Ariadne’s Crown – Sneak Peak
Chapter 1:
Wearing my plain white tunic, I blended in. I breathed the fresh air, felt the sunshine bounce off my face and let it wash over me. Freedom. I slouched my shoulders in defiance of nobody because there was nobody to tell me to walk straight. In fact, nobody paid any attention to me. I was just a girl at the market. I could be anybody. Here, there were serving girls and wives, bustling about haggling over food for the day or trinkets or clothing. Like me, they knew what was expected of them and they did it without question. Unlike me, they didn’t have to sneak out to get here.
In the marketplace, the world spread out over blankets haphazardly forming rows. Some, shielded by the sun with hastily built shelters while others baked in the sun. Spices from exotic locations delivered by sailors who collected stories like scars perfumed the air. Their scent mingled with freshly baked bread and food of all kinds. I breathed it all in, the riot of smells. As I walked, an artist called out to me to purchase his pottery, but I kept walking. I loved how the voices of the village mingled together in a tapestry.
“Scarab right from Egypt…”
“Finest copper headpiece to match your beauty…”
“Fresh today…”
A group of giggling kids ran past me, in the middle of some game with rules known only to them. My eye caught the sparkle of jewelry glinting in the sunlight. I picked up a sleek, intricately carved bronze bracelet and then discarded it, thinking its beauty was better suited to my sister, Phaedre. The sweet smell of fresh bread pulled me along to the far end of the market. On a blanket, baskets piled high with loaves of bread, honey cakes and sweet figs tempted me. Three women stood gossiping in a tight circle, a tall, craggy woman holding court.
I don’t remember the first time I heard my mother whispered about or the words “white bull” snickered behind cupped hands. Usually, I brushed it off. However, there was something about the woman’s superior tone and the judgmental arch of her eyebrow that annoyed me. Like a fussy peacock, she leaned into her younger friend.
“My father was there at the festival when the king didn’t sacrifice his precious white bull.” She nodded, accentuating the white bull like it was a curse word. “Talked about it all the time. That thing was the biggest bull he had ever seen, all white, with red eyes and giant horns. The king just couldn’t give it up, but you can’t fool the gods. They always get theirs. After that, the harvest was the worst in years. When the earth under your feet moves, you take notice.” She cackled at her own joke and poked the younger woman in the ribs with her elbow.
“Everyone made offerings to make the gods happy again. My father sacrificed our fattest sheep, while that white bull walked free. Our fattest sheep.” She paused, making sure she still had their attention and then gestured towards the palace and raised an eyebrow at the younger woman. “The queen just mooned for that white bull, always following it around and bringing it food. Everyone said she was cursed.” None of them even noticed I was standing there. My hands clenched.
“Cursed is right,” her older friend added. “I sure wouldn’t send my daughter to work there. No matter how much coin it’s worth.”
The younger one shrank back and then shook her head. “Well, all I know is,” she replied, shifting her basket to the other hip. “After I got here, my son was so sick. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know anyone. So, I took him to the palace. The queen-she didn’t turn me away. She was kind. She mixed up a poultice for his chest and gave me some herbs for tea. After that, he recovered. Thank the gods.” She kissed her fingertips and sent it up to the sky.
I smiled. To me, my mother was many things, cold and beautiful. She wasn’t defined by a slanderous story, but by her healing hands. Although she could be hard, I have seen her mix the herbs to cure the plague and apply them herself to the sick sons of the shepherd.
The first woman snorted in amusement. She straightened her back and looked over the top of her long nose and scoffed. “Well, I’m glad for your boy, but mark my words. There’s darkness in that palace. I wouldn’t take her herbs if my life depended on it.” She preened and my blood rose. I glared at her. With a start, I realized I recognized this horrible woman putting on airs. She was the fisherman’s wife.
Before I could stop myself, I was speaking. “Really?” I said, picking up a parcel of honey cakes. “Is that why you were at the palace begging for something to keep your husband in your bed?” I widened my eyes in innocence and held out a coin. Nobody took it. All three woman stared back at me, mouths open. Nobody moved. The fisherman’s wife turned a purple shade of red and clenched her fist.
“What’s the meaning of these lies, girl?” she demanded. I didn’t respond, but I couldn’t help a little grin from slipping out. I saw the recognition on her face. We both knew what I said was true. She pulled a spoon out of a basket of grain and raised it. “Girl, if you don’t get out of here, I’m going to teach you some manners.” She smacked her hand with the large spoon for emphasis. I shrugged my shoulders, grabbed another honey cake and ran.
“Stop that thief,” one of them yelled as I disappeared into the market.
I ran through the sellers, jumping over blankets until I arrived giggly and breathless at the other end of the market. Nobody made a move to stop me. After the initial commotion, even that hateful woman gave up and stopped yelling. I should have felt guilty. If my mother had heard what I said, she would have punished me. She was like that. No matter what people said, it didn’t bother her. She was always in control, always two moves ahead. My inability to hide my feelings disappointed her, along with my unruly hair which never stayed in place. I could feel now that it had broken out of its clip and reached up to tuck it back into place.
I was at the far corner of the market, where the slaves were traded. Here, there was no happy chatter or friendly bartering. Instead of spices, bread and food, the rank smell of unwashed bodies and fear lingered in the air. When I came with Thalia, my maid, we avoided this corner of the market. Thalia wouldn’t come near it. Even now, I stayed a safe distance, but I could see the block was full – mostly women with empty eyes, some shielding children with their bodies. There were a few men, but not many. Nobody made eye contact- everybody looked up or down. I caught the glance of a young girl of about five years old fidgeting in front of her mother and was surprised when she didn’t look away. Already, she had seen too much of the world, but her eyes were still soft. I felt myself pulled toward her, like we were connected on a string that kept getting shorter until I stood right in front of her. Without the shorn cut of a slave, she would probably not look any different from the children running and laughing through the palace. The uncomfortable thought struck me that had the wars of our island turned out differently, it could be Phaedre and me on that block. I wished I could take the girl with me – away from the block and these people. Let her hair flow free and her smile return.
I held out the honey cake and smiled, but she didn’t move. Her eyes widened, focused on the cake. Just then, a hulking man came out from behind the block. He wore fine clothes, but his face was dirty and contorted in anger.
“Hey! What are you doing? Get away from her,” he yelled. Thumping the handle of a whip on his open hand, he rolled his eyes over me. For a moment, I thought of taking her hand and pulling her off the block, running together to safety. He lunged toward me and I snapped out of it. I lacked the power to protect anyone. I was not a warrior or an Amazon – just a girl who wasn’t supposed to be here. I took off running as fast as I could, back to the safety of the crowd. He didn’t follow. I whispered a brief prayer to Hera for the girl and hurried back to the palace, my heart thumping.
I headed straight for my quarters in the women’s area to find Thalia, my maid, and get cleaned up. Thalia looked up from straightening the room and frowned.
“You’re late!” she scolded. “They’re already gathered to work on the tapestry.”
Quickly, she helped me out of my plain tunic and back into my green chiton with the delicate pleats that shimmered in the light. She let my hair down and wrestled it into place to secure it with a headband. As she worked, I told her about what I said to the fisherman’s wife, but not about the slave trader. Her eyes lit up at the honey cake in my hand. When Thalia was finished, I once again looked like a shiny version of myself and I shed the bearing of a girl with time to wander and hurried off to find my mother and sister in the weaving room.
My mother stood at the loom, which rested upright against the wall with the tapestry rolled up at the top and weights swinging at the bottom. After months of working on it, this tapestry was coming together nicely. The pattern of olive branches and laurel leaves worked their way through and around the bull, the symbol of my father’s power. He would be pleased. The shades of green blended together to create a texture and a softness that contrasted sharply with the powerful bull. My mother weaved by hand, rhythmically passing the thread over and under the warp threads, which strung from top to bottom to form the base. My sister, Phaedre, sat at her feet, with her spindle and distaff, turning the wool into thread. Neither looked up when I entered the room.
“Ariadne, you were not in your quarters when Phaedre came to collect you,” my mother said coolly, looking up over her weaving to take in my appearance.
By reflex, I smoothed my hair. “Sorry, Mother,” I replied quickly, bowing my head. “I was checking on some matters for dinner tonight. I came right here when I realized the hour.”
We both knew I was lying. She studied my face, deciding whether or not she was going to pursue it, furrowed her brow and nodded, motioning to the basket of raw wool. “Please start on that. I believe we will need some more white for the bull.”
From her stool, Phaedre rolled her eyes. I took out my spindle and distaff, which was a long rod to collect the thread. The basket of wool looked fresh. Perhaps this is what Thalia had been working on this morning. Before the wool was ready for spinning, it had to be worked through, washed and brushed. That job was not suitable for ladies and thus was delegated to the servants. Holding the distaff upright, I got to work rolling the wool on my leg, making it twist into a rough thread and then fed it to the spindle. I gave the spindle a twirl and dropped it, keeping my eye on it as it spun. Over and again, I fed the fibers gently into the developing strand. As the thread formed, the market faded in my memory and I concentrated on the task in front of me.
The challenge is to keep it even to get a long, smooth thread. That part was difficult to learn and I remember many hours spent at my nurse, Alcina’s feet trying to master it. Phaedre, always happy to be the star student, glowed when she picked it up much quicker than me. Even now, she spins like Athena, as if the spindle was an extension of her arm.
It was nice to sit with my sister and mother in companionable silence, but the air was starting to feel heavy. Phaedre broke the silence with a song of love and sorrow. It was one of our favorites from when we were younger. The song tells the story of Demeter and her daughter, Persephone, and the changing of the seasons. As she sang, the spindles swirled and wool turned into thread. My mother wove in silence.
Demeter was a Goddess of the harvest. Her beautiful daughter, Persephone, was her pride. Persephone had a natural beauty with a carefree spirit that couldn’t help but draw attention. One day, Persephone got distracted by a Narcissus flower and strayed too far from her mother’s protective reach. Some say she was lured away. The poets can never agree on the details. Anyway, the ground opened up and Hades, God of the Underworld, appeared in all his dark power. Enamored with her, Hades swept her away to the underworld in a chariot of darkness pulled by black horses. I always wondered if she was scared or if she was so in love with Hades that she didn’t notice the death all around her.
Phaedre’s clear, lilting voice rose with tension as she sang of Demeter, wild with grief, scouring the country for her lost daughter. We stole glances at our mother, whose back was rigid, her face concentrating on her weave, seemingly unaware and unconcerned about the despair caused by a lost daughter.
Without Demeter’s attentions, the lush farmland shriveled and died. It got so bad that Zeus feared there would be famine and he sent Hermes, the messenger god, to the underworld to negotiate with Hades. Instead of a scared, silly girl enamored by her reflection or a pretty trinket, he found Persephone a beautiful goddess of the underworld, radiant and mysterious. She was happy. Although Hades loved her, he knew he had to obey Zeus. So, he agreed to let Persephone visit her mother, on the condition that she return to him every year. Each year, Demeter watches her daughter die to return to the Underworld. In her sorrow, nothing grows and the fields lie barren. Each spring, Persephone is reborn, arriving on a path of flowers. Demeter’s joy wakes up the earth, bringing spring and abundance.
Phaedra’s song ended with the promise of hope. We exchanged glances and stifled a giggle. When we were younger, we would coo about how romantic it was, how handsome Hades must have been – all dark and mysterious and how their love forever changed the world.
“Stupid girl”, my mother said. “She should have fled the moment she saw that black chariot. Nothing good comes from being loved by a god.”