‘From the heavens, Father Zeus himself ordained … that glorious Hermes should have charge especially over birds of omen and fierce lions and white-tusked boars, and over dogs and sheep, as many as the broad earth breeds, and dominion over all cattle.’
–The Homeric Hymns: To Hermes
Telmius gives Bria a solemn look, with perhaps a touch of apology, then raises his arms in supplication. ‘Divine Father, Herald of Zeus, Great Hermes,’ he calls out, ‘I have led these men to you, as you asked me to do when you espied them here, but I pray you hearken to them, before passing your judgment.’
Hermes looks at him sternly. ‘Why should I listen to trespassers, wayward son?’
‘Because I tricked them into coming here,’ Telmius replies, avoiding our eyes.
I grip the hilt of my xiphos but find I can’t pull it free. So much for promising Telmius the worst if he betrayed us, worthless piece of kopros that he is…
Hermes arches one eyebrow. ‘Why would you trick them, my son?’
Why indeed?
I stare, my mind racing, and then it starts to dawn on me.
Telmius told us he thought his father and patron was wrong in his allegiances; perhaps he’s been looking for a way to bring this home to Hermes, and he sees us as that chance. In that case, he may have led us here, right into Hermes’s clutches, expressly for us to state the case for Achaea over Troy. I can almost forgive him his lies… I might even have done the same. But if we can’t persuade Zeus’s herald to betray the Skyfather, we’re all dead, and I’m not so forgiving about that.
Telmius’s response confirms my suspicions. ‘Divine Father,’ he says, in a nervously obsequious voice, ‘these men – and this woman – travel on a matter of vital import, for the safety and security both of Achaea, and all those people who give you worship. They sought the paths of your realm to evade the winter, at my suggestion.’
Hermes is listening intently, his eyes shifting in hue from blue to green to gold. ‘To what purpose?’ he asks, in a voice of soft menace.
‘To rescue a woman abducted from her family, and forced into marriage to another against her will. And to bring that miscreant to justice.’
But that’s not our primary purpose. And why should Hermes care about one abducted girl? Why doesn’t Telmius speak more to the point?
But Hermes does appear moved by the tale. ‘A heinous crime indeed,’ he says, nodding thoughtfully. ‘And yet, not uncommon. How does this rescue safeguard my worshippers?’
Telmius mops his brow. ‘The man who perpetrated this crime is in collusion with the enemies of Achaea, and his fall would greatly weaken them.’
It’s a convoluted way of drip feeding Hermes the necessary information, but I can see what he’s doing. Engaging Hermes’s sympathies for Nestra’s fate could make the Herald-God think more kindly of us and our cause. But now he’s frowning, as he begins to see Telmius’s purpose.
His strange, motley minions murmur and chatter as they listen, straining their ears and eyes to take in their master’s words. I doubt that’s a coincidence either: Telmius must have made sure they’d be here, to witness the decision if it goes our way. I’m stunned at his audacity, but if he’s misjudged, he won’t be a ‘favoured son’ much longer.
‘And the name of this criminal?’ Hermes asks slowly, glancing around the clearing. He’s probably come to the same conclusion as I have, and it doesn’t seem to be pleasing him. ‘Speak clearly, Telmius, for I am not happy to be disturbed by intruders in my own realm.’
‘Great Father, the miscreant of whom I speak is King Tantalus, who has stolen Clytemnestra, the daughter of King Tyndareus of Sparta. It is to Pisa these men go, to rescue her.’
Hermes’s face becomes ever more thunderous, and his people shiver and take a backwards step. I glance carefully about to check on our party. Diomedes’s eyes are closed, but I can see his chest rising and falling. Agrius is bent over his own belly, winded and scared to do aught but snatch at his breath. Like me, Laas, Bria, and the other three Mycenaeans are still lying on the ground, gaping wide-eyed, their limbs rigid.
‘Who speaks for these intruders?’ Hermes asks reluctantly.
‘I do,’ I say, before anyone else can. I know my gifts of oratory, and though Bria might know more about the nuances of this place, she’s just as likely going to piss everyone off. ‘I am Odysseus of Ithaca.’
Hermes’s glittering eyes turn my way, settling on me like molten stone. ‘The Man of Fire,’ he says coldly. ‘I have heard your name spoken, but always in tones of mistrust and contempt.’
I test my limbs and find I can rise – I do so, but only to one knee. ‘Great Hermes, you have perhaps only heard my enemies speak of me. Why would they not condemn me, if they fear me?’
I can’t see any point in doing this half-heartedly.
Telmius winces, but his master gives nothing away. ‘Why would you assail my loyal servant Tantalus, who gives due and reverent sacrifice to me, and instructs his people to do the same?’ Hermes demands. ‘The King of Pisa has created a bastion for me, and I regard his people as my own children.’
He glares at Telmius as he utters that last word, clearly not well-disposed to this particular child of his, just now.
‘Great Hermes,’ I reply, ‘Tantalus abducted and raped Clytemnestra. Her family claim restoration and revenge, but he boasts falsely of her happiness. That in itself is enough for war. But he has thrown his hand in with the King of Troy, and with Hyllus, son of Heracles, in a plan to aid the Trojan invasion of Achaea. How can his worship of you sit well with a plan which will destroy the homeland of your worshippers?’
Now Hermes’s quicksilver face changes again, this time to anger. ‘Hyllus, son of Heracles,’ he growls. ‘That is not a name to conjure lightly. Arcadia and all of the lands of the Peloponnese still remember all that monster did. Every beast of war did he unleash, from famine to plague to bloody massacre.’ He moves toward me, covering a dozen yards in an instant, and I confess that my heart almost fails me. ‘What proofs do you have of this alleged conspiracy?’ He seizes my face with an icy hand and stares into my eyes. ‘Speak… and I will know if you lie, mortal!’
His eyes grip mine as strongly as his fingers on my jaw. I feel as though my soul is a parchment he’s reading, and my heart is laid bare. What he sees inside me, I dread to think – from Kyshanda, to Sisyphus, to the abduction of Helen… I try and focus my mind on the key prophecy Charea and her priestesses gave me.
‘This is what the oracle of Dodona told me,’ I stammer: ‘“The Lion lurks in his den, waiting for the Third Fruit. The Wolf crouches in his lair, slavering over his mate. When the Stallion rears, both shall bare teeth.” All expert interpretations agree – the Lion is Hyllus, whose father wore a lion-pelt; and Hyllus has received a prophecy about the Third Fruit. The Wolf is Tantalus, who indeed is slavering over his mate – Clytemnestra. The Stallion is Troy, home of fabled horse-breeders, who commands both to war.’
I can scarcely breathe for fear, as the god’s eyes burn into mine, changing colour yet again. His cold hand still clamps hold of my chin, and I’m petrified he’ll twist it, and break my neck.
‘Dodona is silent,’ he hisses. ‘You silenced it, the only oracular shrine I have access to, since Hera denies me the voice of Pytho. I’m not the only one angered by this – there are great rewards offered for your head over that crime.’
‘The priestesses gave me those words, before I released them from entombment and slavery,’ I reply, as boldly as I dare. ‘Is it a crime to release the shades of those murdered women, when they are the holiest servants of Hera? If they had been servants of Hermes, would you not have demanded their release?’
His grip on my chin tightens even further, and his eyes go black. ‘Do not question me, mortal.’ Those ebony orbs penetrate right through me, his hand quivers with tension, barely restrained… and then his gaze fades to pale green, and he says, ‘You were at the Judgment of Parassi, and know my politics. Zeus is the All-father, the King of Olympus. I am his loyal servant, now and forever.’
This is not going well…
‘But is not a King the servant of his people?’ I reply.
Hermes snorts with mirth. ‘A bizarre thought.’
I gather my courage and press on with my argument. ‘What kingdom thrives when its king does not act to preserve it, and what is that kingdom, but the people and the land? Zeus seeks to bind himself to Tarhum, the Hittite Skyfather, turning his back on his many worshippers in Achaea, for the sake of many, many more in the east. You know this. Perhaps it’s all very well for him, but you’re an Achaean God. Your people are here. Who will pray and sacrifice to you, when they’re put to the sword by Hyllus or by the Trojans?’
His eyes swirl, like clouds in a tempest. ‘You don’t understand anything, mortal. I am eternal.’
To my surprise, Bria speaks up. ‘I thought myself eternal also,’ she says in a voice of echoing sadness.
Only now does he look away, surprise creasing his features momentarily as he glances across at Bria. The air quivers around us.
A moment later he’s holding both of us by the throat, me in his right hand and her in the left. ‘And who in Tartarus are you?’ he says to her, in a voice like glass breaking.
We’re being held so that our tiptoed feet can barely keep us upright, and our windpipes are half-crushed, but somehow even as she goes puce, she gasps out, ‘I’ll tell you, but not in front of him.’
A moment later I’m sprawled on my back on the grassy sward, winded and clutching my bruised neck, trying to force air into my tortured lungs. Through dizzied eyes I see Bria whisper something, and the god’s eyes glisten like trapped stars, then he goes still and his visage turns calculating. Slowly, he lowers her to the ground and releases her throat, and then he smiles as she sinks down to clasp his knees, as if her giving him homage pleases him greatly.
‘So… Bria… why does that mortal speak before you?’ he says, gesturing contemptuously at me.
‘He’s difficult to shut up,’ she says offhandedly. ‘He’s right, though. Zeus demands your loyalty, but there’s nothing in the treasure chests he promises you but extinction. I know his kind all too well.’
Finally, I see a crack in the god’s composure, a hesitation that betrays all the seething uncertainty beneath and behind. ‘Zeus has promised me that Hyllus will never despoil my beautiful homeland again,’ he says, in a voice that catches, for just the slightest moment, on the world despoil.
‘But you’ve just heard from Zeus’s own oracle that he will.’
The watching centaurs and satyrs and other demi-human creatures of this unworldly landscape whisper as they watch their lord and god waver. He realises belatedly and with a gesture of his hand they vanish, as if they were never real, never here. Such is his power in his own realm.
I look round the clearing. Diomedes is stirring; Agrius is lying on his back, eyes wide but too scared to move; Laas, too, is motionless as a statue; Philapor is whimpering, too terrified even to pray to here – a merciful blessing; and the brothers Pseras and Ceraus are now curled in a foetal position. Telmius is still standing, arms raised, his jovial face pale and his balding head gleaming with sweat as he watches his gamble unfold. Or unravel.
‘I can’t think with your damned racket,’ Hermes suddenly says, and flicks a finger at Philapor. The Mycenaean’s lips seal together, he panics and turns red then purple until he remembers he has nostrils, at which point he subsides into a twitching heap. ‘Hera can’t hear you here, fool,’ the god says venomously, before turning back to Bria. ‘I should take you directly to Zeus’s throne,’ he snarls. ‘He’d give me whatever I ask.’
‘More empty treasure chests,’ she sniffs. Then she leans forward. ‘What would it cost you, to let us through? No one’s going to know, and if we succeed, you’ll see exactly how Zeus stands on the question of Hyllus.’
‘How so?’
‘Because the first thing he’ll do is vow to unleash the Sons of Heracles on the Peloponnese once more.’
‘He’s sworn he will never do that,’ Hermes says again, but there’s clear doubt in his voice now.
‘What better way to find out?’ Bria says, her voice casual, but I know her well enough to see how stressed she is, even in this less familiar body she’s wearing.
‘Perhaps,’ Hermes says, waving a hand at her in a gesture of delay, as he walks to the kneeling Telmius. ‘You set this up, didn’t you, my conniving, faithless son?’ He grasps at the man’s forehead and horns appear, one of which he grasps and wrenches, making Telmius cry out sharply. ‘Why should I not reward infidelity with death?’
‘Because a son may believe his father errs and seek to open his eyes,’ Telmius bleats.
‘You should have spoken to me, not played this charade!’
‘I tried, Father,’ Telmius says desperately, as Hermes lifts him bodily by the horn, making his neck bones twist and crack. ‘Please, I tried! You wouldn’t listen to me!’
The god raises his other hand, then lowers it. ‘I cannot be seen to listen to dissenters. Zeus’s people watch me.’
‘I know,’ Telmius groans. ‘But not here. That’s why I sought to confront you with this problem… to hear it from others… in your own realm. Please Father, I mean you no ill. I love you. I worship you.’
Barely perceptibly, Hermes’s face softens. ‘Aye, I see that you do, my recalcitrant son. I see and understand.’
Then with his left fist, he smashes Telmius across the face, releasing the horn as he strikes so that the satyr goes head over heels across the grass and lands, unconscious, at the water’s edge.
To her credit, Bria makes a concerned sound and scurries to Telmius’s side, speaking some words that revive him, as she cradles his head in her lap. ‘Striking one who has served you in good faith, does you no credit, Hermes,’ she scolds, boldly. ‘Come, what is your answer? Are you a toady to the Skyfather, willing to sacrifice all that worship you in the hope of reward? Or do you stand with free Achaea?’
‘I cannot stand openly with your mistress,’ Hermes hisses.
‘No, but you can stand with Zeus, while secretly aiding us,’ I put in.
He turns to me, his expression incredulous. ‘You ask me to spy upon the all-knowing King of Olympus?’
‘I do.’ Never let it be said that I hold back when the going gets tough.
‘Zeus isn’t actually all-knowing, is he?’ Bria chimes in. ‘If he were all-knowing, my mistress and all those others that defy his wishes would already be dealt with. Thebes would never have fallen, and Troy would rule us now. He’s a god, with all that implies, but he’s not omniscient and he’s not omnipotent. One day, he could even be as diminished as me.’
By Hades, who was she?
Her words seem to have struck home, for Hermes groans. ‘But you cannot ask…’
‘Help us, and you stand to gain if we prevail – and if we fail, deny, deny and deny again, and reap whatever false promises Zeus has made to you. An obol both ways, Hermes, that’s what we’re offering you. You can be a winner no matter the outcome – assuming Zeus doesn’t do what I know he will and betray you. The only thing you’d need to do is not get caught.’
‘You think that’s easy?’
‘You’re a smart lad,’ she says, somewhat condescendingly, making Telmius and me wince again. ‘The God of Thieves and Trickery, I’ve heard.’
‘Great Hermes,’ I throw in, ‘let this mission be a matter of faith between us. We will never disclose your involvement – I swear that, on behalf of us all. All you need do is let Telmius guide us onwards, and take note of the outcomes. From that, you’ll know who to trust.’
The glade falls silent, and I notice that even the river and the wind are stilled. This place that is a living extension of the god himself, and it waits, as though paralysed.
‘If Tantalus has made treaty with the Trojans,’ Hermes says, after a pause that feels as though a lifetime has passed, ‘then I want his head. Zeus has sworn to me that the conquest of Achaea will be bloodless, and my worship will be left intact. Prove him a liar, and I’ll succour your cause in secret.’
My heart is pounding so hard, I can barely trust myself to decipher his words. But I’ve heard truly – he’s relented – for the river begins to flow again and a light, warm breeze ruffles the grass.
‘You may pass, all of you,’ Hermes says, looking away. ‘But if any one of you breathes of our agreement, I’ll take you bodily to Hades’s realm and hand-feed your entrails to Cerberus. Am I understood?’
We profess our agreement with all the sincerity and ardour of men making their dying testaments, which indeed we still might be doing. I for one mean every word of it, and I hope the others do too, because if not, I will help Hermes hunt them down.
‘And you, my son,’ Hermes adds, standing over the stricken Telmius, where he lies cradled on Bria’s thighs. ‘Let the fidelity of this group be the proving of your own.’
Then the herald-god vanishes, the night closes in on us and we can breathe again.
It takes a moment before I can summon the strength to go to Diomedes and ensure he’s not too badly damaged. He has a magnificent black eye but otherwise, to my relief, he seems fine, once I have him on his feet and moving around. Then I go to Telmius and Bria and offer the satyr a hand up.
In response, he merely wriggles the back of his head deeper into Bria’s lap. ‘I’m quite comfortable where I am,’ he chuckles.
‘Dirty old goat,’ Bria mutters, shoving him away before clasping my hand and hauling herself up. I face her, dropping my voice to a whisper. ‘Just who are you?’ I ask. ‘Come on, you owe it to me.’
‘Do I?’ she says, feigning astonishment. ‘No, I fucking don’t! Now piss off and leave me alone.’ She stalks away, snatches up her blanket and heads away into the darkness. ‘No one follows,’ she calls over her shoulder. ‘Especially you,’ she says, jabbing a finger at Telmius. ‘I am not some piece on a board game you can just shove around.’
Telmius looks at me, eyebrows raised, but to be honest, I’m with Bria on that one. ‘I also like to know in advance when my life’s at stake,’ I tell him tersely.
‘You’d never have come this way if you’d known,’ he says, with a diffident shrug. He looks regretfully at Bria’s behind as it sways angrily away. ‘Her loss.’
I snort derisively. And yet, I can’t help forgiving him: his type of cockiness is hard to dislike. On a whim, I go to his pack, grab that wine sack of his that never seems to empty, then sit down beside him again. ‘I for one won’t be sleeping after that,’ I tell him. ‘So let’s have a drink and a proper talk, eh?’
He gives Bria’s back a regretful farewell, and shrugs. ‘Why not? Tell me, Prince, have you ever had your heart broken? What was it like?’
I frown at the question. How much has Bria told him of my love for Kyshanda and why does he want to pry? Then I realise he is, for once, being guileless: he’s genuinely curious. He and Bria are all brain and libido; neither has ever been in love, which is why they’re drawn to each other.
My mother Anticleia once told me that every human is made of four things, in a mix unique to each individual: body, mind, heart and soul. But Bria and Telmius have no heart – I don’t mean the physical organ, but empathy and compassion – there’s nothing to warm and nothing to break.
When I think of Kyshanda, I almost envy them that lack.
It’s evening of the next day, after a weirdly empty trek through Hermes’s realm – it seems the god has decided to clear away any creature who might witness our passing. We’ve followed the rivers out of the mountains, criss-crossing them at need, with barely even a bird in sight, but with a sense of watchfulness. We stop for a rest on the banks of the biggest river, at a place where it spreads out wide. Out in the middle, there’s a small eyot topped with low scrub and long grass, and the water on either side is shallow enough to wade.
Telmius gathers us in a circle, and tells us that his colleague Amolus is guiding Agamemnon’s party along the same route we’ve taken, and that they’re less than a day behind us, with Hermes turning a blind eye to them as well. So far, our deal is holding. How Telmius knows is sorcerer’s business, but not an aspect of the art I’ve mastered yet.
Diomedes has only one good eye right now; the other is puffed up like a ball and completely closed, which has left him struggling with depth-perception all day. Agrius has cracked ribs, but insists on continuing – no one sane would want to be left alone here, anyway. Laas and the other three Mycenaeans are clearly impatient to be out of here, away from the oppressive stillness. The realms of the gods aren’t comfortable places to be.
‘This is our last chance to confer without the risk of being seen by the Pisans and having our presence reported to Tantalus,’ Telmius says. ‘The gate is on that eyot; we’ll emerge into a landscape exactly like this, but outside Hermes’s realm. Humans call this river the Alpheios; it runs swift and deep for much of its length and this is the only crossing for many miles. The crofters and shepherds will have their flocks settling for the night – the sun’s already down in your world. I know a place we can camp, but we can’t risk fire tonight.’
‘How far are we from Pisa?’ I ask.
‘No more than a handful of miles,’ the satyr replies. ‘I can take you by a route through lowlands – woods and gullies – so you’re within reach of the sacred wood before dawn. After that, it’s up to you.’
Bria takes over. ‘Ploistos is one of the most sacred rites of Artemis,’ she tells us. ‘It has many facets, culminating in music, singing and a lot of drinking come nightfall, but the day itself is solemn and sacred. The tradition that interests us is that children born in the preceding few months are presented to the goddess, in the central grove. There’ll be sacred chanting and incense and other boring kopros like that. The crucial point is, no men are allowed to attend.’
‘Easy pickings,’ Pseras growls to his brother, and Ceraus grins.
‘I wouldn’t count on that,’ Bria says. ‘No men inside the sacred grove itself doesn’t mean there’ll be no guards. This is the nearest sanctuary to Pisa and Tantalus is not at all blind to the risks. There will be champions of Artemis the Huntress present, both at the ceremonies and keeping watch around the sacred wood, women who can fight, and more importantly, put an arrow through your eyeball at one hundred paces. They’ll be led by Atalanta, if that name means anything to you lot?’
It does, to me and to Laas – but clearly not to the Mycenaeans, who probably don’t listen to old tales from the hinterland, nor to Diomedes: the only tales he grew up with were those of vengeance against Thebes.
‘She’d be getting on by now, wouldn’t she?’ Laas asks. ‘That old Calydonian Boar Hunt was decades ago.’
Bria smiles grimly. ‘She’s a tough old bird, and she could still outrun you fat-arses; and plug you in the back before you knew she was there.’
‘Go on, then,’ Philapor says; the first words he’s said for days that aren’t prayers. ‘Tell us the tale.’
I guess he wants to know what to pray about.
‘I’ll tell it,’ I put in. ‘My father, Laertes, was there and I’ve heard it many times.’ Some of them might suspect that Laertes isn’t my father, but they all listen in. ‘It was almost thirty years ago, before my father became King of Ithaca. Back then, princes often journeyed about; it was before that bloody feud between the Houses of Atreus and Thyestes, and travel between kingdoms was easier. So when the Boar appeared, men banded together.’
‘What was so special about this boar?’ Ceraus asks sceptically. ‘I’ve killed a few in my time, and they’re nothing a good man can’t handle on his own, if he knows what he’s doing.’
‘Not this one,’ I respond. ‘It was huge. Father says it was thrice the normal size, barely natural.’
‘It wasn’t natural at all,’ Telmius puts in. ‘It came from this realm. My father Hermes hand-reared it, but Artemis stole into this place and fed it something to drive it mad. Petty revenge for some slight, it was. She led it to a gateway out of Hermes’s realm, somewhere up in Aetolia, and unleashed it into your world.’
‘It destroyed a series of farmsteads, but it would vanish before the hunters arrived,’ I tell them, taking up the narrative again. ‘Once it became apparent this was no ordinary beast, the local king, Oeneus—’
‘My grandfather,’ Diomedes interrupts.
‘—who was also on Artemis’s shit-list, assembled a hunting party of thirty, mostly his kin; though for years after, I’ve heard men claim to have been there, some of whom weren’t even born. Twenty-nine men – and one woman, Atalanta—’
‘But isn’t she a champion of Artemis?’ Laas asks. ‘I’ve always wondered why she would hunt the very creature her mistress loosed.’
‘A few reasons,’ Bria puts in. ‘Artemis knew she was pissing everyone off, so she wanted one of her own to clean things up, once her point was made. And she wanted to tweak the noses of those that said that a woman couldn’t compete in a man’s world. She knew Atalanta’s presence would cause arguments, and so it did.’
‘It certainly did,’ I say loudly, piqued that others keep jumping into my tale. ‘Some refused to hunt with her; others stole the hide once it was killed. She’d wounded the boar first, and by rights it had been awarded to her. Fighting broke out and many of Oeneus’s kin were maimed or killed. The hunters caused more harm to each other than the boar ever did.’
‘What happened to Atalanta?’ Agrius asks.
‘Well—’
‘She married Hippomenes, a prince of Arcadia,’ Diomedes interjects. ‘I remember my father telling me this! She’s actually kin of mine! She and Hippomenes bore Parthenopaios, my great uncle.’
‘I’m sure if you explain that to her, she won’t shoot you,’ I say acidly. Trying to tell this lot a tale is like trying to get the dawn chorus to shut up and listen to you sing.
‘She boasted that she’d never marry a man that couldn’t outrun her,’ Diomedes goes on excitedly. ‘But Hippomenes tricked her into picking up golden apples during the race, so he could win.’
‘Aphrodite supplied the apples,’ Bria adds. ‘She wanted Atalanta porked, so that she’d lose some of her power as a virgin of Artemis. The whole running race thing was to prove that Artemis women were better than men, but the Clamshell can’t stand virgins. Atalanta was never as strong after that, but she’s still formidable.’ She looks at me meaningfully. ‘She’s a shapechanger, she and Hippomenes both. They can turn themselves into lions.’
The four Mycenaeans – sheltered fellows that they are – scoff in disbelief, but I’m remembering the shape-changer at Pytho who almost killed me, two years ago. ‘Thanks for the warning,’ I tell her. ‘But remind me never to try and tell a story to you lot again. Couldn’t get a bloody word in edgewise. Shall we go?’
Telmius takes us across the ford to the little eyot, and sure enough there’s a ring of stones there, similar to the ones on the tor. The ritual to open the gate is much the same as the previous one – as before, we don’t actually step through anything; instead the world is transformed around us. Immediately the cold hits us. It’s a frigid night, and after the balmy conditions in Hermes’s realm, that’s a shock.
We wade to the bank on the far side through the now-icy water, the river already swollen by the start of the spring melt; it’s waist deep and about forty yards across, all told. Once over, we dry off, wrap ourselves in our cloaks, and set off. The night is clear and the moon is almost full. We’re seven miles from Pisa, and the festival of Ploistos is tomorrow.