Ariadne(96)

‘I am indeed Ariadne, wife of Dionysus,’ I answered.

Perseus nodded courteously. ‘I apologise to you for my rudeness. I do not mean any offence against you, dear lady.’

‘Then why are your gates closed to my husband, your brother?’ I asked.

I had expected to despise Perseus. Another hero in the mould of all the others – son of a mighty god, vanquisher of monsters, reckless when it came to the consequences. Did he care what had happened to Medusa? Or did he just enjoy the supremacy her stolen head gave to him? He looked so unexpectedly mild; not the swaggering fool I had anticipated.

‘Your husband reminds us all that I am, indeed, a son of Zeus,’ he answered. ‘Like him, I was born of a disgraceful union, a terrible insult to the faithful Hera. I know what suffering it causes her to see us, the living proof of the temptations that persuaded her great husband to stray from her side.’ He looked coldly at Dionysus. ‘But unlike you, my brother, I do not flaunt this in her face to intensify her agony. I made amends to the goddess. I built a mighty statue of her and a temple where we make sacrifice in her honour. She has looked kindly upon me. She forgives me for my birth and graces our city with her patronage.’

I saw it then. Perseus, son of Zeus but with no divinity of his own to give him protection against Hera’s wrath. Even Dionysus had not been able to withstand her torments once. What hope would Perseus have against her? I understood his fear. She could have rubbed his city to dust between her fingertips, and worse besides. He had only to look at the other unfortunates born of Zeus’ transgressions. Blood, anguish, loss and death heaping up around them. Indeed, he only needed to look up at the night sky to see some of them frozen there forever.

So Perseus had to choose between offending Hera and offending Dionysus. A terrible dilemma for a mortal man. I could see the strain of it in his eyes as he so implacably tried to rebuff us. It must infuriate Dionysus to see how much more powerful Hera’s sway was than his own. Now I could see why Perseus had been such a thorn in his side; an irritation that he could not swat away. A battle he could not bear to lose.

Dionysus snorted loudly. ‘That jealous old hag,’ he said. ‘I thought more of your courage, Gorgon-slayer.’

Perseus recoiled. ‘You bring blasphemy to my city walls. It will not be borne.’

‘What of your blasphemy against me?’ Dionysus reasoned, his tone light with mockery. ‘Your own brother, a god with the power over life and death.’

Perseus drew his brows together. I could see the anger burning within him but he also looked so tired. ‘You have no such power,’ he said. ‘Your followers are drunkards, disgraces, cast out from proper society. Decent people do not want your wine, your decadence, your vices. Your cult is a stain upon humanity. The people of Argos will never submit to you.’

The laughing scorn dropped out of Dionysus’ eyes. Above us, the sky flashed bright white for an instant. ‘You speak frankly,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Allow me to respond in kind. You will regret those words, Perseus of Argos. You cast out a god of Olympus and turn your head away from your own brother. You disdain the wine and the truth it brings. Your insults are petty and weak, like you, but the intent behind them cuts deep. I promise you, the time will come when you will wish you had never spoken.’

The guards had pivoted, closed ranks around Perseus, and already they marched back towards the vast, shining doors. As they reached them, Perseus wheeled round, unable to keep his frustration in check. ‘Be gone, Dionysus!’ he yelled across the space between us. His shout echoed from the high walls, the mountains, ringing back and forth across the plain. The doors closed behind them, the loud clang of the metal making me jump.

My face was burning. Why had I come to be a party to this? I had believed Dionysus’ stories of Perseus’ arrogance. I had thought him another Theseus. I had not been prepared for his quiet dignity or his torment. I would not forgive him the brash hubris of his shield, but I could not help sympathising with the predicament in which Dionysus’ own ego had landed him.

The walk back to the ship felt longer; the silence between us stinging. It was not until we reached our vessel’s sanctity, away from the ears of the maenads, that I turned to speak to him. I knew he would never lose face before his followers but I hoped to appeal to him in private.

‘Let us leave,’ I implored him, the moment we were behind a closed door.

He scowled, poured wine into a cup and drank deeply. ‘Why would I leave? I said that we came here to teach my pompous fool of a brother a lesson. Do you think he has learned it yet?’

‘I think he has learned enough of the gods,’ I retorted. ‘Do you really want to bring the wrath of Hera down upon his head? If she razes Argos to the ground, you will be no richer in worshippers. Leave them in peace. We will go elsewhere.’

‘Nowhere else will do.’ He gulped back his wine, poured another. ‘I want Argos. I will have his subservience. It is what I am owed!’

I ran my hand through my hair, full of dust whipped up from the plains outside the city walls. ‘What about what you owe to us?’ I asked.

He looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You have five sons and a wife on Naxos,’ I said. ‘We all grow older, day by day. You know this and yet you leave us, time after time. Why do you seek the love of the world when you have us only for our brief lifetimes? Why must you seek to force a city into submission whilst your sons’ childhoods drift into dust, nothing but memories that you cast aside?’