Soldier of the mist

I bowed, and as I did I looked around at the others; they heard the prophetess in attitudes of reverence and did not see the golden giant.

"For them I am not here," he said, answering a question I had not asked. His words were fair and smooth, like those of a seller who tells his customer that his goods have been reserved for him alone.

"How can that be?" Even as he spoke, the others murmured and nodded, their eyes still on the prophetess.

"Only the solitary may see the gods," the giant told me. "For the rest, every god is the Unknown God."

"Am I alone then?" I asked him.

"Do you behold me?"

I nodded.

"Prayers to me are sometimes granted," he said. "You have come with no petition. Have you one to make now?"

Unable to speak or think, I shook my head.

"Then you shall have such gifts as are mine to give. Hear my attributes: I am a god of divination, of music, of death, and of healing; I am the slayer of wolves and the master of the sun. I prophesy that though you will wander far in search of your home, you will not find it until you are farthest from it. Once only, you will sing as men sang in the Age of Gold to the playing of the gods. Long after, you will find what you seek in the dead city.

"Though healing is mine, I ca

Even as this golden man spoke he grew dim in my sight, as though all his substance were being drawn again into the alcove from which he had stepped only a moment before. "Look beneath the sun… "

When he was gone I rose, dusting my chiton with my hands. The black man, the lean priest, the men with many rings, and even the child still stood before the prophetess; but now the men with many rings argued among themselves, some pointing to the youngest of their number, who spoke at length with outspread hands.

When he had finished, the others spoke all together, many telling him how fortunate he was, because he would leave the city; whereupon he began once more. I soon grew tired of hearing him and read what is written here instead, then wrote as I write now-while still they argue, the black man talks of money with his hands, and the youngest of the men with many rings (who is not truly young, for the hair is leaving his head on both sides) backs away as if to fly.

The child looks at me, at him, at the black man, and then at me once more, with wondering eyes.

CHAPTER III-Io

The slave girl woke me before the first light. Our fire was nearly out, and she was breaking sticks across her knee to add to it. "I'm sorry, master," she said. "I tried to do it as quietly as I could."

I felt I knew her, but I could not recall the time or place where we had met. I asked who she was.

"Io. It means io-'happiness'-master."

"And who am I?"

"You're Latro the soldier, master."

She had thrice called me "master." I asked, "Are you a slave, then, Io?" The truth was that I had assumed it already from her tattered peplos.

"I'm your slave, master. The god gave me to you yesterday. Don't you remember?"

I told her I did not.

"They took me to the god's house because he wouldn't tell them anything till somebody brought a present. I was the present, and for me he seized the priestess so she just about went crazy. She said I belonged to you, and I should go with you wherever you went."

A man who had rolled himself in a fine blue cloak threw it off and sat up at that. "Not that I recall," he said. "And I was there."

"This was afterward," Io declared. "After you and the others had left."

He glanced at her skeptically, then said, "I hope you haven't forgotten me as well, Latro." When he saw I had, he continued, "My name is Pindaros, sir, son of Pagondas; and I am a poet. I was one of those who carried you to the temple of our patron."

I said, "I feel I've been dreaming and have just awakened; but I can't tell you what my dream was, or what preceded it."

"Ah!" Reaching in his traveling bag, Pindaros produced a waxed tablet and stylus. "That's really rather good. I hope you won't mind if I write it down? I might be able to make use of it somewhere."

"Write it down?" Something stirred in me, though I could not see it clearly.

"Yes, so I won't forget. You do the same thing, Latro. Yesterday you showed me your book. Do you still have it?" I looked about and saw this scroll lying where I had slept, with the stylus thrust through the cords.

"It's a good thing you didn't knock it into the fire," Pindaros remarked.

"I wish I had a cloak like yours."

"Why, then, I'll buy you one. I've a little money, having had the good fortune to inherit a bit of land two years ago. Or your friend there can. He collected quite a tidy sum before we took you to the House of the God."

I looked at the black man to whom Pindaros pointed. He was still asleep, or feigning to be; but he would not sleep much longer: even as I looked, horns brayed far off. All around us men were stirring into wakefulness. "Whose army is this?" I asked.

"What? You a soldier in it, and you don't know your strategist?"

I shook my head. "Perhaps I did, once. I no longer remember."

Io said, "He forgets because of what they did to him in that battle south of the city."

"Well, it used to be Mardonius's, but he's dead; I'm not sure who commands now. Artabazus, I think. At least, he seems to be in charge."

I had picked up my scroll. "Perhaps if I read this, I'd remember."

"Perhaps you would," Pindaros agreed. "But wait a moment, and you'll have more light. The sun will be up, and we'll have a grand view across Lake Copais there."

I was thirsty, so I asked if that was where we were going.

"To the morning sun? I suppose that's where this army's going, if Pausanius and his Rope Makers have anything to say about it. Farther, perhaps. But you and I are going to the cave of the Earth Goddess. You don't remember what the sibyl said?"

"I do," Io a

"You recite it for him, then." Pindaros sighed. "I have a temperamental aversion to bad verse."

The slave girl drew herself up to her full height, which was small enough, and chanted:

"Look under the sun, if you would see! Sing! Make sacrifice to me! But you must cross the narrow sea. The wolf that howls has wrought you woe! To that dog's mistress you must go! Her hearth burns in the room below. I send you to the God Unseen! Whose temple lies in Death's terrene! There you shall learn why He's not seen. Sing then, and make the hills resound! King, nymph, and priest shall gather round! Wolf, faun, and nymph, spellbound."

Pindar shook his head in dismay. "Isn't that the most awful doggerel you ever heard? They do it much better at the Navel of the World, believe me. This may sound like vanity, but I've often thought the sheer badness of the oracle in our shining city was meant as an admonition to me. 'See, Pindaros,' the god is saying, 'what happens when divine poetry is passed through a heart of clay.' Still, it's certainly clear enough, and you can't always say that when the god speaks at the Navel of the World. Half the time he could mean anything."

"Do you understand it?" I asked in wonder.

"Of course. Most of it, at least. Very likely even this child does."

Io shook her head. "I wasn't listening when the priest explained."

"Actually," Pindaros told her, "I provided more of the explanation than he did, thus drawing this trip upon myself; people suppose that poets have all of time at their disposal, a sort of endless summer."

I said, "I feel I have none, or only today. Then it will be gone."