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the Apollo whom I worship in my heart, and whom he honours at the altar of sacrifice, are noble-minded, just and trustworthy deities. For me, Hermes is a courteous messenger and conductor of souls, no thief; Ares fights in defence of good causes only; Aphrodite…
    Yes, I confess that Aphrodite presents mankind with a difficult problem. I acknowledge her dreadful power, as I acknowledge the power of Hades, King of the Underworld; but ought I not to condemn Helen, Clytaemnestra, and Penelope for defiling their husbands’ nuptial couches and becoming a reproach to their sex, rather than smile and say: “They were loyal devotees of Aphrodite, scorning the ties of marriage and home the better to honour her”? The Nasamonians of Libya, the Moesynoechians of Pontus, the Gymnasiae of the Balearic Islands and similarly promiscuous peoples may worship her with moral consistence; no law-abiding Greek can do so.
    Nevertheless, I sacrificed a young she-goat to Aphrodite on the following day, burning its thigh bones on juniper billets; and vowed to take an offering up to her temple when I had the opportunity. She resides there between the spring visit of the quails and the vintage season; but, because her mountain top is cold and cloudy during most of the winter, she afterwards flies off, they say, to Libya, riding in a chariot drawn by white doves. Her priestesses and eunuchs then seek their warm college on the plain, bringing with them the image enclosed in a cedarwood chest, the golden honeycomb said to have been Daedalus’s own votive offering to Elyme, and the sacred dovecotes; there to live as chastely for the next six months as the attendants of Artemis or Athene. The Goddess’s annual ascent of Eryx and her subsequent descent are marked by scenes of wild abandonment to her power, especially among the Sicans. My father has done his best to suppress these revels, which raise vexatious problems of paternity; but without success. Only if some national disaster occurs inwinter does the Goddess reascend the mountain, calling back her priestesses, eunuchs, image honeycomb and doves; and is then propitiated with costly sacrifices, while the eunuchs whip one another until the blood flows, howling ecstatically. I hate the whole performance.

CHAPTER
FOUR
MY FATHER’S
DAUGHTER
    Not long afterwards, my father took out a ten-oared galley to inspect our red cattle and the mares with their mule foals on the island of Hiera; but had gone only about half a mile when he sighted a large Rhodian vessel approaching from the west. The sea was calm, and her sailors were pulling a long, even stroke in time with the helmsman’s lugubrious chant. My father hailed the captain, and as soon as each of them had satisfied himself that the other was no pirate—one cannot be too careful nowadays—they drew alongside and exchanged gifts and compliments. The Rhodian ship was bound for Sardinia with a mixed cargo, and at Sandy Pylus, her last port of call in Greece, two staid merchants had come aboard to join the trading venture. Overjoyed to meetthese Pylians, my father enquired anxiously for news of Laodamas. They shook their heads. “If such an important person had visited our city,” they declared, “at any time since the autumn, we should certainly have heard of him.” When he quoted the Hyrian captain’s report, they admitted having met the fellow at Sandy Pylus and formed a very poor opinion of his character. “As slippery as a cuttlefish,” they said, “and as mendacious as a Lerian slave. His wine was watered; his vases were flawed; his silver ingots leaden-cored.”
    This came as a great shock for my father, who abandoned his visit to Hiera and returning home more depressed in mind than I had ever known him, found Ctimene back in one of her old black moods, biting her nails and moaning the popular song: “Why does my darling delay? Has he no pity on my loneliness?” over and