hold three men and deep enough for me to float, steadied by someone's hand under my neck. On a ledge sat Hippos, in robes and mask; beside me lay the centaur youth whose name I did not know.
'You will lie here for one quarter of this night,' said Hippos. 'I will tell tales to you, young men, and this shall be your manhood ritual. Then you shall rise, being healed, and go to the meadow where the centaurs sport with their mares. There Jason waits for you, son of Dictys. He who hesitated long enough to kill you then acted fast enough to save your life. You will forgive him.'
'Horse-priest, there is nothing to forgive,' I said. The warm water bathed my hurts. I could feel my bruised limbs slackening, relaxing, and almost cried with relief. I heard a sob beside me as the centaur boy experienced the same blessing.
Hippos was masked so I could not see his expression, but he made a tongue click which in the centaur's language means vexation. I wondered how I had offended him, but he said nothing more of the matter; instead beginning a story in the centaur's deep, rich voice, which could make the driest matter fascinating.
These caves belong to Hephaestos, smith of the gods, husband of Aphrodite. He is crippled by a fall, but he is the greatest metal worker that has ever been. His son is Talos, who made the bronze giant. When this part of the world was formed, Hephaestos forged the doorposts of the palace of the gods here, even for Zeus Cloud-Compeller's palace, that Zeus who is Lord of the Lightning. When the metal was quenched with a river, the rock melted, and steam caves were formed.
When he returned with the forging to heaven, he left this gift for the centaur people who were his friends. He left us healing waters to comfort our hurts and cleanse our spirits. On this holiest of nights, when the tribe embraces Hippia and our boys become young men, the waters have special virtue.
Hippos indicated the centaur boy. 'There lies beside you, son of Dictys, Philos, who is now your brother, for you have been healed together. He is the son of Cheiron.'
There were many sons of Cheiron - the centaurs keep no wife to themselves - but I smiled as best I could at Philos, and he smiled at me. There was no manhood tattoo on his chest, but he was already sprouting a beard.
'Semele, the moon, is riding high, watching over our ceremony,' Hippos said, and continued his story.
Under such a moon heroes have come to Cheiron; heroes and gods. Herakles came here. He is the son of Zeus, and Alkmene to whom he appeared in the shape of her husband. She lay with him unknowing - she was a faithful wife, most unusual among women - and conceived the hero. He was designed by the Father to suffer as men suffer, to gain special insight into the lives and minds of men, and when he dies Zeus will take him into his counsels, and he will advise the Caster of Thunderbolts on the ways and feelings of his subjects. And that hero suffers more than men suffer, because he is struck mad. In this madness he killed his sons, and was condemned to labour by Eurystheus of Mycenae, who would not otherwise cleanse him of blood-guilt.'
I stirred in the water. My skin itched, as though a thousand ants were biting me.
Hippos stroked my forehead and said, 'It is the magic, Nauplios, lie still,' and I strove to obey him. My hand met the hand of the centaur Philos under the water, and clasped. It was the first time I had touched one of the centaur men in amity, and I was so surprised by the cordial grip that I sank a little and choked.
Hippos lifted my chin, reminding me that men breathed air, not water, and I laughed. Philos, my new brother, laughed too.
It was the girdle of Hippolyte, the Amazon queen, that was demanded of the hero, and he did not fail at his task. But the strength of a hero is not only in his body, young men, nor even in his loins - though it was Herakles who lay with the fifty daughters of a king in one night. It is in his mind that a hero needs strength. For muscle alone would not have won him this prize.
The Amazons are women, but not like other women. They are fighters, fierce and dangerous; sworn maidens and protected by their goddess, Hekate, Blood-Drinker, the Black Bitch. Flee such women, they are unnatural. They have no timidity of the flesh, no modesty, no fear.
Herakles could not have overcome them without battle, and he was one alone and they were many. He took men with him, but they were separated by the action of some malign god; and Herakles walked unprotected, his back bare of a brother; into the city of the Amazons.
They took him to the queen. There he could have done several things. He could have challenged her to single combat, shameful though that would be, for a man to challenge a woman. He could have tried to deceive her, pleading for her girdle as a token of love, which would be even more dishonourable than offering to duel with her.
Instead, they say, he sat down in familiar fashion at the foot of her throne and told her why he had come. He never had the sweet tongue of the singer, Herakles the hero. His words were blunt and flat.
'I am Herakles, son of Zeus, and I have come for your girdle,' he told her.
'Why do you seek my girdle, foreigner?'
'I have been set twelve tasks by Eurystheus of Mycenae before he will cleanse me of the blood of my children, whom I killed in a fit of madness, thinking they were bandits,' he replied. 'I am Herakles of Tiryns.
'You have come alone,' she observed.
'I brought an army to assail you, but it is wrecked and astray.'
'So you came anyway.'
'Even as I am,' said the hero.
'And what will you do to accomplish this task?' she asked.
'Anything I have to,' he replied.
The queen of the Amazons was a good judge of fighters. She looked at the hero. He is not tall but he is broad, and his body is whipcord, tanned by the weather. His hair is long and tangled. He bears no edged weapon but carries a mighty club. He did not plead or threaten, but looked at the queen of Amazons for a long time. This queen stated no false woman's terms but, like a warrior or a king, made her bargain.
'I could ask you for anything,' she said. 'But I will take no advantage of a warrior under such a burden of guilt. I will ask you to lie in the act of love with some of my women, that they may bear strong daughters with your blood in their veins. And as a reward, Herakles of Tiryns, I will give you my girdle at the end of three days, and my fighters will escort you to the sea, where you may find a ship.'
'You do not ask me to lie with you,' Herakles said, for his heart inclined to her. She was beautiful they say.
The queen shook her head. 'I do not lie with men'.
At the end of three days, when such of the Amazon women who could bear the touch of man had all lain with Herakles, Hippolyte the queen gave him her golden girdle and he came to the coast, where he found a ship trading out of Achaea, which took him home.
Hippos paused, then added, 'Authority is the quality of the king. Hippolyte had it, when she made and kept a bargain with a hero. Herakles, had it, when his gaze was enough to warn the queen that fighting him would be unwise. Now, young men, rise from this water. You are healed.'
I turned over, grasping for the edge, and found that he was right. Nothing hurt. I got one knee on the ledge where Hippos was sitting, and my body moved as smoothly as oil. We were dried and dressed in tunics, then Hippos led us down from the cave to the meadow. Philos went ahead with the horse-priest, and I stood watching from the rocks that marked the edge of the flat green space, now grey under the moon.
Someone was standing next to me. Jason, averting his eyes. I went to him and reached out my hand, but he would not take it.
'My lord,' I begged. 'Take my hand.'
'I almost killed you, Nauplios,' he muttered.
'No, you saved me.