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CHAPTER 22

Ariadne slowly became aware of the regular movement of the bed under her. She was frightened at first, thinking the heaving was owing to an earthquake, but the terrible roaring and grinding was missing, there were no crashes of falling objects, and the motion continued constantly without slowing or increasing.

In the first moment of alarm, Ariadne had opened her eyes, but a pain shot from them right through to the back of her head, and she shut them again. She thought muzzily that if she had been struck by something because of the earthquake, nothing was falling now and she must be safe.

By the time she realized the motion was not caused by an earthquake, she had been attracted by the sound of low but angry voices. One was her sister Phaidra's; the other she was less sure of, but as she listened she decided it must be Theseus'. He was explaining—sounding a little weary, as if he had said it all before, more than once—that he was sorry he had hit Ariadne harder than he intended.

"The mob was almost upon us. She was sitting there with that rotting thing in her lap and she wouldn't let it go. Could I leave her to the mob's mercy?"

"I told you not to worry about her. Dionysus would have come to protect her."

"Dionysus!" There was a hint of scorn in the voice. Ariadne stirred, but her body was heavy and reluctant; it was too hard to protest. "Another god made flesh," Theseus continued. "I know she spoke of him as if he were real; you've said so more than once, but did you ever see him?"

"Once . . . I think. It was the day the Minotaur killed Isadore and my mother wanted to push me into his chamber. Ariadne went in instead, but the Minotaur thrust her out. Then Dionysus came and took her away. I was frightened . . ."

"You saw a big man who carried your sister away. I believe that. A god . . ." He snorted. "Even if I believed that tale, I wasn't going to take the chance that she would be injured by the crowd—after all, she saved us both by ordering the Minotaur to stop. I couldn't leave her there."

"Then why not take her to her shrine? Why bring her on this ship with us?" Phaidra's voice was sharp, accusatory. "What will she do in Athens?"

Theseus murmured a reply, but Ariadne didn't pay attention. She was on a ship. That was the reason for the heaving motion. She felt a sense of satisfaction at solving that problem and then the rest of Phaidra's speech struck her. Athens. Theseus was taking her to Athens? Dionysus would go mad when he discovered she had gone off with a man! Kind as he had always been to her, she knew how jealous he was. She opened her eyes again and struggled upright, this time fighting the pain in her head and the nausea it aroused.

"Take me back," she cried. "Take me back to Knossos at once."

Theseus turned and came to the padded shelf on which she sat almost upright. "Thank all the gods that you've recovered your senses. I'm sorry I struck you so hard. I had forgot that the sword hilt was in my hand."

Ariadne's hand wavered to her head and she tried to swing her legs over the side of the shelf to face him, but there was an upright edge that caught her feet. Theseus leaned forward and lifted her out, standing her upright but solicitously holding her steady with an arm around her. Phaidra came to her and pulled her free of Theseus' arm. Ariadne swayed and almost fell. Theseus caught at her and Phaidra pushed him away. Grasping at an upright that supported the deck above, Ariadne pulled free of both. Her headache and the sickness generated by it were beginning to diminish.

Ignoring Theseus' apology, she said, "Take me back to Knossos at once. Dionysus isn't a god who can be scorned or robbed. He's very real and very powerful."

"I know you believe that," Theseus said in a patient, superior voice. "But we can't go back to Knossos. I killed your Bull God, unfortunately in the sight of a whole crowd of his priests and priestesses, one of whom screamed for the others to attack and destroy us. Worse, a crowd of your people, some from the court, who had come to see whether I would pass safely through the maze, cried `blasphemy'—although how it can be blasphemous to kill a man-eating monster, I have no idea. But they joined the priests and priestesses. We had to flee back through the maze and out through the palace to save ourselves."

"He was only a little boy," Ariadne said softly, "only eight years old. He liked stories. . . ." But she didn't continue, only shook her head sadly. "Mother, be kind to him," she prayed, "take him to yourself and love him, for he was innocent." And a breeze, warmer than the air around her, caressed her cheeks and stirred the locks of consecration.

Theseus was looking at her as if she were mad and he went on as if she hadn't spoken. "I have no way of knowing how King Minos will react. With that thing dead and rotting on the floor, I can't see how he can continue to claim it was a true god and that we Athenians must serve it. And we of Athens fulfilled the sentence he pronounced. I brought the tribute and I and the other youths and maidens passed through the maze. Still, if he wishes to claim that we didn't fulfill our agreement and attack Athens again . . . You must see that I must warn my people."

"I tell you Athens is in worse danger from Dionysus than from Minos, and Dionysus can reach it more quickly," Ariadne said. "Take me back."

"Theseus," Phaidra said, laying a hand on his arm. "I'm sure with the Bull God so publicly dead that my father will have more to do than set out for Athens at once. There will be time enough. If you don't wish to sail back to the port near Knossos, leave her at Khania. That's at the very western end of Crete."

"Yes, yes, I'll gladly go to Khania. I'll go anywhere, so long as it's off this ship."

However, Theseus wouldn't listen, claiming that to sail against the wind to Khania and then turn and retrace their path toward the coast of Greece would take almost two days. Still with an aching head and sick stomach and terrified of Dionysus' response to his perception that she had abandoned him and her duties, Ariadne simply sank down onto a bale of some goods and tried to think of reasons Theseus would accept for setting her ashore.

The one device she wouldn't use was to Call to Dionysus. He had told her that he could come to wherever she was, and to Call him would probably save her from his wrath. It wouldn't save anyone else aboard the ship. Within her Ariadne could feel the lash of his rage, the rising lust to inflict pain, to draw blood, to kill. Ariadne couldn't bear that those on the ship should be driven to killing each other. Phaidra was her sister and she was doing her best to convince Theseus to return her. Theseus himself had done wrong, but for a good reason. Ariadne's heartflower was folded so tightly around her heart that each beat was painful.

She and Phaidra argued with Theseus on and off all day, with no more result than that sometimes he turned his back on them and sometimes he laughed at them. However, being caught leaning over Ariadne's bed that night, which made her cast a spell of stasis on him, solved the problem. He fell like a log atop Phaidra, who lay between them on the deck. She clutched him happily in her arms and began to kiss him, until she realized he seemed lifeless.

Phaidra's screams convinced Ariadne to release the spell, whereupon Theseus' arms finished the gesture they had begun before the stasis froze him and reached over Phaidra to Ariadne. Both women recoiled in horror, and Phaidra broke into loud weeping. Theseus denied the implication vigorously, explaining that he had heard Ariadne weeping and just leaned across to waken her.

Since her cheeks were wet, Ariadne was inclined to accept the excuse, although she was coming to believe Theseus was the kind to bed any pretty woman he saw. In this case it was ridiculous. Her sister was between her and Theseus and any hope of a quick coupling, even with an accomplice far more willing than herself, seemed out of the question.

Phaidra was less reasonable. She accused them both of behavior that was totally impossible, considering the short length of time Theseus had been in Crete and that Ariadne did not live in the palace. She wept and she cursed and then withdrew into offended silence. Theseus was, in Ariadne's opinion, amazingly patient—although she realized later that he was flattered by Phaidra's jealousy—but for her own reasons Ariadne aided and abetted her sister.

Soon, Ariadne saw, Theseus bitterly regretted whatever attraction he had felt for her, whatever notion that he could have both sisters—one as wife and the other as a priestess who must remain unwed. By midafternoon he made it quite clear that he didn't relish a woman who could paralyze him with a word and a gesture and, moreover, he was already contracted to marry Phaidra. Ariadne would have to go. She was more than willing, but he wouldn't return her to Crete.

On that subject, he was immovable. The most he was willing to concede was to sail somewhat eastward to leave her on the island of Naxos. There, he told her, was a temple of Dionysus where she could find shelter, and he promised that he would find a neutral ship that traded with Crete and send a message to King Minos to say where she was. It was plain enough that he didn't believe Dionysus was more than an illusion she had created in her own mind.

Almost, as she trudged up the hill to where the temple had been built, Ariadne wished it were so. Dionysus would be furious. They had parted in anger and he would believe that she had willingly gone away with Theseus. If she Called him, wouldn't he also believe that she had been put aside in favor of her sister and only Called because she had been abandoned? But if she didn't Call at all, would he believe she didn't want him? Perhaps he didn't care. Perhaps he would even be glad.

The high priestess of Dionysus' temple was Achaean, tall and blonde, full-breasted, wide-hipped. She was plainly suspicious of Ariadne, not too willing to believe the tale that the suppliant was the Mouth of Dionysus in Knossos and had been abducted by mistake. Still, Ariadne guessed, the woman could see Ariadne was Cretan and was too cautious to turn her away. The news of Minos' conquest of Athens was still fresh; even a priestess wouldn't wish to offer insult. Moreover, her hesitation to offend told Ariadne that Cretan ships must frequently put in to the port.

Having asked what she could do for Ariadne, the priestess' lips pulled down when she heard that Ariadne had come for shelter and couldn't say for how long. Clearly she was sorry she had given even so cold a welcome. How, Ariadne wondered, could I say for how long I will need shelter? What if Dionysus doesn't come for me? What if King Minos blames me for the Minotaur's death and the escape of his Athenian hostages and won't accept me back in Crete?

Ariadne was fed thin soup and hard bread and shown a small cell with a hard pallet on the floor. Aside from thinking once that she must make sure her own household didn't treat guests quite so frugally, she hardly noticed. She ate what she was given, rested sleeplessly on the hard pallet, and rose obediently when a novice tapped on the doorframe to call her to the evening sacrifice.

Knossos had no such service, but Ariadne rose obediently and followed the novice to an inner shrine, roofed to provide protection from wind and rain. Priests and priestesses were arranged before the altar, behind them a small crowd with various offerings in their hands. Ariadne barely glanced at those. Feeling the high priestess watching her jealously, she took a humble place behind the Naxos votaries, just barely ahead of the common folk.

Not knowing where to look to avoid increasing the priestess's suspicion, Ariadne fixed her eyes forward and saw that this shrine had a statue of Dionysus rather than a painting. The image was amazingly like him. Ariadne nearly turned green with jealousy as her eyes flashed from the image to the voluptuous priestess. Doubtless for that heavy-uddered cow he had come in person so that the artist could see him.

The fine marble of which the image was carved was very white, like his skin, and had been carefully tinted to reproduce his overlarge blue eyes and smiling, rosy lips. It wore a wig of gold-colored hair. Tears filled Ariadne's eyes as she gazed on it. The hair was not brushed smoothly back, but lay in curls on the figure's forehead as it did when they had been running wildly through the vineyards. Ariadne was tempted to push it back. Insensibly the leaves of her heartflower opened.

The air in the chamber seemed suddenly too thick, and it rippled as if a large stone had been dropped into a small pond. On the altar, where the disturbance centered, another image appeared.

"What are you doing here?" the god bellowed, leaping off the altar and bowling over the priest and priestess who held the central positions to reach Ariadne who was behind them. "Where have you come from? Why are you here?" And even louder, so that she was tempted to put her hands over her ears, "How have you hidden yourself from me for three whole days?"

He seized her by the shoulders and shook her so hard she thought her neck would snap. Ariadne grabbed his arms to steady herself.

"These people hid you!" His eyes bulged with rage and Ariadne felt the lash of his fury, felt the stirring of those nearby, heard the low, animal growls.

"Don't you dare!" she shrieked, letting go of one arm and slapping his face. "Don't you dare punish these folk for taking me in and feeding me when I begged for shelter. You have less sense than the Minotaur. He, at least, was hungry when he killed. If you are angry at me, punish me!"

"Punish you?" His hands dropped from her shoulders. "I can never punish you, no matter what you do. You are the core of my life. My Mouth. The one firm place in my universe. So long as I have you, I'm not mad."

The imprint of her hand was red on his pale cheek. Around them Ariadne could hear cries and groans and whimpers, soft scraping on the stone floor as those in the shrine tried to retreat. Ariadne put a hand gently over his lips.

"We don't need the whole of Naxos to be witness to what is between us," she said. "Let's go to where we can be private."

His arms went around her and there was a familiar moment of coldness and dizziness. Then they were in her own chamber. She still held tight in his arms.

"Did you hide yourself from me to teach me that I can't live without you? You didn't need to be so cruel. I knew it already. What do you want of me?" he asked.

The tone, despondent of defense, said he would grant whatever she asked. What did she want? She had a sudden vision of the full-bodied Achaean high priestess and was furiously jealous again.

To add to that, as her fear disappeared, Dionysus having come and she having ridden out the worst of the storm, her body began to react to his nearness, to their touching, and, she realized, to the feeling flooding back to her through the tendrils of her heartflower. Her nipples were hard; her nether lips full and wet. Dionysus' question had cut the cord holding up the sword of Damocles. Her moment of decision was upon her.

"What do I want of you?" she echoed. "I want you to take me fully as your priestess, which you have never done. How have I failed you, Dionysus? Why do you reject me?"

"Reject you? I never have." He reached for her again. "Never. You are my Chosen, my dearest. My Mouth and my safe haven in a mad world I don't understand . . ."

"Dionysus!" She pulled away and seized his upper arms, shaking him slightly. "I've offered myself to you, I don't know how many times, and you pushed me away. Each time I caress you, you flee me as if I carried the plague. Most of the time you won't touch me. For a time you made me think that there was something repulsive about me, but my heartflower doesn't lie. I know you desire me. Why are you willing to lie with every priestess from west to east but not with me?"

He drew his arms across his chest. "Lie with you? But you're a little girl, a child! I may be a killer but I've never harmed a child."

"Child? Are you mad? Just because I don't look like that heavy-uddered cow who is your priestess in Naxos? I am more than twenty-one summers old. Look at me! Dionysus, look at me!"

She stepped back suddenly, unclasped her belt, and tore off her travel-stained gown. She stood before him naked, except for the loin cloth that covered her genitals.

"Look at me," she insisted. "I may be small. All Cretans are small compared with Olympians, even compared with Achaeans, but these aren't the breasts of a child. These aren't the hips of a child. I'm a woman, as full grown as I'll ever be. Haven't you looked at me in all the nine years that I've served you?"

In truth he'd done his best not to see her. He was afraid if he acknowledged her a woman, if he inflicted on her the violent lust that was all he knew—the face of sex that Aphrodite in the Cretan dress had exposed—he would lose the comfort and friendship, the peace and stability she brought him. He'd refused to see what she was now forcing on him. What had been barely swelling buds when he first saw her naked before the altar were now fine, upstanding breasts, round and smooth, the nipples protuberant with excitement; the waist was narrow, the hips broad, the buttocks full. Dionysus drew a deep breath. She was no child. They were not touching, but he felt her heat.

He stepped forward abruptly, lust rising. Knowing no other way, he was about to seize her, throw her down and himself atop her, but she reached out a hand and took his. Her other hand moved, not to grope for his rod or pull up his clothes, but to smooth back the hair that had tumbled over his forehead. Something flowed from her in the cool, silver mist that always enveloped him when she was near, an eagerness that was also innocent, and when she smiled at him, he saw Aphrodite in her guise of love as pure sweetness.

"It will be the first time for me," she said. "Will you be gentle with me, my lord?"

His eyes widened and filled with tears. "I don't know gentleness," he whispered. "Can you teach me?"

Her smile broadened. "We'll learn together." And she tugged at his hand and led him toward the bedchamber.

Dionysus would not have believed so many lessons could be crammed into so short a space of time or be so utterly indelible. He knew he would never forget a single moment of the playful loving that roused without maddening him. He would not forget that coupling, slow, careful, to ease the hurt of a virgin's broaching. Nor would he forget the caresses and explanations that had followed their mutual joy.

What had happened to him—not the satisfaction of his body, which he could obtain anywhere, but the knowledge about himself, the confidence in himself, that he had gained—was of ultimate importance. In the back of his mind he knew that later what Ariadne had given him would bring him balance, the ability to laugh at his self-dramatization. But now, still breathing hard, still feeling the faint tremors in his thighs and groin that echoed his release, he thought that he would have ended his life if he hadn't known he could renew the peace and joy he had found in his union with Ariadne whenever he liked and as often as he liked. But could he?

"Ariadne," he whispered, "why did you run away and hide yourself from me?"

"I never did," she said, cuddling close and resting her head on his shoulder. "Oh, I know I was gone, but it was none of my doing. It was a mistake." She paused and then asked, "Did you know the Minotaur was dead?"

"Yes. Sappho was so frightened because there were riots and you were missing, that she scryed Olympus to beg for help. I came, but I couldn't `feel' you at all. I . . . I thought you blamed me, but the bull-head's death was none of my doing."

"I know that. I was there. And you couldn't feel me because I had been deprived of my senses." She felt him tense and she stroked his cheek. "No, now. There's no need to murder anyone. It was a mistake and meant for the best."

Whereupon she told him the whole tale, weeping quietly when she repeated the Minotaur's last words and shuddering again with horror as she described how his body had virtually fallen apart in moments.

"The spell was undone," Dionysus said, tightening his arm around her, "and as Hekate said, only the spell was keeping that body together. I suspect that gray-bladed sword that Theseus used was one of Hephaestus' iron weapons. Athena has a fondness for Athens and for that family. She might have given that sword to Aigeus and Aigeus gave it to Theseus when he thought his son might be going into magical danger. Iron and magic don't mix well. Hades can manage both, but Hephaestus hasn't Hades' power or art. So, when Theseus stabbed the Minotaur, the spell was broken. But I don't see—unless you lost your wits from horror—why you lost your senses or why I couldn't find you for three days."

So she had to tell him about Theseus striking her to save her from the mob and intending to take her to Athens. Dionysus released her and sat up. Ariadne grabbed him.

"No! Theseus will be my sister's husband. I think she is making a mistake. Athenians seem to believe that women are lesser beings—"

"It's a problem with nearly all the Achaeans. Pentheus wouldn't let the women worship me." His eyes were dark. "Perhaps Theseus also needs a lesson."

"Not that kind!" Ariadne said sharply. "It's too permanent, and Phaidra wouldn't like to be a widow—at least not so soon."

He looked at her. She shrugged. "I didn't take to Theseus. I suspect Phaidra will find him less appealing as time goes on, but after it became known she went into the maze with him and he killed the Minotaur so publicly, it was best for her to be out of Crete. He was better than King Minos' wrath."

"True enough. I was here, seeking you, and I took the form of the Cretan so that I could mix among the courtiers to hear if you had been hurt or . . ." his voice shook " . . . killed. I heard Minos railing against the Athenians, saying that they had broken the terms of their surrender because only Theseus had been through the maze."

"No, they'd all been through the maze," Ariadne put in. "I can speak for them if needful. Theseus explained that when Phaidra removed the illusion, the Minotaur must have sensed them and he began to roar. Theseus' companions then forced Daidalos to open the gate and rushed after their leader to help him. But they didn't know the true path, so they didn't catch up until the Minotaur was dead and I was unconscious."

"It doesn't matter. Minos never set out for Athens. That day his army had enough to do to keep down the rioting. There was considerable fury over the false god." Dionysus' face went stiff and gray. "I thought you were dead. I was afraid that was why I couldn't feel you."

Ariadne sat up, too, and embraced him. "I'm sorry I made you suffer, love. I never intended that. I was only so frightened that you would slay all aboard the ship for carrying me away that I closed my heartflower." Then she put both arms around his neck and smiled at him. "It won't happen again, beloved."

"No," he said, also smiling but with twisted lips. "I doubt I'll have the courage to cross you for any reason."

"But I didn't do it apurpose, not at first." And then she drew a sharp breath. "Oh. If my father is planning to fight Athens again, I'd better tell him that he'll have no easy victory this time. The reason Theseus wouldn't turn and bring me back to Knossos was that he didn't want to waste any time before warning his people and telling them the Minotaur was a false god and that it would be no blasphemy to defend their city with all their strength and skill."

"It won't be necessary. Pasiphae came forth just as Minos was about to judge as traitors those who'd led the riots against him—"

"Pasiphae!" Ariadne exclaimed.

Dionysus shrugged. "She came as avatar. She sat between the horns on the dancing court. The Mother was so strong in her, that she even drew me there."

"Pasiphae," Ariadne repeated wonderingly. "But she was like one with near no mind, a dead thing walking, the last time I saw her."

"No more," Dionysus assured her. "The queen was reborn, stronger than when I first saw you dance for the Mother. But she has paid a price—a great price. She rivals you in beauty no longer. Her body is worn away to bones and wrinkled skin, her face no more than a skull. And it is not her face; it is . . . there was something in it of the face of the Mother in Persephone's shrine."

Ariadne sighed softly. "I don't know why Androgeos died. Perhaps it was Her doing because she desired Pasiphae as avatar or because she desired to curb my father's lust to hold more power. It's not so difficult to know the purposes of the Olympian `gods,' but She is beyond understanding. Or perhaps Androgeos' dying was nothing to do with Her and She simply used another `god's' ploy to punish Athens. Poseidon, I have heard, hates Athens. Perhaps She used that to cure my mother's madness."

"It's certainly cured," Dionysus said. "First Pasiphae made Minos pardon the leaders of the uprising, saying it was just to be offended when a false god was forced upon the people. Then she took them and all Cretans to task for failing their duty. The time to have rebelled with the blessing of the gods was when the Minotaur was first brought before them. She acknowledged her guilt and Minos' for incurring the curse, but blamed all Cretans for grasping at what she and Minos had offered because of pride and greed."

"It's a wonder they didn't leap on her and kill her."

"Not her!" Dionysus shook his head and hunched his shoulders as if he feared a blow. "She shone with power. But then she softened her tone, admitting the Minotaur had been a punishment, but that the evil she and Minos had done had been expiated, that Athens had also been punished for civil unrest and evildoing and had expiated its sin. I have never seen the Mother's will so clearly stated and so . . . so firmly enforced. Every man who had rebelled then saluted Minos as king and renewed his vows of fealty."

"Poor Minotaur," Ariadne murmured. "Poor innocent tool." Then she remembered the momentary warmth of the breeze on the ship and the caress on her locks of consecration. "He is at last at peace and in the Mother's care, I believe."

Suddenly Dionysus got out of bed. "I wonder what excuse you'll find now to refuse to come to Olympus."

Ariadne laughed. "None. Would you like me to come now? I am ready."

He blinked. "Now you are ready? Without even putting on a gown? Why did you fight me for so long?"

"Sometimes it's easy to tell that you are only a man and not a god." She giggled. "You're also an idiot! I fought you because you wouldn't take me to your bed. I had visions of watching a procession of cow-uddered nothings enjoy your favor while I was left alone to the scorn and snickerings of your friends and household."

Dionysus' mouth hung open. He closed it and swallowed. "But I don't bring women to my house. I have enough coupling out in the fields. I—"

"Liar," Ariadne said succinctly. "I saw a woman in your bed when I Called you one morning." His mouth opened and closed again. "And you won't make me believe you're innocent by pretending to be a fish," she continued tartly. "Nor will lying help you in the future. I intend to be in your bed, so there will be no room for other women, and I intend to accompany you when you bless the vineyards and the vines so if coupling is necessary, I'll be there."

"Yes," he said simply, his eyes lighting. "It's better to couple your way. But Ariadne, I'm not a liar. The woman you saw in my bed was Aphrodite. One doesn't . . . One doesn't refuse Aphrodite. And she had come to thank me for a gift I'd given her."

"I forgive you," Ariadne said loftily. "At that time I still was a child and wouldn't have enjoyed you so much."

"You're laughing at me," he said, laughing suddenly himself.

"Of course. I'm not such an idiot as not to know that men will be men. Likely I will have to forgive you many times, but—"

He shook his head and color rose to dye his cheeks. "I won't. . . . It's ugly!" he burst out. "Mostly when I'm finished I feel sick. Those priestesses would have coupled with a dog as quickly as with me."

She came to him and took him in her arms. "Perhaps the coupling and the killing won't be needed if we're together. Here in Crete we only run and dance among the vines. If we are together I hope your divine madness will be turned to other expressions. . . . I See a dais, like that where the sacral horns are displayed, but on it men declaiming and around it in serried rows watchers weeping and groaning and laughing too . . . and learning lessons of the heart. Perhaps your Gift of moving the emotions will go into the telling of tales in a manner so real that hundreds will be cleansed without injury or bloodshed."

"Mouth, I have Seen that also, and never understood it, but I never asked to have it explained, for the Vision has been with me all my life and it always made me happy. Now I know—and I am even happier."

Then he took her, just as she was—as she had jestingly said he could—to Olympus. They didn't arrive in his apartment, however, neither in the sitting chamber or the bedroom she had glimpsed when Calling him. They came into the chamber that had been hers on her visit, but now it was all changed, filled with light from huge windows that were somehow shielded by Hades' glass.

She would have exclaimed with amazement, but she laughed instead. All the fine furniture, the dainty statuary, the elegant carpets that she had accused him of collecting for a woman were here. And when she shivered slightly, more with excitement than cold, he hurried her into an equally lavish bedchamber where the chests yielded up all the fabrics he had taken, all made up into Olympian-style gowns in her size.

Nor, before the day was done, did she need to wonder what she would do with her time. The servants came to her cringing and weeping with joy, begging that she would give them orders as she had during the wonderful five days she had been with them. Or if she didn't wish to be troubled so much that she at least make some rules that they could follow for they were often punished for not knowing what to do.

Ariadne reassured them. She would see that they did their work, she warned them, but she would also protect them from the erratic demands of Dionysus and his guests. So she would have the household in her hands and, very likely, knowing Dionysus and suspecting what Bacchus and Silenos were, the management of the offerings Dionysus chose to keep for himself.

Silenos came and joined them for the breaking of their fast, almost bouncing with joy and planning all sorts of expeditions into the shops and slave markets. They would get a decent cook first and then see about other matters Dionysus would never attend to. Bacchus didn't appear, but later he made an excuse to run into Ariadne in the forestlike antechamber and told her with sly glances that there were lands he would travel alone, serving as Dionysus' surrogate.

Ariadne didn't permit herself to laugh until he was gone. So Dionysus had thrown him a bone and the hungry cur had snapped it up. She suspected the vineyards Bacchus would "bless" produced such bad wine that even Dionysus could not improve it.

Still, later that night she was quiet after they had made love in her rich, new bed, and Dionysus said, "You are not happy. What have I done wrong?"

"Nothing, love." She kissed him tenderly. "I am not unhappy. I was just wondering who would dance for the Mother in Knossos. The time is very near and—"

"You will dance for the Mother," he said. "Do you think I wish to have Her hand fall upon us? I'll carry you to Knossos as often as needed to prepare the dancers, and you can bring the black image here. I'll build Her a golden shrine where the fauns play. Or I'll stay with you in Knossos. I don't care, so long as we're together. I won't be parted from you again, Ariadne."

She turned to him and kissed him. "We'll always be together," she said and, after a pause, went on with strong assurance. "I am a true Mouth and I have Spoken because I have Seen what is in your heart and mine."

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