‘The king wishes to talk with you,’ drawled Polles.
Despite the veneer of courtesy, this was an order. How dare he? Ariadne forced her face to remain calm. ‘But we spoke only yesterday.’
Polles’ thin lips twisted in a travesty of a smile. Everything about him from his striking good looks to his long black hair and oiled muscles smacked of self-importance. ‘Nonetheless, he desires… the pleasure of your company once more.’
Ariadne did not miss the short but deliberate delay in his delivery. Judging by the other warriors’ chuckles, neither had they. Filthy bastard, she thought. Just like your master. ‘When?’
‘Why, now,’ he replied in a surprised tone.
‘Where is the king?’
Polles waved languidly over his shoulder. ‘In the central meeting area.’
Where all the people can see him. ‘I’ll be there in a moment.’
‘Kotys sent us to accompany you to his side. At once,’ said Polles, frowning.
‘He may well have done, but I am busy.’ Ariadne indicated the fawning old woman. ‘Can’t you see?’
Polles’ face flushed with annoyance. ‘I-’
‘Are the king’s wishes are more important than the work of the god Dionysus?’ asked Ariadne, lifting the basket’s lid.
‘No, of course not,’ Polles answered, retreating.
‘Good.’ Ariadne turned her back on him.
Angry muttering broke out behind her. ‘I don’t know what you should say to the king. Tell him that we can’t find her. Tell him that she’s in a trance. Make up something!’ snapped Polles. Ariadne heard feet scurrying off and allowed herself a small smile. Soon, however, her conversation with the old woman petered out. It wasn’t surprising. Having the king’s champion a few steps away, no doubt staring daggers at both of them, would intimidate anyone. Murmuring a blessing on the crone, Ariadne glanced at Polles. ‘I’m ready.’
With poor grace, he beckoned her into the midst of his warriors. They closed ranks smartly and Polles led the way forward, bawling at anyone foolish enough to get in his way. It didn’t take long to reach the large open area which formed the settlement’s centre. The space was roughly circular in shape, and fringed by dozens of huts. Crowds of women gossiped as they carried their washing back from the river. A ragtag assortment of children played or fought with each other in the dirt while skinny mongrels leaped excitedly around them, filling the air with shrill barks. Smoke trickled from the roof of a smithy off to one side; the clang of a hammer on an anvil could be heard from within. Several men waited outside, damaged weapons in hand. There were wooden stalls selling metalwork, hides and essential supplies such as grain, pottery and salt, a miserable inn, and three temples — one each to Dionysus, the rider god, and the mother goddess. That was it.
Like their fellow Thracians, the Maedi were not a race that depended on trade for a living. Their territory was poor in natural resources. Farming provided little more than a subsistence living, so they had evolved into fighters, whose sole purpose of existence was to make war, either in their own land or abroad. The people visible proved this point: they were mostly powerfully built warriors. The majority were red-or brown-haired, with dark complexions. Varying in age from stripling to greybeard, all had the same confident manner. Clad in pleated, short-sleeved tunics that ranged in colour from red and green to brown or cream, they wore sandals, or leather shoes with upturned toes. Many wore the ubiquitous alopekis, the pointed fox-skin cap with long flaps to cover the ears. Richer individuals sported bronze or gold torcs around their necks. A sword or a dagger — often both — hung from every man’s belt or baldric. They stood around in groups, bragging of their exploits and planning hunting trips.
Polles and his men attracted the attention of everyone in the vicinity. Ariadne felt the weight of the onlookers’ stares as they strode towards Dionysus’ temple, a larger building than most, with a squat stone pillar on each side of the entrance. She heard their muttering too, and hated it. They were brave enough to fight in battle, but not to stand up to the king they resented. It made her feel very alone.
The king was waiting by the temple doors. He was flanked by bodyguards, while a throng of warriors stood before him. He cut a grand sight. Although he was nearly fifty, Kotys looked a decade younger. His wavy black hair showed not a trace of grey and there were few wrinkles on his shrewd, fox-like face. Over his purple knee-length tunic, Kotys wore a composite iron corselet with gold fittings and twin pectorals of the same precious metal. Layered linen pteryges protected his groin, and greaves inlaid with silver covered his lower legs. He was armed with an ivory-handled machaira sword, which hung in an amber-studded scabbard from his gold-plated belt. An ornate Attic helmet sat upon his head, marking his kingship.
As Polles and his men pushed through the throng, Kotys’ eyes drank Ariadne in. ‘Priestess! Finally, you grace us with your presence,’ he called.
‘I came as soon as I could, Your Majesty.’ Ariadne did not explain further.
‘Excellent.’ Kotys made a peremptory gesture and her escorts moved aside. Reluctantly, she took a step forward, then a few more. Ariadne could sense Polles smirking. Turning her head, she glared at him. The gesture was not lost on Kotys, who waved his hands again. At this, the bodyguards withdrew some twenty paces to the smithy.
‘You must forgive Polles’ lack of manners,’ said the king. ‘He is ill suited to running errands.’
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
