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She doesn’t know the priest’s name, but still she follows him everywhere. She trusts him completely. He is so gentle, so kind, unlike other men. Enough to lead her from her home, pulling her along on a string. Enough to bring her to Greece. That, and Dionysus. The new young wine-god, as new and strange as the first breath of wind after a storm, who clears her head and makes her strong, strong enough to keep up with her priest’s dancing feet as they move across Asia. She is homeless, she is stateless, but she is free. Free from the constraints of men.
Coming to Thebes, she is reminded again of the world of men. The king, Pentheus, is a harsh man. He doesn’t know the rites of Dionysus. He needs to be taught, but is averse to learning. Just like a man, she thinks ruefully. She gets called many words by the Theban men – foreigner, alien, whore, freak – but she lets them slide off her like wine. They mean nothing. They only have barbed tongues, but she has claws. The ungodly chains break as soon as they are placed on her wrists and the god says that she will not be taken captive. She screams for Bacchus and the palace falls.
What men don’t realise is that she has power.
The Theban women would be no better than the Theban men, the queen with her pale skin and haughty expression – such a proper lady! The sort of woman who would spit at her if she saw her in the street. It’s really quite satisfying to watch her fall so low, a wild beast no better than a base animal, scratching and snuffling in the dirt and baying for blood. She is constantly fascinated by how madness seizes the brainstems of those who wrong Bacchus, twists and turns them and pulls them like marionettes on strings, and yet he is like a warm embrace for her, the taste of wine on her lips. Madness can be so kind. And that’s why she follows him; for the comforting embrace of madness.
Of course, the king is too much a fool to realise that. He doesn’t understand that embracing madness means that madness embraces you back. That if you go against it, it will burst out of you anyway and destroy you. He was the one who clapped the chains on her wrists, and screamed in rage when the doors opened and the chains broke and she walked out, free – free – free – completely free – and him left behind in the dark.
The priest comforts her when she cowers in fear as the palace rains down around her, and she clings to his long yellow robe and breathes in his perfume while he tells her to straighten up and not be scared. This isn’t like you, my dear. Look up. Face the world. He’s right – as he’s always right.
He says the same thing to the king too. Look up, see what you see, does the sky look any different to you? Seeing things as you should be, my dear. But his mother’s blinded and she kills him, thinking he’s a lion. She dances and cheers and shouts for Dionysus when the messenger tells her the king is dead, praising him in all the languages she knows of all the countries she’s passed through. Thank the gods. He tried to imprison them, to outlaw them, but they cannot be stopped. They will survive, they will thrive. The messenger scolds them like little girls for their celebrations, but she doesn’t care.
Agave clutches at her arm with bloody hands, grinning wide and her eyes rolling back in her head and shows her the severed head she carries. Isn’t it beautiful, her lion? Such a prize, such a delight! She prises herself from the woman’s vicelike grip and plays along, delighting in seeing this woman who has everything in the control of a woman who has nothing. Had everything. Yes, my dear, you’re such a wonderful hunter. Such a great honour. It certainly looks like a wild beast, doesn’t it, with that long hair (this a dig at the ridiculous long wig still clinging to the head). But so young, Agave says sadly, stroking its – his – cheek. How sad. Never mind, she smiles again, wider than ever, I will eat it raw. Will you eat with me?
And the woman turns her face away. She would follow the priest anywhere, but at times like this, she wonders why.