there no god to whom I can sacrifice?'
My father sounded desperate. The Carian woman, my mother, had died when I was born. I was his only son. If I had been in my body I would have wept as my father did, but I was floating like a feather, and feathers cannot weep.
`A white kid to Apollo,' said the master kindly. I know now that he was certain of my fate and was just giving my father a task, so that he should not have to stay and watch me die - poisoning is an unsightly death to watch. `Apollo can do anything.'
Footsteps sounded on the marble floor as my father ran out. The body was gathered up into the master's arms. He laid it gently on a carved bench, composed the limbs decently, and sat down to watch it die.
Thanatos came for me. Out of a light more golden and beautiful than ever sun shone in Achaea, came a glorious man, clad in streamers of cloth like clouds. He touched me, and I reached up both arms to clasp around his neck. Warmth and a sweet scent like spring seemed to infuse me.
`Little brother,' said Thanatos, god of death, `you are young to die, but you are welcome. Look down. There is your body.'
From the sky I looked down, as he said, while he held me carefully. There was a pale boy with golden hair. His face was twisted ugly. He writhed and groaned. Next to him sat master Glaucus. Around him flowed a warm, rich energy, following the contours of his strong hand, his bony shoulder, his bearded head. He glanced up and spoke, as though he could see us.
`Farewell, little brother,' he said gravely, `if it is your time.'
I nodded. I was joyful in the embrace of Thanatos the angel, and I did not want to go back to that whimpering thing on the bed. I snuggled closer, into the cloud-soft drapery, and whispered, `Let us go, Lord.'
A great voice spoke, though I could not understand what it said. Thanatos sank gently, cradling me close. The voice spoke again and Thanatos kissed me, his lips printing a warm mark on my forehead. Cloud-dark and crowned with bay leaves, Death leaned down towards my body.
I cried because I did not want to leave him; he was so glowing and soft. He said, `I will see you again, little brother, never fear,' and swept me down to my body again.
I did not want to be there. I screamed so hard for Thanatos to come back that the master gave me a strong infusion of poppy syrup. I slept, finding Sleep almost as gentle an angel as Death.
Since then, I have never been afraid of death. I know him to be a benign deity, who gathers the fallen into his arms. I was so young when I died that I had not had a chance to be afraid; now I doubt I ever will be.
That does not mean that I do not fight him when I have to. We have a good understanding, Thanatos the bright angel and I. I save all that can be saved; he comforts all that cannot.
I told the master of Epidavros all about Thanatos and Morpheus when I awoke the next day, cured even though I had swallowed a handful of nightshade berries (I had seen ravens eating them, so I thought they were edible). He listened politely, until I told him that Death had kissed me. He exclaimed at that, and showed me my face in a silver mirror. I had never seen my own face before. My forehead was pale and high. I have brown eyes, the golden hair that made the boys call me `Chryse' and a long nose which my father said resembled my mother's. I smiled into the mirror, interested, because the boy in the mirror smiled when I smiled.
But Glaucus, the master of the temple, was looking at my forehead. It was marked. There was a double line, a scar like a burn without puckering, the silvery mark of Death's lips.
My father did not want to leave me at the Temple of Asclepius but the master gave him such presents - a young woman from Corinth as wife, two farm workers, half a flock of goats and a slip of the sacred olive tree, which bears more fruit than any other - that he left me with the master to learn to be a healer.
I remember that they washed me in the lustral basin, gave me a clean tunic and cut a lock of my hair. Then they took me to the temple and the priests blew the sacred trumpets and lit incense before Asclepius. There was singing all about me. It was not a miracle - Death is the only god I have ever seen - but as I stood there in the cool carved temple with the morning sun spilling in through the columns, one of the temple snakes came out of its hole, flicked its forked tongue at me, flowed across the altar and coiled up between my hands.
I was so small that I could only just reach both hands and my chin onto the altar, so I was eye to eye with the snake. It looked at me in the way of its kind, unemotionally, then rose a little to flick its tongue at each hand. Then it lost interest and coiled up again in a patch of sun.
I thought it was interesting, but it did not impress me as the angel had done. Behind me, I heard the assembled priests gasp. The snake belongs to the Mother, of course; Earth, the mother of all men. But the house snakes in the temple belong to Apollo the Archer, who bestowed the gift of healing on Asclepius and his followers. Master Glaucus embraced me as I came down the steps and told me that I had been greatly favoured.
I was sleepy and hungry and overawed by the great temple and all the people. The master seemed as tall as a pillar, his white hair flowing, his white beard curling around like tree roots. His face was all bones, his nose like the prow of a ship his eyes as black as midnight and as sharp as a needle. He picked me up, wrapped in his mantle, and I fell asleep on his shoulder.
He took me into his own house, to be educated with his own sons and other pupils. I was much younger than they were - they were young men and I was a child - so instead of oppressing me they adopted me as `Death's Little Brother'. Macaon and his brother, Podilarius, taught me riding and dicing and how to play the lyre. I was a complete failure at hunting, as I hated killing things, but they did not despise me, saying instead, `Here is Asclepius' tender plant, healer of wounds.'
Though I could not hunt, I could sing. We sang a lot. Beautiful, delicate harmonies praising the god in the temple, and rough Phrygian and Achaean drinking songs for the tavern. I never sang the war songs, saying my voice was not suited to blood and death and heroes.
The temple of Asclepius was not a sad place. People died there, it is true, but many people were born there and most of our patients lived. Some were touched by the god. Some were mad. The god sends dreams to those who sleep in his temples, and from the dreams our wisest priests could sometimes unravel the knot which had tangled sanity.
From the direction of the rising sun, the suppliants came along the white road. They were always thirsty and dusty when they came into the first temple. I used to sit in one of the cypress trees and watch the procession trailing towards us, the rich on horses or in litters carried by slaves, the poor limping along on crutches, attended only by anxious daughters or wives.
Rich or poor, they received the same treatment and care from us; otherwise the god would have been angered. The Bright One dealt healing and peace but if offended, fired arrows of pestilence and death.
The suppliants travelled in groups, as there were bandits on the road, and timed their arrival for dawn. If they arrived later than that, they would have to wait until the next day to sleep with the god, although we dealt with urgent wounds and broken bones on the spot. The first temple was built to receive them, to feed them broth with soothing herbs and to wash off the stains of travel.
I asked my master why they could only come in at dawn, while we came and went from the sacred precinct all the time. He smiled and said that the ways of a god were not to be questioned by men, adding, `We are healing their minds, Chryse, not just their bodies. Know thyself. All the stages of this treatment have a purpose and a reason, tried over many years. One thing that cannot ever be hurried is the undermind, the mind which must be convinced that it can be healthy. You are Hermes psychopomp today. As you are a guide, do you know the ways of the passages?'
`Yes, Master Glaucus,' I nodded. I had wandered through and played in all of the maze of tunnels which connected the dormiton of the god, the cool paved underground chamber where the suppliants slept, to the dazzling surface. They slept in the tholos, in the womb of the Mother, and waited for the god to send them a dream which would reveal the root of their disease and give us a clue to their treatment. Sometimes dreams were perfectly clear - a certain herb or treatment would be