Dion: His Life and Mine (6 page)

Then the article turned poisonous. It said Daedalus was so envious of his nephew’s talent that he killed him and escaped punishment by going to Crete where, unknown, he was welcomed by the King of Crete
renowned for his hospitality towards strangers
.

“He sounds vicious, doesn‘t he? I shan’t be able to sleep at night until he‘s caught!” said my gullible friend when I had reached the end.

“Pack of lies,” I spat out vehemently. “You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers,” shoving it back to my astonished companion. “You never know what they might write about you,” I warned her. Later, I would hear Daedalus’s side of the tragic tale.

After a few days I began to know my regulars, what time they would come and how strong they’d need their infusion to be. But there was always a new face. One morning a young man, I hadn’t seen before, joined the queue. He didn’t look like my usual customers. Too clean for a start; people usually needed my herbs to revive them before they could start the day. But this one looked like he’d gone home, had a decent sleep, breakfast and a shave before meandering down to the beach. In short, he didn’t look like he needed my services. Still business is business. I soon realised he had other business on his mind when I passed him a cup and he smelt it distastefully. He made a show of sipping it before launching in;

“You’re Ariadne of Crete aren’t you?”

“Who wants to know?”

“
The Akra Enquirer
.”

I gave him a cold stare and turned my back on him, but he powered on.

“Bit of a comedown isn’t it? For a Princess? Brought up in one of the most beautiful palaces in the world, whisked off by one of the handsomest men in the world and now reduced to selling dope to dopes on the beach of a backwater island? – What happened love? Your boyfriend dump you?” He sneered spilling the contents of his cup on the sand.

I told him where he could go.

“Nice, very charming. I’d always assumed you Princesses washed your mouths out with soap and water. But then you were apprentice to a junkie, nympho witch weren’t you?”

“It’s a lie. Bris wasn’t … Who told you that?”

“Let’s just say I was due some holiday and spent the weekend on Crete. Very hospitable place - can’t think why you wanted to leave it.”

I was boiling with rage, but managed, with as much dignity as one can, on sand, to walk away without punching him.

“You might as well talk to me.” He shouted after me. “I’m going to write it anyway, so you might as well get paid for it. Your sister said the money would come in very handy …” He was right. I should have taken his money. It was obvious that he had the article in his mind, probably already written it, when he spoke to me. He may have changed it if I had said something interesting, but the truth doesn’t interest hacks like him.

Nyx brought me the article two days later:
Pretty Princess Laments Sister’s Shame
. It was evident Phaedra had inherited our father’s flair for manipulating the press to advance personal agendas. I could put most of it down to envy but my thick skin was still growing and the line about Phaedra being left to mourn Aster’s death alone set it back. It was a cheap trick to sully Bris in such a way, but I had to hand it to her for the way she diplomatically praised Theo. Clearly that flame was still glowing, if ever he had need of its warmth.

Any publicity is supposed to be good publicity. I don’t believe it and I know Dion didn’t either, but I admit that the newspaper article didn’t damage my business, it increased it.  Amongst my newest clientele was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, or rather one of them. I had noticed a group of similar women on the beach, the afternoon of my encounter with the Akra hack, all tall with perfect figures and black hair cascading down their backs. This one was wearing a top with glittery letters on it, which made it difficult to read. Compared to my usual customers, she looked exquisite. She strode past the queue confidently, handed me an envelope and, taking a cup, strode past the rest of my open-mouthed customers without looking at them.

I handed Nyx the envelope along with her usual revival, which she downed in one go.

“Tickets to tonight’s
Libertia
concert! How did you get them?” Apart from their heads, the biggest problem my clients had was getting hold of Libertia tickets.

“Friends in high places,” I shrugged.

“And their warm-up group’s Thiasus! They’re worth seeing with or without Libertia.”

“Do you want to come?”

“Do I?” Nyx looked at me as if I had just asked her what my own name was.

“Are they good?” I ventured. Nyx looked at me as if I had not only forgotten my own name, but as if I had forgotten I was a woman.

“Good?” She said incredulously, “Apollo! They’re magnificent!” Seeing my face she looked at me more seriously. “Are you honestly saying you’ve never heard any of their songs?”

“My father only liked ‘certain types’ of music on Crete.”

“So you’ve never heard “Persephone” or “Brother Breathe Again”?”

“No, but I know the healing properties of sage, parsley and rosemary” I said, becoming irritated at being made to sound ignorant, “which is the reason why I’ve got these tickets.”

“Point taken.” Nyx said smiling wryly. “Actually, I envy you. I wish I could experience listening to Libertia for the first time all over again. I’ll never forget when I first heard
“Reborn in Hades.” I’d been going through a really rough time and, Apollo, did it help me pull through. It’s been criticized for being morbid, but people who say that just don’t get Libertia. It actually has a really uplifting message, but everything’s about interpretation isn’t it? And that can be so subjective.” I thought about my family and nodded.

Nyx was already on the beach when I arrived that evening. Before I had the chance to say hello, she grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to the taverna, mumbling something about getting there early. I soon understood her rush. The band wasn’t due to play for another two hours, but the street was already teeming.                                              

“It’s going to be tight,” Nyx told me, as we joined the back of the queue. “The Styx and Stones is a fab venue; the acoustics are great, but it is tiny. It was fine last time because the band wasn’t well known, but since
Semele
reached no.1 well …” Nyx gestured in front and behind us, “now fans have travelled from other islands to get here, so now we need tickets to get into our local.”

After what seemed like an aeon, we entered the tavern. Nyx led us through the bar, where some regulars were drinking, unperturbed by the growing crowd outside, and down some stone steps. I was relieved, when we descended, to see how large the basement was and realized how deceivingly small the taverna looked. A bar ran along the back wall and Nyx headed straight for it; “You always get a complimentary drink with your ticket, it’s Libertia’s policy.” She’d explained.

While Nyx was getting our drinks, I surveyed the basement. There were wooden tables, down the side walls, at which music lovers were drinking and talking. The walls, themselves, were covered with posters, pictures and articles about Styx and Stones or bands that had played there. Nyx caught my eye and gestured towards one nearest me. It was brown with the name of the venue at the top and then, in bright orange, the words ‘Olympiad Night,’ underneath which were written a list of music acts; Capricious, Libertia, Orpheus and The Constellations. Coming out from Libertia’s name were three lines with writing at the end of each: ‘Great Atmosphere, Great Acoustics Great Audience – Thanks S&S Likertes.’  Above it, someone had written, ‘To all at S&S, thanks for the warm welcome. Cal.’ The third, written in a hand I would come to know as well as my own, said ‘Thanks for loving our music and for getting us. Dx’

I had barely finished reading when Nyx pushed a glass into my hand. It was full of reddish liquid.

“Go on…” Nyx insisted. “It’s diluted.” she assured me, her glass was already half-empty. I put the glass to my lips and within moments
the sweet-tasting liquid cooled my throat and warmed my insides.  Any feelings of despair or ill will towards Theo, which I still harboured, vanished. If my father had been standing before me looking horrified, I would have jumped in his arms screaming “Daddy!” Nyx grinned at me. I smiled back and then looked around the room again. The stage, or rather a slightly higher level which I took to be a stage, was surrounded by three rows of clones of my mysterious customer. Each had a top with the name THIASUS written on the back and was drinking a redder version of the liquid Nyx had given me.

“I take it they’re Thiasus fans.” I said gesturing.

“Or ‘Maenids’ as the press likes to call them; Thiasus’s lead singer’s called
Mae
.” Nyx explained when I looked blank.

Before long, the club started filling up and I recognized some of my luckier clients who had managed to get tickets. When they noticed us, they plied us with drinks. No sooner had I finished one than another was forced upon me. Then, when I didn’t think it could get any better, the shouting started and Thiasus stepped onto the stage. Their fans went crazy, tossing their perfect hair and moving their limbs in time to the music.

“That’s the woman who gave me the tickets.” I told Nyx pointing to the stunning woman who had taken her place at the microphone. Nyx looked incredulous;

“That’s Mae.” She told me.

Mae’s voice matched her appearance; she was mesmerizing. There was a raw soulfulness about her voice that seeped under your skin. It wasn’t so much you felt her emotions, you actually felt you had become her. This sensation was particularly acute when she sang “Briefly Unrequited, Eternally United.” You might put it down to the liquid, but I felt the pain and joy of the love she felt for the song’s recipient (at the time there was much speculation that it was Dion) and anyone who heard it should have guessed the tragic outcome it would bring for both of them and those of us that loved them.

The Thiasus fans screamed for an encore and the band obliged. As they started a roar of approval went up among the Libertia portion of the crowd. “It’s a Libertia song.” Nyx mouthed at me. Halfway through the music seemed to get louder and there were shrieks of delight.

“What’s happening?” I shouted.

“Libertia are joining in,” she explained. Then she grabbed my arms and pushed her way through the crowd so we were nearer the stage. At first, I was unable to see the infamous Dion, until the spotlight fell on him. He was shorter than I expected. Thin, giving him a look of vulnerability, but his toned arms showed he could look after himself if it came to it. His head was bowed and his shaggy blond hair covered his face. If Mae’s voice soaked into my skin, Dion’s seeped into my soul. Towards the end of the set, they played “Brother Breathe Again” directly followed by “Reborn in Hades.” It was as if Dion knew about Andro and Aster, understood my loss and wanted to give me something to believe in again. The notion that Andro and Aster were together, in Hades, living a better life; one which wouldn’t be cut short before Andro’s talents had blossomed, and one in which Aster could walk, in the Elysian fields, without fear or prejudice, healed my battered heart. My soul felt at peace, as it did when my brothers lived.

At the end, he lifted his head to acknowledge the captivated crowd, none of whom had noticed that Thiasus had left the stage and were now amongst them. He smiled, the crowd went wild. But I was frozen to the spot by the gaze of his piercing blue eyes. What did I feel? Faith. Blind faith. Faith in him, in me, in the two of us and what we could be together.

The next morning, I came to, on the beach, in the same spot where Theo had left me. I couldn’t remember how I had got there and my head, if it could still be called mine, ached. I found the flask I’d prepared the day before, in case of this kind of emergency, and surveyed the scene. The bodies of my fellow partygoers were strewn across the beach. In a couple of hours they would be parting with their money to down my infusion. A solitary figure was picking his way amongst them; I recognised the frayed jeans and the shaggy hair.

“Your poison, lady,” he said, pointing at my flask.

“It’s not,” I said, as he downed the rest.

“I know, your poison is dark, disloyal, devilishly-handsome Athenians,” he said, as he flopped beside me and fell asleep. My reputation had preceded me, but I realized, before I also succumbed to the herb’s power, that my faith had been restored.

My wedding photographs couldn’t have been more different from those of my parents. For a start we only had three taken, on an old disposable camera, by
Libertia’s drummer, Cal. Whilst my parents had the full package - photos of the entire wedding party, guests, flowers, cake, the works - we had a pre-wedding shot of Nyx (my only bridesmaid) and me. Nyx was wearing the latest Libertia
touring t-shirt with the dates and venues for the next four months. The second was of Dion and Cal, in his role of best man. Cal took it himself, his free arm wrapped around Dion in order to get them both in the shot. Dion is doing the thumbs-up sign with both hands, while Cal plants a slobbery kiss on his cheek. The third shot, the one that made it around the world and back again, is of Dion and me. It was taken after we’d said our vows and were officially man and wife. Cal said we should have one for the papers; ‘to keep the paps off your backs.’ You must have come across at least one of the countless articles, written by fifth-rate journalists in order to earn a buck off the back of our lives. Seventy per cent of it is a pack of lies, twenty per cent downright libellous, ten per cent almost accurate, and, thanks to Cal, almost none of it is true.

On the morning after my first Libertia gig, I awoke, revived from the effects of the infusion and found, to my surprise, Dion still beside me. After Theo, this seemed a huge sign of commitment.

“Breakfast?” he said, grinning. He took me to his favourite taverna where the owners welcomed him as if he had been their own son. It was clear how much the people of Naxos loved Dion and that this love was reciprocated. 

“So, what’s your story?” Dion asked.

“Haven’t you heard? I’m the undutiful, ungrateful daughter who betrayed her family. I helped a handsome guest repay my father’s hospitality. Together we killed my father’s monster and escaped, unpunished. Then, after the said young man had his wicked way with me, I was left here, too ashamed to go home.”

“I’ve heard that story, now I want yours,” Dion replied and added cheekily, “especially the bit about the young stranger having his wicked way with you!” I threw a piece of toast at him and told him - My Story.

“And I thought I had the monopoly on dysfunctional families,” Dion said when I’d finished.

#

Of course you all know about the beautiful daughters of Kadmus, founder and King of Thebes and his Queen, the exquisite Harmonia. I make no pretence of the fact that it is their story and not mine that you are most interested in. Who could blame you? I was just as intrigued by Dion’s background as the gossip columnists, cheap celebrity biography shows and the people who watched them. For those who have been living under a rock for the past one hundred years, here’s a quick (biased) recap.

For a long time after they were married, my father had teased my mother with his feigned regret for not having had Semele, the youngest of the Theban Princesses. The tables turned when Semele’s story came to light. Semele was by far the most beautiful, which didn’t endear her to her three older sisters. Party-goers Ino, Agave and Autonoe graced the covers of every fashion magazine and were photographed wherever they went; gigs, concerts, premieres, charity events: you name it, they went. These three beauties turned ugly, though, when it was suggested that even they couldn’t hold a candle to the blossoming Semele. She was said to be ‘moulded in the form of elegance, with the beauty of her race shining from her face’ and was soon nicknamed, ‘The pretty one’. Semele was destined for a successful modeling career. So, true to the sisterhood, instead of offering support, her sisters found fault with her photoshoots. They teased and tormented her; things would be lost and then be found in the strangest of places. Then, when this didn’t have the desired outcome, the sisters upped their antics. After possible suitors started flocking to the palace (my father among them); her sisters would lure Semele into the garden at night and then lock her out. After spending the night crying herself to sleep, Semele would enter the palace, disheveled, the next morning. Her sisters started spreading rumours that their little sister was a ‘bit of a goer’ and if a young man wanted a go he just had to meet her in the garden at midnight.

To quash the rumours, her father made it known that he himself locked her in her room at night. Mysteriously, despite her father’s nightly vigil outside her room, Semele became pregnant. Her outraged father demanded to know who the ‘filthy culprit’ was but Semele simply replied “god.” The poor girl was accused of lying and, when she adamantly claimed that she wasn’t, was accused of being insane. The family had endless meetings to solve the ‘Semele Question’ until it was decided, for the sake of the other daughters, to keep Semele hidden from the rest of the world. News of her disgrace would tarnish the hopes of a ‘good match’ for her sisters. The most vocal on this point was Agave, who had begun a dalliance with a Theban noble.

Semele was locked in her room during her confinement. She spent nine months warning her family not to treat the mother of a god’s child in this way, while her father and mother decided on the best way to rid themselves of their offspring’s embarrassment. As Semele grew bigger, she became more adamant.

“Yeah, yeah,” her sisters would yell back. Now they had ruined their sister’s reputation they were bored with her and wished she’d give up and shut up, give birth and be shut out.

One day, Agave became so fed up of her sister’s ranting that she told her to “prove it”, to which Semele immediately fell silent. On the other side of the door, her sisters all winked at each other and smiled. However, the next day, Semele called out that her baby’s father had promised to visit on their son’s first day in the world and then her family would all see for themselves and be sorry. A week later, alone in her room, Semele gave birth. Her family heard the cries of the baby. They were just deciding who should go in and tear the child from its mother, when they heard a loud explosion and then smelled smoke. The entire wing, in which Semele had been held, was destroyed.

The family made a statement that poor, delicately-minded Semele had accidentally taken her own life. Her charred remains were given a state funeral, as befitting a princess. Nothing was mentioned of the baby whose remains were never found, (conveniently for the embarrassed royals). The mysterious sounds of the new-born’s cries were put down to more mischief-making on Semele’s part. No scandal here, just a tragedy. It was enough to put the paparazzi off the scent, for a while. Kadmus, blaming the open nature of his parenting on his younger daughter’s disgrace, imposed a curfew on the whole of Thebes in the hope this would deter any future repeats and embarrassment to the city.

Years later, Dion arrived on the scene, claiming to be Kadmus’s grandson. Let’s just say that arms were not opened wide to clasp him to the family bosom. Kadmus, getting on in years and beginning to have doubts and regrets over the treatment of his youngest, may have been persuaded, but for the protestations of “impostor” from Pentheus, the son of Agave. As the only (acknowledged) grandson, Pentheus was set to inherit Thebes on his grandfather’s retirement, which Pentheus was attempting to hasten by leaving cruise brochures around for his grandmother, who was complaining of itchy feet. Pentheus hadn’t inherited his mother’s free-spirited nature and had started implementing his own plans in Thebes. He wasn’t about to give them up without a fight. Despite Dion’s insistence that he didn’t want a claim on Thebes, Pentheus still denounced him.  Pentheus had the backing of his mother and aunts, who still hadn’t forgiven Semele her beauty. Kadmus closed his open arms and left Dion out in the cold.

A few years later Tireseus, Kadmus’s trusted friend, explained to me why Dion wasn’t already a member of the Kadmus Clan when I’d met him, or why we didn’t receive a welcome when we first married.

“In order to have enough ammunition against Dion, Pentheus hired a private eye to uncover the details of Dion’s childhood.”

“He needn’t have forked-out so much money,” I snorted, “Dion would have willingly told him everything.”

“I’m sure Dion would have, the young scamp,” Tireseus winked. “Anyway, Pentheus discovered that after Dion’s father had saved him, he looked around for a safe place for the baby to be brought up and for someone to whom he could be entrusted.”

“Hang on,” I interrupted. “Pentheus knew Dion wasn’t an imposter? He knew about Dion’s father?”

“Of course he did, my dear, we all knew,” Tireseus exclaimed in his pompous but loveable way. “Take away that exotic blond mop and Dion is the image of his mother, the absolute spit!”

I blushed, thinking how long it had taken even me to believe Dion’s story wholeheartedly, and I sensed Tireseus knew that.

“Besides, no one has that much talent unless the gods choose to bestow it on them. It was Dion’s father that caused the explosion. He came to Semele, as promised, in his full godly form. Anyway, Pentheus found out about that commune of women living on that mountain in Thrace. As you say, Dion is quite open and proud about his upbringing, so it wasn’t difficult for Pentheus’s PI. All Pentheus had to do was twist the truth to his advantage. He harangued Kadmus and told him he had proof that Dion couldn’t be Theban. The blond-haired, exotic looking Dion could not possibly be Kadmus’s grandson and the fact that he was brought up outside Greece somehow proved this.”

“But you just said that you all knew who Dion truly was. Why didn’t Kadmus overrule Pentheus?”

“My dear,” Tireseus responded, “put yourself in Kadmus’s place. He was devoted to Pentheus; he didn’t want to do anything to upset him, however much he wanted to put things right with Semele’s child. He did suggest that Dion could come and visit Thebes, but Pentheus put paid to that and said that he was sure Thebes would not welcome a foreigner, brought up on a mountain by a bunch of lesbians and tainted with debauchery. I remember him waving that
damned article
, he and that PI of his had cobbled together, as if it was pure proof rather, than biased bull. But it did its job. Kadmus faltered and Pentheus played his trump card.”

“Which was?” I asked.

“Oh, you are going to love this!” Tireseus squealed, knowing I wouldn’t, “…that having been brought up by a group of women, Dion wouldn’t be the appropriate grandson for Kadmus because he hadn’t had a strong male role model.”

“Crap,” I blurted out, “Dion is more masculine than any man I know because he’s been surrounded by women and knows how to treat them.”

“And we know how important that is, don’t we?” The old devil said, winking. It had been rumoured that Tireseus had had a sex change to discover what women want and when he had discovered it, had another one so he could practise what he’d learnt.

“Besides, Pentheus was overlooking an even more important fact.”

“Which was?” I asked.

“Dion doesn’t need a male role model. He’s the son of a god; a fact both you and Pentheus would do well to remember.” I asked him what he meant. “The gods are a jealous breed, my dear, they lend their own to us for a short period, at most.” It was not the first time I had been warned.

#

Libertia had five more gigs booked on Naxos; I was asked and went to every one of them. In the morning, I would wake on the beach next to Dion, not remembering how we got there. It was taken for granted that Dion and I were a couple. Thiasus accepted me without question and an ecstatic Nyx was welcomed into the fold. It was taken for granted that I’d be continuing their tour with them, much to the relief of Cal and Likertes. “Dion seemed at peace when you were around,” Cal would later compliment me. I wish it had stayed that way. I wish I could live those days as many times as I have replayed them in my mind.

After their final gig, Libertia had planned to spend a few days in the studio, laying down tracks for their next album.
Dion, Cal and Likertes would arrive at the studio at around four in the morning and work solidly for seven or eight hours. By which time, a crowd would have formed outside the studios hoping to catch the band, as they left, to collect autographs. They would only manage two at most. To give us privacy, Cal and Likertes would leave via the front exit whilst Dion left from the back and made his way to a meeting point we arranged secretly, the location changed every time. I imagine Cal and Likertes’s afternoons were spent like ours; in bed. Dion was pleased with the tracks and felt the album, as a whole, was going in the direction Libertia wanted, which was in a slightly different one to
Semele
.

“We want to keep reinventing ourselves,” he told me. “Push ourselves, musically and spiritually; challenge our own convictions. That’s what
Tria
is about. Likertes came up with the name, you know, because its our third album, there’re three of us and it’s a powerful number.”  Dion admitted that not all the songs would make the track listing. “We’ve booked time in other studios during the tour and who knows, we might even write some along the road that make it into the album. It’s fluid.”

Just after midnight, on the morning we were due to leave for Dia, Dion nudged me awake.

“Let’s get married!”

“What?” I said, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

“Well, I was going to ask you anyway, at
Dia
. I’ve got the ring,” he said eagerly and something tiny, glittered in the moonlight. “I was going to get down on one knee and do it all properly, but why wait? I love Naxos and I can’t think of a better place to get married than here.”