Why send him then? ‘I understand,’ she murmured, forcibly dampening her anger.
‘Good.’ One word was the limit of Kotys’ own courtesy. ‘It would be easy to make more suitable arrangements,’ he said brusquely.
‘And they would be?’ Ariadne arched her eyebrows.
‘Dine with me in my quarters some evening. There would be no need for Polles, no need for an escort.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ Ariadne replied icily.
‘Are you forgetting who I am?’ asked Kotys with a scowl.
‘Of course not, Majesty.’ Ariadne lowered her eyes in a pretence of demureness. ‘Evenings are the best time for communing with the god, however,’ she lied.
‘That couldn’t happen every night,’ he growled.
‘No, the dreams are only occasional. Dionysus’ ways are mysterious, as you would expect.’
He nodded sagely. ‘The rider god is the same.’
‘Naturally, the erratic nature of their arrival means that I must always be ready to receive them. Spending an evening away from the temple is out of the question. Now, if you would excuse me, I must pray to the god.’ Although her heart was thumping in her chest, Ariadne bowed and gave Kotys a beatific smile, before making to move past him.
To Ariadne’s shock, he seized her by the arm. She dropped the basket, but unfortunately the lid stayed on.
‘You’re hurting me!’
‘You think that’s painful?’ Kotys laughed and thrust his face into hers. ‘Know this, bitch. Toy with me at your peril. I won’t tolerate it forever. Remember that I am also a priest. You will come to my bed, one way or another. And soon.’ He suddenly released his grip, and Ariadne staggered away, white-faced.
What she would have given for a lightning bolt to flash down from the sky and strike him dead. Naturally, nothing of the sort happened. She might be the representative of a deity, but so was Kotys. In a situation such as this, Ariadne was powerless. Kabyle with its powerful council of priests was far, far away. Not that they’d intervene anyway. As ruler of the Maedi and high priest to the rider god, Kotys was the one with all the power. She managed a stiff little bow. Kotys’ lips twitched in contemptuous amusement. ‘We will speak again,’ he said in a grating voice. ‘Shortly.’
With trembling hands, Ariadne carried the basket to the temple doors, where she set it down. She lifted the heavy bar which held the portal closed, letting the light flood in to the dim interior. The moment that Kotys was gone, she let out a shuddering gasp. Her knees felt weak beneath her, and she fumbled her way to one of the benches that sat against the side walls. Closing her eyes, Ariadne inhaled deeply and held it as she counted her heartbeat. At the count of four, she let the air out gradually. Dionysus, help me, she begged. Please. She continued to take slow breaths. A vague sense of calm crept over her at last, and some of the tension left her shoulders. A lingering fear remained in Ariadne’s belly, however. It would take far more than prayers to stop Kotys taking matters into his own hands. She felt utterly helpless.
A discreet cough interrupted her reverie.
Ariadne turned her head. The figure in the doorway was outlined by sunlight, preventing her from recognising who it might be. Needles of panic stabbed through her before she regained control. Kotys or Polles would not be so polite. ‘Who is it?’
‘My name is Berisades,’ said a respectful voice. ‘I’m a trader.’
Ariadne’s professional mien took over. ‘Come in,’ she commanded, gliding towards him. Berisades was a short man in late middle age with a close-cut beard and deep-set, intelligent eyes. ‘You’ve been on the road,’ she said, eyeing his green tunic and loose trousers, which were covered in dust.
‘I have come from the east. It was a long journey, but we made it without too many losses. I wanted to offer my thanks to the god immediately.’ Berisades tapped the purse on his belt, which clinked.
Ariadne ushered the trader forward to the stone altar. Behind it, on a plinth, was a large painted statue of Dionysus. In one hand, the bearded god held a grapevine, and in the other a drinking cup. Waves lapped at his feet, showing his influence over water. A carved bull with the face of a man stood to one side of him while a group of satyrs cavorted on the other. At his feet lay bunches of withered dry flowers, miniature clay vessels containing wine and tiny statues in his likeness. Light winked off pieces of amber and glass. There were long razor clam shells, ribbed cockles and, most prized of all, a rare leopard cowrie shell.
Kneeling, Berisades placed his pouch amongst the other offerings.
Ariadne retreated, leaving him to his devotions. An image of a leering Kotys filled her mind’s eye at once, and her spirits plunged. She could see no escape from him and despair overtook her. Thinking that meditation would make a difference, she closed her eyes and tried to enter the calm state that so often provided her with insight into the god’s wishes and desires. She failed miserably, instead imagining Kotys manhandling her on to his bed.
‘What do they call you, lady?’ Berisades’ voice was close by.
With huge relief, she jerked back to the present. ‘Ariadne.’
‘You weren’t here when last I visited.’
‘No. I arrived here six months ago.’
He nodded. ‘I remember at the time the old priest not being that well. Still, you’re young and healthy. No doubt you’ll be here for many years, to gladden the eyes of every grateful traveller wanting to pay his respects.’
‘You’re very kind,’ murmured Ariadne, cringing inside. If only you knew the truth.
‘It won’t be long until the next pilgrim arrives, by the way.’
‘No?’ Ariadne was barely listening. She was already worrying about Kotys once more.
‘I met a warrior yesterday who was returning here. He’d have come in with us, but his horse is lame. Spent years in the Roman auxiliaries, apparently. He wants to give thanks to the tribe’s gods for his safe return. A quiet man, but he put himself across well.’
‘Really?’ replied Ariadne vacantly. She had little interest in the return of yet another tribesman who’d served as a mercenary for the Romans.
Berisades could see that her mind was elsewhere. ‘My thanks, lady,’ he muttered, withdrawing.
Ariadne gave him a bright smile. Inside, however, she was screaming.
As they climbed the slope to the palisaded settlement, old memories came flooding back. Hot summer days swimming with other boys in the fast-flowing river that ran past one side of the village. Herding the sturdy horses that served as mounts for the wealthier warriors. Hunting for deer, boar and wolves as a youth among the peaks that towered overhead. Being blooded as a warrior after killing his first man at sixteen. Kneeling in the sacred grove at the top of a nearby mountain, praying to the rider god for guidance. The hours of his life he’d spent wishing that his mother had not died birthing his sister, a babe that had lingered less than a month in this world. The day he’d heard the news that Rome had invaded Thrace. Riding to war against its legions with his father Sitalkes, brother Maron and the rest of the tribe. Their first glorious victory, and the bitter defeats that followed. The agonising death of Maron, a week after being thrust through the belly by a Roman sword, a gladius. The subsequent vain attempts to overcome the Roman war machine. Ambushes from the hills. Night attacks. Poisoning the rivers. Unions with other tribes that were undone by treachery or greed, or both.
‘We Thracians never change, eh?’ he asked the stallion. ‘Never mind what might be best for Thrace. We fight everyone, even our own. Especially our own. Unite to fight a common enemy, such as Rome? Not a chance!’ His barking laugh was short, and angry. The first part of the task his father had set him — serving with the Roman legions — had been completed. He had anticipated a period of relatively normal life before attempting the second part, that of trying to unify the tribes. It was not to be. The dark cloud of war with its bloody lining had found him yet again. Yet he did not try to ignore the adrenalin rush. Instead he welcomed it. Kotys killed my father. The treacherous bastard. He must die, and soon.