called her Pyla because she came from Pylos, an offering to the temple from a merchant cured of an itch which had maddened him enough to consider suicide. He had left without his itch (poultices of fresh marshleaf, dock and lychnis and infusions of valerian and comfrey) and had delivered three colts a month later. Pyla was the colour of good Kriti honey, with an affectionate nature and an especial craving for hawthorn flowers. She was young and strong and used to me. Not perhaps a well-bred horse, but broad in the beam and accustomed to mountains. I found her head gear and saddled her, slinging my rolled cloak across her willing back.
Then I led her and Banthos out into the sunlight. The master came, still arguing with Polidarius, and mounted, settling his robes. Itarnes hugged me and I returned the embrace. `Good fortune and the gods be with you,' he said, grinning.
I mounted Pyla and trotted at the master's side out of the gates of the temple of Asclepius and into the road.
Though I had been on this road before, I had been six and I did not remember it well. When we came out to the north, the road split, one part going west to Tiryns, the other east to the town of Epidavros. I had often gone east with the other apprentices, seeking taverns to sing and drink wine in. But I had never gone west and I had always wondered where the road led.
Now I was going to find out. I was thirteen years old and I was out in the world again.
The world was wide and scented with resin and dust. It was autumn, I realised. All the trees in the temple are evergreen; it takes concentration to notice the changing of the seasons.
Pyla trotted politely at the side of the master's horse. For a few hours we travelled in silence, but it was a pleasant silence and I had a lot to look at. The grapes were ripening well, it seemed, the plump purple patches almost too heavy for the vines. I recalled being a child who tended the goats and lay a whole day in the thyme-scented grass, looking at the shadows of the mountains and making beasts and faces out of clouds. I thought of the small Chryse with pity. He was so ignorant of the world and of men.
We came into Kokkinades at an easy pace and found no one about in the agora, which was odd. It still lacked several hours until sunset and usually the marketplace of such villages has a cast of inhabitants fully as well known as a satyr-play. The old men on benches by the shady side of the square, market women arguing with customers and proclaiming the merits of their cheese or their weaving, and maidens passing to the well for water with amphorae on head or hop.
But in the main square of this village there was no none. I shivered.
`Men of Kokkinades!' called Master Glaucus in a loud voice.
I did not hear anything but the master went to a house on the far side of the square and wrenched open a door. It was a stone house with two windows. I felt sure that it must belong to the chief family of Kokkinades.
He looked inside, stepped back, and stood silent for a moment. I wanted to look inside but he pushed me roughly away.
`Chryse,' he said slowly, `take the horses and walk out along the road, to the west. When you are 500 paces away, stop and call out in a loud voice that a healer has come.' Master Glaucus' own voice was taut with some strong emotion.
`Yes, Master. What do I do then?'
`Wait. I will not be long. Take my cloak, boy, I will have to burn this tunic. Go on, Chryse!'
Puzzled, I walked both horses, who were restive because they had expected to be fed and stabled in the village, 500 paces along the white road. The slopes of the hills were covered in poppies, I remember, and I saw seven varieties of thyme and a sun-coloured butterfly. I felt very foolish when I reached the prescribed place, but I had my orders. Tethering Banthos and Pyla to a convenient olive tree, I cupped my hands and called to the silent hills, `A healer has come!' I waited, then repeated it.
Since I could not see anyone, I sat down and took a drink of water - our water skin would need replenishing soon - and ate a broken piece of barley bread which I found in the ration-bag. I wondered what had happened to Kokkinades. I could not see any sign of bandit attack; no arrows, no spear marks or blood, and the houses had not been broken into or damaged. Bandits usually set villages on fire after they left. I would have assumed that the people were all away on some festival - the Dionysiad was near - if it had not been for that strained note in my master's speech.
I heard a rustle and leapt to my feet. A woman came climbing down the bank to the road, carrying a small baby and towing another two children behind her. She stopped when she saw me.
`Are you a healer?' she asked suspiciously.
`I'm an acolyte, Lady,' I said politely. `Master Glaucus is in the village and will presently be here.'
`In the village? Then he is lost. Kokkinades is doomed. Some god has been offended and he has struck us with a plague. Apollo. It must be Apollo.'
`Are you...' I was about to say `the only survivor' but changed my phrasing hurriedly, `alone, Lady?'
`No, the others have gone to sacrifice to Apollo to ask him to take off the curse. It must have been that bull. It was prideful of us to sacrifice a bull.'
`Are you well, Lady?' With my new-found knowledge of the non-existence of gods I could not enter into the argument. She made a holy sign with her free hand and said, `Thanks be to all the gods, yes, I and the children are well. Though what we will do or where we will go, I do not know.'
I could think of no reply so I said, `Leave it to the gods, Lady.'
In this way I arrived at hypocrisy and started on my journey towards becoming a man. My master came up at this moment, heard my declaration, and did not even smile.
`Woman, where are all the people of Kokkinades?' He sounded angry. The woman recoiled and pointed down the road, where I knew that the village of Irion stood. I had been born there.
`At the temple of Apollo of the roads,' she said shakily. `It is not an hour's walk, Lord.'
Glaucus grabbed Banthos' rein, untied him, and leapt onto his back. I followed hastily and we galloped away.
`Master, what has happened to the village?' I screamed through the dust and the beat of hoofs.
`Their own stupidity has happened to them. By the gods, if there were gods, Diomenes, they would despair of men.'
`Why?' I asked, choking on a mouthful of dust.
He did not reply. I drove my heels into Pyla's flank, urging her to keep up, but we failed to match the speed of Banthos and had to follow in his dust cloud. Inevitably, we dropped behind. I tucked my feet into Pyla's belly band, my soles against her silky hide. I could not see a thing (and perhaps neither could Pyla) but thus attached, I could not fall off.
I wondered what the men of Kokkinades had done to make Master Glaucus so angry.
As the dust settled, I rubbed my eyes and saw that we had arrived at a small and badly maintained temple of Apollo Pathfinder. Thirty people were gathered outside. My master had dropped Banthos' rein and was striding into the building. I leapt down, tethered the beasts, and followed on his heels.
This temple had only one priest, and he was very old. His beard was white and curled to his waist and his head was entirely bald.
One look at him told me that he had lost his wits. He was mumbling prayers, all confused, marrying bits of harvest prayers to the petition of rain, mispronouncing the words so that I could only pick out phrases occasionally. This sometimes happens to old men who have outlived their time. Usually some pectoral ailment carries them off to merciful death at the end of the next winter.
The sacrifice had been made - a kid - but this priest could not intercede with Apollo for his people.
Master Glaucus put the priest gently aside and said loudly, `Are you men of Kokkinades?'
There was a murmur of agreement. A stout, middle-aged man stepped forward and said, `The men of Kokkinades hear you. Who are you, Lord?'
`I am Glaucus, master of Epidavros.' They stepped back a pace at this and bowed. I looked at their faces. They