by her great-great uncle. Though none of the snakes of Crete were poisonous, some like Perdix possessed sharp fangs.
“Does he have to drink now?” she cried.
“He likes it hot, you know. It reminds him of underground springs.” When the snake had drunk his fill, Icarus raised him from the water and held him as casually as one might hold a piece of rope or a few links of chain. “I chose a gown for you,” he continued. “Hurry up and dress before the water gets cold. Perdix and I want to bath too.”
Icarus and Perdix possessed the vacated tub, which lacked a drain and would have to be emptied by Ajax’s attendants before it could be refilled. While Icarus splashed in the tub and complained about slow sisters who let the water cool, Thea examined the gown he had chosen for her. It was very bold. The crimson skirt was embroiderd with golden heads of gorgons, the puffed sleeves with matching serpents. The bodice was open to reveal the breasts. She smiled at Icarus’ taste and chose a more decorous gown which covered her breasts with a thin, diaphanous gauze. Sleeves of saffron fell to her elbows, and the skirt, supported by hoops, flared like an amethyst bell.
“He is going to be disappointed,” said Icarus, entering the room. “He wanted you to dress ‘as becomes a woman.’”
“Haven’t I?”
“You know very well what he meant. He wanted to see your breasts. Myrrha always said they were like melons, and if they kept on growing they would soon be pumpkins. I expect he feels like gardening.”
“He can see enough of them now.”
“I know but you’ve diminished them. Perhaps you could paint your nipples with carmine.”
“Do you want me to look like a Moabite temple girl?” she protested, though nipples were also painted in worldly Knosses.
“It can’t hurt to pacify him,” said Icarus realistically.
She thought with a start: He does not suspect what Ajax really wants of me. He still believes that a woman pleases a man only by showing her breasts and perhaps giving him a kiss.
“You see,” he went on, “if he likes your dress, he may not make you kiss him.”
“If he likes my dress, he will make me kiss him.”
Icarus looked surprised. “But that seems greedy. Must he get everything the first night?”
“Achaeans are greedy men. That’s why they’ve come to Crete.”
“Of course,” he admitted. “You are right then to veil your breasts.” From the contents of the chest he selected a pendant of amber and placed it protectively around her neck. “This,” he said, “will diminish them even more.”
She arranged her curls with the help of copper pins, their heads like tiny owls; reddened her cheeks with ochre; and darkened her eyes with kohl. She was not vain; she was fastidious. She did not dress to make herself beautiful, but to perform an indispensable ritual by which she emphasized the degree and discipline of her ancient civilization. The application of cosmetics was an affirmation of order in a world which, because of earthquakes and Achaeans, threatened to grow disorderly to the point of chaos.
Hardly had she finished her toilet when Xanthus invaded the room with a swollen platter of grapes, figs and pomegranates, withdrew, and returned with a copper flagon of wine and two cups, which he placed on a three-legged table of stone. Then, with the help of coals from a portable brazier, he lit the flaxen wicks of the clay lamps and went to fetch his master.
“Xanthus,” said Ajax, entering the room with the leer of a man who is about to enjoy a woman and be envied by other men, “stand guard at the door with Zetes and don’t disturb us.” Withdrawing, Xanthus returned the leer, and Thea ceased to pity him for his severed ears.
“You will sleep in there,” Ajax said to Icarus. He handed the boy a cushion and indicated the floor of the bathroom, beside the tub. “Your sister and I are going to dine.”
“I’m not sleepy,” said Icarus. “The evening is still youthful. However, I am hungry.”
“Help yourself to the fruit, but eat it in the bathroom.”
Icarus eyed the fruit without enthusiasm and eyed his sister as if he hoped for a sign. It was plain to see that Ajax had kisses in mind. What should they do?
But Thea could not help him. Fear had left her speechless. A disagreeable adventure threatened to become a disaster. Ajax could break her back with the fingers of one hand.
“You know,” continued Icarus valiantly, “it’s not the food I want so much as the conversation. My great-great uncle Perdix used to say: ‘Good company is worth a broiled pheasant, a flagon of wine, and all the honey cakes you can get on a platter.’”
Thea recovered her speech. “Icarus would enjoy eating with us. You see, he hasn’t known any warriors except his father. You could show him how to handle a dagger.”
“Yes,” said Icarus, reaching toward the dagger in Ajax’s belt, a bronze blade with a crystal hilt. “It’s the biggest I ever saw. Why, even a wild boar—”
Before he could finish his sentence, Ajax had swallowed him in his massive arms and swept him toward the door of the bathroom. There was something almost paternal about the scene. In the giant’s embrace, the chunky Cretan looked like a small boy being carried to bed by an irate, but loving father. Thea remembered that Ajax had mentioned a daughter.
When Ajax returned, the door shutting behind him on its vertical wooden pivot, Thea had formed a plan. At the age of eleven in Knossos, before she had gone with Icarus to Vathypetro, she had learned to parry the advances of amorous boys; on sun-dappled Crete, young bodies ripened like succulent dates and love came with first adolescence.
Smiling, she motioned Ajax to a chair. “He’s a lonely child,” she said, gesturing toward the closed door behind which she did not doubt that Icarus had knelt to listen. “He misses a man’s company. You see, our father was killed by pirates three years ago.”
“Achaean?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “They attacked the ship on which he was sailing to Zakros.” It was not hard to invent a touching story. “Women have raised us. Not our mother, who died when Icarus was born, but servants and aunts. Always women. How we have missed a man.” She offered him a cup of wine. He touched the brim to his lips, tasting gingerly, as if he suspected poison. She walked behind him and placed her hand on his forehead.
“You must let me bathe your wound.” she said. “Pretend that I am your daughter. Before he was killed, I used to tend my father with soft unguents and comb his wind-tossed hair. Like you, he was a fighter and often hurt.”
He seized her wrist with unpaternal roughness and drew her into his lap. “The skirt becomes you,” he said, draining his cup in one continuous swallow. “But not the blouse,” With a single and surprisingly deft movement for such a ponderous hand, he tore the gauze from her breasts. His body reeked of leather and sweat. He could not have bathed in weeks, possibly months; he had doffed his armor but he wore the same tunic which he had worn in battle (in several battles, she decided; it was stained with blood, dirt, and food). Furthermore, he was densely wooded with hair: his legs, his arms, even the tops of his sandaled feet. He reminded her of a large hirsute goat, and like a goat he seemed to her foolish rather than threatening. She had not yet learned that a strong fool is the most dangerous of men.
“You need more wine,” she said, trying to disengage herself. Perhaps she could incapacitate him with drink. According to a universal proverb, variously claimed by Cretans, Egyptians, and Babylonians, drinking increases desire, but limits performance.
“Not wine. This—” He buried her mouth with a kiss which tasted of onions. She remembered that Achaean soldiers chewed them as they marched. She felt as if heavy masculine boots were trampling the delicate offerings—murex, coquina, starfish—in a seaside shrine to the Great Mother. It was not that she feared dishonor, like the god-fearing