CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
WE ARE LATE ENOUGH TO have missed the majority of the dining, which is well enough when I’m still not convinced someone here isn’t trying to poison me.
As we enter, everyone stills. I’d expected the same group as yesterday, but there are dozens of people gathered – all men, mostly my father’s advisors and members of the influential families of Knossos, but a few visitors too, and my steps falter as my gaze lands on one: obsidian hair, blunt features and a steadily unfurling smile.
The man from Cabarnis.
The one I’m fairly certain started that fire.
I clench Dionysus’s arm, am about to whisper to him when my father stands and I forget everything else but the fear he inspires.
‘Ah, there she is.’ My father has never paid this much attention to any of the women in his life – has always silenced Mother’s pleas for leniency and ignored the existence of Phaedra and me.
It is horrifying to now be the centre of his rage – so much so that it is me he comments upon when I walk through the door clutching the arm of the god I married.
‘We wondered if you hadn’t perhaps left the palace to join that disgraceful retinue of yours, shaming themselves in the streets. ’
Dionysus’s grip on my arm tightens.
‘The rites are a holy celebration,’ I say – wondering if I can couch the debauchery as reverent – and keep its condemnation out of his reach.
Father smiles. I catch a flash of teeth. ‘Wonderful. Perhaps you would be so kind as to share them with us. But first, Phaedra – do play for us.’
What?
Phaedra gives a demure nod and swans up to a half-formed stage, her barbitos in hand.
She sits on a stool, her knees pressed tight, and balances the instrument across them.
In a low, gentle voice accompanied by readily plucked strings, she sings of a bull rising from the ocean and declaring our father king.
Of the daughter of a sun god, bent to his whims. Of a gods-created monster, enacting his will.
It is a song of his might, one even the bards might think heavy-handed.
My mother’s eyes are bright, flickering – flames of rage. And I remember a version of her that hadn’t yet been so worn down, spiriting us away to her rooms so she could tell us stories of our power.
When Phaedra finishes, she is met with polite applause – though Deucalion sits beside our father, a scowl deepening with every clap.
‘Wonderful, thank you, Phaedra.’ Father gestures for her to return to her spot beside him. ‘I think we can all agree a talent like that is a worthy prize in and of itself.’
I look to Theseus, whose jaw is tight as he stiffly inclines his head. ‘Your point has been made.’
‘She weaves well. She is trained in matters of court.’
My nails dig into my thigh. My mother’s divine heritage, little more than a way to bolster my father’s glory. My sister’s talents trotted out to sing of his greatness, or to sell her off. Everything we are, bent into pillars to prop up his own power.
‘So if you wish to marry Phaedra as a union between our two houses, I would welcome you as a friend. But I will not be paying you a dowry as well.’
I am not the only one to gasp, and even Phaedra pales.
I don’t know what the laws are in Athens but here a dowry is not simply money given to a groom for the additional cost of housing a wife. It is insurance for her. That there is money waiting if something goes wrong. That if he divorced her, she would not be left with nothing.
We did this. We implied the dowry was a settlement, a bribe to ward off an encroaching army – and this is my father boldly and publicly declaring that is not what he offers.
Theseus’s knuckles are white around his cup but he nods.
‘It is true Princess Phaedra is a notable talent from a fine house. I would be honoured to wed her and certainly do not discuss this solely out of desire for the jewels of Crete. But I would expect a mutual honouring of this agreement – your daughter does not mean nothing to you, surely, to fling her away without ceremony. An exchange of gifts, of prisoners, of tokens of our goodwill towards one another. That is fair.’
No one reacts without first turning to my father to see if he is amenable to the idea, but he nods, smiling, and it is clear he only cared to publicly assert that Crete has paid no one off.
‘Ariadne,’ Father snaps, and I jolt. ‘You have allied yourself with the barbarian god causing havoc in our streets, have you not?’
‘Pardon? No, I –’
‘God of wine and revelry, isn’t it? So there you are, Crete’s own darling traitor. Please, do show us all what we’re missing. What you left Crete to find – your revelries, your debasement. Dance for us.’
I am suddenly aware I am gaping and close my mouth, trying to claim back some sense of poise here. A heavy, warm feeling settles in my stomach. Theseus did not even have to reveal what happened between us to strip me of honour.
My father is willing to do that himself for the mere implication that I betrayed him.
He has made perfectly clear what he thinks of women who take up space.
He’s spent years hiding us from view. And now here I am: mocked and turned into a spectacle.
Like those bodies at the wall, my degradation is a symbol of his might.
I step forward, but Dionysus doesn’t let go of my hand. ‘You don’t have to do this.’
Yes, I do – the king has ordered it. And tied it to my marriage. I’m either the brazen, indecent woman allied in Dionysus’s pursuit of revelry, or a condemnation of it – and who would possibly follow him if his own wife doesn’t?
A dual-edged blade: my reputation or my husband’s.
I step up to the stage, hungry eyes watching me. A musician strums a lyre.
Already people are chuckling into their cups, but I find Dionysus. This is not just about ruining me in front of the court – it’s about declaring any woman’s pursuit of joy indecent.
So, when I step, I dance with rage – my own burning humiliation turned to fire.
I begin slowly, each movement careful, measured.
And I let it build like my anger, like my frustration – like if I spin enough, the world might settle differently when the dizziness subsides.
My every gesture is lithe, flowing, languid – and the laughter stills because whatever else I am, I am good at this.
I am captivating.
As I reach the moment of the dance’s repetition, Dionysus blocks me.
I halt, and so does the music, the reverberations echoing in the sudden silence.
‘Don’t stop,’ Dionysus says. ‘If we are giving them a show, then let’s do this.’
He holds his hands up, and I recognize the starting move – the dance we created. It is rowdy. It involves clapping and stomping, your bodies becoming the beat. Spinning around and finding new partners, a game as much as a dance.
I place my hand to his and, for a brief moment, the music is only our hands clapping together, our feet pounding on the floor and – a second later – our laughter.
Bubbling up, smiles breaking as we look at each other, and I am so utterly happy he is here beside me, that I am not facing this alone.
That in all my worst nightmares of the man who broke a part of me invading every inch of my life and tearing it all from me, I never stopped to hope for someone like this to ease it all.
Then the lyre begins, the musician finding the beat.
I catch sight of the watching men, some still sneering, but some – more than some – intrigued.
As the music arches back around, at the moment we would switch partners – Dionysus meets my gaze and nods.
I swoop upon the nearest man, offering him my hand, and he takes it instinctively, is on his feet without thought. He suddenly realizes – a moment of clear regret and an uncomfortable laugh – but I force a smile and show him the steps and that laugh transforms.
At the next beat, I turn and there is my mother.
‘Show me,’ she says defiantly. Her eyes are bright, raging fires spun to simmering joy. This is what she always dreamt of. A hall full of dancing. A world in which my father does not shut us all down.
I raise my hand to hers, twirling around on the dance floor, stomping our feet and making noise in this ever-quiet palace. I wonder what my father thinks of this – of her – but in that moment, with her hand on mine and our gleeful steps, I cannot bring myself to care.
At the next turn, a dozen more people have joined us.
At the next, the dance floor is full.
People begin adding in shouts to the moves, cheering each time they clap, making up steps when they forget what is expected of them.
Dionysus climbs up on to a chair beside the man with the lyre. ‘If you wish to revel like the followers of Dionysus – then let’s do this properly, shall we?’ He waves a hand, and every cup in the room near overflows with wine.
I blink away the slowly welling tears as I survey the room – him – raucous and loud and gleeful.
And I understand the strength of the thiasus like never before – revolution in every smile, freedom in every single step.
My father’s control, lifted – there is no way for him to voice his ire when this is precisely what he asked for.
A new hand grabs mine and I spin right into Theseus.
‘That was very nicely done,’ he says, turning me in exactly the right steps. He’s been watching carefully. My palm pressed against his burns. His skin against mine. His touch an infestation, like I am festering beneath.
I try to show none of my repulsion. ‘You must be furious.’
‘No, I’m not.’ He takes a breath, seemingly steeling himself, and then, with forced calm, he says: ‘And I’m pleased we can finally speak.’
‘What can you possibly have to say to me?’
‘You’re upset – that’s understandable.’
‘I was an inconvenience, is that it? And instead of leaving me on one of the inhabited islands or perhaps even discussing it with me, you abandoned me there.’
He nods, like he had expected such a rebuff. ‘I don’t expect you to agree with my reasoning. You are brilliant, Ariadne, and I appreciate everything you did to assist in my victory –’