Ariadne(92)

The young man nodded; stepped forward, as though he would comfort me, then thought better of it. ‘We will take her,’ he promised me. ‘But, Theseus . . .’

‘You must warn Hippolytus,’ I said mechanically. ‘Tell him what his father believes of him, make him run.’

Horror was stamped across the young man’s face. ‘Hippolytus is riding, down on the beach,’ he said.

‘Which way is the beach?’ I asked.

I knew before he answered.

‘It is in the direction that Theseus went.’ He wrung his hands together. He could not be much older than Phaedra was when I left Crete.

‘Take her body,’ I told him and I ran again.

Rain began to fall heavily from the sky, which was tinged now a lurid yellow. The ground beneath my hammering feet seemed to shake, a terrible rumble groaning from the rocks as I reached the beach; a long, desolate expanse of sand beneath the monstrous heavens. Far away, I could see a young figure on horseback, the great creature skittering with panic, galloping out of control towards Theseus, who stood in the centre of the sand, his arms outstretched to the sea.

‘Mighty Father, Poseidon,’ he was screaming over the roar of the waves. ‘Avenge my innocent wife; punish my misbegotten son for his foul crime of depravity!’

The boiling sea swelled as though it heard his prayer. The stallion shrieked frantically, desperately, its hooves pounding on the sand, close enough now that I could see the foam flecked across its muzzle and the panic in Hippolytus’ eyes as he pulled on the reins.

‘Theseus, stop!’ I howled it at the top of my voice. I could taste blood at the back of my throat. ‘You are wrong, Theseus, do not do this!’

It was too late; he was far beyond me, lost in his desperate thirst for revenge.

A wave towered behind the young rider and his terrified horse; a great green wall of water. It slammed into them, knocking the horse’s legs out from under it. They rolled through the seething mass of water, a tangle of shattered limbs. Where I stood, the water hissed at my ankles, a cold shock against my skin. The force of it had toppled Theseus to the ground, but as the wave was sucked back out to sea, he sat panting on the sand.

Hippolytus lay broken, caught hopelessly in the leather cords of the reins. The horse lay still, a few feet away. Beneath them both, a dark stain spread.

The clouds parted and the earth stilled; Poseidon’s anger was spent.

Only hours before, I had hugged Phaedra close to me. She had been hard and unyielding in my arms, but she had also been so full of life and determination. What could have changed within her? Her passion and her vitality, drained away in the loops of a noose she had tied herself.

What was the truth of it? Had Hippolytus done as Theseus assumed and revealed himself to be no better than his roaming, pillaging, deceitful father? Or had he simply refused her, as I had told her that he would? Whatever might have passed between them was lost now, known only to them.

I left Theseus where he sat, unmoving, staring at his mangled boy. There were no more words; nothing left to be said between us.

At the palace, silent industry was under way. The women had already set about cleaning Phaedra’s body, anointing her with oils, preparing her for burial. My eyes burned with tears that would not fall and my throat was too dry and scratched to talk, but I rasped out hoarsely that Hippolytus too was dead. I bent my head so that I did not have to see their faces. I wrapped my arms around my baby and I shook with sobs that I could not release. I wanted to be gone before Theseus returned; I would not stay in Athens another night.

I do not know how I passed the voyage back, wordless under the stars. I wanted only to be at home, to have never come here in the first place. When we docked at Naxos, I held my head low, unable to look in case I saw Dionysus’ face and read in it any reproach – or worse, a reminder that he had told me only disaster would come from this trip.

I knew his weight, the shape of his shoulder against mine, the feel of his arm across my back. Still, I did not lift my head. I wanted the world to go back to what it was before Phaedra had come here, before I had known anything at all.

He walked beside me, saying nothing. When Tauropolis stirred and squirmed and cried, he took him and soothed him. He kept his arm around me but he did not try to force me to speak until, at length, I turned my face to his.

He was so familiar, so unchanged. No lingering remnant of the savage god of the forest burned in the depths of his eyes. There was nothing there but warmth, love and concern. It was then that my tears finally brimmed over and I wept – long, aching sobs that rattled my bones and choked the breath from my lungs.





37


My husband let me talk without interruption, telling him all that had happened. He only listened. Then he let me sleep, a long, heavy sleep that was mercifully free of dreams.

The next day, he led me back to the beach where we had always walked before, in happier times.

‘If I had known what was to happen, I would never have let you go,’ he said.

I shook my head. ‘It makes no difference.’

He looked at me closely. ‘You were in the clearing that night,’ he said.

Had he known all along? I nodded.

‘Did it make you afraid?’ he asked. ‘Does it still? Is that why you shrink away from me now?’

My arms were wrapped around my body as though I could hold myself together. I had not realised that I was pulling away from him, but I could see now that I was.