As it was, the fair Ariadne had been promised by her father as a bride to the debauched god Dionysus. It was said that the god, driven half mad by his passion for the pure beauty of Ariadne, had demanded her as tribute from Minos in exchange for military victories over the Athenians. Minos had relented with some reluctance, but the deal had been struck. But the pure lady Ariadne was a devoted disciple of Aphrodite, the goddess of love. As such, she could not bear the thought of marrying for any reason other than true love, and certainly not in submitting to a fate as the debased concubine of the god of hedonism.
Upon setting eyes on Theseus, Ariadne fell in love with him and knew that he could change her destiny. Theseus would rescue the people from the Minotaur, and Ariadne from the dark god, and both salvations would happen through the force of love. It is said that Ariadne and Theseus joined together that night in passion and purpose, flesh and spirit, trust and consciousness. In that way she shielded him within the pure power of her love.
Because Ariadne was the half sister of the terrible beast, she knew the secrets to slaying the Minotaur and exiting the labyrinth. All these she shared with her new love. Ariadne then wove strands of her own silken hair into a skein of golden yarn, to create a magical thread, called a clue, in which to aid her love’s escape from the labyrinth. Finally, she presented him with a miraculous sword, a weapon once forged for the sea god Poseidon himself; it was crafted of silver and gold to represent the light of the sun and the moon as they reflect off the sea. Ariadne knew that this weapon would kill her half brother without causing him any suffering. Theseus would not fail to kill the Minotaur with a single true and merciful blow and emerge as a hero of the light if he followed her instructions perfectly.
The following morning, as he was being led into the labyrinth as the first sacrifice, Theseus fastened one end of Ariadne’s thread to an iron ring at the entrance post of the labyrinth, tying it in the symbolic bridal knot exactly as she had shown him. He carried the ball of magical thread inside with him, unraveling it slowly as he walked the circuitous paths toward the hideous beast.
At the center of the labyrinth, Theseus met the Minotaur and defeated him in honorable hand-to-hand combat, shielded by Ariadne’s love and delivering the final blow with the magical weapon that she had provided. His task complete, the hero retraced his steps out of the labyrinth by following Ariadne’s thread, thus arriving safely at the entrance of the labyrinth and into the embrace of his newly beloved. Carrying off his princess, Theseus freed the remaining thirteen Athenian children and returned to their ship as the liberator of his people and the great slayer of the god-beast.
They sailed until arriving on the island of Dia, where they stopped for a night of celebration and to gather provisions for their return to Athens. Sadly, their joy was cut short when the wine-crazed god, Dionysus, appeared on Dia to claim his bride. Ariadne was his by the right of human and divine law, he said, betrothed by her royal father and with no will of her own to resist. Theseus resisted the god at first, claiming that Ariadne was his by her own choice and that it was his intention to make her the queen of Athens. Dionysus countered by reminding Theseus that he could make Ariadne immortal through her marriage to a god, and that if the Athenian truly loved her, he would release her to a more divine destiny. The argument lasted into the night, with the god Dionysus relentless in his attack on Theseus.
It was a terrible choice for the young Athenian prince, who was no match for the clever and determined god. In the end, Theseus believed that if he resisted Dionysus, the god would likely take Ariadne by force and inflict harm upon him and the remainder of the Athenians. And so it was that with a heavy heart, Theseus abandoned his Ariadne to the will of Dionysus and sailed away from Dia without his newfound beloved.
Ariadne was distraught at the loss of Theseus, and in despair at the prospect of becoming the consort to the hedonist god who had taken her by force of guile. But it was through the sacred strength of love that a miraculous change occurred in the god Dionysus. So enamored was he of the beautiful and pure Ariadne that he could not bear to see her in such anguish. He did not take her by force. Instead, he agreed that he would have her only when she agreed to be his wife of her own accord. Dionysus began to shower her with gifts and celebrate her beauty, even vowing to change his decadent ways to indicate the truth of his love for her. When Ariadne saw the extent of the god’s devotion, and how it had transformed him, her heart softened. Through her prayers to Aphrodite, the embodiment of all love, Ariadne came to the understanding that Theseus would have fought for her if he had truly felt in his heart that she was his only beloved. That he did not was an indication that she must let him go.
For love that is not requited in equal measure is not love at all; it is not sacred. And holding on to the ideal of such love can keep us from finding the one that is true.
The day came when Ariadne agreed to be the wife of Dionysus, and they lived in a state of bliss into eternity as true and equal partners in the hieros-gamos. Here it was that Ariadne found the love that is real—with the beloved who had, indeed, fought for her.
Theseus, for his part, was left to mourn the loss of Ariadne and regretted until the end of his days the weakness that had led to his terrible decision to abandon her. In honor of she who was now a goddess, he created a temple in her name on the isle of Amathus. Taking the statue of Aphrodite which Ariadne had once carried with her upon leaving Crete, he erected a structure which he called the Temple of Love, and dedicated it to “Ariadne-Aphrodite.” Within the temple, he built a labyrinth which became the symbol of love and liberation, and a rhythmic dance that represented the celebration of divine union was established for the annual feast in Ariadne’s honor, the feast of the Lady of the Labyrinth who defeated the darkness with her love. The new labyrinth was created as a place of joy, with one sacred, spiral path that led into the center and out again. No more would the labyrinth be a place where human souls were lost. Forevermore, it would be a place where the human spirit could be found: a place to celebrate what is both human and divine in us all, once we learn to slay the minotaurs that lie within ourselves through our necessary belief in the power of love.
Theseus became the greatest of heroes, establishing democracy and justice in Athens, where he is still recognized as the wise and compassionate founder of that city, which gave learning to the world. It is without doubt that his deep understanding of the nature of love and loss was the element that made him a great leader.
For those with ears to hear, let them hear it.
THE LEGEND OF ARIADNE, THE LADY OF THE LABYRINTH,
AS PRESERVED IN THE LIBRO ROSSO
Isobel recounted the legend of the labyrinth as she had many times before, telling it as it had been preserved in their most sacred writings, as a cornerstone of the Libro Rosso, the Red Book. She tailored the story to the child’s age, eliminating the overt sexual references and certainly halting before Matilda’s professed “bad part” where everything goes awry for the young lovers and Ariadne is abandoned to Dionysus. For the child Matilda, the legend of the labyrinth ended happily ever after, with Theseus slaying the beast, saving the children of Athens, and carrying off his beautiful princess into the sunset.
There would be time enough for her to learn that most love stories were far from simplistic and did not end so neatly. Indeed, it was one of the great lessons of the labyrinth legend that the needs of women and the power of love were often not heeded in matters of human history. Ariadne’s desire was never a factor in the argument between Theseus and Dionysus, although both men professed love for her and wanted to claim her. She was given no choice in her own destiny, a fate which had been sealed earlier by her father when he sold his own child to earn the goodwill and alliance of Dionysus. And this foreshadowed the time when humans truly fell historically—when women became pawns in the affairs of men, with no right to choose in their own future. They became property, game pieces on a political chessboard for the use of their male relatives: devalued an
d diminished, even dehumanized. As marriages became arranged political affairs where women were traded like cattle by their families and had no rights, what had once been the most sacred center of union became a place where rape was made legal by the state. The Fall of Man was complete.
Isobel knew that Matilda would eventually need to master all the complex lessons of love and power within Ariadne’s story. But she would also have to teach Matilda that the union between a man and a woman was meant to be more than what it had become: a dehumanizing and often brutal transaction.
Isobel’s duties as Matilda’s nurse encompassed the child’s spiritual and intellectual welfare, as well as her physical protection. Matilda was an exceptional child by birth, and her guardian had been selected most specifically. Isobel’s task was to raise the girl within the highly secretive and protected traditions that had been in practice in Lucca since the first century. While Bonifacio was too preoccupied with conquest and territory expansion to bother himself with religion or spirituality, he held it in reverence as a tribute to his great-grandfather, the legendary Tuscan leader Siegfried of Lucca. It was appropriate that his daughter become educated and indoctrinated into those sacred traditions. Thus it was that Bonifacio and Beatrice had chosen the lovely Isobel from one of the grand houses in Tuscany. Indeed, Isobel was a cousin and a noblewoman, related to Bonifacio through the line of Siegfried himself.
While Matilda’s mother, the lady Beatrice, was also descended from the exalted bloodline family of Lorraine, their spiritual traditions were centuries more remote and did not thrive immediately under the surface as they had in the wilds of Tuscany. Beatrice was well aware of her heretical heritage, yet she maintained traditional Catholic practices in her own household. This was necessary as she was a member of the German royal family who owed allegiance to the Catholic Church and the related, complicated political structure that determined power in Europe. Beatrice was pious and obedient, a graceful and strong woman in her own way, but happily subservient to her legendary husband. Beatrice had, in fact, been unusually fortunate for a woman in her time in that she found real love and contentment in her arranged marriage. That Beatrice was a renowned beauty with raven hair and slanting dark eyes was the delicious gravy on Bonifacio’s full plate.
Matilda was not the first of their children. Sadly, they had lost the eldest two who preceded her to the influenza that swept through Europe earlier in the same year. One was Bonifacio’s son and heir, who died in his teens, leaving a great wound in his father’s heart. The second was another daughter lost in early childhood. The tragedy of losing two of her children so quickly had taken its toll on Beatrice, who was often weak and ill with the sadness and had little energy left for her surviving daughter. So while Beatrice was Matilda’s mother by birth and lineage, Isobel was the only real maternal force that she knew.
“When you are older, child, I shall tell you a different story of the labyrinth,” Isobel said. “One that involves wise King Solomon and the very exotic and glorious Queen of Sheba.”
“Tell me now!”
“No, I cannot. You are not yet of an age to understand all that this story entails. I shall tell you following your sixteenth birthday, as appropriate.”
Matilda’s tone turned conspiratorial as she whispered, “Is it in…the Libro Rosso?” There was awe in her voice when she spoke of the magical red book.
Isobel winked at her, nodding. “It is indeed. And there is much in that book which you will have to grow into. Now, to bed. Here, let me braid your hair.” With graceful fingers, Isobel began the nightly process of taming Matilda’s copper-gold hair, which fell in heavy waves to the middle of her back.
A sleepy Matilda gave in to the idea of bed, rubbing her aquamarine eyes and yawning with the ferocity of a lion cub. “Will you sing me the song, please?” she pleaded. “The one from your mother’s country?”
The Lady Isobel tucked the woolen coverlet under the child’s chin and perched on the side of her bed. Her sweet, clear voice sang softly in French:
Il est longtemps que je t’aime,
Jamais je ne t’oublierai…
Matilda, who spoke her native Tuscan and her mother’s German fluently, had only just begun to study French. When she repeated the verse in an answering melody, it was in her own native tongue.
I have loved thee a long time,
Forever, I will not forget thee…
And then Isobel finished with the ancient poem that was sacred in the La Beauce region of France, whence her mother had come before marrying into the sanctified lineage of Lucca. It came from a piece of poetry written a millennium before by a very great man about his love for a blessed woman and her children.
Je t’ai aimé dans le passé,
Je t’aime aujourd’hui,
T’aimerais encore dans l’avenir.
Le temps revient.
She kissed Matilda on her forehead, as the child reached over to the small altar table at the side of her bed. A little statue of Saint Modesta, carved meticulously from wood, graced the altar. It was a gift from the French side of Isobel’s family, given in celebration of the little countess’s blessed birth six years ago. In this depiction, the saint held one hand up in benediction, while the other clutched a book, colored in red with gilded accents. Matilda loved the statue, painted as it was to depict Modesta’s hair in the same extraordinary color as her own.
Matilda ran her hand over the statue of Modesta, before whispering back the translation, which was part of her nightly ritual and a cornerstone of their tradition:
I have loved you before,
I love you today,
And I will love you again.
The time returns.
“Indeed it does.” Isobel sighed as she gazed down upon this brilliant and complicated little being whom she loved as her own child. It appeared that God had chosen not to give Isobel children from her own womb. Certainly, with her sworn commitment to Matilda, she would never have the time or opportunity to marry and have children of her own despite the fact that she was only in her twenties. So be it. She understood that it was her destiny to raise this one above all others, and it was at times a daunting task that would require her sole focus.
Thy will be done. Isobel repeated it many times in her daily devotions from the Book of Love. It was the second of the six sacred teachings of the Pater Noster, the Lord’s Prayer, which was the foundation of their practice. Obedience to God. Surrender to his will. And it was without doubt his will that Isobel devote her life to the raising of this child.
Matilda would one day prove that “the time returns” just as the greatest prophetess of their line, the blessed Sarah-Tamar, had decreed so long ago. It was her destiny. She would leave her mark on history, this child. But not tonight.
“Good night, ma petite. May your dreams be sweet.”
“Good night, my Issy,” she whispered sleepily, nestling into her coverlet, with a final yawn. “Love you.”
Matilda was manic, running through the castle and shrieking with excitement, unbound hair flying behind her in an unruly red-gold curtain.
“Luuuuuucca! Luuuucca! Are we really going to Lucca tomorrow, Isobel? Really? With Papa?”
“Yes, little one. We are finally going to Lucca.”
Matilda repeated the name of her birthplace once more, this time stopping to whisper it in dreamy imitation of Isobel, who sighed often for her homeland and spoke of it in hushed tones, as if it were the dwelling place of all angels on earth. The child became suddenly, deeply serious as she turned her full attention to her nurse.
“I don’t remember anything about how Lucca looks, Issy.”
“I shouldn’t think so, Tilda. You were an infant when we came here to Mantua. And yet the first breath in your body came from the sacred air of that place, and it will bring its special blessing to you as long as you live.”
“Is it really so beautiful? And full of saints and angels?”
“Lucca is magnificent in a way that is special abo
ve all other places on God’s earth. Come, I will tell you a new story tonight, one that is a part of our special heritage, and…” Isobel did not complete the sentence. Matilda, for all her precocious brilliance, was still far too young to understand everything that the complex legacy of their people entailed. Best to teach her in the tried-and-true way of storytelling until she was older.
“Now, I want you to go all the way back to the stories I have told you about our Lord,” Isobel began in the more formal tone that indicated a lesson as well as a story was to come.
Matilda nodded solemnly, tucking her legs underneath her and settling in anticipation of the tale.
“Our Lord had a wonderful friend who was called Nicodemus. Nico-de-mus. Can you say his name for me?”
The child repeated the name obediently to praise from her nurse.
“Nicodemus was one of only two men who were with him when he died. Do you remember who else was with him?”
Matilda was an apt pupil with extraordinary talent for perfect recollection. She loved the story of the Passion and committed every telling of it to memory. She never shied away from the more graphic depictions of Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross as taught by her mother’s confessor, a dour cleric from Lorraine called Fra Gilbert. Fra Gilbert seemed to glory in the violent details of Christ’s final hours on earth and recounted them in particularly graphic description when he was trying to make a point about penance, which was often. This approach horrified Isobel, who revered her Lord for his words and his work rather than for the means of his death. This philosophy was in keeping with the Way of Love as practiced by her people for a thousand years. Isobel discreetly disappeared when Fra Gilbert was present. But Matilda was enraptured by all versions of the greatest story ever told, even the most horrific. In that regard, she had proven to be Bonifacio’s child from a very early stage—fearless and unflinching in the face of the harsher versions of reality.