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wild
rites of Dionysus. I had heard of men who spilt themselves on the earth, as a
recompense for Orpheus who was murdered and brought back to us as a god. For
just as the seed of man brings life, so it does rebirth. It was one of the most
sacred of rituals. One where Dionysus himself moved in our veins.
    I knew these truths from the lessons of my mother.
And now I’d seen how it was done.
    I felt shaky and sickened as I wrenched my hand
free of the Bacchae’s grasp and stumbled from the hall. Was this was what my
mother had meant for me, even before our village was taken? Before necessity
forced us to take refuge in the temple. My intended destiny was to sweat and
seethe beneath a temple priest, no better than a receptacle for lust?
    With my heart lodged in my throat, I went to find
her and demand the truth. I made it two steps before the world dimmed and I
slid to the floor.

Chapter
Three
    “It was the wine.” My mother set aside her mending.
    Her chamber was not as small as my own but still
not as large as some I had seen. She had a straw pallet, as did we all, but
also a low wooden stool and a candle.
    “The wine?” I was puzzled. “Was it poisoned like
the smoke?”
    My mother’s lips twisted in a wry smile.
    “You have so much to learn.” She shook her head. “Not
poisoned. Mixed with special herbs to give it the power of Dionysus’ blood
during the Bacchanal. It helps us to commune with our lord. I felt so close to
him...closer than I have in years.” Tears glittered in her eyes. “I am proud
you were chosen to join in. It is a great boon!”
    “A boon! I thought he was killing her! I was
frightened!” I plucked at a loose thread in my chiton.
    I knew what the rutting of animals was, having
tended more than my share in our village. And I knew of the passion between men
and women, being a child of two lovers. But the herbs in the wine and smoke had
twisted it all in my mind. I was conflicted--sickened, and yet strangely
thrilled by what I witnessed at the Bacchanal.
    “Mamita, must I lay with any ktístai who desires me?” I asked, worriedly. “How could you wish such a thing for me? I’m
still a child.” I was afraid of what I must do in the temple to earn our keep. Was
this the life of a Bacchae?
    “You are old enough to be wed.” My mother shook
her head and clucked like an offended thrush. “Have you remembered nothing of
my lessons? Whist, Dori, these teachings are far beneath your years. We give
honor to the gods through our grace and beauty. It is good we have come.”
    I could not believe my ears.
    Had she forgotten the very reason for our flight
to the temple? Had she forgotten my father’s heart so soon? I wanted to find
love in a marriage bed, the same passion that bound my father to my mother. I
was afraid of what my part in the temple rites might be, but much more
terrifying was the heat running through my veins. I’d never thought to see such
lust, nor did I think to take part in it. Such things were the tales of women.
    “Good? Good that my father should have died at the
hands of the Greeks?” My voice was shrill and hot tears welled up to blur my
vision. “You think it a fine thing that I should offer up my body to the
service of the gods? If my father were alive he would never have allowed you to
sell me to the temple priests for your own survival.”
    I do not know where the words came from, perhaps
the black stain on my guilty soul. My mother rounded on me, and slapped me hard
across the cheek.
    Thracian children are not beaten, as are the
Spartans and Greeks. Her loss of control was a marked sign of the pain my words
caused her. But the anguish of my father’s death was too new, too raw for me to
care about her pain.
    “Never speak such words to me again.” She pointed
a long tapered finger at me and her eyes flashed. “It is a blessing the temple
accepted us. For you to witness the most holy of rites. To be respected and
beloved by the gods. Think you, on where we