Page 68 of This Divine Revelry

There are stories of men who decide that forsaking xenia is a worthy price for their revenge. I would not put it past my father to slaughter half of us in this room and deal with the consequences.

‘I confess I did think she had died,’ Theseus says. ‘But I had a dream that very night, one I now suspect was sent by the goddess Artemis – or perhaps by you yourself, Lord Dionysus. Both of you clamouring for so pure a girl to make your own.’

He looks to me with that challenge gleaming in his eye. And infuriatingly, he’s right. The truth could ruin me – but more so, it would ruin us. If the Hellenistic kings think Dionysus is corrupting their populace, my lack of virginity would only bolster such claims. They won’t allow their women to join the rites – I’d be condemning them to lose what little freedom Dionysus’s worship allows them.

And it might negate the little power we have carved out with our marriage – power that’s protecting us both.

Alright. Fine.

Make me an innocent – there’s power in naivety.

Ruining his plan here is the true victory, so we simply need to make clear that Theseus marrying Phaedra would be a slight upon my father’s honour. A victor come for a share of the spoils, not an agreement made between equal kings.

‘I was so frightened,’ I say, my voice quiet. ‘They’d already forced me to go with them.’

Theseus glowers, but didn’t he hold a sword to my gut in front of my father and declare me his hostage?

‘And then I was alone, abandoned. I would almost certainly have died if Dionysus had not found me.’

Dionysus reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, adjusting that tiara of vines as he does.

When he’s done, he turns to Theseus. ‘I’m not sure what vision you encountered. I know men who drink too much of my vintages often see such things.’ Theseus scoffs but that does little to deter him. ‘It certainly wasn’t me. I had no plans to ever marry – not until I met Ariadne. She is as you say – a beautiful maiden, yes. But intelligent, witty, compassionate and joyful – a thousand other things I could spend hours regaling you with.’

Servants bustle in, filling our cups with wine and placing dishes before us. My stomach feels so twisted I can’t even look at them. The smell alone has me nauseous – all that olive oil reminding me of pressing my thumb to Theseus’s cheeks, the subterfuge that ruined me.

Pointedly, my father makes no mention of sacrificing a portion of our meal to the gods. He simply tears the meat straight from the bone – goat, I think – and, at his prompting, my family do the same.

Dionysus raises his cup. ‘If I might propose a toast, to thank you for this union and for entertaining us in this house. Had I met Ariadne under any other circumstances, I would have sought your approval.’ He speaks to my father, and my nails curl in on my skin. I want to bat the cup away. Want to insist my father drinks from every chalice before we take a sip ourselves. ‘As it was, the moment we wed we raced right here to pay our respects.’

My father regards Dionysus without lifting his own cup. His expression is unreadable – or, rather, it is its usual sneering glare. It could mean anything.

Finally my father takes a small coin from his pocket – burnished bronze, tarnished with a dark stain and battered around its edges. He flips it across the table where it clatters on to Dionysus’s plate. It leaves a dirt-streaked smear on the clay.

‘For her dowry. Enjoy her.’

Dionysus’s jaw clenches – and I swear I could see fires of his own blaze in his eyes. But he tempers them, plucking up the coin and flashing a blinding smile.

‘Thank you.’ He tosses the coin high into the air, and as it falls it shines. When it lands back in his palm it is not a coin at all, but a bright glistening amethyst. The purple hues are marbled within, twisting shades of dark and light like a storm caught in a cloud. With his other hand, Dionysus tilts my jaw towards him. He brings the jewel up and presses it into the tiara of vines and grapes. Maybe he finds a perfect gap, maybe he melds it with the metal as readily as he shifted the coin to crystal, but I feel the moment it fits, the added weight.

I think of him wrestling that tiara on to my head – like then, I am captivated by the expression on his face, everyone else fading into irrelevance.

‘I owe you six more,’ he declares. ‘To replace the ones I took.’

How is he this suave and polished in front of others, when his efforts to flirt in earnest were clumsy and amateur? It’s confusing, dissecting the act, finding where his genuine attraction to me blurs into the performance of unprecedented love.

Opposite, Theseus takes a loud slurp of his wine. ‘This is good,’ he declares, then, under his breath, he adds: ‘though not the first thing of yours I’ve sampled.’

He glances at me as if to check I heard him.

Dionysus’s arm comes to rest across the back of my seat. ‘Oh no. We aren’t doing that,’ he says – voice so stern and calm and … commanding. I’ve never heard him so steadfast in anything.

Theseus laughs a little uncomfortably – like he had been expecting a retort, a continuation of the challenge, not to be so readily dismissed. At the last moment, his chuckle catches, elongates almost … almost like a donkey braying.

I choke into the cup I still haven’t dared drink from.

Beside me, Phaedra glances between us all, her eyes quick and calculated.

‘Your doing, I assume?’ Theseus asks, clutching his knife and leaning across the table.