booty from Achaea. I had given it to him, to replace his old sword, which had broken when he deflected an attacker who was trying to stab me in the back. For Patroclus came from an old but poor family and his gear was not anything like as splendid as he deserved.
When we were between battles he delighted to tend me. He would uncoil and wash my hair, rinsing it with herbs, and then comb it like a mother would. Gently but relentlessly, until every strand was perfect and the comb ran freely from scalp to tip. Then he would knot it again above my forehead, a pad to support my helmet, or leave it loose, a curtain to hide a lover in.
I have shorn it now, and burned it in Patroclus’ funeral pyre, along with a hundred Trojan prisoners.
How shall I live without you, my love, my spirit, my soul? I killed Hector for you, but you did not return to comfort me with the honey-sweet kisses of your mouth.
Troy will fall. I will slaughter them all. I will be a Divine Hero. Then I will die in battle, and across the sea I will see you standing there, arms outstretched, as I have often seen you before, and I shall feel your embrace again, feel your arms fold around me, taste your lips.
And we will live forever in the Island of heroes, in Elysium.
A very little time, now, my love. Be patient. I am coming. I just have to die.
MAIDEN SACRIFICE
In the far off times of peace, when Minos ruled the waves and cities had no walls 1, the demos 2 of Karanthos in Kriti 3 had two problems. You might think that having only two problems was fortunate, but they were sizeable ones, worth a hundred small annoyances.
The first was the Beast 4 in the Grove. No one had ever seen it, though they had heard it howling. It demanded first fruits and regular supplies of everything - cheese, bread, vegetables, fish, wine, oil. And it demanded, every year when the Pleiades were at their height and the Seven Sisters were all visible, a willing virgin, naked, leading a kid and carrying a lamb. Each year a virgin had entered the grove and never been seen again. In return, the Beast ensured that no wolf or bandit entered the valley. After some gruesome scrunching was heard at the first inroad and a few short, cut-off shrieks, the bandits avoided Karanthos like a place struck by the arrows of Apollo 5.
It had seemed like a reasonable bargain until this year. Because of the second problem. His name was Demetrios. When he was a baby his mother, distracted by a thorn in her foot, had dedicated him to Aphrodite the Stranger 6, rather than Hera the Queen, which had been her intention. His Goddess smiled upon him. He was tall and lissom and had a smile so full of dark delights that maidens swooned, old women smiled, and even female goats eyed him speculatively - enough to make the billy-goats stamp when he walked, swaying his shapely buttocks, through the herds. It wasn’t Demetrios’ fault - it was well known that he was a dear, sweet boy whose head had been turned by his Goddess - but not only was he as attractive as an Antikythera Device 7, but he was incurably light minded. Demetrios might bend all his attention on one maiden or another for a day, or a week, or as long as it took for enthusiastic consent - the record was two months, and that maiden had joined the sisterhood of Hecate the next day - but he would have his way with her. Or him. And then would become bored and seek other diversions.
His mother blamed Aphrodite and meditated darkly on the source of that thorn in her sole.
But the presence of Demetrios meant that, with the Peliades rising higher every night, the demos of Karanthos had, at present, no virgins over the age of puberty. They had any number of pretty children, but the Beast had been firm in its demands. Fourteen years old at least. And that was when Ion, all unsuspecting and sixteen years old, walked into the agora, leading his donkey, carrying a load of dyed wool for the tapestry which the women were weaving for the temple of Athena Pronaia Parthenos 8.
The fifth son of a Karanthian widow, Ion had been dedicated to the temple of Athena as a hungry five year old. He liked the temple. He was allowed to learn as much as he wished and his duties were light - sweeping, polishing the statue of the Goddess, tending the lamps. And he was allowed out, to deliver supplies to the weavers, and again to collect the finished work. The dyers had given him a bunch of grapes and he had been sharing them with the donkey as they walked along.
The demos of Karanthos looked at Ion. He crunched the last grape and smiled at them. They continued to stare at him, as though he was edible. As a wolf stares at a very slow, very old, sheep. Stuck fast in a bush.
Ion became uncomfortable and the donkey shifted her hoofs. He was about to lead her away to find some grazing while he gave out the wool when the elders descended on him.
He was hustled into the council chamber. They sat him down on a padded chair. They served him undiluted wine 9 mixed with the honey of the Goddess.
‘The wool...’ he protested.
‘Kyria Demeter will tally and distribute it,’ they assured him. ‘Now, Ion, we must ask you a question. The fate of the village of your birth depends on it. Will you answer truly on your oath?’
Ion privately considered that the village of his birth hadn’t shown any previous signs of affection for him, but he nodded. His mother still lived here. He was fond of her.
‘Are you yet maiden?’ hissed Kyrie Iraklios.
Ion laughed. This must be a joke. They glared. He shrugged.
‘I am a maiden yet,’ he confessed. ‘There are not a lot of potential lovers at a temple dedicated to a virgin Goddess.
‘So we hoped,’ replied Kyrie Iraklios. ‘Have some more wine.’
‘What brings on this sudden rush of xenophilia 10?’ asked Ion, looking at them over the rim of his red-figure terracotta kylix 11. ‘You never welcomed me like this before.’
There was muttering and shuffling. The elders avoided each other’s eyes. Then Ion, who was both learned and intelligent, added I to I and got II and exclaimed, ‘You want to sacrifice me to the Beast in the Grove! Go on, deny it!’
No one denied it.
‘No virgins left?’ demanded Ion. ‘Not one?’
‘Demetrios,’ sighed Kyrie Iraklios.
Ion had visited Karanthos on many occasions. Of course he had heard of Demetrios. Unfortunately, for his present plight, he had never encountered him.
‘No,’ he said, adamantly. ‘You can’t make me. Willing sacrifice, the Beast said. I’m not willing. I’m not going to walk to an unknown and probably horrible fate with two innocent animals just because you haven’t dedicated Demetrios to Attis 12 yet 13.’
‘But, sweet Ion....’ they protested. ‘Ion, our golden one...’
Ion had known from the beginning that his resistance was futile 14. But it was pleasant to be urged and persuaded and flattered and fed choice delicacies and plied with yet more of the best wine, sweetened with the precious hymettus 15 honey. When they brought in his mother to plead, he decided it was time to surrender or he would have to be carried to the grove.
‘I’ll do it,’ he announced. ‘But I have a price.’
‘Anything,’ said Kyrie Iraklios.
‘Tell
