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CHAPTER 2

"You had better put some clothing on," Dionysus said.

Ariadne looked up at him, startled, because her shivering had all to do with her mother and nothing to do with the cold, but now that he had reminded her she realized that the early morning air was chilly. Obediently, if a little reluctantly, she detached herself from his side, wrapped her skirt around her and pulled on her bodice. Then she knelt down and raised her hands.

"I'm ready to hear your commands and obey, Lord Dionysus."

He had taken up his tunic, fastened the shoulder with the brooch, and pulled it on. As he belted it, he turned to look at her and laughed aloud. "When everyone else fell on their faces, you stood looking at me as if you smelled bad fish. Now you're on your knees ready to obey any command."

Ariadne grinned. The expression might not be respectful, but she knew a teasing tone when she heard it. Her brother Androgeos was an unmerciful tease. "That was because you looked so kind when you smiled at me in the scrying bowl and when you came you seemed proud and cold. I didn't wish to be priestess to a cold, proud god. I was disappointed—but I know I didn't look at you as if I smelled bad fish. For one thing, you smell wonderful, sharp and sweet, like certain lilies in the sun; for another—" she looked up at him through her long, black lashes "—I was too frightened even to fall to the floor. It's not every day that a god appears in front of his altar."

"Maybe not, but don't kneel to me now. I have no orders to give you, only a mild complaint to make."

Ariadne stood up at once and hung her head. "My Lord God," she whispered, "I am very, very sorry you don't think me fit to make sacrifice to you and fulfill you." Then she looked up and clasped her hands prayerfully. "I beg you not to desert me. I swear I will grow up as fast as ever I can so I can truly be your priestess. Let me serve you. I—I love you."

Dionysus, who seemed to be about to wave away her prayer, looked startled at her final words. Then he frowned a little and shook his head. "You mistake me," he said. "I wasn't going to complain about your youth. That doesn't matter any more. I am well content with you as my priestess. But do you have to have these ceremonies so early in the morning?" His expression was now pained, his voice plaintive. "The sun was barely up when you Called me. I was still in bed, and I didn't even get to wash my face or comb my hair—or have any breakfast—before I had to come here."

"Oh, don't go yet!" Ariadne cried. "I'll bring you washing water and a comb and brush and a fine brass mirror. And—if gods can eat mortal food—I can bring you bread and cheese and olives and eggs and cold meat and—"

"Enough," Dionysus said, starting to laugh. "I am a m— god, not a bottomless pit. The bread, cheese, and olives with wine to wash them down will do to assuage my hunger. But do we have to stay here? Is there nowhere more comfortable? Do I not remember—"

He stopped suddenly, remembering all too clearly the visits he had made to this shrine in the distant past. His priestess had always taken him into the hillside behind the painting to her chambers, and they had sat and talked, yes, and eaten and drunk wine. And she had explained to him the Visions that tormented him so that they became real things that he could understand or sometimes even act upon.

"Of course, Lord Dionysus," Ariadne's voice cut into the memory, and she went toward the door he remembered so well.

But she wouldn't be there. Tears misted his eyes. He didn't even remember her name . . . Dionysus stared resentfully at the child who was holding open the door for him; his lips parted to say the spell words that would carry him back to Olympus—and suddenly he did remember. Her name had also been Ariadne, and she, too, had been very small, very dark, and looked . . . why, she looked as this child would look when she was growing old. His soul lifted toward the Mother. Have you given her back to me, Mother? he asked. But there was no answer, no Vision, no touch of warmth.

"My lord?" Ariadne asked softly, plainly puzzled about why he was standing and staring.

He didn't answer, merely strode forward toward the door she was holding for him. It wasn't fitting that natives know that their "gods" prayed to a far more powerful divinity, especially when the "god" couldn't even tell whether his prayer had been answered. Dionysus shuddered as he passed from the sunny courtyard shrine to the dim, cool passage cut into the hillside. It was lit with lamps filled with scented oil. He remembered that, too, now, and steeled himself to face the familiar room empty of the presence that had comforted him, steadied him, in a world where he did not always know what was real and what was Vision.

The door was opened for him. Jaws tight, he stepped past the child who held it and into . . . nothing he had ever seen before. Shocked, he turned back and snarled, "Where is the priestess's chamber?"

"This is it, my lord," the girl replied, her voice quavering in response to his anger.

"It isn't what I remember," he snapped, more angry at himself for frightening her than at her, but as always unable to control his rage or express it.

She blinked as if her vision had clouded, stretched a hand toward him but without touching him, and then smiled slightly. "No, of course not." The quaver was gone from her voice. She seemed older. Although her body was still that of a too-thin child, her face was calm, gently amused. "Each priestess furnishes anew, and you never came in my father's mother's time, so you wouldn't recognize the chamber as it is now."

Ariadne was utterly bewildered by her own calm words. She felt like two different people locked into one skin, a young girl torn between terror and adoration of a powerful and unpredictable god and a woman, guided by a mist of silvery threads that brought to her a tale of pain and doubt and a need for comfort. The woman had spoken to the god. The girl looked around the room and blinked again.

She had been brought to see the shrine and the priestess's chambers within it a few days before her consecration, but her mind had been filled with a mingling of fear and resentment—and hope, too—so that she hadn't taken in what she had seen. And when she opened the door for Dionysus, his expression of hurt and anger had struck her like a blow. The shock had again torn open that flower shape, which seemed to surround her heart, and called forth those silvery tendrils that let her understand his distress. His emotion and her response had so absorbed her that she saw nothing. Now the astonishment and distaste on his face fixed her attention outward, on her surroundings.

Girl and woman came together and she had to bite her lips to keep from laughing. To put it in plain language, her father's mother had been a greedy old bitch, and it seemed as if every gilded gewgaw, every piece of overcarved furniture, every garishly painted chest she had been able to collect was crammed into the room. There was space enough to walk . . . barely, if one was careful.

Ariadne's eyes skipped from piece to piece. Together they were garish and overdone, but each piece alone . . . Oh, yes, every single one, Ariadne thought, eyes narrowing with calculation, was costly. It was clear enough where the revenues of the shrine went. No wonder the priests and priestesses looked a bit threadbare—and little wonder that Dionysus didn't bother to visit Knossos. Doubtless the sacrifices to him were cheap and scant.

Even as she thought it, she knew that wasn't the reason. If he had noticed the high priestess was cheating him—Ariadne felt a sudden chill—there would have been nothing left in the shrine but bloodstained rags. Her Gift told her that she had seen the beginning of that kind of rage when he looked out at the worshipers after he said she was unripe. Terror flicked her and then departed. She had stopped the rage before it blossomed then and again when he saw the room.

The room. "It is a bit . . . a bit too much, isn't it?" she asked uncertainly, realizing that she walked the honed edge of a sword blade with this god. She mustn't offend him and she didn't know how gods lived.

"A bit?" Dionysus replied, staring around. "I have never seen so much ugly clutter in my life. One can hardly breathe in here."

"I'm glad you think so," Ariadne said in tones of heartfelt relief. "I will have it all cleared out."

I'll sell it, she thought, sell it quickly, before mother or father can lay hands on it. I'll attend to the needs of the priests and priestesses so they will look to me as mistress and provider. I'll save the best pieces and offer them to him as sacrifice. And I'll buy . . . she looked up at Dionysus.

"If you will tell me what you remember and what you would like," she added, "I will make sure that the chamber is refurnished so that you are content when you come again."

He shook his head and her heart clenched with fear that he would tell her he wouldn't come again, but all he said was, "It was very long ago. I don't really remember, only that it was . . . comfortable, a place two people could talk."

A tremor of excitement ran through Ariadne. Far from warning that this would be his only visit, what he said implied that he wished and expected to talk to his priestess and that he did so often enough to desire comfort. Chill followed the warmth of excitement. Did she want him to come, this god in whom rage rose so swiftly, so unpredictably? Through that strange flower within her, Ariadne was now certain that the tales were true, that this god could become a frenzied beast. She glanced sidelong at him, so beautiful, so strong. She couldn't give him up, she couldn't! What could she do to tame and control this wild god?

Comfort—he had told her he desired comfort. "This place offers no comfort," she sighed. "However, we can make do for this once. Come, the bathing chamber is through this door. Shall I get water for you, or shall I tell the priests to bring hot water? That will take a few minutes."

His lips quirked. "I can get the water and heat it too. What I need is food. I'm starving."

"At once, my lord."

Rather than retracing her steps, out the door and through the corridor to the priests' and priestesses' quarters, Ariadne went into the bedchamber. A glance told her that it wasn't much better than the reception room, but what she sought was beside the gilded and ornate bed—a twisted cord that hung down from the ceiling. She pulled it and heard, just beyond the wall at the head of the bed, a bell ring. The door in the corner of the room opened almost at once and one of the elderly priestesses, still gray with pallor, looked at her with wide eyes.

"Lord Dionysus is washing," Ariadne said softly. "He's hungry. Bring bread and cheese, olives, wine, honey cakes if there are any."

"For a god?" the priestess whispered, trembling. "What we have is coarse, common food."

Ariadne remembered Dionysus' laughter when she offered what was common to breaking the fast in her father's house. He didn't seem surprised or disgusted with her suggestions, only amused. And he was a big man, with solid muscles. She felt a spasm of doubt about the tales of nectar and ambrosia and a little more sure of cheese and olives.

"Hunger is the best spice," she said. "Bring the very best you have and I'll explain to him, if the quality is less than he expects, that we were unprepared."

The priestess got even wider eyed at the calm with which Ariadne said she would explain to a god, but she bowed and hurried away. Ariadne seized two pillows from the huge bed and ran back into the reception room. A quick survey showed a corner minimally less cluttered than the rest of the room. Left of that corner, a horizontal shaft had been cut to make a large window. Near it was a chair with a footstool and a small table beside it. Ariadne wove her way through the clutter, dropped the pillows beside the chair and began to carry and push away other tables and chairs to make a space.

She was struggling with a high-backed, armed, double bench when from the doorway Dionysus said, "That's too heavy for you. Where do you want it to go?" And came and took it from her.

"Is it fitting for gods to move furniture?" she asked doubtfully.

Dionysus, hair damp, eyes calm, grinned. "The nice thing about being a god is that anything we wish to do is fitting, so you can stop asking me that. Where do you want me to put this?"

"Oh, I don't care. I was just trying to make a little space around that chair so you would not feel so crowded. I don't want anything to disturb you, my lord. The more content you are, the longer you will stay."

He looked at her and a slight frown creased his brow, but Ariadne stood still, face raised to his steady gaze, until he sighed and put the bench down with its back to the chair she had prepared for him. She had already moved three chairs and two small, gilt tables and the space near the window was now open and well lit but without glare. Gently, Dionysus touched her hair; then he went and settled into the chair.

The light from the shaft well was soft, despite a sky of aching blue without a cloud, because the direct light of the sun was blocked by the deep inset. Dionysus looked out over the terraced vines that climbed Gypsades Hill. He knew he couldn't read hearts like Aphrodite, but he had no doubt that Ariadne truly desired him to stay. That eagerness to be with him made him uneasy. Few, even among the Olympians, sought his company; rather they looked at him sidelong, asked what he wanted, gave it to him, and waited for him to go. And natives were only trouble, he knew that—even his own dear priestess, who had died.

What would this priestess ask for, he wondered cynically. Natives prayed and sacrificed, but they expected a return. She had already asked him to bless the vines and the wine. He shifted in the chair as if he would rise, but he remembered that his dear priestess had asked that of him too, and, indeed, it was little trouble, actually a joy, to make the grapes full and sweet and the wine rich and potent.

A small tinkling drew his eyes to the doorway and he saw Ariadne go quickly and take a tray from a kneeling priestess so she could serve him herself. He remembered suddenly how she had said, "I—I love you," and an odd sense of peace came over him, until it was tinged with pain because his priestess would never again come and sit beside him. But Ariadne was very young, he told himself. There was little danger of losing her for many years—only . . . could she bring him the peace that his old priestess provided?

He watched Ariadne's coming with the tray. She set it down on the table beside him and sat on the pillows near his chair. He reached for the wine, tasted it, and winced.

"Please forgive us for the coarseness of the provisions," Ariadne said. "You have been too long away from Knossos, Lord Dionysus. The wine is not what it once was."

"I was angry," he replied softly, took a bite of cheese, an olive, and some bread. When he had swallowed, he said, "I thought my priestess had turned away from me because she no longer Called. I didn't realize she had died. . . ."

"And you didn't hear the new priestess?" Ariadne shook her head and looked troubled. "Something must have been forgotten in the ritual."

"No, I don't think it was the ritual," Dionysus said. "I think it was the priestess herself. Some don't have the power to Call, some do. You do." He ate in silence for a while, then noticed her watching him. "Are you hungry, too?" he asked.

She smiled. "I was offered food and I was too frightened to take any. But you've been so kind, and I'm not afraid any more. Yes, I am hungry."

He laughed. "Then bring your pillows around to the other side of the table and eat. There is surely enough here for two . . . or three or four."

"Thank you."

Ariadne obeyed him promptly and took some cheese and olives, but there was only one cup. She looked around and soon noticed a small decorative bowl. Setting down her food, she took that and, after wiping it, filled it for herself and sipped from it. The wine was terrible. That was wrong. The best should be offered to the shrine of the god of wine. And she would see that it was—if Dionysus kept his promise and the vines blossomed well. She looked up at him.

"You won't forget, Lord Dionysus? You will come to bless the vines?" she asked anxiously.

"If you remember to Call, how can I forget?"

"Is it true that I can Call you?"

"You did this morning, but if you doubt it, why don't you try again?"

"But you're here beside me."

He shrugged. "Go to the end of the room and Call me, silently, with your mind only. I'll close my eyes so I can't see from the expression on your face when you Call. Let's see if I hear you."

He had said it wasn't the ritual, but Ariadne filled her bowl with wine and carried it to the far end of the room. There she looked into the bowl and in her mind Called, "Lord Dionysus, hear me."

Dionysus started and winced. "Stop. I hear you."

Ariadne almost dropped the bowl because his face had appeared in it and his voice seemed to come from it. "Oh," she breathed. "I saw you in the wine. And I heard you speak from the bowl. I do—I must have the power to Call you."

He watched her come back toward him. She walked more lightly, more gracefully than his old priestess, but oddly the spirit in her seemed to have more weight. He thought she had more power. That "hear me" had rung like a blast of brass horns in his head. And she was very young. He wondered what more she could do than Call to him.

When she was settled on the pillows beside him and had eaten some cheese and bread and a few olives, he said lightly, as if it were of no importance, "I've had the strangest dream. I've Seen a white bull, huge and very beautiful, walk up out of the sea and come, all of its own will to a man in a lordly gown, wearing a crown. It walked with him into the land and went, without being led, to a great shrine. There it knelt at the altar, ready to be sacrificed, but he who wore the crown did not pick up the double axe laid ready. Instead he urged the bull away, leading it some distance to a green field upon which grazed a herd of lovely cows."

He paused a moment when he heard Ariadne gasp, but she had bowed her head so that her face was hidden. He waited expectantly for her to speak, but she didn't, and he was bitterly disappointed. He was wrong, he thought, she wasn't Mother-sent; but a kind of desperation seized him, a need not to give up, and he went on, "And the bull ran out to the cows and coupled with them, but it was as if what should have made him content cast an evil spell. A man's head appeared under the bull's horns and he turned on the cows and gored them, and then he trampled the herdsmen who came to drive him away. Finally he ran into the countryside and wrought more destruction, tearing up gardens, overthrowing houses, and killing those within . . . whom he tore apart and ate. Day by day he grew larger and stronger and more vicious. . . ."

Dionysus' voice drifted away and he shook his head, beaten by her silence. "It doesn't sound like anything." His voice was no longer light and he shivered hard, once. "I cannot say why, but there is a sense of horror about it, like a doom drawing closer and closer . . ." He shook his head again and he sounded angry and resentful when he said, "I hate it! It's awful because it doesn't make any sense, and yet I have dreamed it over and over for nearly a year."

Torn by conflicting loyalties, Ariadne had at first been afraid to speak, but Dionysus' need was too powerful for her to resist. She lifted her head. "I know what it means," she whispered. "Well, not all of it, but—"

He had turned away after his painful confession and had been staring out of the window. When she spoke, he twisted his head sharply to look at her. "You've gone all pale," he said.

"The bull from the sea, it was here on Crete that it came ashore."

"A real bull? Out of the ocean?"

"Yes, a real bull, all white, as you said, came out of the ocean. I saw it myself."

"How? Why?"

Ariadne caught a glimpse of the intensity of his look; she thought that if he could have eaten her with his eyes, he would have done so. However, she felt no fear; her attention was distracted to a whole mist of silvery threads that played about her, rising and falling, touching her, touching him.

"The bull came to my father. He was the eldest son but his brothers Radamanthys and Sarpedon wouldn't agree that he should be king of all. They wished to divide Crete. My father knew that although he and his brothers would manage well, in the future that division would cause great harm. Still he didn't wish to fight his brothers, nor, to tell the truth, did they wish to fight him, so my father went to the shrine of Poseidon and prayed to the god to send him a sign that he, and he alone, was meant to be king."

"Poseidon!" Dionysus exclaimed.

Ariadne clasped her hands tightly, but her voice was steady as she went on. "And from a trance, the priest of Poseidon told my father that his sign would be a white bull that would rise from the sea and go with him. And that bull was to be sacrificed to Poseidon."

"One is better off not meddling with Poseidon," Dionysus said thoughtfully. "But he sent the bull?"

"Yes. Just as you Saw it in your dream. The bull came from the sea. Half of Crete saw it rise from the waves, and Radamanthys and Sarpedon bowed down to my father and accepted him as king."

"But if the bull was sacrificed—"

"It was not," Ariadne said. She started to look away, but Dionysus caught her chin and held her face so that her eyes met his. "My father was seduced by its beauty. He couldn't bear to put the axe to its neck. He sacrificed three fine bulls at the altar of Poseidon's shrine, but not that bull."

Dionysus stared into Ariadne's eyes a moment longer, his face now blank as a marble mask, and then looked away out the window. Ariadne licked her lips and waited. He didn't look angry, she thought, although he might be after her confession that her father had cheated the god who had consented to help him. Would that not connect in his mind with the priestess who used what came to the shrine to enrich herself instead of offering it to her god? But the silver threads had subsided, although she could feel that the flowerlike place where they usually nested was open wide. Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips again as they dried with the thought that he might be disgusted with her for betraying her father to him. Her lips were forming her defense when he turned toward her.

"Ah," Dionysus said; his eyes were bright and clear—and completely sane. "Now I understand why I have been dreaming of the bull coupling with the cows and then changing to a monster and destroying everything. And the man's head—" he frowned "—but the face was not Poseidon's."

Ariadne shook her head. "I don't understand that, my lord. It's as if something is missing from the dream." But she was hardly paying attention to what she said. Her attention was still fixed on her own anxiety so that she went on quickly, "I hope you don't think it wrong to have spoken of my father's sin to you, my lord. When I was consecrated priestess this morning, he told me that I was no longer his but yours. Ahead of his right as king, as father, as blood of my blood, my first loyalty, my first responsibility, is to you. Is that not right?"

The slight look of puzzlement he had been wearing shifted to a clear expression of satisfaction when she spoke of her father relinquishing all right to her, and she remembered the rage that had roused in him when he thought she wasn't the best her father and mother had to offer. There was kindness and gentleness in him—he had shown enough of them to her—but to belittle or overlook him was to rouse a monster. This was indeed a jealous god, but she wasn't afraid of that. He was first for her. She had no need to pretend or to worry about that pretense showing. Praise and admiration was what she felt, and praise and admiration would keep Dionysus calm.

"You are mine and only mine," he said sharply, confirming her thoughts. "No one has any claim to you but me. Your father can be no more than any other man to you."

"He isn't," Ariadne affirmed steadily. "You are all men and all women, too, to me. You are all in all. My god."

Dionysus nodded. "That is how it must be. How else could you serve me and speak of my Visions? For they must be told to free me of them. You must warn your father, as my Mouth, that the bull from the sea must die on Poseidon's altar or great evil will follow."

Ariadne swallowed hard. "I must speak of this Vision to my father?" she said faintly.

"He must be warned."

"He has been warned. Poseidon's priest has told him over and over that the bull must be sacrificed. He won't listen. He says he must have cattle bred from that animal."

Dionysus caught her chin again. "You don't wish to be my Mouth, to speak to your father of my Vision?"

"I do wish to be your Mouth, my lord, but I am also afraid to speak of this Vision."

"Why? You are mine, under my protection. Of what are you afraid?"

Ariadne took a deep breath. "My father spoke the words of renunciation that are part of the ritual of consecration, but I know that to him those were only words. I have been thirteen years his daughter; he expects silence and obedience from me. I have felt your presence; your touch is on my soul. His awe at seeing you, will be short-lived, I fear."

"You mean he will punish you if you say I told you that the bull must die?" Dionysus' voice was dangerously gentle. "He won't do it more than once."

Minos touch his priestess? Dionysus smiled. He could almost See his human hounds coursing on Minos' trail, hear the king's screams as his flesh was torn. Then, because he still held her chin, he felt Ariadne shiver convulsively; he looked and saw her eyes close. Tears ran from under her lids. She raised them and looked at him without trying to wipe the drops away.

"You are my god," she said. "You are first in my mind and in my heart, and I will do as you bid me regardless of punishment or any other ill. But, Lord God, Minos is my father. Whatever you do is right, and yet, I cannot bear that he should be hurt because of me. He's not an evil man. In most things he is noble, just, even generous. It's only this accursed bull that has seduced him from the proper path. I will be your Mouth and speak your warning, but I beg you, Lord Dionysus, if he will not hear and obey, admonish him gently."

For the third or fourth time that morning the red frenzy that had begun to flicker behind his eyes faded to nothing. Dionysus cast a rather bemused glance at the lovely face—a little marred with tear streaks and smudges of kohl—that was raised pleadingly to his. Most often when he felt Called to mingle with the natives, the Call ended in trouble—an orgy or a murder—but that had not been true when his priestess had Called him in the past, and it was not true with this priestess either. He ran a knuckle down her tear-wet cheek. She was so very young, so very beautiful. What did it matter if she didn't speak the Vision that had come to him?

He was shocked by the thought. What did it matter? If she didn't speak he might go on dreaming of or Seeing that man-headed bull until proper warning was given. He frowned. But warning had been given. The priests of Poseidon had told Minos that evil would come of the bull if Minos didn't sacrifice it. He hadn't known of that warning, but he knew of it now. Surely that would be sufficient. He felt remarkably relieved. If that warning was sufficient, Ariadne wouldn't have to confront her father, Minos wouldn't be tempted to punish her, and he wouldn't be required to chastise Minos for treating his priestess with a lack of respect.

He smiled down at Ariadne and patted her shoulder. "All's well. If Minos has been warned already, there's no need for you to speak to him about the matter—at least, not now. If the Vision recurs, you may have to relate it to Minos, but for now . . . Poseidon is very well able to deal with those who disobey him. Probably he wouldn't even thank me for my interference."

His hand still lay on her shoulder; she bent her head and kissed it. "You are merciful and indulgent, my lord."

It was heartfelt praise, but Dionysus realized it was also too true. He was too comfortable, too happy, sitting with her beside him, nibbling olives. He had already made her need his purpose. He suspected if she asked for anything else, he would be sorely tempted to give that to her also. Discomfort warred with ease and satisfaction, warning that the pleasure she gave him made him vulnerable. Suspicion pricked him, making him so uneasy that he began to feel disappointment was better than doubt. Smiling, to hide his disgust—at her? at himself?—he made an offer that would taint his happiness and comfort and armor him against her.

"I'm now indulgent," he said. "You would be wise, since my mood is so good, to ask for what you desire from me."

"What I desire?" She shook her head. "But I have asked for that already, my lord. You said you would come and bless the vines and the wine. You will, won't you?"

"Yes, I'll do that as I promised." He stood up. "But I meant you should ask something for yourself."

"For myself?" She rose too, her hand clinging to his as it began to drop from her shoulder. Her face flushed slightly and her eyes were magnified by tears. "You're making ready to leave. I know I mustn't beg you to stay. You are a god and have interests and duties far more important than me. For myself? Oh, if you would give me a gift for myself, come again, my lord. Come again soon. Come often. That's the greatest gift, the finest gift, you could ever give to me."

She wanted him, only him? Was she then Mother-sent? His priestess come again? Dionysus remembered the pain when her Call no longer came, the renewed pain when he realized she was dead and would never Call again. Was that future misery worth his present joy? It didn't matter; at this moment, he couldn't ignore the fear, the pleading, in this priestess's face, the tears in her eyes.

"I will," he promised. "I'll come to you whenever you Call." And then doubt shook him again, but he no longer could bear the notion of disappointment and he warned, "But that promise will hold only so long as you do not misuse it." And before he yielded even more, he loosened Ariadne's hand from his, whispered "Dei me exelthein Olympus," and "leapt" home.

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