CHAPTER TEN
HE TAKES ME IN SLOWLY, those green eyes bright as jewels and utterly unashamed – though it’s curiosity glinting there rather than desire.
I try to imagine what greets him: my hair is a tangle of finger-combed locks, my once-mauve chiton sun-faded to a slightly hued grey; my grandfather’s blood might have kept my skin from burning in the sun but it’s chapped from sea salt on the wind, and something about this place – the lack of soap, the constant sweat, the humidity, maybe just the change to its accustomed olive oil cleanses – has painful red bumps prickling across my chin and forehead.
That’s fine, that’s good. I tried trading my beauty to Theseus and it didn’t exactly work out for me.
Besides, all I need from him is a boat away from here.
I detangle myself from the curtains and he hums in consideration. ‘If I have a guest, I’d rather we didn’t put them up in the storage huts. For one thing, apparently they replace my wine with water, which is a sacrilegious offence in these parts.’
I startle. ‘I’m sorry, I …’
I realize he’s joking and then burst into nervous laughter. Oh, delightful. My handful of weeks alone have taken my ability to interact with other humans.
‘If you’re done wrestling the curtains, allow me to invite you back to camp with me.
My companions will have likely finished setting it up and I assure you it’s far nicer than here.
’ He nudges a cobweb aside and something in me bristles – like he’s insulting my home of the last few weeks.
Ridiculous, of course, but I’m so thrown by another person in a space I’d considered wholly my own.
‘They’ll be cooking a feast, and you can tell me who you are and how you ended up in my linen closet. ’
‘I broke the handle.’
He scowls – then realizes I’m joking and exhales in amusement. ‘Grab some sheets, would you? We’ll need them if we have another joining us, and I only came to fetch the wine. The maenads will be delighted – they love it when I come bearing surprises.’
‘Maenads?’
‘In legend, my followers.’
I just about manage to cover my scoff. But then he adds: ‘I travel with a group of rather brilliant individuals who call themselves the thiasus. The maenads are the women. Consider me the figurehead and them the revolution.’
Great – another would-be hero with his worshipping flock.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask as I follow him into the clearing.
Out here – without the framing of all that light behind him – he is marginally less imposing.
He’s slighter. I notice those copper curls tumble a good way down his back and he’s thoroughly adorned with jewellery – a gold bangle coiled about a slender but well-sculpted bicep, rings stacked on his fingers, and around his neck sits a band of hammered gold arched to a gentle point that settles just between his collarbones.
It’s all … softer, I suppose. And after Theseus’s blunt attempts at being the hero, prince and man his crew would wish to follow, it’s a welcome relief.
He spins, arms wide, before ducking into a sweeping bow.
‘Dionysus, god of wine and revelry, at your service.’
God?
I stumble, nearly dropping the linen bundle I’d been carrying.
Fantastic – just when I thought I might possibly be headed towards safety, I run into a fool claiming to be a god. I half expect lightning to strike between us to punish his insolence.
His grin – it really is so broad, turning delight into fervour – falls. ‘And of course you haven’t heard of me. No, no, don’t worry. We’re working on the publicity. It’s rather difficult to break through as a new deity these days; the market is saturated.’
I can only blink. I swear I’m normally more articulate – but after weeks of bloodshed, treason, betrayal and a desperate fight for survival, this man feels like a whirlwind. Each word has me dizzier still.
I ignored a good many instincts with Theseus but this one shines bright: Dionysus is trouble incarnate.
He narrows his eyes at me. ‘You’re not a goddess, are you? This isn’t one of those tricks where you pretend to be a woman in distress to see if I offer hospitality, then – poof! – you’re giving me the ears of an ass?’
He steps closer, waving his fingers in my face to indicate, presumably, magic.
‘I am not a woman in distress,’ I snap, pushing his hands away. I am a woman in, at worst, mild discomfort. ‘And I don’t need to give you the ears of an ass when you already –’
What am I doing? Insulting my host? He hasn’t even done anything wrong!
Just … just reminded me of Theseus.
I swallow – hopefully getting my pride down in the process. He is not Theseus. Clearly he is not. They might be similarly entitled but Theseus was a charming, silver-tongued manipulator and Dionysus is erratic, decidedly unsubtle and irksome.
But evidently I’ve become wound so tight that vague annoyance is enough of a strike to start a blaze.
Gods above – or here, potentially – he even looks delighted at my response, like he was trying to provoke me.
‘No, you’re not a woman in distress. You’re …’
‘Ari– Areatha,’ I answer – catching myself as I start and sliding into something else. My father might have put a price on my head. And if Theseus is spreading rumours of his conquest, I’m not sure I need the humiliation right now.
He nods and snatches up an amphora. I couldn’t even lift one empty! And he’s handling one full of wine? It’s lending more credence to the suggestion of divinity.
‘Well then, Ari Areatha, let’s go be revelerious, shall we?’
‘Decidedly not a word,’ I grumble – beneath my breath but still he catches it and laughs. I sense it will be a long evening.
Make camp is an interesting phrasing of make a city out of fabric.
We arrive on the beach as the sun is setting, so that each fluttering sheet captures the dregs of light and appears to glow, soft hums of colour bursting across the sand.
I smell the roasting meat before we even emerge from the trees – and it’s more than just the boar cooking over the fire.
A huge vat is rigged up with some sort of soup or stew, breads bake on skillets above the flames and I can see bowls arranged with various dips and spreads.
I’ve survived, but it’s been weeks since I last enjoyed food – apart from the grapes, and even those were less and less delicious with every day that they were the only things to grace my tongue. So it takes me a moment to notice the people.
A moment longer to notice a few of the men do not have legs so much as hindquarters. Shaggy hides reaching down to hooves. Others have mortal bodies but curling horns, or sharply pointed ears. Satyrs, all of them.
‘By the mercy of Zeus, you’re actually a god,’ I mutter.
‘Never understood that one – Father’s not known for his mercy.’
Father?
A god and the son of the king of the gods, Zeus? No wonder I’m getting the impression he’s thoroughly insufferable.
Evidently my shock was what Dionysus was going for, because he gives a pleased chuckle. Then he turns and splays his arms wide, like he’s presenting me to his followers. ‘Areatha!’ he yells. Then adds in a gleeful yip: ‘I found her in my linen closet!’
‘It was a hut!’ I complain, though judging by the way they all begin discussing my sudden arrival, it’s for his ears only.
Dionysus takes my hand and guides me through the throngs. I let myself be led if only for the promise of food at the end.
He comes to the largest tent, sheets laid like petals, pale orange and faded olive green, like it seeded on the beach and has finally come to bloom.
He raises a flap of fabric for me to duck beneath, even though he may actually be an inch or two shorter than me.
If all those tents form a city, this is its palace.
The sheets arch to a point high above us, right over a hearth that burns bright but doesn’t seem to emit any smoke.
There are piles of pillows almost everywhere, plush rugs – all fabric, all so gentle and inviting.
Portions of the food cooked outside are arranged on a circular table ringed by long, low klines – the sofas draped in yet more fabric like they could not possibly be soft enough.
And then I turn, a yelp catching in my throat – a panther lies sleeping by the door, curled into itself and breathing loudly.
Dionysus nods at the hearth. ‘Gift from Hestia – everyone always asks.’
I glower at him and, after a quick chuckle, he adds: ‘Her name is Sterope. I’m training her to draw my chariot. Do take a seat.’
Somehow, I turn my back on the sleeping panther and all that food tempts me forward. I have to sit on my hands to avoid diving in before he can join me.
He pours wine into a jug and mixes it with water, is about to fetch cups when he sees me.
‘Oh, do start. We don’t believe in denying ourselves pleasure here.’
There’s something about the way he lingers on that word – flirtatious, yes, I won’t pretend that’s not there. But there’s a sort of reverence too – like pleasure is a heavy, weighty thing to be taken seriously.
I reach for the bread and moan as my fingers brush against it. It’s still hot. But before I do anything else I take my plate to the hearth and scrape a portion in – a sacrifice for the gods.
Dionysus is smirking as I return. ‘Thank you.’
I glare, but I can’t hold it long, too distracted by food.
The bread is studded with nuts, steam spiralling from the fluffy insides.
I can’t wait a second longer and the salty, tangy taste dances across my tongue even before I coat it in tapenades and oils.
It’s not only better than anything I’ve eaten in the last few weeks – it’s the best food I’ve eaten in my life.
Dionysus places a cup before me. ‘Did you try any of the wine during your stay?’
‘No.’
I’d toyed with it – been desperate at points – but I was so acutely aware of the danger of being by myself in the middle of a gods-touched forest on an uninhabited island that logical Ariadne – who couldn’t be quiet for even five minutes – outweighed oh please it might be fun Ariadne and kept those amphorae sealed.