I had wrapped myself in the comfort of that belief.

‘I think that I saw you last night – a flash of your hair, in the trees,’ she began haltingly.

I took a deep breath. So I had been spotted, even if just in a half-remembered fragment of the frenzy. And now this poor girl didn’t know which way to turn lest she found herself trapped in the argument between a god and his wife. ‘So why do you come to me, rather than my husband?’ I asked her.

She looked up at me. ‘You don’t take part in the rituals.’

‘They are not to my taste,’ I replied. ‘I would be glad, though, if you did not mention this to Dionysus.’

‘I will not tell,’ she answered instantly.

Although I’d been annoyed by her presence and I still didn’t really understand why she’d come to me, I wanted to know something of her. The questions burned within me; I needed to know why someone who looked as innocent and sweet as she did would take pleasure in what I’d seen in that clearing. So I asked her to tell me what had brought her to Naxos, why she’d left her life behind her to follow in the golden footsteps of my divine husband.

‘I lived in Athens,’ she told me. ‘My family was poor; we barely made enough to feed ourselves from day to day. One poor harvest, one bad winter, my father would always say, would be the end of us. He prayed to Demeter to make our paltry crops grow and yield us what we needed to survive. When I reached my sixteenth year, he told me I would be married and no longer a burden to him, though heaven only knew where he would find gifts enough to induce any man to take me. The husband he chose for me had cold eyes, like flint. I did not like him and I cried, but my mother was worn and tired and had no words of comfort, for the long, hard years had starved her of any kindness. I did not dare show any sign of dissent to my father; I knew what the consequences would be. And so we were married and I hoped that when I had a child of my own, I would have something to love at least. My womb swelled and I felt the baby kicking when I cradled my hand against it. I knew that little life was communicating with me, was telling me how it could not wait to be out and in my arms. I had no fear when my labours began. It was long and hard but I felt nothing but excitement. When they laid my baby daughter in my arms . . . I cannot describe it to you.’