Page 114 of This Divine Revelry

‘Do it. Oh, and hold this.’ I shove my diadem into his hand.

Then I fling myself off the cliff edge.

There are gasps, cries, a few startled shrieks – all of which I vaguely register as my own heart plummets and I question whether I ought to have trusted notoriously faulty sandals, then fervently hope one of the other gods really can make mortals levitate because I could certainly use saving right about – now.

The sandals kick up beneath my chiton – not that anyone can see that – and for a moment I’m suspended in the air.

I look up, Dionysus’s arm outstretched and his expression thunderous. He lifts his hand and I urge the shoes to lift me and they work – oh, thank the Fates, they actually work – and I am deposited right back beside him.

The watching people applaud, the maenads cheer and even a few gods are nodding but Dionysus leans close under the guise of some sort of romantic rescue to berate me. He repositions my tiara and glowers.

‘Tell me right now none of your other plans are this reckless.’

I smile sweetly. ‘Point at the cauldron, please.’

‘What, why –’

Smoke erupts from not quite within but beside it – though it’s just as convincing. Dionysus whips round and throws up his hands just as Zosime runs out, fire licking at her chiton. She screams in very convincing agony and Dionysus shouts right as the flames are mysteriously doused.

People rush forward, shouting and calling.

‘You’ve healed her!’ I exclaim.

And as the crowd calm and realize she is fine – utterly unharmed – and that the fire has not spread, they turn back to Dionysus and applaud once more.

‘What –’

‘Later,’ I promise him. Fake smoke still wafts across the stage, mixing with the very real flames that had licked up Zosime’s skin – protected by one of Medea’s potions. A cream she’d given Jason when he faced fire-breathing bulls – and one I’m sure she believes is better spent on us.

As the evening progresses, more stunts interrupt proceedings.

I’m alternating mingling among the mortals with directing the chaos but Dionysus is pushing through crowds to greet his Olympian family – or, in most cases, meet them. As he shakes arms with Poseidon, Calybe falls from an even higher mountaintop just to land neatly on her feet – or, rather, she ducks behind a rock while her twin waits at the bottom. As he speaks to the real Artemis, a violent attendee who is definitely not Silen is flittered out of existence with the help of some carefully placed mirrors. And when Dionysus introduces himself to Hephaestus, he breaks away to save us from a rampaging panther – Sterope likely enjoys the snacks at the bottom of the trapdoor we lead her through while the fake blood from her clearly deadly fangs is vanished from Myrto’s evident wound with one of her own cleaning tonics.

And it’s working!

I overhear Aphrodite tell a blatantly false story about a revelry she once joined. A man from Delos recommissions his entire mosaic floor to be a fresco of Dionysus and Sterope. And between the bouts of strength and the excitement for what’s to come, I can practically see the power emanating from Dionysus. Mortals and immortals both here for him – and he is radiant.

Radiant, and running at me with his thyrsus in hand and that leopard cape swishing behind him.

He throws his arms about my shoulders, cackling with glee. ‘Apollo is half convinced I’m a full-blooded god. He’s trying to work out which goddess hid a bastard. You are magnificent.’

‘From what I’ve heard, convincing Apollo shouldn’t be our measure of success.’

‘True enough. But now it’s my turn.’ He gestures to the stage and drops his voice to deadpan. ‘And I am mortified by what you are about to watch.’

Because while we have been crafting this belief in him, he has been giving them something to believe in. And, as maenads bash drums and satyrs huff into panpipes, the show is finally about to begin.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

DIONYSUS LEADS ME TO A somewhat secluded ledge and we sit just as people spill on to the stage beneath us. I see the horns and goat legs of satyrs and recognize a few maenads despite the masks, but there are more I don’t know – perhaps inhabitants of the town?

Together, they begin chanting. And a story takes shape.

‘What is this?’ I ask – watching not only the scene below but the way everyone, even the Olympians, turns to the stage, captivated.

‘It’s a new sort of rite. I suppose not everyone’s type of fun is a party – so I’ve decided to provide an alternative. I call it drama. Because despite what you apparently believe, dear wife, I certainly have a flair for the dramatics. I hope you find this thoroughly convincing.’

I turn to the stage and, indeed, I watch dramatics unfold.