The barons, if they had chosen, could have done much to check such tales. They knew her life, and could see the truth for themselves. But they had their own grudges. They were jealous of her power with me; of her friends, and the new blood in the Palace; they thought she taught their daughters hoyden ways; above all, the nearest to the bone, they were set on the Cretan marriage.
The fate I waited for had not stepped in to free me. The girl was Minos’ child; and Crete is too full of the old religion to set aside the female line. If I gave her to another man high-born enough not to disgrace her, he would have Crete in his hand; if I gave her to a peasant as once was done in Argos, I should be disgraced myself, and the Cretans would not bear my rule; if I kept her unwed, she would be a lure for every ambitious king in Hellas and every lord in Crete. Even this I might have risked, for my girl’s sake and her son’s; but there was more yet, there was Mykenai. Echelaos was King there now. He had long since married off his sister; but if he learned that what I would not do for the Lion House, I had done for a captive of my spear, he would not rest till he had washed out the slight in blood. Nor would he believe that for so slight a cause I would refuse their match; he would think me his enemy already. Then Mykenai and Crete would make two millstones, and Athens would be the grain.
As time ran out, I saw there had been only one hope for Fate to bring me. It was Phaedra’s death that I had hoped for in my heart. I thought about it, as one must think when one sees the certain means to the end desired. Every king has men about him to whom he need only look a wish. But there is evil beyond one’s reach, as there is good.
When all this was pressing close on me, I got a message from Pirithoos, bidding us both to his wedding. We went gladly, hoping the people of Attica would turn their minds to other things, once we were out of sight. But it turned out the most unlucky feast in Hellas, worse than that one in Kalydon after the boar-hunt.
All began well. Pirithoos had found himself just the right girclass="underline" some great lord’s daughter, and a Lapith of the Lapiths, one who like her mother before her would put up with a roving man. The Palace was crammed to the doors with food and wine and guests. The Lapiths are great hosts. As well as the hall for the kings and lords and warriors, the whole courtyard was set out with tables for the grooms, tenants and peasants; and beyond, under the trees, were more tables still. Pirithoos told me these were for the Kentaurs.
When I stared, he said, “Why not? I promised Old Handy I’d do my best for them, and I’ve kept my word. I let no one hunt them for sport, nor steal their ponies, nor burn their honey-heath; if they’re caught sneaking a lamb or kid, I give them a proper trial—the farmers used to nail them up on trees, to scare the rest. And they’ve done their part, better than I ever looked for. They’re like horses, they feel a friend. Last month, they gave me warning of a cattle-raid; came right down into the plain to do it! Such a thing was never known in Thessaly. I owe them a dinner; and they’ll have a good one, for I know their likes; I should. Meat; an extra cartload of raw bones, which they like cracking for the marrow; and mare’s milk fermented with honey. I’ve stored that over there, for the smell makes most people vomit. Out here, there’ll be no fear of the wine going their way. Wine sends them mad.”
On the wedding day, I rode with Pirithoos as his groomsman in the bridal car, bringing home the bride, a great train of mounted Lapiths following. It was a fine sight, winding down from her father’s castle and through the plain. The peasants cheered; the Kentaurs joined in with a tuneless howl that would have made the horses bolt, if any but Lapiths had had hold of them. Then we settled down to the feasting. Doing my groomsman’s duty, I went about to see that all was going well, and found the Kentaur feast flourishing under the shady trees, though, as Pirithoos had said, a queasy sight. Only one corner had decorum. There Old Handy sat, served by his boys. I daresay they had taught him something, but he had taught them more. I would not have known them, washed and combed and gold-decked as they were, but they were all at the wedding, and there were never less than two or three about him, leaving their kindred to do him courtesy in the stink of the Kentaur feast.
In Thessaly the women sit apart at festivals; but I could see Hippolyta by the bride. She had put on woman’s dress, knowing Pirithoos would like it, and none could match her beauty. But so it always seemed to me.
Besides my servants, I had brought as my body-page a youth called Menestheus. He came of the royal kin, a son of my father’s cousin Peteus, who had died in exile during the wars for the kingdom. I saw no need to visit these old troubles on the lad, especially as there had been no love lost between him and his father, by all accounts an overbearing man. So I gave Menestheus a place at court, and found him useful; he was quick-minded, and did not need telling twice. If he had a fault, it was to run ahead of what was wanted; he had been overmuch corrected, and was fond of showing where others had fallen short. But officiousness always looks easier to train than dullness.
Just now he was serving tables, with the other youths of good blood. But when I had sat down to my meat, a boy came to my shoulder, and bent down and said quietly, “Did you know, my lord, that your page is giving Old Handy wine?”
For all his sleek hair and embroidered short-drawers, he was brown as old wood, and he had used the clucking Kentaur name; so I went out quickly. Sure enough, Menestheus with his jug was standing before Old Handy. One of the boys who was serving him with meat had got behind his shoulder to signal “No”; but Menestheus missed it, or did not heed.
Old Handy’s head came forward; I saw his nostrils twitch at the sweet strange scent. But his wisdom stayed him, or else he trusted his boys. He turned his head aside, and pushed the jug away from him; a gesture as simple as a beast’s, yet, as he made it, somehow kingly. One of the boys grabbed Menestheus’ arm, and showed him I was beckoning. But he had to pass the Kentaur benches, and they had smelled the wine. Presently one made a long arm and snatched the jug; then two were scuffling, pulling it to and fro and swigging by turns.
Menestheus came up, still not much put out. I was angry by now, remembering I had given him Pirithoos’ warning, and asked him what he meant by it. He looked righteous, and said, “I thought, sir, they were failing in respect to him. First he is put outside; then they keep the wine from him, which all the Palace clerks are getting. He is their tutor, even if he is a Kentaur.”
“Tutor?” I said. “He is a king. And he was never under a roof since he was born. His boys know what he is, and love him. That is love. You are in love with your own notions, which is only with yourself. When you are ready to learn before you teach, you will be a man.”
By now the Kentaurs were licking the jug for lees. They had spilled a good part, so, I thought, there could not be much harm done; and I said nothing to Pirithoos, who was whispering to his bride. The meal was ending, and it would soon be time for the dances.
The women were getting up. It is a Lapith custom for the bride to make a progress with her train among the guests, who throw flowers and blessings, before the men’s dancing that ends with carrying her away. Evening was coming on, and indoors they were lighting the torches. Hippolyta and I changed smiles as she slipped off; our bridal had not been much like this.
The music struck up. The women swept round the hall, with pretty children bearing torches, and the bride on her father’s arm. They went out through the doors, and we heard the cheering and songs in the courtyard, going further off. Then the noise changed. It grew loud and ragged; an old man far off shouted in anger, and Pirithoos jumped to his feet. As I followed, I heard a clear voice yell, “Theseus!” It was Hippolyta’s, pitched to carry above a battle.