ever seen - but as I stood there in the cool carved temple with the morning sun spilling in through the columns, one of the temple snakes came out of its hole, flicked its forked tongue at me, flowed across the altar and coiled up between my hands.
I was so small that I could only just reach both hands and my chin onto the altar, so I was eye to eye with the snake. It looked at me in the way of its kind, unemotionally, then rose a little to flick its tongue at each hand. Then it lost interest and coiled up again in a patch of sun.
I thought it was interesting, but it did not impress me as the angel had done. Behind me, I heard the assembled priests gasp. The snake belongs to the Mother, of course; Earth, the mother of all men. But the house snakes in the temple belong to Apollo the Archer, who bestowed the gift of healing on Asclepius and his followers. Master Glaucus embraced me as I came down the steps and told me that I had been greatly favoured.
I was sleepy and hungry and overawed by the great temple and all the people. The master seemed as tall as a pillar, his white hair flowing, his white beard curling around like tree roots. His face was all bones, his nose like the prow of a ship his eyes as black as midnight and as sharp as a needle. He picked me up, wrapped in his mantle, and I fell asleep on his shoulder.
He took me into his own house, to be educated with his own sons and other pupils. I was much younger than they were - they were young men and I was a child - so instead of oppressing me they adopted me as `Death's Little Brother'. Macaon and his brother, Podilarius, taught me riding and dicing and how to play the lyre. I was a complete failure at hunting, as I hated killing things, but they did not despise me, saying instead, `Here is Asclepius' tender plant, healer of wounds.'
Though I could not hunt, I could sing. We sang a lot. Beautiful, delicate harmonies praising the god in the temple, and rough Phrygian and Achaean drinking songs for the tavern. I never sang the war songs, saying my voice was not suited to blood and death and heroes.
The temple of Asclepius was not a sad place. People died there, it is true, but many people were born there and most of our patients lived. Some were touched by the god. Some were mad. The god sends dreams to those who sleep in his temples, and from the dreams our wisest priests could sometimes unravel the knot which had tangled sanity.
From the direction of the rising sun, the suppliants came along the white road. They were always thirsty and dusty when they came into the first temple. I used to sit in one of the cypress trees and watch the procession trailing towards us, the rich on horses or in litters carried by slaves, the poor limping along on crutches, attended only by anxious daughters or wives.
Rich or poor, they received the same treatment and care from us; otherwise the god would have been angered. The Bright One dealt healing and peace but if offended, fired arrows of pestilence and death.
The suppliants travelled in groups, as there were bandits on the road, and timed their arrival for dawn. If they arrived later than that, they would have to wait until the next day to sleep with the god, although we dealt with urgent wounds and broken bones on the spot. The first temple was built to receive them, to feed them broth with soothing herbs and to wash off the stains of travel.
I asked my master why they could only come in at dawn, while we came and went from the sacred precinct all the time. He smiled and said that the ways of a god were not to be questioned by men, adding, `We are healing their minds, Chryse, not just their bodies. Know thyself. All the stages of this treatment have a purpose and a reason, tried over many years. One thing that cannot ever be hurried is the undermind, the mind which must be convinced that it can be healthy. You are Hermes psychopomp today. As you are a guide, do you know the ways of the passages?'
`Yes, Master Glaucus,' I nodded. I had wandered through and played in all of the maze of tunnels which connected the dormiton of the god, the cool paved underground chamber where the suppliants slept, to the dazzling surface. They slept in the tholos, in the womb of the Mother, and waited for the god to send them a dream which would reveal the root of their disease and give us a clue to their treatment. Sometimes dreams were perfectly clear - a certain herb or treatment would be revealed to the suppliant. More commonly the dream would be rich with symbolism, obscure, requiring the wise priests to sit and talk for days with the dreamer before they could find out the core and seed of their illness.
As Hermes, I took the seekers by the hand, one by one and led them through the tunnels and mazes underground, where various priests in the masks of gods spoke to them out of the darkness.
Master Glaucus said, `Today, instead of just waiting for the suppliants to come to the tunnel, you shall stay with them from the beginning. Then you may see how the god reveals himself to men. How many herbs do you know now, Chryse?'
`One hundred and three, Master, and most of the combinations,' I said proudly.
`What treatment would you give a woman of thirty suffering from yellow jaundice and dropsy, boy?'
`Hot water baths, Master, and infusions of vervain and dog's grass in barley broth.'
`Why would you give barley?'
`It soothes, master. Also it is good with vervain, they complement each other.'
`Why not use rue for the jaundice?'
`Master, rue is cold and wet and her complaint is also cold and wet. She needs hot dry herbs.'
`Barley is hot and wet, boy.'
`Yes, master, but combined with vervain it is drying, and stimulates excretion of liquids.'
`Good, very good. What herb is in your wreath?'
`Vervain, Master.' I reached up to touch the spray of leaves which encircled my head and confined my hair. I was already clad in the psychopomp's purple tunic and golden harness.
`Why do you wear vervain?'
`It is the divine herb, master, revealed to Asclepius by the god himself.'
`Tell me of the four humours.'
It was getting on to dawn. A small cold wind sprang up. In the light of the flammifer on the temple gate, my master was as tall as a tree. I could not see his face, but his voice was gentle.
`The four humours are sanguine, which is hot and wet; bilious, which is cold and dry; choleric, which is hot and dry; and phlegmatic, which is cold and wet. As above, so below, Master, they are the four elements, air, fire, water and earth.'
`Good. As we walk, tell me how to reduce a broken nose.'
I fell in at his side and took his hand. Like those of all physicians, his nails were short and his hands were always clean. To be otherwise would be like leaving blood or matter on a temple floor - displeasing to the god.
`Master, one washes the blood away and feels the cheekbones and jaw for breaks.'
`How do you detect a break?'
`Master, it feels soggy.'
The shadows of the cypress trees which grew all through the temples were black as ink, and their aromatic scent was all about me. As I tried to match my pace to master's stride, the owls of the lady hooted a warning about the coming day.
`Then the suppliant should drink a soothing infusion of poppy, vervain and marshleaf. If there are no other breaks, I would take two rolls of bandage and gently push the nose back into line from inside the nostrils, then leave the bandages in place for three days until the nose
