We stared into the fire and drank more wine in silence. Where would we be at peace? The Argives would consider me a sorceress, if not a whore. The Trojans would laugh at a man trying to be a healer.
'I have a solution,' announced Eumides unexpectedly.
'You have?' We stared at him. Solutions were not his main talent.
'We can go to Epidavros first, to take the bard home. Then, with all that treasure from my trading, we will build a boat in the shipyards at Corinthos Isthmia, at Kenchriae. Then we will go wandering. We will cross the Aegean to Troas, and visit there. On the way there are many places and islands which could please us. When we find a place we like, we will stay. Simple,' he said, pouring the last mouthful of wine into the fire as an offering to Morpheus for sleep.
Chryse and I looked at each other and laughed. Simple. Of course.
The road to Epidavros was winding, leading through the mountains, but we had excellent company and we rode through the spring. We were not in a hurry. The old man was tired and ill, so we ambled a few miles every day, then sat for hours under the trees in some village and talked. When Menon judged him well enough, Arion would sing. His voice was compelling, dark-brown, a rich, unassailable voice. No one spoke while Arion sang, even if he whispered. Sometimes Menon rehearsed with him, learning songs line for line, word for word, hour after hour, until the pupil had the song exactly as the master sang it, intonation and note and lyre accompaniment. To hear Menon was to hear Arion as a boy, his tenor voice clear and pure.
He was unwell, the old man. His lungs were not strong. He hawked and spat, and after any exertion he panted for breath. Chryse and I brewed various infusions, trying holly and lungleaf, sundew and marsh-leaf.
'I'm afraid he won't last another winter,' I said, stirring a mixture of marsh-herb, colt's hoof and honey as a linctus to soothe an over-strained throat.
'He's stronger than he looks. He survived pneumonia,' observed Chryse.
'How long ago?'
'Two years, no, three now. Chryseis and I nursed him in Master Glaucus' house. That's whenâ¦' he fell silent. A line furrowed his brow. I took his hand.
'Tell us,' I urged. 'We are your loving friends, Chryse. You will feel better if you tell us what is burdening you.'
'It is too bitter to tell,' he said simply.
To that there was no answer, and I returned to the linctus, which must not be allowed to boil.
Arion, sick and old, was nevertheless impressive. He was tall, heavy and broad-shouldered. It was his eyes that held an audience, as well as his thrilling voice. They were black and bright, sparkling with intelligence and cynical humour. 'Aren't men strange?' they seemed to say. 'And aren't they comic?' He would smile a crooked grin - the Achaeans say that a lopsided smile is a mark of the favour of Aphrodite - which dragged all the world into his gleeful conspiracy.
He was watching us, Chryse and Eumides and me, as we lay together in the meadow, high on the bare hills. It was the tenth day of our journey, and we were rested, fed and indolent. We shared the patch of green with seven goats and a wide-eyed small boy, who was licking delicately at a piece of the honeycomb we had bought in Corinth as though he had never tasted honey before. The old man's eyes widened as he saw Chryse lay his head on my breast, putting aside my hair, as though he was entitled to lie in my arms. Eumides was sitting up, plaiting flowers into a wreath, and my head was on his hard thigh.
Dionysos loves those
Who fear nothing,
sang Arion, grinning.
Dionysos loves those
Who lie down in joy.
Flowers are grown
Sweet for their bed.
The sky shelters
Their close-wreathed arms.
The sun warms
Their naked skin.
Rain will cleanse
Their locked-close mouths.
Their intertwined bodies
Embraced by the earth.
In his sight and the sight of the boys and the goats, to the music of the lyre, unaccountably, we began to make love. Dionysos was with us, honey-breathed one, golden among Gods. Arion had summoned him in his song, and Dionysos cannot be denied.
The thigh I was lying on flexed, turned, and Eumides stripped and then pulled away my tunic from under Chryse's head. He woke a little, his mouth seeking a nipple, and he sucked gently.
We were slow, tranced, dream-like. The sun poured down on us. I smelled grass crushed by our weight. I stroked Chryse's hair and he blinked, opening wondering eyes. Eumides slid down, my face against his belly. I stroked languidly along his chest, down to the phallus nudging my cheek, and he lay with his feet towards me so that we were a triangle. I felt him kiss and caress, slowly and lightly, from the arch of my foot to the calf of my legs, from there to the knees and so upwards, while I warmed in the sun to a fever heat and the lyre thrummed, constantly, until the sound entered our bones.
Chryse woke further, murmured, 'It is notâ¦'
I think he was about to say 'proper', but hands were stroking him, lulling him into our embrace, and he forgot the end of the sentence, and I forgot everything in the universe but the lyre and the insistent touch, the shine of sweat on perfect shoulder and thigh, the sweetness of mouths kissing and kissing, lazy and timeless, sweet as mercy, strong as wine.
We moved into actual mating without thought or check. Chryse was between Eumides and me and we locked close and hard, piercing and pierced, a tangle of limbs. We were inside each other, closer than humans ever were since the Gods divided the sexes. Chryse's arms were around me so tightly that they later found his finger-marks printed on my back. I sucked Eumides' mouth and he bit me, and someone snarled like a dog. I heard the maenad shriek of triumph as I felt a climax as sharp as pain and my lovers shuddered under the goad of Dionysos the Dancer, Lord of Madness.
I was filled and wet, and yet the lyre pulsed and we moved again, so that Eumides lay with me and I buried my face in Chryse's loins, which smelt of my own scent and his lust, pungent and pure.
The lyre was fast, beating at our senses. It ruled our movements, quickening, hardening. As seed spilled into my mouth, Eumides and I were flattened by a climax that left us bruised and panting, and we lay like beached mariners, survivors of a shipwreck, battered and flung ashore by the waves.
I opened my eyes on a green hill in the sunshine. Two people and seven goats were staring at us. There was a naked man lying between my thighs, his head heavy on my belly. I was cradled against a smooth bare chest, sweat-dampened golden hair tickling my face, and we were all breathing as though we had run an Olympic race. A heart throbbed under my cheek.
I laughed aloud for the joy that filled my breast.
'Oh, my loves,' I said.
'Our maiden,' said Eumides, dragging himself into a kneeling position, then leaning down to kiss me carefully on my reddened mouth.
'Cassandra,' said Chryse, lifting his head. 'I love you,' he said, using the collective 'you'. Eumides stroked his shoulder and kissed the marks of teeth on his neck.
Chryse got to his feet, groaning, as I searched for my tunic and found it. A goat had started to eat it, and I fought a brief but fierce battle with the animal before I got it back, chewed but not damaged. Eumides dropped his chiton and laughed helplessly as I put the tunic on and patted the goat.
'You're a wicked old man,' said Chryse to Arion, kissing the bearded mouth.
'I was curious,' the bard defended himself.
'What were you curious about?' I asked, joining my fellow-healer and kissing the old man. He returned the kiss affectionately. He tasted of salt and wine.
'About you three,' he replied. Eumides conquered his mirth and knelt before Arion, and the old man kissed him as well.
'I was concerned for the Asclepid, whom I love like a son,' said Arion. Menon poured us some wine and we drank. I was still shaking from the embrace of the God and my lovers. My tunic was wet with seed as it had been with blood on the day when I joined the Mother.
Eumides sat behind me, picking grass and burrs out of my hair, and I loved his touch, his ordinary everyday touch, more than I had ever loved a lover's ardent hands. I was joined to them, linked as by a chain. I had lost Eleni but I had found Chryse and Eumides. My hands reached for Chryse and he reclined into my arms without thinking, as though he belonged there.
'How, concerned?' asked the sailor.
'I have known him since he was a child. Women have always loved him. His first love was not his to keep - she was a gift to a boy almost too young to know what he had been given. His second was the golden maiden, Palamedes' daughter. He loved her and she loved him, they were as close as peas in a pod, completing each other's sentences, playing like children, learning how to live together for the rest of their lives.'
'But she died,' I said. Tears ran from Chryse's eyes and trickled down my breast, though he was not sobbing. The old man's face sharpened with sorrow.
'I thought he would die as well,' he said softly. 'He will mourn her all his life, Chryseis, the golden woman. She would have tended his hearth until he was old, growing grey together. That drove him to Troy.'
'Before that, he found me,' objected Eumides, untangling a long strand of my hair. 'In Mycenae, where he mended my broken jaw and bought me out of slavery. I lay with him and loved him on the hills above the city.'
'Ay, and I thought the love of men might save him, Trojan. You cherished him, loved him, but you knew that there was something missing, didn't you?'
'I knew; some deep sorrow. That must have been the first one of whom he has never spoken. She had his heart out of him even then. Otherwise I would not have left him, Arion Badger-Haired. You have clear sight, Bard.'
'That is my skill,' he agreed. 'No one love would be enough for him, I decided, as I watched him tend the wounded at Troy, men screaming and weeping and dying on those dreadful beaches amongst that stench - the Gods must have smelled it, rotten flesh stinking up to heaven. Then he rescued your brother, Princess.'
I sat up. 'Yes, he tended Eleni.'
'He tended him in love, lay with him in love, and I hoped for him again. But not even that prince, not even that Trojan with the wicked eyes and clever hands, and not even you, Lady, golden as Chryseis and wise as a Goddess, would alone be enough to fill the void inside him. Too much loss, too young, too young, leaves a hollow deep as the sea.
'Then I sensed⦠I suspected, that you and the sailor had combined to love him, Chryse Asclepid-Priest, mourning his hollow heart. I wondered - Gods, my restraint! - I have been wondering about this triple since Delphi. And now I know. Dionysos is with me, sometimes, if I call him; if the light is warm, and the hills green enough. And I will never forget your beauty, the dance of your loves,' said the old man, giving his empty cup back to his apprentice. 'I will make a song for you, most favoured of the Gods, trios.'
He rose and bowed. But Chryse remained in our embrace and tears still fell from his eyes, soaking my stained tunic.
Epidavros is the most peaceful place in the world.
We came along the road from the village and port of Epidavros towards the temple as evening was falling. The road was white and we were dusty and tired, and the old man was coughing, so that Menon had taken his elbow and the reins of his horse. Chryse was worried, and so was I.
'The gates shut at sunset,' he said, riding alongside the old man. 'Come, famed bard of the Argives. My Master waits for us.' He chirruped to the horse and we picked up our pace until we were cantering. Thus we arrived at the gates of the temple and city of healers as the sun dipped below the horizon, and rode inside, the last of the suppliants of Apollo for that day. Behind us, the road was empty all the way to the turning. Owls began to hoot in the cypresses and the stars began to come out.
'Greetings and well met, Itarnes,' cried Chryse, leaping down and gathering the reins. There was a false note in his voice. It was over-hearty for the quietly-spoken healer.
'Chryse!' exclaimed a loud voice. 'Where have you been, boy? We have been praying for news of you! Master Glaucus asked Apollo only yesterday, and he said you were coming. I may have to start believing in gods if this goes on. Come, he will want to see you - and your worthy companions. Lord. Lady.' A young man bowed as Eumides and I got down, and then rushed to help Arion dismount.
'Noble company, I should have said,' Itarnes corrected himself. 'You are very welcome, Master Arion, Dolphin-Rider.'
'Arion thanks you for your welcome,' said the bard expansively.
I was amazed. This man had sagged, coughing over his horse's neck, and seemed on the point of collapse for stadia. Now he sounded rested and confident and there was hardly a tremor in his voice. It was an impressive performance and I wondered how long he could sustain it. Menon was evidently wondering the same thing and said quickly, 'My master is tired and needs rest. Where shall we bestow the horses?'
'Leave them here,' said Itarnes, embracing Chryse and taking his hand. Two boys came out from the temple near the gate and led our mounts away. 'The boys will bring your saddle-bags. Oh, my Chryse, my dear, it's so good to see you again! We heard the news of Troy, that you did great work there. Polidarius is always talking of your courage and your surgical skill. He says that by moving the army off the beaches and burning the dead you saved the remains of Agamemnon's army.'
'It was only what Apollo would have ordered,' murmured Chryse.
'If he had happened to think of it,' riposted Itarnes. It was evidently an old joke, for Chryse laughed, and I knew where he had learnt his disbelief in the Gods.
But I have never felt them closer. It was a holy and a calm place, the temple of Epidavros. Not still like a cave under the ground, but cool and quiet. No strong winds blew here, I knew, as we passed along paved paths between the cypress trees in a cloud of medicinal scent. No snow fell, no heat burned in summer. Here all was ordered, quiet and gentle. Everything - even love and grief - in moderation.