The Bull From the Sea: A Novel

II

THAT SUMMER I SAILED with Pirithoos as far as Sicily, to sack the city of Thapsos. It was a night assault, from the sea, and went so well we were on the walls before the alarm. I could hear the watchman yelling. It was not “Theseus of Athens!” as it used to be, but “Theseus the Pirate! Theseus the Pirate!”

I was angry, and the Thapsians paid for it. All the same, it set me thinking. All I had to show at each year’s end, these days, was a load of plunder, and a girl I would be weary of next year. Once it had been a hold of bandits cleared, the borders strengthened, laws broadened or fined down to a better justice; some old blood-feud settled between two tribes; a suppliant freed from a bad master. It seemed, when I thought, that no one had been much the better for my life, this year, or last, or the year before.

As we coasted back past Italy, I thought of what had passed at Troizen. I could let things drift no longer. Hippolytos had chosen his own heritage, such as it was. Young Akamas, Phaedra’s boy, must be the heir of all my kingdoms. He must come to Athens, and be seen.

There was no harm in the lad, and no little good. But he was too easygoing, and lived from day to day. Courage he did not lack, as I had often seen; but there seemed no thrust of ambition in him. He was the son of my wedded queen, with clear title, if I chose, to the mainland kingdoms; yet, as far as I could see, he waited for Crete to fall into his lap, and looked no further. It was true he was all Cretan, just like some graceful prince of the Older Kingdom painted in the Labyrinth, walking in a field of irises with the royal gryphon on a string; it was true, too, that I had made him so. I had only fetched him to Athens on a few short visits, all his life. He had been a delicate child, which was my excuse. The truth was I had wanted to keep him content with Crete. There had been enough brothers fighting over Attica, in my father’s day. But he would have to be seen there now. The people would have forgotten him; and it was time he was taught his trade.

He still had the fecklessness of a child. He was too old never to have asked himself—as it seemed he had not—how long he could hold Crete without the mainland fleet to back him. It needed thinking of; for Deukalion was dead, and his son Idomeneus was quite another man. If he was not already conspiring to get the throne, it would not be fear that was stopping him, but a pride too high to risk disgrace. He had the blood of Minos, both the Cretan line and the Greek; and he was five-and-twenty, while I was past forty now and taking no great care of myself, as anyone could see. He would wait a while. But once I was gone, young Akamas would need both hands to hold on with.

Women in Crete have always understood affairs, so I wondered what his mother made of it, and how much she had tried to push him on. He had a truly Cretan reverence for her; yet last time, he had seemed more at ease with me.

She had never asked me to bring her to Athens, though neither her people nor mine would have quarrelled with it after so long. Often I had thought about it; then looking at the closed rooms that still had echoes, I had put it off for another year. So I had said nothing to her; and she was never one to tell all her mind. She was turned thirty, and that is late to start again among strangers. Also she was Minos’ daughter; perhaps she did not care to step into the shoes of the dead, which would never have been hers while the living wore them; or to go where a bastard had been set above her son. Perhaps she had heard my house had too many girls and that, with my being away, they got out of hand. Like enough all these things had part in it.

The summer was far gone. If I thought too long I should put it off again. So I parted from Pirithoos at sea, and made straight for Crete.

The boy was there to meet me, full of spirits; asking where I had been, what I had brought him back, and how soon he could sail with me, though he was barely turned thirteen. He chattered like a starling all the way in the chariot. On the terrace of the royal house stood his mother waiting, small, neat and jewelled, her fine brown hair sleek in the sun, her bare breasts round and firm as the grapes down in the vineyard, whose scent the warm Cretan sun drew up to us.

When we were alone, I told her how matters stood, saying, “It would not have been just to pass over Hippolytos, when his mother gave her life for me and Attica in the war. If I had died then, with both sons children, neither could have hoped for much. But he has offered himself to Artemis, to pay her debt. The gods know best, and we must do what is left to do.”

“Yes,” she said, “that is true.” She sat silent, her tapered white hands folded in her lap. I almost said she need not come to Athens, unless she liked. I felt the words ask to be spoken, like a dog asking at a closed door. But I knew it would seem a slight to her. She had had a good deal to put up with; my calls had been short, between Athens and the sea. I had never, myself, flaunted my women at her; but the isles were full of tales and songs about the sea-raids I had got them in, and she must have heard. So I said she should be there to share in her son’s honor; that she could trust me to put the house in order, and see she was well served.

“I should like to see Athens,” she said quite coolly, and paused in thought. “But what a strange young man, to give away a kingdom. Will he hold to it? Youths of that age are full of whims, and next year it is all forgotten.”

“Not he. What his mind is set on, he does not give up lightly.”

She raised her dark brows. “Neither do you.”

“He has had his chance. He knows it. And horses will fly, before he learns to intrigue. Take my word for that.” So without much more said, she agreed to come, and I gave her some jewels I had found in Sicily. My mind had been more on Akamas, and how he would take the news.

He looked astonished, as if such a thing had never crossed his mind; worse still, I guessed it was true. When I had done, he said, “Father, are you quite sure Hippolytos doesn’t want it? I could not take it if he does; not from a friend.”

It might have been some boy’s present, a chariot or a bow, to hear him talk. It brought back all my doubts of him. A light mind, I thought; no harm, no greatness. “He is your brother,” I said. “Don’t you think I shall deal justly between my sons? As for friendship, you have never met.”

“Not met! Father, of course we have.” He opened his dark, slanted Cretan eyes, with the surprise of a child who finds his own matters have not filled the world. “It was when I was going home from Athens, last time I stayed with you. You sent some letters to Troizen, and we were a week there, waiting for a wind. He drove down the moment he knew that I was there, and we spent the whole time together. He let me drive his chariot, once, on the straight; I had it all, he said so, he was scarcely touching the reins. My dog, Frosty, was his guest-gift. Didn’t you know? His sire was one of the sacred dogs of Epidauros. Surely they told you it was Hippolytos who took me there, and got me cured?”

“Cured?” I said. “You left Athens well enough.”

“Yes; but when I got there, I had one of those choking spells.” I had forgotten; in childhood he used to go quite blue with them. The priest at Epidauros knew all about it; he called it asthma, which was just what Hippolytos had said. You do know, Father, don’t you, he is almost a doctor? He would really be one, if he had not had to be a king. Well, I slept the night in the sacred grove, and had a true dream from the god.” His brown, sparkling face turned solemn, and he laid two fingers on his lips. “I mustn’t tell it; but it was true. Then Paian went away in music, and I was cured. Father, can’t Hippolytos come to Athens, while I am there? Then he can see how Frosty has turned out. He is really my greatest friend; and we shall hardly know each other, if we don’t meet soon.”

“Why not?” I said. “We will see.” This unguessed love came like a gift of heaven. I felt ashamed to have kept the boys apart; yet who could have forgotten the Pallantid Wars? Certainly, he must come. Yet there was another thought behind it all: that once in Athens, seeing his young brother’s hands so slack upon the reins, the elder would reach out for them. Phaedra had been right; what my heart was set on, I did not give up lightly.

And then, of his own accord, he wrote to me from Troizen. He wanted to come to Eleusis, to be initiated in the Mystery, and asked my leave. “Surely,” I thought, “the luck is running my way.”

I had a lookout watching for his ship, and when it was sighted, went up on the Palace roof to see. I remember, as it stood in past Aegina, how the white sail caught the sun.

Driving down to meet him at Piraeus, I thought it was too soon to give him such consequence before the people; but I did not care. As he crossed the gangplank, I saw he had grown again. His face was stronger, the softness of youth fined out of it. “Did I make this?” I thought. “No, it was she.” It came back to me how all she remembered of her father was that he had darkened the doorway with his height.

We drove up through the sea-gate, and on into Athens. I felt their minds as a pilot feels the weather, through the cheers and songs. In boyhood he had been Son of the Amazon, no more. Now they were like children with a new toy; the women cooing, the men likening him to Apollo Helios. If they could, they would have said to me, “Why have you kept this from us?”

In the Palace it was the same. The old men who had hated his mother were dead and gone. It was all being forgotten. I had been long in knowing it, I who did not forget. Young folk, who had been little children when she died, admired what they called his Hellene fairness. One heard this “Hellene” everywhere, and often it had meaning. Dark Akamas, with his slender waist and lithe Cretan walk and lilting accent, was the stranger now; it was his mother who had the shadow of the Goddess on her and needed watching. Why had I not foreseen it? If Hippolytos would stretch one hand out for his birthright, they would toss it to him like a flower.

He was surer of himself; the habit of kingship was growing on him; he was not one to be pushed here and there by any man. So much the better; but I knew something of the business too, and we would see.

Akamas met us in the hall. He was awed at first by this tall brother; but soon, Hippolytos remembering some old joke between them, they were skylarking like any boys. As we came to the inner rooms, Akamas was asking if it was cold up there so high; Hippolytos shouted, and tossed him overhead to see. In the midst of the horseplay, the younger grew quiet, and the elder turned his head. Phaedra was there, waiting to be greeted. That morning, having slept badly, she had been out of temper with her women; her hair was ill-done, and she had not kept still while her mouth was painted. Seeing herself overlooked, she greeted him coldly and did not waste many words. He had come up with a smile to beg her pardon, but now grew grave with shyness; and having said what was proper, got away with his brother as soon as he well could.

I followed soon after. I was sorry she was offended; yet perhaps it was better she saw him first at disadvantage, than looking too much a king; the first sight sticks, they say. I was sorry, indeed, that I had ever brought her to Athens. She was bound to glimpse in him her rival’s beauty, and that was bad. She might come to see, too, her son’s supplanter; and that means danger anywhere. I had cause to know it; it was what Medea had seen in me.

So I got him out of the way at first, riding and hunting with his brother and me, to put him out of her mind. She only saw him with everyone else, dining in the Hall. It was true he made a good show then. He went bare to the waist, in the fashion I had brought from Crete, with short-drawers of scarlet; and a great necklace which was the royal jewel of the heir of Troizen, made of golden eagles with outspread wings. His smooth brown skin showed off the gold, and the hair which he still wore uncurled as in his childhood, spilling over his shoulders like silver over bronze. I could always hear, when he took his place by me, a soft murmur among the women. Once it had sounded for me. But men must live with their seasons, or the gods will laugh at them.

Before long he went to Eleusis to be purified. It was early by half a month; but he said he had things to ask there. At first he would drive home at evening; then he moved to the precinct and was no more seen. Presently, I heard from the High Priest of Eleusis, priest to priest, that he had been chosen to hear the inner doctrine, which they had had from Orpheus before the maenads killed him, and which was scarcely ever taught outside the priesthood.

I missed his presence, but felt his absence for the best, since Phaedra seemed herself again. Indeed she looked better, not complaining as she had at first of the water and the air of Athens, and the people’s ignorance; she dressed with more care, and was pleasant to the men of standing. She had seen, I thought, that her son might lose by her sullenness. When the rites came nearer, and the women were making their new clothes, she said she would be initiated.

I admired her prudence. It would please the Athenians who feared the old religion; for at Eleusis the rites have been tamed, as everybody knows. Before my time, a dead king was dug into the cornland every year. When it came to my turn, I had other notions. But I did honor to the Goddess, by marrying her to a god instead, and calling in the great bard to devise the ritual. Though it was secret, the initiates could say there was no more unseemliness, nor danger beyond what comes of bringing one’s mortal soul before the Immortals. And after that darkness, there is light.

So I did not hinder her, even though I saw in it ambition for her son. She would make friends among the women, and had been too much alone. Besides, who could tell if Hippolytos would change his mind? Sometimes I wondered if the two lads would settle it themselves one day over a cook-fire in the hunting field, without a word to anyone. It is hard for the young, to break their minds to their elders. What could one do, but leave it with the gods? But I am forward-looking by nature, and would find myself planning still.

On the proper days, she went with the women to be taught the cleansings, and told what things to abstain from, one of which was our bed. It was her fast, not mine; there was a honey-dark girl I had brought from Sicily, skilled in the dances of Aphrodite Peleia. I had kept her out of the way for the sake of peace, but was glad to see her again.

Two days before the rites, the mystae came back to Athens so that the priests could order the procession. I had appointed Hippolytos to lead the youths, since his brother was not of age. They might have stretched a point for Akamas if I had asked; but no one could say he had been slighted. It is a strong wine, the people’s praise on great days of festival. If Hippolytos got one good deep drink of it, it might show him his own soul.

He came among the last, when the Agora was full already. Though he had grown thinner, his eyes and his skin were clear; he was washed and combed like a child who does it from duty when he would rather be at play, shining and unadorned. He seemed happy. I thought, “I planted this seed of life, yet from it comes this mystery, a life where I am a stranger. The ways of the gods are dark.”

After this I was busy, as before all great festivals. When I came out in my chariot to lead the men of Athens to the shrine, the youths were gone on foot before, carrying the young god-bridegroom’s image and the holy things.

I thought, on the way, about my own initiation. I had been the last to enter the old Mystery, and the first into the new. Though I had known in part, from the priests and from the bard, what was to be done, yet there was great power in it, great dread and darkness, great light and bliss. Passing years and their deeds had worn the memory thin. But now I thought of it, and of the lad about to meet it. What would he have made of the old one; the wrestling to the death, with the throned Queen watching; the marriage bed in the dark cave, the shameless torchlight? Would he blush and run for the hills? “Yet,” I thought, “surely he has heard of it. She whom he serves is not a maiden always; and before all her faces she likes due incense burned. He is made more like a man than most men are. Some day the Bride will say to him, ‘Is my altar to be cold forever?’”

It was a fine shining night. The mystae stripped themselves, men and women, and waded with their torches into the sea, the last rite of their cleansing. Once it had washed them of the dead king’s blood. Even then, it was grave and seemly; how solemn it is now, all the world knows. For a long time the torch of the priest was leading; then another passed it, mirrored in the water, held by a taller man who could wade deeper in. Somewhere among all the wavering lights was Phaedra, safe with the Good Goddess, where she would take no harm.

The lights went out. There was a long pause, for the rerobing. Through the gloom I saw from the Citadel above only a stir of shadows; they were trooping into the sacred temenos, where all the rock-gaps had been closed to keep the Mystery secret. Into the deep hush rose a sound of chanting, sweet and full of grief. It was too far to hear the prayers. The night fell back into silence. Somewhere a dog howled, as dogs do when they feel solemnity; it broke off in a yelp, and all was still.

It is the time for dying (I say no more; the Twice-Born will understand) and my thoughts were with the dead. Once more my heart died with her. At last from within the earth the gong tolled out, the voice of darkness; even from far off one felt the awe. But for me it had no terror. No dread; and no promise either.

Then came the clear light shining; the silent wonder, the great cry of joy, the hymn. New-lit torches flickered forth like fireflies from a cave, and the dance began. I watched its measure, unwearying as the course of stars, till dawn broke on the mountain. Then I led the people down to meet the mystae and bring them home.

As the risen sun made a sparkling sea-path towards Athens, they met us by the shore, with their new white robes on, crowned with wheat-ears and flowers. The faces, I suppose, were what one sees each year: some still half-dazed after the fright and the glory; some, who had dreaded it long before, just happy to have it behind them; some joyful at having won a happy fate in the Land beyond the River. I looked at the youths, and the lad who led them, thinking to see him sleepwalking in a trance, still seeing his vision. But he gazed about him, all delight, as if his eyes could find nothing that was not precious and dear. His face held great peace, and wonder; but, also, the tenderness that goes with half a smile. Picture a grown man who has watched children stumble through some solemn game, seeing in it beauty they do not know of, and a meaning beyond their reach. He looked like that.

I spoke the ritual welcome; the priests made answer. It was time for the mystae to break their fast among their friends. As Hippolytos came towards me with a smile of greeting, there was a great dark swoop of wings across the sun. A raven, sailing from the high crags to scan the plain, had paused above us; hovering so low, one could see the purple sheen upon its breast, like the enamel-work on precious swords. The people pointed and called to one another, arguing the omen. But the lad just gazed upward, happy and still; you could tell he saw nothing but the beauty that hung outspread upon the breeze. As it stooped lower, he reached out his hand, as if to greet it; and it skimmed down almost to his fingertips, before it swept out towards Salamis and the sea.

I watched it, feeling troubled, till a fussing among the women drew my eyes away. It was Phaedra, who was being held head-down, and given wine. What with the fasting and the standing, and the strong awe of the rites, one or two women always faint at the Mysteries. This year there were four, and I thought no more of it.