The Sacred King
An erotic novel by
Laura Gill
Also from Phaze by Laura Gill
Claiming Ariadne
Honey Eater
This is an explicit and erotic novel
intended for the enjoyment
of adult readers. Please keep
out of the hands of children.
www.Phaze.com
The Sacred King
Copyright © 2011 by Laura Gill
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Edited by Paul Hudson
Cover Art © 2011 by Amanda Kelsey
First Edition August 2011
ISBN-13: 978-1-60659-623-4
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Published by:
Phaze Books
An imprint of Mundania Press LLC
6457 Glenway Ave., #109
Cincinnati, OH 45211
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, Mundania Press LLC, 6457 Glenway Avenue, #109, Cincinnati, Ohio 45211, books@mundania.com.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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Chapter One
A big belly meant Ariadne stayed home.
She was seven months pregnant when the invitation arrived from Knossos. As wife of the king’s nephew, her royal status entitled her to a place at the spring equinox celebration, and after a long, dull winter, she craved an escape.
Her great-grandmother talked her out of it. “You haven’t been feeling well, and all that jouncing around in a chariot isn’t good for the baby.” Iphame gave her swollen belly a fond look. “And from what I’ve heard about the sacrificial combat, a pregnant woman doesn’t want to see that, either.”
Ariadne saw no difficulty. More than once, she had been with child during the Bull Dance, in the full heat of summer where the bloodletting far exceeded what she expected from the contest to select the new Sacred King. Now she wanted to put on her finery and join the spectacle, especially since the priesthood had relaxed the conditions of her banishment to let her attend public ceremonies.
Not so very long ago, Ariadne had been a High Priestess glittering with gold and jewels, celebrated by all. Just for a day, she wanted to forget about cooking, doing laundry, and haggling over fish at the local market.
Iphame snorted at her desire to play princess. “Don’t pout, girl. You’d look like a pomegranate about to burst in that new red dress.”
Trust her great-grandmother to remind her how bloated she looked. She felt it, too. “I didn’t go last year, either.”
"There, now." Iphame patted her shoulder. “I’m sure Taranos will tell you all about it when he comes back.”
Someone must have warned Taranos to keep his mouth shut because he tiptoed around the house pretending tomorrow would be a day just like any other; the ploy didn't work. Even his fifteen-month-old son knew his father was going somewhere special.
Akamas sat on Sera’s lap teething his wooden bull and watching spellbound as his father readied his chariot, a splendid vehicle whose wicker frame was covered with tanned cowhides. When Taranos groomed the horses, the toddler happily called out; he knew the Achaean words for horse and chariot. Give Taranos his way and the boy would have a miniature figure-of-eight shield hanging over his cradle.
“Just don’t get drunk and drive home in the dark,” Ariadne said.
“I will be staying the night with Idomeneus.” Taranos smiled at her over the horse’s flank. “Go to the local festival. You know there’ll be plenty of foreign merchants who can’t set up at Knossos for the occasion. Buy something outrageously expensive.”
She intended to do just that. “I should pay you back for getting me in this condition.”
Taranos tossed the currycomb onto a pile of wet rags and sauntered over to claim a kiss. “As I recall,” he whispered in her ear, “you were wet and begging me for it.”
Ariadne traded an exasperated look with the serving woman. “Oh, please! I’d like to see you hobble around with a big belly.”
Just after sunrise, she heard the chariot’s harness bells jingling as he left for Knossos. Ariadne groaned at the ache in her back and shifted over in bed, searching for a more comfortable position.
She waited until midmorning to leave the house with her son and great-grandmother. Akamas wore a new tunic with his beaver skin cap to protect his head from the lingering winter cold, and she put on a clean dress and some jewelry.
For two days, the women of Archanes had plaited garlands of ivy, laurel, and early almond blossoms with which to decorate the streets and festival ground. Foreign merchants plied their wares in the luxury market below the governor’s residence; the prince and most of the local, high-ranking Achaeans had gone to Knossos. Ariadne kept her promise to Taranos and ventured there first.
“Now this is nice.” Iphame fingered a length of Egyptian linen. “You can see right through it.”
Ariadne snorted at the shadows her great-grandmother’s brown fingers made through the cloth. A loose shift made from the material would leave nothing to the imagination. “Don’t encourage Taranos. How do you think I got this way?”
“I told you to keep taking the moon tea, girl.”
Which she had done, except that when a virile man liked fucking as much as Taranos did, the brew was sooner or later bound to fail. “Let’s go look at those cosmetic jars. Maybe they have something for my dry skin.”
“There’s nothing better for that than olive oil, girl.” Iphame never bought anything she thought she could make at home.
Ariadne gravitated toward the blue and yellow faience containers the Egyptian merchant laid out for her. Some were empty. Others held galena, malachite eye powder, kohl, and henna. “You get these fine brushes when you buy an entire set,” announced the woman. “We also have the best cosmetic palettes you’ll ever find.”
Lampblack and red ochre mixed with goose fat worked just as well as expensive Egyptian toiletries, and Ariadne still had the brushes and alabaster palette she’d brought from Knossos. “Do you have any face cream?”
A pretty blue and turquoise faience jar held a white substance redolent of Nile lilies. Oh, that was nice! Ariadne bartered for it with the last of the purple-dyed wool she’d brought from Knossos.
Roasting meat and onions, mingled with the smell of baking bread, made her mouth water. Smoke drifted up from the open-air altar where the local priest of Poseidon had carried out the blood sacrifices at dawn; acolytes kept the flies away while others quartered the carcasses for the burnt offering.
Past the altar and roasting pits, the meadow hosted footraces, boxing, and wrestling matches. Ariadne spied several more Achaeans than she remembered from last autumn’s festival. As Idomeneus moved to extend his domain, a steady influx of warriors and mercenaries arrived from the mainland to cast their fortunes with his.
Thirty itinerant warriors now lived in Archanes. Many quartered with Achaean landowners. Others imposed on resentful Cretan hosts. Tension permeated the town, which today spilled onto the meadow festival ground. While the settled Achaeans tried to mingle with their neighbors, the mercenaries formed a close-knit group the local merchants and women shied away from.
Taranos had spent the winter going from house to house to mediate between factions. He cautioned the mercenaries not to cause trouble among their hosts. While at home, he pounded his fist into his hand and growled in disgust. “Idomeneus ought to have installed me as governor instead of his useless son.”
Ariadne knew how much the omission stung. Idomeneus’s sons took precedence over his nephew, but when non-relations received lucrative governorships, Taranos gritted his teeth and swore.
She did what she could to mollify his wounded pride by pointing out his magnificent scale armor and the chariot and fine horses. Only the elite could afford to own a chariot or maintain the two horses needed to pull it. “Idomeneus rewards you well for your service, you know. You work very hard.”
“Crumbs,” he snorted.
“Oh, stop complaining, you big baby,” she said affectionately. “Your uncle rewards those who fight for him. Kleonikos is governor because he’s willing to levy men, and you’ve said quite clearly you’re not going to lead any raids.”
Taranos grumbled a bit more. “I’d rather keep my spear straight and firm.”
Ariadne leaned in to stroke his arm. “Yes, I can see where angering your priestess-wife might be a problem. You were wise to remind those Achaean mercenaries about the rules of hospitality, and keeping their hands off the local women and boys.”
“So you understood that part?”
“Did you think I was just going to stand there and look pregnant?” She kissed his cheek. “Be grateful for what you have. I am.”
****
Ariadne spied her neighbor Akuro with her young daughter, and waved to them. Watching the footraces, the shrew-faced woman wore a shawl over her festival gown. Ten-year old Kanako wore yellow ribbons in her hair. As she approached them, Ariadne asked, “Where is Argurios?”
Akuro shook her head. “What do you think he’s doing? Come, I’ll show you.”
Nearby, a wattle-and-daub sheep enclosure held a dozen boxers. Ariadne spied several sailors and young men. Among them, Akuro’s grizzled Achaean husband sparred with a warrior half his age, and was having a splendid time despite the bruise on his upper arm. Neighbors cheered him on, even when Akuro hissed at them not to encourage him. It didn’t matter. Where residents didn’t trust the mercenary newcomers, they generally liked Argurios, who now spoke their language and had brought his own goods and livestock over from the mainland.