Claiming Ariadne (22 page)

“Ekhinos needs to find a new story.”

Argurios and Glaukos liberally watered their wine, and offered a libation before drinking. Through Taranos, they complimented the women on the meal. Several times, they acknowledged Ariadne. When she asked why, Taranos proudly explained, “They tell me how lucky I am to have such a beautiful Cretan wife.”

Later, she would have to correct him on that point. She was his consort, not his wife.

Taranos turned his attention to Akuro. “Argurios wants me to tell you that he owns many horses and head of cattle. He also has some gold, many
pithoi
of olive oil from his lands in Mycenae, and some fine linen, but no woman to give it to.”

Akuro remained unimpressed. “If he has land in Mycenae, then what is he doing here?”

Taranos relayed the question, listened as Argurios gave his answer, then translated. “It isn’t as much land as you think. It goes to his grown daughter and her grandchildren. But he isn’t so old, he says, that he doesn’t want a new wife and family. It would cause trouble if he stayed in Mycenae.”

“And he thinks
I’m
going to give him children?” At twenty-nine, Akuro was almost past childbearing. “Can he fix nets?” Poros, her dead husband, had been a net maker and fisherman.

Brow crinkling, Argurios shook his head. Then, brightening once more, he gestured. “He wants you to know that he
is
a fine sailor and fisherman. Poseidon has been very good to him.”

On the opposite end of the hearth, Glaukos didn’t seem to require as much assistance wooing Erawa. Despite his lack of fluency, he exuded an air of self-confidence that made his few Cretan words sufficient. Only once did Taranos step in to translate, only because the man asked him to. “Glaukos says Meri is doing very well. This morning he saw her wearing a new dress. Philaretos keeps his men away, so no one bothers her.”

An hour later the men departed with full bellies and grudging assurances they could come back as long as they behaved. Taranos remained behind. As the women swept and cleaned around him, he sat by the fire with a conspicuous air of self-satisfaction.

Ariadne playfully swatted his shoulder. “You quite enjoy being a matchmaker.”

But he didn’t play along. “My uncle calls me that. It stings.”

“Are you going to push suitors on all the women?” Ariadne nudged his legs with the broom until he moved them. “Many of them don’t want Achaean men.”

“They need protectors, whether they like it or not, and I just happen to know some good men who want good women. Ah, stop tickling my toes! Just so you understand: there are men who’ve asked me who aren’t fit to lick dog shit off the floor. I know what they did here. They raped women and killed children. Let Idomeneus reward them. I won’t be bringing them around.”

“You cleaned up nicely. I was hoping to scrub your back myself.”

His eyes lit up. “Ah, had I known I would have saved something for you.”

“You didn’t have some slave woman in the camp do it, did you?”

“I couldn’t find a single one to help me. Had to do it all on my own.”

“You’re certain you didn’t miss a spot?”

Strong fingers gently grasped her wrist. “Put aside that broom and come upstairs with me so we can see if I scrubbed properly behind the ears.”

When the north wind blew, summer nights in Katsambas were cool enough to sleep indoors. Ariadne had her own cubicle on the top floor, with a narrow, shuttered window overlooking the street. She set down the lamp. But where she expected Taranos to undo his belt and pull off his tunic, he came over and, kissing her, sat her down on the edge of the bed. “Put up your knees.”

Confused, she did as he said, though the unfamiliar posture meant she had to brace herself on both arms. Then, to her further bewilderment, he knelt before her and lifted her skirt. His dark head vanished under the linen. “Taranos, what are you doing?”

Something warm and wet touched her pussy lips. She gasped. His beard tickled the insides of her thighs, but when she realized what his tongue was doing, she hardly noticed the rest. A wonderful thrill passed through her, mingled with a self-conscious twinge. Surely he couldn’t like her taste? And yet—oh! How his tongue slithered through her folds, parting her slippery petals to delve into her slit. She heard him lapping at her, wiggling his tongue, crooning in delight as he ate her pussy.

Her breath quickened. Should anyone pass her room, would they hear what she and Taranos were doing? Wetness seeped down her thighs to her buttocks; his face must be sopping wet by now. How could he breathe under her skirt? She didn’t want him to stop—no, she wanted him to eat her even more furiously—but she knew he must be getting hard. Soon he would want to fuck her, and she’d never been taken this far into a pregnancy.

And then—oh, Goddess!—he opened her even further and spread her petals back until her pearl lay exposed to his tongue. His mouth ravished it, sucked on it, and she couldn’t stop the unconscious thrusting of her hips. Gasping, swallowing her little cries so no one would hear, she rode his face as she began to come.

She was still coming as he pulled away and, frantically loosening his loincloth, mounted her. His cock pushed easily into her wetness. Her legs locked around his hips, even as his arms came down alongside hers. Driven by his thrusts, her body quaked. Just when she should have gone limp, the spasms began again, harder now, and closer together. Her pussy didn’t want to quit.

His mouth covered hers, sharing her breath, so when he groaned his pleasure, it passed into her just as his cock pulsed and spurted inside her.

Her arms and thighs, straining from the unusual position, ached when it was over. Liquid pooled around her slit, and she saw her come glistening along his flaccid shaft. She felt wonderfully heavy, blissful with satisfaction. She toyed with the idle fantasy of what it might taste like to lick her juices off him. Next time she would have to get him to withdraw while still hard.

“Taranos,” she murmured sleepily, “what did that have to do with scrubbing your back?”

Shedding his tunic and sword belt, he lay down beside her. “Absolutely nothing.”

* * * *

Whenever Ariadne appeared, alone or with others, the Achaean sentries regarded her with wary respect. So when the women needed water from the well or something from the storehouses, she went on their behalf. In the days before becoming High Priestess, she often ran errands. Doing so now, when she had no ritual duties and no control over the men and their warmongering, gave her something constructive to focus on.

Like Knossos, high summer noon in Katsambas was a quiet, contemplative time. Insects buzzed, children laid down their toys and chores for a restful hour, and the sentries found shady spots perfect for napping—though woe awaited them should Idomeneus discover them sleeping at their posts. Gulls mewed overhead and nested on rooftops. Ariadne, weighed down by a full jug of water, expected to climb the street back to Akuro’s house in peace. She never expected to hear the sounds of lovemaking.

As she passed one house, the sound diminished again. Curiosity piqued, she set down the jug and backtracked. Two steps back and she heard it: grunts and moans issuing through open shutters. Even at Knossos, it was never her way to spy on others, but now, realizing she recognized the husky female groaning, she couldn’t resist.

Commands emerged from the incoherent jumble. “Oh, yes, Glaukos. Fuck me harder, harder.”

Ariadne hovered at the window’s edge, just close enough to make out Erawa pressed up against the wall with both legs wrapped around a dark haired man’s torso. Whether the Achaean understood what she said or not, he pumped furiously. Some things simply didn’t need words.

Erawa certainly hadn’t wasted any time finding a man.

Once inside, she found Akuro sitting at the hearth, staring at the doorway in blank amazement. Ariadne turned, noticed the fresh plaster sealing the hairline cracks over the lintel. “Did you fix it?”

Dazed, Akuro shook her head. “Argurios was here. While you were gone, he just showed up with a pot of plaster and a scraper, got up on a stool, and mended it for me. He didn’t ask for wine or food, just hummed a bit while he worked, then smiled and left.”

“He did a good job.” Ariadne didn’t know what else to say.

“Poros never fixed anything around the house.” Akuro’s brow furrowed, and she whimpered in dismay. “I may have to keep this one.”

Chapter Eleven

On the appointed day, Idomeneus gathered his followers on the beach. Dressed in glittering bronze mail and a boar tusk helmet sporting a horsetail crest, with a deep red cloak flapping behind him, he drove his chariot up and down the lines exhorting the men. At least, that was what Ariadne, who watched with the other women from the rooftops, assumed he did. Taranos wasn’t there to translate.

The cacophony of sixteen hundred men hollering and banging their shields carried into the town. It made the women shiver. Minos Echmedes and his sons were doomed.

“Idiots,” Akuro hissed under her breath. “I hope they’re all killed.”

Ariadne regarded the glowering woman. “Even Argurios?”

Akuro didn’t answer.

Over the next hour, the camp emptied. Sentries continued to patrol the town. Lookouts climbed the heights. Three Achaeans who should have gone into battle stayed behind under close guard; Idomeneus announced that their crimes made them unfit to join him. Ariadne would deal with them this afternoon.

An eerie quiet settled over Katsambas. Life continued in a strange semblance of normalcy. Bondsmen brought fish and produce, the women gathered at the well, and the sentries looked bored. Summer lay heavy on the town. The approaching equinox would bring the grain and grape harvest, and then the olives would ripen.

With Philaretos gone, Meri came to stay with her sister. She wore agate earrings bought off an eastern trader and seemed content with her lot. Erawa, too, appeared calmer.

Three women showing signs of pregnancy opted to take the medicine. Ariadne administered the doses, along with the prayers to placate the Great Mother. At midmorning, Taranos came to tell her that the sanctuary was clean and ready to receive the new doors.

“Is that where you’ve been all morning?” she asked him.

“I watched my uncle rally his men earlier, but yes, I spent most of the morning working.” Taranos picked a splinter from his thumb. “I didn’t think you’d want me up on the roof to translate for you. You and the other women wouldn’t have liked what Idomeneus said to spur his men on.”

By now, Ariadne could imagine what the man had said. “‘Kill the men and rape the women?’”

Taranos’s mouth twitched in a nervous smile. “Not quite. He told the men to slaughter the enemy in the field but spare the town. That might be difficult, seeing as how there are no defensive walls to hold the men back. But he was firm. No rape or pillage in Knossos Town, and no one touches the great palace sanctuary atop Kephala Hill.”

Taranos supervised the installation of the doors, just as he helped select the oak wood used in the construction. Between him and the Achaean priest Idomeneus appointed to oversee the project, the men put to the task dared not deliver anything but their best craftsmanship.

All that remained was to purify the sanctuary and the guilty men. For this, the women donned their ritual best and walked in procession down to the square. Ariadne led them in a borrowed blue bodice and blue-and-yellow flounced skirt made for a shorter woman. Lacking gold or glass beads, which the Achaeans had pillaged, the women twined ribbons through her oiled ringlets. All the women painted their faces with powdered white lead and reddened their lips with ochre mixed with goose fat. Even Kanako wore red suns on her cheeks.

When the sentries saw the bare-breasted women come down the main street toward the well, they leaned on their spears and stared. Leering didn’t occur to them. One look at the High Priestess with her heavy breasts and rounding belly below a chalk-white face, and they drew back. She was elemental, a woman who exercised terrible powers over their manhood. She was a woman to be feared and worshipped.

Dressed in a pale blue tunic and crown of poppies, Taranos met her at the sanctuary entrance. Flanking him were priests of Zeus and Poseidon bearing offerings. Ariadne noted their Achaean features. What had befallen the local priests? Elaphos fled at the first sign of the Achaean ships. Had the other priests done the same?

Painted vessels, all gifts from Idomeneus, replaced the ones shattered during the attack. Each was exquisitely crafted, each held a different bloodless offering, yet it was the opium that most interested Ariadne. Purifying smoke from the sacred opium poppies was just what the occasion required. One by one, the women accepted the vessels to set before the altar. Ariadne herself brought the opium, measured out a portion into a brazier, and kindled the flame underneath. With the doors open to circulate the smoke, any lingering pollution would soon disperse.

Outside, surrounded by guards, were the three men who admitted to desecrating the sanctuary and killing the old priestess. Oh, Ariadne had no doubt they’d also raped the young attendant and that there were more men, but these would do. She slowly approached them, bearing in both hands a
pyxis
filled with smoldering opium grains. Noting their apprehension and being careful not to inhale the drug herself, she blew smoke into each man’s face.

“You have each given the Great Mother Demeter the sweat of your labor. Now you must be purified. You must accept this rite with a whole and contrite heart.” Off to the side, Taranos translated her words into Achaean. “Only when you do this will your blood-guilt be lifted. Should you scorn these rites, you will fail to prosper. Any seed you plant, whether in a field or in a woman’s womb, will wither and die. Your member will shrivel in the act of love. Any sons and daughters you now have will sicken and die. You will receive no nourishment from the grains and fruits of the field, but grow weak and die, though your bellies be full.”

On each face, she read dazed, terrified comprehension as the opium began taking effect. Yes, they feared the Great Mother’s anger. Yes, they wished to be purified; they wished to shed their blood-guilt. Ariadne handed the
pyxis
off to Imena. She drew water from a jug Akuro held and anointed all three.

Ariadne didn’t see what became of the three supplicants, but Taranos would later tell her they’d sweated and screamed in the throes of a waking nightmare that ended only when the drug’s effects dissipated.

Sitting in the shade of the great plane tree, she pondered the sanctuary’s future. It would need a proper priestess. One would have to be sent from Knossos. Nopina, she thought, might do very well.

Those Achaeans who elected to remain behaved themselves, making no obscene gestures or attempts to fondle the bare-breasted women. Laughter erupted from groups of women patiently trying to teach the men Cretan words. Ariadne wondered how they could be so coquettish so soon after their ordeal. Perhaps, like Erawa, they realized they needed male protectors, and decided to become seducers rather than victims.

After some confusion, the men joined in the banter, yet their gazes kept darting to the omnipresent High Priestess.

Taranos joined her. “You have them pissing in their loincloths.”

“They think I’ll make their cocks shrivel and drop off if they misbehave.”

Taranos removed his poppy crown. “Would you?”

“You’ll see when one misbehaves.”

“I don’t care to be that man.”

Ariadne gazed out over the square, where someone had begun passing around cups of wine. “I never expected Idomeneus to give me the guilty men.”

“He gave them to you because he needs Demeter’s favor. It isn’t enough to defeat the Minos. He has to seize Knossos and secure the harvest before summer ends, and he has to make sure that harvest is bountiful. No matter what offerings he makes to Zeus, Poseidon, and Ares Enyalios, the men will mutter through the winter about bad omens if he offends Demeter.”

A sentry pressed wine on them. Bobbing his head and smiling, he offered a cup to Ariadne first. “Sip it slowly,” Taranos warned. “If it’s the sour swill the warriors drink, you’ll want to cut it with a lot of water.”

Ariadne thanked the man with a nod but set the cup aside. She saw the women passing around a pitcher of water. Letting the men get drunk and forget themselves was the last thing anyone wanted. “Are you sorry you aren’t with your uncle?”

Even now, Achaeans and Cretans would be fighting among the vineyards and olive groves, and trampling the wheat under their chariot wheels. Ariadne pictured the denizens of Knossos gathered under hastily erected awnings on rooftops to watch. From Katsambas, only the lookouts stationed on the hill behind the town could see anything.

Taranos didn’t answer, nor did she expect him to.

In the late afternoon, after the women went home to remove their paint and finery, they still had no word. Even Taranos, who accompanied Ariadne back to Akuro’s house, found that strange. “Battles don’t last this long. Maybe an hour, a little longer, but no matter which way it goes, news should have come back.”

More women and their young daughters trickled in seeking news and comfort. Ariadne didn’t have to urge Taranos to talk to them. Rather, she had to keep him from saying too much. “They don’t want to hear what hard work it is fighting in the summer heat. And above all, they don’t want to hear how great a warrior your uncle is.”

Taranos scratched his beard. “I don’t know what else to tell them.”

“Tell them they’re going to be all right no matter who wins.”

“They should know that by now.”

Ariadne groaned in frustration. “How is it you can be so terribly dense sometimes? Don’t assume these women don’t need to hear they’re going to be all right. Look how frightened the little girls are.”

Taranos cut short the soldierly talk and made jokes with the women, reassuring them about the days and weeks to come. Speaking a few words to each, he complimented her looks, her cooking, or the fine man who was going to take care of her. So he’d been playing matchmaker all over Katsambas! Ariadne, helping the girls with their stitches and spinning, wasn’t at all surprised.

Near midnight, as the girls became restless, Ariadne soothed their fears by bringing Mother Rea down from Akuro’s household altar and leading everyone in prayer. “All men and women have mothers. Even the Achaeans have mothers. Mother Rea makes things grow. She brings life. Because you honored her this morning, she will protect you.”

Everyone stayed the night. Ariadne dozed by the hearth, Taranos’s arm protectively draped around her middle. No one slept more than a few hours.

Dawn brought a runner with news that Minos Echmedes and his sons were dead. Idomeneus now occupied the Minos’s Little Palace. Queen Dicte and her daughters remained at Knossos under the High Priest’s protection.

Taranos gleaned little else from the message. “It seems Knossos Town surrendered. So far, it seems my uncle’s managed to keep his followers in line.”

Throughout the morning, men arrived back in camp. Idomeneus kept two hundred warriors with him at Knossos but sent the rest down to the beach. Taranos dozed by Akuro’s hearth until just before dawn, then made the rounds to learn who was wounded, who was dead, and whatever else he could discover.

Ekhinos knocked on the door at dawn, delivered his message, then went on to the next house. Every woman was to bring clean water, linens, and healing herbs to the camp. “Act as nursemaid to those savages, indeed!” Akuro flung rags into a basket. “I ought to let them bleed to death.”

Down on the beach, Ariadne and the other women were appalled at the conditions in which they found the wounded. Bleeding men sprawled on the sand under large tents. Many lay in their own filth. Ariadne tried to question a bondswoman scurrying from one tent with a bowl of pinkish water. Had no one removed these men’s armor? Had no one washed them properly? Clearly half-witted and unable to understand Cretan, the girl blinked at her until Ariadne gave up and sent her on her way.

A moment later, she seized a slave boy and said, “Ekhinos.” She shook him, repeated the name, and released him. These Achaean slaves were so uniformly stupid that she expected no cooperation; the boy would promptly forget her command.

Imena and Sasara sobbed in each other’s arms, and wailed that the shattered bones, the gore, and stink of shit were all too much! Akuro boxed their ears before Ariadne could. “Be quiet! Wrap cloths over your faces if you don’t like the smell.”

“But what are we supposed to do?” sniffled Imena.