Page 125 of This Divine Revelry

I run my gaze over him, taking in his every fragility – the soft fluttering eyelashes, the gently flushed skin, the lip he’s worried at. Immortal, yes. But not impermeable, nor a thing to be weathered. I’ve seen the labyrinth of his mind and the pain within, seen the ghosts of myself that haunt it, and I will, whether today or in a few decades’ time, hurt him once more.

Losing me is an inevitability, and he’s going to spend every single day that we are together tormented by it.

Apparently, so will I.

‘I don’t suppose I can tempt you to stay on the boat?’

‘I thought you had no interest in doing anything without me?’ I tease, like it might disguise my own fear. Dionysus’s gaze softens, and he entwines his fingers with mine.

‘This is an exception,’ he says. ‘It is unlikely he could kill me. He’d need a Stygian blade, Greek fire or a monster to unleash upon me. Mortal bronze isn’t going to cut me in a way that won’t heal. But you? All of you …’

‘He might not be able to kill you but he could catch you off guard, subdue you, strike before you can ready a defence,’ I counter. ‘Imprison you somewhere, or we must assume that he might have got hold of any one of those things you just said have the power to kill you. So you look out for us and we’ll look out for you.’

Dionysus presses his lips together, his displeasure clear, but he evidently can’t fight the point.

Myrto scrambles up beside us – Zosime beside her, with the apparent honour of holding her wax tablet.

‘Come on, you two,’ Myrto says with forced joviality. ‘We’re just here to host a revelry. So let’s party.’

She gestures, and behind us maenads take up instruments and start to play.

We are only here to spread a little happiness – and if that is a threat then so be it.

We pass a few dozen houses on our journey from the port. Abandoned, much like those we sailed by. But to my left, a curtain twitches. To my right, smoke sputters from a chimney – as though a fire has been quickly doused. And, at last, a door creaks – a startled shriek of Apollonia! and a girl of thirteen or so darts out.

She reaches us, panting – her eyes are frightened and quick but there’s anticipation there too.

Opora holds out her tympanon – and the girl takes it. She stares at it a moment – then taps her fingers against its skin. The others play on – and soon she has the beat.

She laughs, delighted – and turns back to the house, raising the tympanon aloft.

And a curious set of eyes meets her – an older sister, perhaps. Hesitantly, she steps out too.

Then other doors creak.

It is the same in every village we pass – hesitancy, and then a brave first step that leads the others into the fray.

Dionysus, we sing – and I feel the beat strike within me because on our tongues it is not the god twirling his thyrsus at my side but us. It is as he said so long ago – his name only the thing they gather beneath. And now, sung out like this, it is a calling, a heralding of freedom, of jubilation, of the first bright spark amidst so much gloom.

By the time the walls of Tiryns rise above us, we have amassed at least a hundred of Perseus’s own people, singing and dancing with the rest of the thiasus – and I’m a little more confident that even if Perseus will not allow full revelry in his lands, he will not stop its first beats.

And maybe fun will seep into the cracks of his rule, no matter how hard he tries to stopper it.

The dirt path leads to two enormous gates set into the city walls.

Dionysus takes a step towards knocking upon them.

‘Everybody down!’ a voice screams, and around me there is movement – above, a sudden shower.

Dionysus jabs his thyrsus aloft as I dive for the ground, colliding with the bodies beside me. My heart thumps violently, reverberating in the sudden silence.

A silence that lingers.

I toss my head back. A volley of arrows hover above us, refusing to sink lower than the pine cone topping Dionysus’s staff.

On the city walls above, archers are notching second arrows. In their centre, I catch the raven glint of Perseus, his hair fluttering in the breeze, his robes silken in the sun. No helmet. No armour. No weapon that I can see, just a bag slung over his shoulder and an outstretched hand holding his archers at bay.

‘That’s him,’ I say, scrambling to my feet.