It was the only marriage, as I had long since known. I had thought I could take my time, since they could not betroth her without my leave. Of course they had not asked; they had been waiting for me. Well, there could be no more trifling, after today.
I had not seen the child since I was a bull-boy. She had been seven or eight years old. Before the bull-dance, they would bring in the little ones of the princely houses, just to see the procession of the dancers into the ring, and be shown the first in fame. Before the bull-gate opened and there could be blood, their nurses took them away. Thus she had come, one of a crowd of piping children I would sometimes wave to, as I passed by. One day, when a rumor ran round that the bull had killed me, she had screamed herself so nearly into a fit that her scared nurse had fetched me up to her, to prove I was still alive. That was how I remembered her: a naked tear-drenched child on a painted bed, curled up in tumbled linen, clutching my hand.
Then I had met her sister, and came into the ring with my mind on other things; but now and then, lest my face wore my thoughts too clearly, I would turn to the children’s balcony and smile and wave. By my counting, now, she must be about fourteen.
Like a winding thread, my thoughts passed and repassed about the Labyrinth, and came at last to Naxos.
I had never set foot there, since that midnight sailing. But my ships, when they passed that way, had had orders to bring word if ever Ariadne the Thrice-Holy should leave the shrine. So much was needful; to hold her could bring great power to an enemy. But she had grown too sacred; years passed and she was still there, in the sanctuary of Dionysos on its offshore island. Each vintage moon, she led the maenads up the mountain; at nightfall they came down swaying with wine and weariness, their hands wrist-deep in blood; and last year’s Vine King was no more seen.
For a long while after that Naxos feast, my tongue had been sealed with horror. But kings cannot sit hand on mouth, like frightened children. She had to be accounted for. In Crete, when I freed the Labyrinth, I had told the people she would be my wife. So when I went back there, and had put the land in order, I told this story to the princes: that I had had a dreadful dream at Naxos in the Isle of Dia, Dionysos appearing to me in his shape of terror and warning me off his chosen bride. Which was true enough, after its kind.
So I had put her off with a show of honor. In time, having passed through the islands mouth to mouth, my own tale came back full of marvels. She was so dear, it seemed, to Dionysos, that his vine-grown ship would glide by starlight to the water-stairs, and he would come to her in the shape of a black-haired man. I hoped it was true she had found a lover. She was a girl it would come hard on, to sleep alone.
And then, after a few years more, news came that she was dead in childbirth by the god. Whether the child had lived I could not learn; Dionysos’ shrines have many secrets. I should lie, if I said I grieved. It was a burden lifted. And it left young Phaedra clear heir of the House of Minos, last of the Children of the Sun. When Echelaos left next morning, I gave him for his guest-gift the Cretan singer. It made him my friend for a long time after; and as he shortly became King, the present was well spent.
I had thoughts of going to Crete for the betrothal, to see the girl for myself. Then there was a blood-feud at Eleusis, which no one else could deal with. So I sent an embassy instead, with a great gold bowl as a pledge to the kinsfolk. For the maiden I ordered something prettier; she had been a delicate child, small-boned and silken-haired; the Palace goldsmith made her a wreath of lapis hyacinths, with sprays for the ears. But my mind’s eye still saw her in the nursery with monkeys painted on the wall. So I sent her one in a little scarlet coat, and wondered if she would remember.
The ship came back bringing the kin’s consent, and the gifts of compliment. One was a likeness of the maiden, painted on ivory; but it was just like any Cretan picture of a girl or goddess. Even her hair had been done black, which I knew was fair light brown.
I had given my envoy leave to go, when he lingered and caught my eye. He was a white-haired baron I had chosen for his gentle manners. When I had sent the rest away he said, “My lord, I have something in trust for you.” He brought out a packet of embroidered stuff. “The princess sent it herself, by an old nurse of hers. I was to tell no one but you, for her aunt would scold her, but you would understand.”
Inside was a wreath of plaited hair. There were two colors in it. I stared; then it came back to me. That day in Crete after the bull-dance she had begged a lock of my hair, saying, as little children do who know nothing of the matter, that one day she would marry me.
The old man said, “She has been kept much alone; it is only innocence. Ah, but the bird is knocking there, within the eggshell; and a lovely bird it will be.”
I told him the tale, being happy and glad to share it. Now the thought of the maid began to take hold of me, and I grew her in my mind from child to woman. Beside this picture the Palace girls looked coarse and stale, and most nights I lay alone. The lands were quiet; once more the fancy took me to sail for Crete.
I sent no word before me, meaning to do it from some port nearby. I had not told even my pilot yet where I was going, keeping my secret like a lad. When I ordered my ship fresh-painted, a new awning, a fanciful gryphon beak from the bronzesmith, I saw smiles sometimes, but did not care. As the news of the match went round, I saw that it pleased everyone. Even the lords who had hoped I would choose a daughter of their house were glad their rivals had been passed over. Everyone would have feared the tie with Mykenai, as they would have feared one with Minos in the great days of his power. But now Crete was down, they saw a bond that would hold the great land safe in vassalage. The men praised my wisdom; the women had heard about the keepsake and thought it pretty as a minstrel’s tale.
I was at the harbor seeing the new beak fitted, when there came a shout from the watchtower that a pirate fleet was in sight.
A great outcry began, people driving the livestock inland and carting off the bales. Sea-rovers had been getting bolder; there had been flying raids all along the coasts to the Isthmus. Soon we saw longships, coming in under oar and sail. But the foremost signalled with a polished mirror, three times three. I laughed, and sent to disband the warriors and make the guest-room ready.
The people looked rather askance at Pirithoos, having been afraid to the last that he meant to sack the harbor. For myself, I was overjoyed; I needed a friend to talk with freely.
This time he was fresh and barbered, his ships in trim. He was outward bound though it was high summer, for the kingdom’s business had held him. I did not wait for his story, being full of my own. Upstairs after dinner, the wine at our elbow and the servants gone, I poured it out to him. He was all for the marriage, till I said I was off to Crete; then he stared and laughed, and said, “Have you lost your wits?”
I had got used to prettier phrases; even the Palace girls had kept their thoughts to themselves. Before I could answer, he went on, “Can’t you see it is the way to spoil your marriage, to see her now? A little giggler with the puppy-fat not fined off her yet, and spots as like as not. All idle palace-bred girls go through it; it’s only peasants who work it off that are pretty at fourteen. Oh, no doubt she’s a good girl, and will be beautiful. So wait for it, don’t start with downcast hopes and a dismal bedding. Mark my words, if you wed now you’ll be stale for her when she comes to her best, and she will have a roving eye.”
This dashed me a little. I said, “I need not marry yet. When I see her I can decide.”
“Don’t see her at all, if you want to love her after. And when you bed with the pretty bride you dreamed of, don’t forget to thank me. Meantime we have sailing weather, and deeds to do.”