Ariadne

Main Review:

Somehow, we’ve managed to get all the way to the end of May before I ventured once more into the ever-expanding field of Ancient Greek adaptations. To shake things up even further for the latest offering, we’re venturing away from the topless towers of Troy and instead sailing down to Knossos and Naxos for Jennifer Saint’s debut novel Ariadne. Once I’d reminded myself that Ariadne and Arachne were different people, I was excited to give the book a go, largely because I wasn’t as familiar with the story of Ariadne (and by extension Theseus and the Minotaur) as I was, say, Absolute Unit™ Telemonian Aias.

Right from the outset, it is abundantly clear that Saint’s adaptation seeks to put the suffering of women front and centre, caught as they are between tyrannical patriarchs and the jealous whims of the gods, she strives to bring close attention to how often they pay the price for the actions of the men in their lives. If anything, it’s almost too clear. When she learns the fates of Medusa and Pasiphae (her mother), it feels like Saint’s Ariadne is only a step away from giving the audience a knowing wink whilst tap-dancing under a big neon sign saying: ‘I will not do well in this story’. This medium awareness certainly sets Saint’s story apart from other similar novels, which seem to revel in the dramatic irony possible in such a re-telling but I was worried about how she would balance it throughout the wider narrative.

The opening section of the story also contains the obligatory sumptuous feast sequence, and Saint’s description really set the tone of the Palace of Knossos. One moment I particularly enjoyed was when an early meal was described as containing, amongst other things, ‘slabs of salty, white cheese’. The word ‘feta’ didn’t come into standard usage until the 17^th century and was therefore notably avoided by this story set in the 11^th century BC, a little touch I really appreciated.

I might have made a few digs in my time about how long Margaret George’s Helen of Troy was, but its length was perfectly used to give Helen and Paris’ relationship time to flourish naturally. By contrast, Theseus and Ariadne here make Romeo & Juliet look like role models for the abstinence movement, going from 0-60 at a lightning pace. Also, unlike George, there’s less of an overt implication that other divine forces are at play, pushing them together. As I was reading it, I was caught in two minds, never quite decided whether Theseus’ charm was an innate part of his ‘hero’-ness, or whether, like Prince Hans in Frozen, there was a darker plan lurking under the beautifully chiseled surface, as I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was just a little too keen to ingratiate himself with the young princesses.

You see, regardless of whether you’re familiar with Ariadne’s eventual fate, the first part of the story is full of foreshadowing, which, like so much of this book, runs the whole spectrum from relatively subtle to downright blatant. Little warnings pop up here and there: Theseus’ depiction of Medea as an almost farcically archetypal evil witch, the stealing of the gold of Minos after killing the Minotaur, even his quickly established relationship with Ariadne. Taken independently there’s nothing too notable but added together you start to get the feeling that Theseus might not be being entirely on the level with Ariadne. In case you don’t pick up on these smaller, subtler cues, Swift goes all in and includes a section where Ariadne has a vision (the very day she helps Theseus) of her being carried across a body of water before being abandoned, wounded, on a beach and left for dead. Who could guess what’s about to happen? It’s as if the aforementioned neon sign has been cranked up to eleven. What makes it all the more jarring is that the abandonment happens only a couple of chapters later; there’s barely a chance for the tension to sink in or to ponder what it could mean.

Despite Theseus’ natural charisma and beautiful (I imagine) forearms, he is revealed barely a third of the way into the story for the Ancient Greek fuckboy that he is. Once Ariadne has served her purpose of helping him gain the glory (and gold) of defeating the Minotaur and he’s taken her to bed like an Athenian James Bond, he drops her like a bag of olives, gets back on his boat and goes on his merry way. As terrible as it is for Ariadne, it has to be said that it’s at this moment that the book really starts hitting its stride. Saint perfectly captures the moment where Ariadne processes exactly what has happened, moving from love-addled princess to determined survivor with a really keen sense of her betrayal mixed with her resolution to endure. Spite, it turns out, is one hell of a motivator and Ariadne has the quintessential ‘nevertheless she persisted’ moment. What made this scene stand out for me was how it differed from the account Stephen Fry leads with in Heroes, where Theseus and his crew are compelled by Dionysus to abandon Ariadne and once that happens, she’s never mentioned again. Not only does Swift’s version have a strong ring of truth to it, but also it really marks the beginning of her story, not its conclusion.

As we move into the second part of the story, we are rewarded with a new narrator in the form of Phaedra, Ariadne’s (much cooler) teenaged sister. Although I must say that the distinction between the two characters’ voices is very minimal. Whilst It’s hard to pin down when reading the opening chapters how old Ariadne is meant to be, Phaedra definitely does not come across as a 13-year-old in her style of speech, which probably helps to explain why so much time passes throughout the novel, aging both the characters up to adults sooner rather than later.

Having Phaedra as a narrator works wonders in giving the audience the ability to see the aftermath of Ariadne’s elopement. It also means that the escape of Daedalus and Icarus can be woven more cleanly into the narrative. By tying these two events together, so soon after the Theseus reveal, Swift adds a new dynamic to the ‘kindly’ Daedalus helping Ariadne. Whilst it is still possible to consider his assistance as a purely altruistic act, I couldn’t help but think it was awfully convenient for Daedalus that the killing of the minotaur and the flight of the Athenian prisoners gives him and his son the perfect opportunity to try and escape from the island.

The second part of the novel sees the arrival of Dionysus to the island of Naxos where Ariadne has been abandoned. With his boyish charm, easy laughter and love for the exuberance of mortals, I found myself put in mind of equal parts Heath Ledger in 10 Things I Hate About You or A Knight’s Tale and David Tennant in Doctor Who. But whilst Ariadne’s encounters with Dionysus were pleasant enough, the real excitement for me came from watching Phaedra (newly engaged to Theseus as part of the peace treaty) come into her own as the Queen of Athens, building her influence and playing Theseus and the rest of his male advisors like fiddles. It flowed so nicely and reminded me a lot of what I loved about Sansa Stark’s arc in Game of Thrones but, you know, without all the grossly unnecessary sexual assault. Not only is Phaedra explicitly not made a child bride, but the whole wedding is reported in the span of a couple of lines, not lingered on at all, as if the whole thing is barely worthy of note. Very quickly, I found myself wanting to hear more from Phaedra and less from Ariadne, as was upset on her behalf that she doesn’t get her name in the title of the book.

What is clear throughout this second section is that whilst they’re not as explicitly imprisoned as characters like Briseis and Chryseis are during the Trojan War, both Phaedra and Ariadne are definitely still living at the mercy of a ‘man’ and are constantly having to navigate that relationship to have some measure of stability. Whilst we’re comparing this to books like Silence of the Girls and To the Most Beautiful, it’s worth noting that whilst there is reference to sexual assault throughout this book, it’s always presented in a somewhat distant manner, such as when it’s reported that Theseus abducts Hippolyta and ‘take[s] his opportunity’, by which she ends up pregnant. Whilst I could understand not wanting to linger on these scenes, I was struck by how almost flippant an approach is taken when it is first mentioned, only being explicitly referred to as rape over a page later.

Against the constraints of their positions, and as with similar stories, the act of weaving at the loom is once again presented as a radical space where female agency can be freely expressed, where women can channel their thoughts and speak to others away from the prying eyes and ears of men. But even with her many maenads around, and as much of a pastoral paradise as Naxos becomes, it’s notable that Ariadne does still end up marrying Dionysus, complicitly holding up that particular pillar of patriarchal power. Similarly, one big thing that stood out to me (not to get all GCSE English on this or anything) was that, outside of Ariadne and Phaedra, none of the serving women or the maenads ever get their own name (bar one maenad late in the story). As much as the spotlight shines on the two sisters, I found myself constantly aware of the mass of women around them who seemingly didn’t merit even a flicker of attention.

As the book moves into its final third, both sisters become mothers, and once again, whilst Ariadne finds purpose and simple joy in motherhood, it is Phaedra’s struggle with post-natal anxiety and an issue of bonding with her children that really strikes a chord. There’s a real resonance to those sections, making you forget for a moment that she’s married to a ‘hero’ and is sister-in-law to the God of Wine. It’s particularly emotive because, even with the frequent passage of time, you’re likely to still think of Phaedra (at least partially) as the 13-year-old she is introduced as, not the 25+ year old leader of a city-state.

When Hippolytus arrives on the scene late in the novel to be all stoic and talented, the Amazons and their way of life is placed front and centre and heavily praised by all involved. As an ardent Penthesilia supporter, I’m always happy to see them being given their time under the sun. Given the steadily increasing number of feminist re-imaginings of Ancient Greek myths, I’m surprised that (as far as I’m aware) none of the Amazons have been given the honour of being a full protagonist yet. Hopefully, the popularity of Wonder Woman in the DCEU means we’ll get one sooner rather than later.

The final few chapters, particularly Phaedra’s, have a real frenetic energy to them. The frequent shifts between narrators quickly builds tension, as something is clearly being built to, but it doesn’t become apparent until the very last moment. When the climax does come, it’s a double blow, firstly in that the tragedy itself (which I won’t spoil) is so heart-rending, but because we almost immediately watch the situation get misinterpreted and twisted by the other characters to cause further ripples of trouble. What makes it even more distinctive is that unlike the other stories, there’s much less of a feeling of divine intervention here, the events that play out do so because of the choices of mortals.

From that point until the end of the story, there’s a real bittersweet feeling, and the story’s message (that women suffer for the actions of men) gets driven home with the force of one of Zeus’ thunderbolts as Dionysus joins Theseus in the list of absolute trash husbands. It rapidly becomes apparent that his desire to live a ‘free’ life without rules is ultimately just a desire to live a life unchecked by others. Moreover, unlike Miller or Hauser, there’s no last-minute subversion of expectations, no small but significant change to the story, the consequences of his pride must be paid, and it’s up to Ariadne to foot the bill.

So how to sum up Ariadne? It takes a while to get going, and frequently has the subtlety of a rhinoceros in bells and cowboy boots. But when it does hit its stride, it’s a fantastic story, and Phaedra especially is a brilliantly complex character with plenty to make her distinct from the other protagonists of similar books. Not only that, but when I sat down to write this post, I found I had a lot of things I wanted to talk about, which is always a good sign in my book. And whilst it won’t be pushing A Thousand Ships off its pedestal anytime soon, it was really fun to dip my toe back into the world of Ancient Greece with a story that wasn’t directly linked to the war for Troy.

We’re going to try something a little different for the next read, but don’t panic, there’s plenty more on the horizon for you to enjoy.