by Gene Wolfe
Very well then, and briefly: I was born in Miletos, in the lesser Asia, my father having been, as Mother always assured me, a distinguished citizen of that, my native city. When I was but eleven years of age, the Triple Goddess appeared to me in a dream, pointing out the leaves of a certain plant and urging me by their aid to escape another boy, at whose hands I had suffered many injustices. After several errors, I discovered the correct plant in the waking world and contrived to slip a young and tender leaf into a confection I feigned to eat until he took it from me. He was ill for several days preceding his death, which a wise priest summoned by his parents ascribed quite correctly to the darts of the Far-Shooting Delian.
Following this boy's demise, I made-as you, my dear friend, may imagine-many, many sacrifices; and though they were but sparrows, frogs, and suchlike boyish things, I am bold (or rather say, I have such impudence) enough to suppose that they were accepted in the spirit in which a willing heart offered them, however young. In a year or less, I heard of the great Carian temple to her, at no great distance inland from my city. Thither I journeyed, walking most of the way. There I made a prayer to that sly messenger who lends to thieves his winged heels and managed to procure a most suitable sacrifice in the form of a large black rabbit with a crescent moon of white upon its forehead. (For this animal I was complimented by a priest, a kindness I have not-O subtle reeds, bear witness-forgotten to this day.)
Upon returning to Miletos, I discovered that Mother had seized the occasion of my absence to remove herself from the city; some said to Samos, others to Chios. Here was the hand of the goddess clearly, and I resolved that she alone would be my mother henceforth. I attached myself as firmly as I could to all who were in her good graces, and offered my services to those who, like prudent Agamemnon, called King of Men, sought her favor.
To me, at least, it has been granted in full. I do not scruple to say in any company that there is neither man nor woman more skilled in her mysteries than I, or more adept at the weaving of curses, the compounding of poisons, or the raising of ghosts. You yourself were present at my greatest triumph, Latro, and I pray that divine Trioditis, who sees the past as well as the present and the future, may someday restore what you have lost, that you may give witness to it.
In my person I am a true son of Ion, far taller than the ruck of men and blessed with a dancer's frame, hardy and graceful rather than muscular. My eyes are prominent, as are the bones of my cheeks. My nose and mouth are delicate, my lofty forehead half-concealed by abundant hair. If the stamping Io soon reads you this, you may know me by my chlamys, which has been dyed a pleasing color with the juice of mulberries.
As a frequent visitor to her city, I gained the friendship of your mistress, Kalleos, a happy event made twice happy for me by the triumph I have already mentioned. Suffice it to say that you and I, in company with certain others, among whom Io of the burning eye was not included, made our way from your mistress's house to a certain place of burial, and there discovered One whom I restored-for a brief time at least-to the Lands of the Living. It was the wonder of all beholders, and should you find it difficult to credit what I say, I urge you to return to the city we have left, where you will find the matter talked of by all.
For your sake, then, I have compounded a charm calculated to calm and restore your mind-this at your own request and Eutaktos's as well. And indeed I would have acted had either of you asked alone.
For the Moon, a single white stone. For the Huntress, one of the minute arrowheads made before the time of the gods, which the initiate may sometimes discover. For the Dark, a single black hair plucked from the head of one who has dedicated himself wholly-that is to say, from my own head. With a thorn of the white-flowered briar dipped in my own blood, I wrote upon a scrap of cypress bark my plea for you to the goddess. All these I bound in a circle of deerskin and with mighty invocations hung about your neck on a thong.
The sophists would say that all these things-stone, dart, hair, prayer, and hide-count for nothing; or at most that they serve only to turn the minds of priest and supplicant to the gods. Yet I have observed that those who believe so win no favor, and thus I myself believe that they are something more. With the charm in place (as Io urgently bids me write), Eutaktos and I, with Io and some others, escorted you to the altar I had ordered the slaves to build. There the holy fire was kindled, there Eutaktos himself offered a sacrifice for you, and there you remained, circled at some distance by sentries. I regret I was not present when you reported to Eutaktos in the morning; but Io was, having secreted herself nearby with that stealth and cunning so well suited to the cattle-raising half barbarians from whom she proceeds. Her description of the conversation is prolix indeed, but I shall abstract from it.
In your dream, you seemed to wake at the cracking of a stick (or so Io says you told Eutaktos) to see an elderly man, bent and swan-white of beard, approaching from the wood. You rose and asked if he was the god Aesculapius. He denied it. When you pressed him, he maintained that he was indeed Aesculapius, but no god-merely a poor mortal forced to serve them. You asked then if he would not heal you. Again he shook his head, saying that he had been sent by the murderess of his mother, whose slave he is from her temple on Euboea to the island temple of Anadyomene, but that he could do nothing; at which point he vanished.
Io says that at this Eutaktos grew angry, shouting that Aesculapius would not have employed such words to describe the goddess. This moment you chose (surely, friend Latro, you might have chosen more wisely) to ask that Eutaktos return you to your comrades, saying that you had read in this book of your visit to the Queen Below, and that Eutaktos should not take it upon himself to thwart the will of one to whom all must come at last.
At that Eutaktos grew more wrathful still. He ordered that this book be taken from you (as it was, by Basias), and we broke camp. These events you have already forgotten, or so Io and I fear. We now proceed to more recent things, which you at present know as well as we-or so we hope-but which will perhaps have escaped you when Io reads my words to you.
First as to the goddess. Aesculapius, as I have explained to you, was the son of her brother and twin, borne by a mortal woman named Coronis. While she carried his child, Coronis proved unfaithful to him; and upon learning of the disgrace, the goddess slew her. The god, however, recalling that the child she carried was his own as well as hers, saved him from her funeral pyre, snatching him both from his mother's womb and from the flames, and giving him over to the tutelage of one from whom he learned so much of the healing art as to exceed his teacher and every other mortal.
I cannot believe that he would call his rescuer's (and his father's) twin a murderess, since the right of the gods to slay mortals even as we slay beasts is everywhere unquestioned, and the woman was far from blameless. I am happy to learn, however, that Aesculapius is subject to the goddess in this part of the world. So high is she already in the eyes of her devoted Eurykles that nothing could raise her higher; and yet it may be useful to me.
Now as to recent events. You will wish to know how it is that Io and I have your book, though you do not. The answer is that Basias the Spartiate has permitted it from the good feeling he has for Io and yourself, saying that so long as you are granted no sight of it, Eutaktos will not object. Thus we now keep it from you, but write as we do.
We are halted this night upon the road to Megara, having passed through Eleusis without a halt. About Megara (or so the gossip of the soldiers has it) the regent is camped with his army. Megara is not ruled by his city in name, but it is a member of its league, and no doubt at least some of his troops are Megarians. When we reach Megara tomorrow, we may thus expect to be delivered to the regent. I have exerted myself to discover all I can concerning him, and Io agrees that I should pass my knowledge to you by this means.
He is said to be a man in his twenties, somewhat over the average height, handsome but scarred, and muscular as all these strange islanders are. He is said also to be more persuasive than most in speech
, but as short and sharp of tongue as any. He is a scion of the elder of his nation's royal houses, an Agid, and thus only remotely related to that great Lycurgus, whose code of laws has set his nation apart from all others. Specifically, he is the son of Cleombrotos, who was himself the younger son of King Anaxandridas. By this connection is he the uncle of King Pleistarchos, who ascended to his father's throne only last year, and he stands regent for him. He has a wife awaiting his return to his city, and a young son, Pleistoanax.
As to his skill in battle-the thing these people value so far above all else that all else is naught to them-his victory over the Sons of Perseus, whose army was so much greater than his own, stands witness to it; it needs no other. As to the favor of the gods, what soldier can gain the victory without it?
I speak of him now with more than ordinary interest, for a runner with a message all say was his arrived not long ago and hastened to Eutaktos's tent. Soon leaving it in search of refreshment, he encountered Io and asked of you. She brought him to you, and together you three talked at some length. Then he, having satisfied himself (so Io says) that you indeed recalled nothing, wished to examine this book, and she brought him to me.
His name is Pasicrates, and he is a most comely youth, tall and well-featured as all these people are, but as stiff and sullen as the rest. At his request, I showed him your book, and I watched him discover (as others have) that he could not read it. He opened it to the end, however, and examined the flower, then replaced it carefully and rolled the book up again. He asked whether I had been present when Eutaktos found it, and I confirmed that I had and described the scene to him. He asked why Eutaktos has seen fit to bring me with you, to which I replied that he must ask Eutaktos. He wished to know what my city was, and then why I had deserted fair Ionia's shore to come across the Water. At his urging, I described my life to the best of my ability, and somewhat more fully than I have written of it here. He is himself a servant of the Triple Goddess-as he proved, turning his back to show me the scars he received when he was beaten before her altar at Orthia.
Perhaps I should explain here a custom of these people of which you are very likely unaware. Each year, when the boys of that year are about to pass from the care of their teachers into that of their officers, the best and strongest are chosen to run a gauntlet to the honor of the goddess. Much blood is spilled, and I have heard that they generally continue until one or two of the boys are dead.
It is a point of honor, I should add, among the boys not to cry out, though I cannot say what would befall a boy who did. It has been many years, I think, since such a thing occurred, and perhaps it never has. The boys who die in silence are received as sacrifices to the goddess. (How sad it is to count the places at which such sacrifices, the most pleasing of all, are still made and to find the fingers of one's hands more than sufficient!) Those who live are honored above all the rest and carry her favor for the remainder of their days.
I spoke to this Pasicrates as eloquently as I could and with all the charm I command, which some have not hesitated to call great. And I will not deny that it would please me very well to have the love of so handsome a youth, and one who is sworn to the goddess, as I am myself-though whether such a thing would please her as well, I cannot say.
But I can say, and I will, that it appeared to me that Pasicrates was not wholly insensible to the attractions of my person. (Unlike yourself, dear Latro, though I hesitate to write it.) We look upon these people, who live only for war and are forever training for battle, and think how comely they are. But what must they think, who hear for the first time, from our lips, the trumpets of eloquence and the deep-mouthed tocsins of philosophy? Must not they think us as far above common men as we think them? So (as I dare to hope) does the messenger of the great regent think your poor friend-
Eurykles of Miletos
CHAPTER XXVI-Pasicrates
The regent's messenger has restored my scroll to me. He sought me out this morning and asked whether I recalled meeting with him the night before. I do not remember that now; but I must have when we spoke, since I told him I did.
He said, "Then you know I'm Pausanias's runner."
I nodded and said I was surprised he did not leave our plodding march to return with word from Eutaktos.
"The only order I brought was that he should continue the search if he has not found you, and return with all speed if he had. It's you Pausanias wants to see, not me. If I were to run back, could you keep pace with me?"
I confessed I did not know but said I would try.
"Then we'll race to the tree on that hill and see who shows the best heels."
He no sooner spoke than he was off like an arrow. I followed as fast as I could, and my legs are longer than his; but I never overtook him, and he had time to halt at the tree and turn to study me before I came pounding up.
"You might run to Megara at that," he said. "But look at this poor tortoise." It was Basias, the man whose tent I share, doing his best in his cuirass and greaves and waving his sword.
Pasicrates called, "You can't touch us with that! Get a longer blade!" Seeing that we were not deserting the column, Basias slowed to a walk.
"Want to sit here?" Pasicrates asked. "They have to tramp up this hill anyway." His face had that relentless regularity we find so attractive in a statue's, but his eyes seemed as cruel as a stoat's. As though I had not seen their look, I threw myself down in the shade.
"How did you lose your memory? Do you know?"
I shook my head.
"Perhaps the child does, or that Eurykles."
"Who are they?"
"Friends of yours that Eutaktos brought along. I talked to them yesterday. Come to think of it, Io was there when I talked with you-the little slave. She's yours, she says."
I said, "I remember the child, but not her name."
"What about Eurykles?"
I shook my head again.
"When I got here, I wondered why Eutaktos had bothered with them. I understand now."
We spoke no more after that until Basias reached us.
"Just a foot race," Pasicrates told him. "I don't think my job's in danger, but Latro can replace me if I'm wounded."
Basias nodded, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his finger and flinging it away. "Wrestler, too."
"You've tried him?"
Red-faced and panting, Basias dropped beside us. "Beat him. Five falls, though. He's strong."
"He looks it. How much do you know about him?"
"Forgets. Got a slave girl. I've got his sword. That's all."
"I see. Latro, what's my name?"
"Pasicrates."
"Right. How'd you know?"
"You told me," I said.
Basias explained, "In the morning he remembers everything after we camped. But it goes. By noon he won't remember anything before he woke."
"And the child remembers for him?"
"He had a book. It says read this each morning, but we can't read the rest. Eutaktos had me take it."
"I want you to give it back-I'll have a word with Eutaktos. Latro, if you had your book again, would you read it for me?"
I said, "If you want to hear it."
"Or for Pausanias, the regent of Rope?"
"Of course."
"Good. I don't think I'll have you do it yet, because there might be something there he wouldn't wish me to know. We'll see tonight when we reach Megara. Basias, what about Eurykles? Does he help Latro too?"
"A bit. Not so much as the child."
"What do you think of him?"
Basias grinned. "He better stay out of sight in Rope. The women'll kill him."
"He bothers me," Pasicrates said half to himself.
"Hit him and he won't."
"Not like that. Latro, among us it's customary for each older man to have a younger friend. You understand? It's a good system. The younger man learns more. If he gets into trouble, he's got someone to speak for him. This isn't the same thing."
Absently, I as
ked what it was. I was watching a scarlet wildflower nod in the breeze; it seemed charged with meaning.
"Like a man with a daughter. Except that the daughter's the man himself."
Basias said, "Bet you've plenty after you."
"Certainly." Pasicrates had been lying on his back on the sparse grass. Now he sat up. "I'm Pausanias's protege, and they like that. That's why it seems so familiar. And yet so strange. I wish he were a slave."
Basias asked why, but Pasicrates did not. answer After a moment he said, "His hands are cold. Have you noticed?"
Not long after, the marchers caught up with us and we fell in with the rest. I moved among them looking for the child Pasicrates had mentioned, and soon found her. To test my grasp of what I had heard, I said, "I have good news, Io. I'm going to get my scroll back."
"That's wonderful, and you knew my name!"
"Pasicrates told me."
"And he said Eutaktos is going to let you have it again?"
"Yes. Except that I don't think Eutaktos knows it. Pasicrates will order him to."
Io looked doubtful. "Eutaktos is a lot older."
"I know," I told her.
When we had walked a few more stades, a tall woman in a purple cloak handed me this scroll, with the stylus I am using thrust through the cords. "Here, Latro," she said. "The lochagos ordered Basias to return it. I'd been keeping it for him, and I said I'd bring it." She slipped an arm through mine.
"It was Pasicrates," Io whispered to her.
"Really? He's quite a handsome youth, but not as handsome as your master."
"What does that have to do with it?"
"Nothing. I was just thinking." She squeezed my arm. "You know, Latro, in a way you're rather fortunate. If you wished to change your name, all you'd have to do would be to tell your friends to call you by the new one next morning; then you'd never know you had once been someone else. I don't suppose you know whether you've ever done it?"