For her, the root of it was the resentment that she still felt towards him for choosing his army over her and Maron. Ariadne had always tried to deny the feeling, but like the weeds that spring up between flagstones, it kept returning. She wanted direction not just on the best course to choose for the army, but the best one for her. Should she try to resolve her differences with Spartacus or would it be easier to do the unthinkable and walk away?
Ariadne stumbled as her sandal caught against a stone. She looked up, noticing with surprise that she had left the camp behind her and was standing at the foot of the rocky slope that led up to Scylla’s cave. An image of the monster popped into her mind, and she shuddered. She had seen the mouth of the cavern from the beach below. It was all too easy to imagine each of Scylla’s long necks darting out to seize unsuspecting fishermen, sailors or dolphins. Only a fool would look inside and see whether the legend was true. Ariadne was about to go somewhere else, but she stopped. She hadn’t been watching where she was walking. This was where her feet had led her. Who was she to turn away? Dionysus might have guided her here.
Steeling her nerves, she began to climb.
‘Where are you going?’ The nervous voice of one of her guards.
‘Where does it look like?’
‘It’s not safe up there. Please, come down.’
A mischievous mood seized Ariadne. ‘Are you frightened?’
‘N-no, of course not.’
She scanned their faces. Not one was happy; most seemed scared. ‘Stay here if you will.’
‘But Spartacus said that you were not to be left alone.’
‘I know what he said.’ Ariadne began climbing again. Hampered by her basket, she moved slowly.
The guard tried again. ‘He would not want you to visit the cave.’
‘I am my own mistress,’ retorted Ariadne, without looking back. ‘I do what I choose. No one is stopping you from accompanying me.’
She ignored the argument that began behind her. After a while, she glanced around. Just one of her guards, the man who’d protested, was following her. The rest were huddled at the bottom of the slope like a group of frightened sheep. She wasn’t surprised. Superstition ruled the minds of most men. If she, a priestess of Dionysus, was scared, then ordinary soldiers would be plain terrified of walking into the cave of a legendary monster. She set her jaw, forced herself to breathe, her legs to keep moving. With every step, she felt more confident that she was supposed to do this.
The view of the straits and of Sicily grew even more impressive as she climbed. Sunlight glittered off the water, turning it into a giant mirror, which meant that she missed the bireme setting out from the beach where Spartacus had been. Her eyes searched the south, but the haze prevented her from any sight of the famous volcano, Mount Aetna, whose eruptions were attributed to a fearsome giant who lived deep underneath it. Soon, she told herself, she would have the opportunity to see it with her own eyes.
Before Ariadne knew it, she had reached the top of the headland, which was covered in scrubby vegetation. A narrow trail beckoned. She wasn’t surprised when the lone soldier came to a halt. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said over her shoulder.
He gave her a nervous nod.
The man was probably as worried about what Spartacus would do to him afterwards as whether Scylla might eat him, she thought with a hint of amusement. There was no need for her husband to know, though. If she didn’t tell him, her guards surely wouldn’t.
The path meandered as it passed through the vegetation. Here and there, she could make out the print of a sandal in the dirt. She took heart. People had been here before, perhaps to make offerings in return for safe passage on the waters below. Her idea was confirmed as she reached the cliff top and saw a makeshift altar of stones. Miniature amphorae, votive lamps, coins and small cakes were arranged in front of it. Just a few steps beyond, a dizzying precipice overlooked the deep blue sea.
Ariadne was careful not to go too near. A gust of wind might carry her over the edge. There was a perilously narrow trail down to the cave itself, but she wasn’t about to start trying to climb down to it. That would be a step too far. Tempting the gods, as if it she hadn’t tempted them enough in the recent past. No, this was the right place to seek guidance.
Laying her basket on the ground, she knelt before the shrine. First, to placate the creature whose territory this was. Great Scylla, she prayed, I ask for your forgiveness in even approaching your home. I do so with reverence, and with great respect. Next, she opened her basket. At once, the snake raised its head. She spoke reassuringly to it, and it allowed her to lift out the amphora, wheat and grapes. Ariadne was so eager to present her gifts that she neglected to fasten the basket shut. ‘Scylla, I offer you wine in acknowledgement of your power and your right to prey on those who pass by this point.’ Removing the stopper, she poured a stream of wine on to the ground. The ruby liquid soaked into the earth, leaving only a stain behind. ‘Accept this libation as a mark of my veneration. I also pray that you are not angered by my speaking to a god here.’ Lowering the amphora, Ariadne closed her eyes and waited. Her ears filled with the whistle of the wind, the occasional screech of a gull and, from far below, the crash of the waves against the rocks at the cliff’s base.
A little time passed, and there was no response. No monster had appeared to devour her; the ground had not opened up beneath her feet. The wine had been accepted, Ariadne decided. Hopefully, that also meant that Scylla did not object to her asking Dionysus for help. She opened her eyes again. Taking the sheaf in one hand and the grapes in the other, she gazed up at the sky. ‘Dionysus, I am always your humble servant, even when it does not appear so. Of late, I have not spent enough time honouring you. Having given birth to a child is no excuse. I beg for your understanding and your forgiveness. I bring you tokens of my devotion, objects that I know you find pleasing.’ With great care, she laid the wheat and grapes on the ground before her.
Another respectful silence; again no response.
Trusting this meant that Dionysus was in a generous mood, Ariadne picked up the amphora for the second time. ‘I bring you some of the finest vintage wine. Accept this as a token of my commitment to you.’
She closed her eyes, and waited for a sign. Anything that would help her decide what to do. Should she go to Sicily with Spartacus? As if that plan will ever work, she thought bitterly. She had been wary of the idea of recruiting pirates from the beginning, but as time dragged on without any sign of a ship, Ariadne’s doubts had solidified. To leave this place, they would have to break through Crassus’ fortifications. And what then? Again she saw the road lined with crucifixes. Was that the end that awaited Spartacus? She prayed that it was not, but the haunting image would not leave her. Would it not be better to leave now, she wondered, before the same or worse happened to her and Maron? There would be no Roman mercy for Spartacus’ woman or child. Yet to run would be to betray her husband. Guilt racked her.
Too late she heard the rush of movement behind her; too late she tried to rise.
A heavy blow across the back of her head sent Ariadne sprawling forward. She landed hard, knocking her forehead off a stone at the altar’s base. Stars burst across her vision, and she struggled to draw in a breath. Someone grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her upright. Even as she opened her mouth to cry for help, a hand was clamped across her mouth.
‘Try to scream, bitch, and I’ll toss you over the edge,’ hissed a voice. ‘Do you understand?’
Terrified, furious, Ariadne nodded. Who in Hades is it?