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Authors: Kerry Greenwood
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went away.
I sat on my sleeping mat in my cell and thought. Sometimes I had to hold my head in both hands because it felt as though my skull was bursting. This was the first serious check my belief in the world had ever had. It was only when I tasted mistletoe in my broth that I realised that Master Glaucus was treating me for hysteria.
There were no gods in Epidavros - only Death. All healers come to terms with Death - we must understand and accept him, or give up and die in our turn. I had seen death. I had held the hands of an old man while he was dying. I had seen the body slacken, the throat relax, the hand grow heavy and loose in mine as the breath escaped and the soul took flight. I had seen no god then, not even Thanatos.
But the old man had seen a god. I remembered this and sat up. The old man had seen Ares, the war god, leading a company of his old comrades in a charge; he said he was swept up in the rush of their onset and, in saying that, the death-rattle had started in his throat. `Onward!' he had cried with his last breath, calling his old friends, long dead, by their names.
My head drooped again into my hands. The man was old and probably mad; his mind had gone. There were no gods populating the dark of the temple's most sacred place, only priests in masks, persuading men to accept healing by mimes and tricks. I thought of the man with the pain in his belly, told by the god to forgo roasted meat and wine and honey for his soul's sake. I thought of the statue of Asclepius, seated in his carved chair, with the snakes in his hands and his dog at his feet, ivory and gold, flickering in the lamplight. I thought of the temple snake flicking his tongue at my hands and the master telling me that I had been greatly honoured, and I heard myself laugh bitterly.
Someone had come in. I did not look up.
`There are no gods,' said the master's voice.
`No,' I replied.
`Foolish boy,' he reproved. `They are all around you. Not as men would like to see them, in men's bodies, subject to men's lusts and greed, walking about the world granting each petty wish. They are in the earth, Chryse, in the sky, in the wind, in the fire and water and in breath. You will find that the gods are reliable,' he continued as I stared at him, `if you do not rely on them for small things.'
`For life and death, Master?'
`They are small things to the gods. When we are gone' - he waved his hand at the temple and the walls of Epidavros - `when we little men are dead and forgotten, the earth will go on. The sky will arch overhead, the moon will wax and wane and unknown women will give birth to men who have never heard our names. The world is old, Chryse. It will get much older before the end. And you will find, Diomenes my son,' he pulled me to my feet and into his strong embrace, `that you have more power than you know in these hands of yours, and that, too, comes from the gods. Now. You have spent enough time thinking?'
It was a good question. I felt suddenly that if I had not spent enough time, I had spent all the time that I had. I nodded and he kissed me, his beard bristling my cheek.
`Wash your face, pack a spare tunic, and meet me in the herb store. Wear your most comfortable sandals.'
`Why, Master? Where are we going?'
`Wandering,' he said, and swept out.
I gathered my belongings, including a comb made of the cypress wood of the temple trees, an oil flask, a wine flask and my dagger. It was a present from a grateful patient, sharp as a razor and decorated with a strange Egyptian beast like a small lion without a mane, stalking ducks in reeds which Asius Attis Priest called lotus. I washed my face as I had been told, rolled my goods into a suitable bundle tied about with thongs so that I could carry it on my back, and ran to the herb store.
The master was not there. Itarnes told me that he had bidden me to watch the healing of the child who had fallen down the cliff. Apparently it had just been revealed to the mother who had slept for
I sat on my sleeping mat in my cell and thought. Sometimes I had to hold my head in both hands because it felt as though my skull was bursting. This was the first serious check my belief in the world had ever had. It was only when I tasted mistletoe in my broth that I realised that Master Glaucus was treating me for hysteria.
There were no gods in Epidavros - only Death. All healers come to terms with Death - we must understand and accept him, or give up and die in our turn. I had seen death. I had held the hands of an old man while he was dying. I had seen the body slacken, the throat relax, the hand grow heavy and loose in mine as the breath escaped and the soul took flight. I had seen no god then, not even Thanatos.
But the old man had seen a god. I remembered this and sat up. The old man had seen Ares, the war god, leading a company of his old comrades in a charge; he said he was swept up in the rush of their onset and, in saying that, the death-rattle had started in his throat. `Onward!' he had cried with his last breath, calling his old friends, long dead, by their names.
My head drooped again into my hands. The man was old and probably mad; his mind had gone. There were no gods populating the dark of the temple's most sacred place, only priests in masks, persuading men to accept healing by mimes and tricks. I thought of the man with the pain in his belly, told by the god to forgo roasted meat and wine and honey for his soul's sake. I thought of the statue of Asclepius, seated in his carved chair, with the snakes in his hands and his dog at his feet, ivory and gold, flickering in the lamplight. I thought of the temple snake flicking his tongue at my hands and the master telling me that I had been greatly honoured, and I heard myself laugh bitterly.
Someone had come in. I did not look up.
`There are no gods,' said the master's voice.
`No,' I replied.
`Foolish boy,' he reproved. `They are all around you. Not as men would like to see them, in men's bodies, subject to men's lusts and greed, walking about the world granting each petty wish. They are in the earth, Chryse, in the sky, in the wind, in the fire and water and in breath. You will find that the gods are reliable,' he continued as I stared at him, `if you do not rely on them for small things.'
`For life and death, Master?'
`They are small things to the gods. When we are gone' - he waved his hand at the temple and the walls of Epidavros - `when we little men are dead and forgotten, the earth will go on. The sky will arch overhead, the moon will wax and wane and unknown women will give birth to men who have never heard our names. The world is old, Chryse. It will get much older before the end. And you will find, Diomenes my son,' he pulled me to my feet and into his strong embrace, `that you have more power than you know in these hands of yours, and that, too, comes from the gods. Now. You have spent enough time thinking?'
It was a good question. I felt suddenly that if I had not spent enough time, I had spent all the time that I had. I nodded and he kissed me, his beard bristling my cheek.
`Wash your face, pack a spare tunic, and meet me in the herb store. Wear your most comfortable sandals.'
`Why, Master? Where are we going?'
`Wandering,' he said, and swept out.
I gathered my belongings, including a comb made of the cypress wood of the temple trees, an oil flask, a wine flask and my dagger. It was a present from a grateful patient, sharp as a razor and decorated with a strange Egyptian beast like a small lion without a mane, stalking ducks in reeds which Asius Attis Priest called lotus. I washed my face as I had been told, rolled my goods into a suitable bundle tied about with thongs so that I could carry it on my back, and ran to the herb store.
The master was not there. Itarnes told me that he had bidden me to watch the healing of the child who had fallen down the cliff. Apparently it had just been revealed to the mother who had slept for
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