‘Not into the oracle itself,’ Castor answered, ‘though I’ve waited outside while my uncles went in. They live here on the slopes of Mount Parnassus and consult the oracle two or three times a year. I came here in my youth to claim an inheritance promised by my grandfather, so I remember the place well.’ He looked about himself. ‘We hunted boar a number of times in these hills.’
Halitherses, who had taken the lead from Castor, called back over his shoulder. ‘Show him the scar.’
Castor paused to pull aside his cloak, revealing a long white scar that ran up half the length of his thigh from the knee. It was still visible in the fast-failing light beneath the thin canopy of trees, though Eperitus had not noticed it before then.
‘A boar?’ he asked.
‘Not just any boar,’ Castor replied. ‘It was a monster, a gigantic beast of untold years. His hide was thicker than a fourfold shield and you could see the scars of old spear thrusts through his coarse hair. Two great tusks jutted from his mouth,’ he held up his forefingers before his chin and glared boar-like at the young warrior, ‘as long and as sharp as daggers, though twice as deadly with his bulk behind them. But most terrifying of all were his eyes: as black as obsidian, burning with hate for all mankind. They were filled with the experience of a beast that’d outwitted more than one huntsman, and I knew I wasn’t his first victim. Though I was his last.’
‘Your uncles killed him?’
‘I killed him!’ Castor told him proudly. ‘I was the first of our party to see him charging out of a thicket with his breath clouding the morning air. Though only a boy, I threw my spear between his shoulders as his head was lowered at my belly. My grandfather and uncles tell me he was dead before he hit me and only the momentum of his great bulk carried his tusk into my thigh. As for me, he knocked my legs away and I hit my head on a rock. I woke up a day later with my wounds bound and every bone in my body aching.’
‘You were fortunate.’
‘Fortune has nothing to do with it,’ Castor snorted, turning to walk back up the path as his men finally caught up with them. He held open the inside of his shield, revealing a painted image of a maiden in full armour. ‘Athena protects me. I honour her above all other gods, excepting Zeus of course, and in return she keeps me from harm. She saved me from the boar, not fortune.’
Castor’s choice of deity intrigued Eperitus. Most men had their favourite Olympian, whom they prayed to more than any other and in whose honour they would make an extra offering at every meal. For sailors it was Poseidon, god of the sea; for farmers Demeter, goddess of the harvest; for craftsmen it was Hephaistos, the smith-god. Merchants would make offerings to Hermes to bring them good trade; young women would pray to Aphrodite to make them into wives; and wives would pray to Hestia, protectress of the home. The hunter would worship Artemis and the poet would dedicate his songs to Apollo. And Castor, like all soldiers, should have paid homage to Ares, whose realm was the battlefield. The ferocious god of war gave his followers a strong arm in the fight and, if it was their day to die, an honourable death surrounded by their fallen foes. Instead he chose Athena, the goddess of wisdom. She was the symbol not of brutality in battle – which all fighting men valued – but of skill with weaponry and warcraft. She gave her favourites cunning, resourcefulness and the ability to outwit their enemies, not the blood-thirsty joy of killing with which Ares endowed his followers. It seemed a strange choice for a man.
The moon showed her pockmarked face above the line of the hills, like a gigantic gorgon transforming the landscape to stone. The plain below their right flank remained dark, though the shard of water that pierced it sparkled like ice. Deep shadows stalked the silvered hillsides about the file of warriors, who were made conspicuous by their movement and glinting armour.
During their whole march they had barely seen more than half a dozen other pilgrims. Winter had just begun, of course, and it was not the season for travelling to and fro across Greece. Nevertheless, there would always be people who needed to consult the gods. Maybe fear of deserters from the siege of Thebes kept them away, Eperitus speculated, or perhaps the need for the gods was less urgent, now that the civil wars of Greece had all but ceased. Peace had brought prosperity and a brittle sense of security to the people.
Suddenly Castor brought his men to a halt, pointing up at the hillside ahead where trails of smoke drifted up through the treetops into the clear night air.
‘See?’ he said. ‘The oracle is up there.’
‘Thank the gods,’ groaned a voice from the back of the file. ‘My feet are dying beneath me and my stomach needs food.’
Castor was unmoved by the self-pitying complaints of his men.
‘We can make camp later. First I must see the Pythoness. Those of you who can wait until morning had better set up camp here, where you won’t gag on the smell from the fumes. And make sure Damastor doesn’t stand guard again, in case his snoring attracts another band of roaming deserters.’
The soldier who had spoken to Eperitus by the fire lowered his head as his comrades jeered him, their good humour surprising considering the danger he must have left them in by sleeping on guard duty that morning. Then they started to shed their armour and baggage, clearly having no intention of taking another step that night.
Castor threw a heavily muscled arm about Eperitus’s shoulders. ‘Meanwhile, you and I can go and question the hag about what the gods have planned for us.’
Eperitus watched the skeins of smoke trailing into the night air and quickly forgot his fatigue from the day’s trials. At last, he was nearing the oracle itself.
‘We’ll come with you as well,’ said Halitherses.
He was joined by a lean, grubby-looking man with hollow cheeks and a big nose. He introduced himself as Antiphus, and as Eperitus took his hand he realized he was missing his two bowstring fingers. This was the harshest and most effective punishment for hunting without leave on a noble’s land, and was usually meted out only to the low-born: by hacking off the index and forefingers the man was made ineffective as an archer. It was this that caused Eperitus to note with curiosity that Antiphus still carried a bow on his shoulder.
‘There’s a sacred spring ahead,’ Castor informed them as they walked up the slope towards the trees. ‘We should bathe there before we enter the temple.’
They walked into a circle of trees that stood about a wide, dark pool. Water broke from a rock on the far side, gurgling softly in the still night air. As Eperitus watched, the moon emerged from behind a veiling cloud and transformed the clearing with her ghostly light. He found himself in a dreamscape, a place of unmatchable beauty where the simple glade had shed its earthly guise to reveal a heart of magic. The moon’s disc moved in the water, wavering, slowing towards stillness but never quite achieving solid form. The boles of the trees became pillars of silver, as if the men had stepped inside an enchanted hall where the glistening pool took the place of the hearth and the whispering branches formed a roof over their heads. Not without reason was the spring considered sacred: Eperitus almost expected to see a deer leap into the clearing, pursued by Artemis herself, bow in hand.
Then Castor removed his cloak, armour and tunic and quickly lowered himself into the water. He was soon out again, replacing his garments. The others followed, each one flinching from the icy bite of the water, their complaints echoing about the ring of trees.
Slowly Eperitus scooped up handfuls of water and tipped them over his arms, shoulders and chest. The cold was sharp, initially, but as he became used to it he started to feel a new sensation tingling across his skin, like the breath of a god.