Page 6 of This Divine Revelry

She’d been assigned my handmaid at twelve, had become my friend by thirteen and my lover at fifteen before swiftly moving back to friend when we realized we weren’t quite as compatible in that regard as we’d hoped. It had been two more years of gossiping until daybreak, sneaking mead from the kitchens and, of course, conspiring to treason. And now six months without her.

The servant presents me with a golden headpiece my mother has apparently had made – vines pressed in meticulous detail, and clusters of raised bumps so out of place it takes me a moment.

‘Are these grapes?’

‘They are indeed, Princess Ariadne.’

‘And why does my mother wish to dress me like a fruit salad?’

The dress has a slightly grapish hue, actually, now that I consider it.

The servant flushes, and I forget, in that moment, that she is not Charis because I anticipate a wry comment and am met instead with a frantic explanation: ‘It’s a new fashion, Your Highness. From here to the Hellespont everyone is drinking wine.’

Drinking, yes. Not wearing.

But the poor girl looks like another question from me might make her cry so I put it on my head with a sigh. ‘At least the Athenians can go to their deaths laughing.’

The Athenians are met at the docks by a display of Cretan military might, our forces amassed and armed, like fourteen servants and farmers – it’s never the nobility the Athenians choose to send – might think they stand a chance of fighting back. At the palace, the show is one of Cretan wealth, all our finely crafted ornaments and treasures on show – which includes Phaedra and me, standing behind our parents’ thrones.

A courtier announces their arrival: ‘King Minos and Queen Pasiphaë.’

My father looks at us before he takes his seat, and I hold my breath as though he might see the treachery I’m planning.

He’s not a tall man but still, somehow, he towers – aged muscle turned hard and unyielding, a scar stretched across his left cheek reminding everyone just how he won this tribute from Athens.

‘Say nothing,’ he commands. ‘Reveal nothing of yourselves: no feeling or emotion, no opinion or preference – and certainly no sympathy. If they meet your eye, do not look away first. And most importantly: do not embarrass me.’

‘Yes, my king,’ Phaedra and I chorus.

Daedalus shuffles through the crowd, Icarus and Glaucus in tow. He nods for my brother to join us and, reluctantly, Glaucus moves to climb the dais. I wonder if he knows what is happening here – or if he has the same sort of cold feeling I had at his age. When he stands beside me he curls his fingers into tight fists and it takes all my resolve not to bundle my brother into my arms and run from this place.

I settle instead for planting a hand on his shoulder and drawing him a little closer.

I hear the footsteps before I hear the horns, which follow a moment later.

The doors of the hall open, broad soldiers stomping through. Deucalion – gruff and middle-aged, bearing absolutely no resemblance to any of us and who, despite being my brother, I believe I’ve had a grand total of three conversations with in my entire life – follows, shield and sword aloft like he is returning from battle rather than acting as a glorified messenger.

And then, behind him: the sacrifices.

Seven girls lined up beside seven boys.

It is so immediate I almost break my father’s command. Reveal nothing is very nearly replaced with gape openly and forget to blink.

But I catch myself, and let my gaze drift coolly across the tributes like they mean nothing. I do not let them settle on the boy at the back, who may be dressed in the same beige chiton as the others but is not so evidently starved. Muscles draw gentle lines and divots across his skin, his dark hair is thick, practically glossy though it is shorn close, and even the way he holds himself is too bold, like he has never cowered or scurried once in his life.

Maybe one of the sacrifices died too early and had to be hurriedly replaced.

Or the Athenians have begun sending us their ruffians and rogues who would be executed anyway.

Or maybe I’m not the only one who’s planning something.

‘You may be expecting a speech to thank you for your sacrifice,’ my father begins, cruel amusement laced in every word. ‘I’m sure you received some such address from your own king. But we do not thank you for what is rightfully owed. Your sacrifice is nothing, your deaths are nothing, your nation is nothing. And when we feast tonight, know that every morsel that crosses your lips is only to nourish the beast below.’

He continues on – each barb pettier than the last.

I try to focus on the Athenians – to take each and every one of them in. Every life. Every person, identifying them in a string of features: freckles, button nose, thick brows, tall, hair dark as shadow …

I only get so far. My gaze is continuously drawn to the misplaced boy at the back.