Page 24 of This Divine Revelry

Gods above – or here, potentially – he even looks delighted at my response, like he was trying to provoke me.

‘No, you’re not a woman in distress. You’re …’

‘Ari– Areatha,’ I answer – catching myself as I start and sliding into something else. My father might have put a price on my head. And if Theseus is spreading rumours of his conquest, I’m not sure I need the humiliation right now.

He nods and snatches up an amphora. I couldn’t even lift one empty! And he’s handling one full of wine? It’s lending more credence to the suggestion of divinity.

‘Well then, Ari Areatha, let’s go be revelerious, shall we?’

‘Decidedly not a word,’ I grumble – beneath my breath but still he catches it and laughs. I sense it will be a long evening.

Make camp is an interesting phrasing of make a city out of fabric.

We arrive on the beach as the sun is setting, so that each fluttering sheet captures the dregs of light and appears to glow, soft hums of colour bursting across the sand. I smell the roasting meat before we even emerge from the trees – and it’s more than just the boar cooking over the fire. A huge vat is rigged up with some sort of soup or stew, breads bake on skillets above the flames and I can see bowls arranged with various dips and spreads.

I’ve survived, but it’s been weeks since I last enjoyed food – apart from the grapes, and even those were less and less delicious with every day that they were the only things to grace my tongue. So it takes me a moment to notice the people.

A moment longer to notice a few of the men do not have legs so much as hindquarters. Shaggy hides reaching down to hooves. Others have mortal bodies but curling horns, or sharply pointed ears. Satyrs, all of them.

‘By the mercy of Zeus, you’re actually a god,’ I mutter.

‘Never understood that one – Father’s not known for his mercy.’

Father?

A god and the son of the king of the gods, Zeus? No wonder I’m getting the impression he’s thoroughly insufferable.

Evidently my shock was what Dionysus was going for, because he gives a pleased chuckle. Then he turns and splays his arms wide, like he’s presenting me to his followers. ‘Areatha!’ he yells. Then adds in a gleeful yip: ‘I found her in my linen closet!’

‘It was a hut!’ I complain, though judging by the way they all begin discussing my sudden arrival, it’s for his ears only.

Dionysus takes my hand and guides me through the throngs. I let myself be led if only for the promise of food at the end.

He comes to the largest tent, sheets laid like petals, pale orange and faded olive green, like it seeded on the beach and has finally come to bloom.

He raises a flap of fabric for me to duck beneath, even though he may actually be an inch or two shorter than me.

If all those tents form a city, this is its palace. The sheets arch to a point high above us, right over a hearth that burns bright but doesn’t seem to emit any smoke. There are piles of pillows almost everywhere, plush rugs – all fabric, all so gentle and inviting. Portions of the food cooked outside are arranged on a circular table ringed by long, low klines – the sofas draped in yet more fabric like they could not possibly be soft enough. And then I turn, a yelp catching in my throat – a panther lies sleeping by the door, curled into itself and breathing loudly.

Dionysus nods at the hearth. ‘Gift from Hestia – everyone always asks.’

I glower at him and, after a quick chuckle, he adds: ‘Her name is Sterope. I’m training her to draw my chariot. Do take a seat.’

Somehow, I turn my back on the sleeping panther and all that food tempts me forward. I have to sit on my hands to avoid diving in before he can join me.

He pours wine into a jug and mixes it with water, is about to fetch cups when he sees me.

‘Oh, do start. We don’t believe in denying ourselves pleasure here.’

There’s something about the way he lingers on that word – flirtatious, yes, I won’t pretend that’s not there. But there’s a sort of reverence too – like pleasure is a heavy, weighty thing to be taken seriously.

I reach for the bread and moan as my fingers brush against it. It’s still hot. But before I do anything else I take my plate to the hearth and scrape a portion in – a sacrifice for the gods.

Dionysus is smirking as I return. ‘Thank you.’

I glare, but I can’t hold it long, too distracted by food. The bread is studded with nuts, steam spiralling from the fluffy insides. I can’t wait a second longer and the salty, tangy taste dances across my tongue even before I coat it in tapenades and oils. It’s not only better than anything I’ve eaten in the last few weeks – it’s the best food I’ve eaten in my life.

Dionysus places a cup before me. ‘Did you try any of the wine during your stay?’