Ariadne(9)

I would not think of the seven young men and seven young women who would be bound and brought to us across the seas in black-sailed ships. I would not imagine the terrors of the Labyrinth: the dank, airless stench of death and despair, and the tearing of teeth through flesh. As one harvest passed and then another, I turned my face to the twilight sky and sought out the constellations that the gods had etched across its great bowl; the shapes of mortals they had toyed with, picked out in pretty lights.

I would not think. I danced instead.





3


I was a girl, you see, of just eighteen and lucky to still be able to call myself such. I had led a sheltered life, veiled and hidden behind high walls. I was lucky that my father kept me as a prize he had yet to bestow; that he hadn’t traded me for a foreign alliance, bundling me on a ship bound for distant shores to spread his influence afar, sold like a dumb beast at market. But that was all about to change.

Minos was known for his cool, emotionless judgement. Never had I heard him rave, overcome with passion. Likewise, I could not think of a time when I had heard him laugh. Not for him the indignities of feeling; there was no danger of any love or kindness clouding his vision when it came to choosing who my husband was to be. Cold rationality alone would determine it.

‘I hope it’s not someone old,’ Phaedra said one day as we sat in the courtyard overlooking the ocean, distaste flickering in every syllable. ‘Like Rhadamanthus.’ She screwed up her face. She was thirteen years old and considered herself quite the expert in anything and everything, most of which she mocked.

I laughed, despite myself. Rhadamanthus was an elder of Crete. Minos took no advice from anyone, but he did allow the ancient, venerable noble to dispense judgement over the petty quarrels and grievances that were brought daily to his court. Rhadamanthus’ rheumy gaze was still sharp when any wrongdoers were brought before him, and though his papery, wrinkled hands trembled when he jabbed his finger at them, the most petulant and aggrieved complainants would be stilled in fear of his words.

I considered his wispy grey hair, his watery eyes and the sagging layers of skin folding over and over. But I remembered when Amaltheia, wife of the farmer Yorgos, had come before the court to plead for Rhadamanthus to intervene against her husband’s cruelty. Yorgos had paraded, puffed up and blustering, insisting on his rights to discipline his household as he saw fit, to the nodding approval of all spectators who bristled at Amaltheia’s audacity. But Rhadamanthus had narrowed his eyes and looked long at the self-important man, striding up and down, his great muscles bunched at his shoulders, and at the weight of the fists he clenched and swung as he spoke. He looked at the frail, weeping woman, curled in on herself, bruises blooming at her neck like the shadows of flowers.

And he spoke. ‘Yorgos, if you beat a donkey it would not grow stronger. It would not be able to bear greater loads; in fact, you would weaken it. It would cringe away from you in fright when you came to feed it and would grow thin and trembling. When you came to load it with your goods to take to market, it would collapse beneath the weight it used to carry with ease. It would become useless to you.’

Everyone could see that Yorgos was listening. None of his wife’s heartfelt appeals to his sympathy and compassion had moved him in the slightest, but the words of Rhadamanthus had caught his attention.

Rhadamanthus leaned back in his tall chair. ‘This woman could bear you sons. In your old age, they will take on the burden and labour of your farms. But a strong son is a heavy load indeed for a woman to bear, and if you continue to treat her as you do, like the donkey she will weaken and she will not be able to bring you such a gift.’

Perhaps many women would not take heart at being compared to a donkey, but I saw the faint light of hope dawn in Amaltheia’s eyes. Yorgos hemmed and hawed as he turned Rhadamanthus’ words over. ‘I see your point, noble lord,’ he said eventually. ‘I will think over your words.’ When he turned to his wife, he did not yank her harshly by the shoulder but held out his arm for her to take, with a clumsy attempt at solicitousness.

A barely perceptible ripple of disappointment seemed to sigh around the court from the assembled men who had gathered to see more of a spectacle than this. I could still see their hungry eyes, fixed on the desperate woman. ‘Perhaps there are worse than Rhadamanthus, ancient as he is,’ I suggested to Phaedra.

‘Ugh!’ she replied, making a great array of noises to indicate her revulsion.

‘Who do you hope for, then?’ I asked, laughing.

She sighed, dolefully contemplating the nobles who frequented our court. She propped her elbows on the low wall in front of us and rested her head in her hands, looking out over the rocks. ‘No one from Crete.’

I wondered what ships she imagined sailing over the sea she gazed at now. We had a bustling port; traders from Mycenae, Egypt, Phoenicia and beyond the limits of our imaginings flowed through endlessly. Along with the sea-swarthy captains and merchants with their sun-roughened faces squinting in the bright glare of a Cretan noon came smooth-tongued princes and sleek nobles arrayed in fine fabric and glimmering gems. As well as swathes of sumptuous cloth, mountains of glistening olives, amphorae of the rich oil pressed from them, brimming sacks of grain, and panicky, skittering animals being led from the decks. Who was to say that one of them did not seek to trade their treasures for a daughter of King Minos – all the prestige of our honourable bloodlines laced with the exciting frisson of our family scandals? Fear and fascination brought them to Minos’ court; to the prospect of bringing home a piece of that intermingled glory and horror, to associate themselves with the power it commanded. But if any had asked for my hand or Phaedra’s, young as she was, so far Minos had refused. He could afford to take his time and consider what match would bring him the most advantage.