Prometheus

When two shepherds, out hunting a wolf, stumble across a raggedly-dressed man chained to an alter rock they find themselves in danger of becoming embroiled in the affairs of the gods in which mere mortals should not involve themselves. However, what else are two lowly, honourable shepherds to do in such situations, but become involved.

© Martin Marais 2017

Martin Marais has asserted his rights under the

Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988,

to be identified as the author of this work.

First published in 2017 by Martin Marais

1

“And that,” Isokrates concluded dramatically, his eyes scanning the awed faces of his audience, “is how I got the scar.”

As he stood up, the gloomy light of the tavern’s tallow lanterns seemed to realign and focus on him. He lifted his tattered tunic and turned. One of the shepherds, who was sat at the table, raised a lamp to allow a better view and the rest of them gathered around to examine the scar. Of course, they had seen it before, but as, undoubtedly, the most courageous shepherd amongst them, Isokrates received their utmost respect and they went through the well-established ritual. Some could not resist, but to hover their fingers down the lengths of the ragged claw marks that the bear had left etched on Isokrates’ back. None, however, dared touch them.

Old Kleitos, who alone had remained seated, smiled to himself as he watched the men go through the ritual. They had all heard the story before, many times, but it was a magnificent story, the best of them all, and Isokrates was a past master at telling tales, which was why his story was always the last to be told during the shepherds’ gatherings on these cold winter nights. Kleitos lifted his leather tankard and took a draft of his warm mead. He was the oldest shepherd in the valley, by far, and his great age and infirmity excused him from the ceremony of examining the scar.

The men settled down and, the story-telling over, they gathered into pairs and trios to discuss the more mundane matters that beset the life of a shepherd in the Caucasus.

Kleitos felt a small flutter in his chest and then that breathless feeling that he now got whenever he walked any distance. He grasped the edge of the table tightly with both hands and waited for the discomfort to pass. Meliton, sitting beside him, saw the look of fear in the old man’s eyes. He went to aid his aged mentor, but Kleitos raised spread fingers to stop him. Meliton stayed where he was, but kept a keen eye on his ancient friend. Kleitos closed his eyes and listened as the murmur of his life-long friends rolled over him like warm water. He slowed his breathing. He relaxed his body. His heart steadied. After a moment, he looked at Meliton and smiled.

“It has passed.”

Meliton breathed a sigh of relief. He smiled at the old man.

Kleitos let his eyes roam over his friends. None were of his generation. He was the last of his cohort of shepherds. These young men were brave, but brash, living in the modern way. Living life to the full, for although life was peaceful at present, no-one ever knew when they would be called upon to fight some devastating war against some foe or other. And with the cities of Sparta, Argos, Corinth and Athens, amongst others, all vying for power, another war seemed inevitable. He was pleased he was too old to be involved. He had had a good life, an ordinary life, except for that one event. He gazed at Meliton. It was something about which he and Meliton had never spoken – something that still gave him nightmares, some forty winters later. He rubbed his chest soothingly. Maybe his time was near. If it was, then now would be the time to tell the story of the scars he had kept hidden for all this time.

He took his leather tankard and drank it dry. Meliton looked at him in surprise; the old man was normally a cautious drinker. Kleitos banged his jug onto the table. The younger men jumped and then fell into respectful silence.

Kleitos held Meliton’s gaze and said, “I have a tale to tell.”

Meliton’s eyes widened in surprise. He gave the minutest shake of his head.

“It is time,” said Kleitos, smiling at his younger friend.

“Now old man,” Isokrates said playfully, “we have already heard how you chased the wolf, throwing stones at it and how you tripped and scarred your knee.”

The others laughed heartily.

Kleitos smiled. “That story was made up. I tell it to amuse you. It sets the story telling sessions off to a good start. You may believe I have had a very ordinary life. And, on the whole, I have. I certainly have not fought off a bear, but I have fought an eagle. It was an incident that happened to me, and to Meliton, many seasons ago. Meliton was still my apprentice then, that is how long ago it was, but I remember it as if it were only yesterday. It is a tale about which we have never spoken a word of to anyone. We were, indeed, on the trail of a wolf that had been taking our sheep. It happened on the upper slopes of Mount Ararat, and it is a story that will turn your blood to ice.”

He now had the full attention of all the shepherds. He lifted his tankard and took a long sip; it was for affect – the vessel was empty. He looked over its rim at his attentive audience. He placed the tankard on the scratched table and settled into the hard, wooden seat and said reflectively, as if to himself, “I remember it like it happened only yesterday.”

2

Meliton and I had been chasing the wolf for hours and I was starting to wonder about the futility of the hunt.

“Bloody hell, Meliton,” I cursed, “where in the name of the gods are you taking us? If we carry on any further we’ll end up in Tartarus, itself.”

I saw Meliton give the sign of self-preservation at the mention of the underworld. “Don’t make those sorts of jokes, Master. It’s Brutus,” he said pointing at my wolfhound. “He’s onto something. He’s following the scent of the wolf, I’m sure of it.”

“Brutus is a good sheepdog,” I called back. “Probably the best dog I’ve ever had. He’s certainly the bravest, but this is ridiculous. We started just before day-break and now the sun is almost at its zenith. We have been following this wolf for hours. It does not make sense that it would take our sheep and bring them this far up the mountain.”

“Look,” Meliton pointed. “Look at Brutus!”

“He certainly looks troubled,” I noted.

The dog had stopped at a point where the mountain track rounded an outcrop of black rock. The hackles of his grey coat were raised, making him look twice his normal size. His black lips were curled back and he bared his ivory teeth as a low growl rumbled from his throat. Meliton set a stone into his sling and I gripped my staff more tightly. Brutus slunk forward, his heavy shoulders rolling slowly as he advanced cautiously around the outcrop. Meliton followed, his sling whirring through the cold mountain air. I followed along the narrow, stony track, my staff twitching in anticipation of what we would see around the corner.

As we edged our way along the path it widened into a small, flat shelf of rock perched on the side of the mountain. In the centre of the shelf there was a single block of black granite. It was about seven feet in length, by four feet in width with a surface as smooth as a mill pond. To all intents and purposes, it looked like an altar. It was inclined slightly along its length and the upper surface shone as if covered by a veneer of some dark, lustrous material. Heavy chains looped here and there across and around the smooth surface of the rock. They glistened in the dull light of the cloudy sky.

Brutus edged forward aggressively, his growl rising in pitch as he moved towards something huddled at the base of the altar-like stone. It looked like a pile rags, and seemed to be the point from which the chain links originated. The growl in Brutus’ throat died away, he slunk up to the filthy rags and gave them a cautious sniff. The rags stirred, the chain clicked and Brutus leapt back, barking angrily. The rags jerked as if in surprise as Brutus’ barking echoed noisily around the crags of the mountain. It was a man, although he looked more like some feral beast than anything that might be described as human. He stared at Brutus with wild eyes, but his face showed no fear. Then his eyes flitted towards Meliton and myself. He studied us slowly, with keen eyes that were sunken within the sockets of his gaunt, bearded face. He uncurled from his slumbering position and sat up. The front of his shirt was torn into strips and heavily stained with old blood, although there seemed to be no wounds from which any blood could have flowed. He leant back against the smooth side of the altar block and continued to scrutinise us with interest. We remained transfixed to the spot. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, as though his throat pained him, like it might do if you screamed and screamed until your throat seared with agony.

“Why are you here?” he rasped at us.

I dipped my head respectfully at him, for although he looked like the rawest beggar, his countenance seemed to demand veneration. “We are hunting a wolf, My Lord. It has been taking our sheep.”

“It has not passed this way. Nothing has passed this way for eons. You are the first living beings, other than the eagle, that I have seen since I was placed here. What are your names?”

“I … I am … Kleitos, and this is my apprentice, Meliton,” I stammered.

“And you are shepherds.”

I nodded.

“Then I suggest you leave, before it is too late.”

I took a step forward. “Before it is too late for what, My Lord.”

“You do not wish to know.”

I walked towards him and dropped to my knees before him so I could study the gaunt features. They seemed out of place with the smooth, muscular torso and his obviously strong arms and legs. His eyes were dark brown and bright, but there was a resignation within their depths.

“Is there anything that we can do to help? Do you need food, water?”

He laughed at my comment. “I get all the food and refreshment I require. More than I need.” He pulled some of his rags aside to reveal a golden platter piled with the most glorious meats and fruits imaginable. Beside the platter was a small flagon of wine and a golden goblet. “Are you hungry?”

I nodded before I could stop myself. My mouth was watering at the sight of the food. I had never seen such appetising food in all my life.

“Help yourself.”

He tone was irresistible. It was as if he was able to control our actions and we both set to consuming the delicious victuals. I am no expert in the matters of wine, but if all wine is like that which we had that day, then I could live on it and nothing else – if I had the where-with-all, which unfortunately I do not. It ran down one’s throat like satin.

The man watched us eat, as though we amused him.

I flushed with embarrassment. “We eat your food and yet we do not even know the name of our generous host.”

He laughed lightly. “I am called Prometheus.”

Meliton leapt to his feet and away from the Titan in shock. I fell onto my back in my haste to get away from the god. If we were transfixed before we were now paralysed with fear. I lay where I had fallen unable to move. In my peripheral vision I could see Meliton shaking and bobbing his head and uttering little sounds of distress as if he were a simpleton.

Prometheus laughed at our reaction. “Finish eating and then leave,” he said softly.

His warm tones banished the fear that had gripped my heart. And, watching him cautiously, I resumed drinking and eating. Meliton came and squatted beside me and cautiously took some food.

“Thank you, My Lord,” he said, in an awestruck tone.

Avoiding looking directly at the god I asked, “Why are you in chains, My Lord? Surely, being a god, you can break free.”

Prometheus laughed at my ignorance. “I am bound here by Zeus. No man, mortal or immortal, can break the binds set by Zeus. Except maybe one; and he is not here.”

“May I ask another question, My Lord?”

“You may.”

“Why did Zeus bind you to this rock?”

“You query the will of the gods?” he stormed, although I sensed some amusement, behind his anger.

I dropped my head instantly. “No, My Lord. Please forgive my insolence.”

“Look at me,” he ordered.

I slowly raised my head, expecting to be struck down for my disrespect, but behind the beard he was smiling. His eyes sparkled with mirth.

“Do you wish to hear, my story?”

“Only if My Lord wishes to tell it,” I said quickly.

He looked up and scanned the sky momentarily. “I have time,” he declared. He settled into a more comfortable position against the rock and held his hand out for the goblet. I passed it to him, reverentially. He took a small sip, filled it and passed it back to me.

“You have heard of the Titanomachy?”

I nodded.

Meliton’s nod was less certain. “I have heard of it, but I am uncertain what it is,” he admitted.

Prometheus looked at him. “It is important you understand, because it is our history that sets the path of our destiny.”

3

“The Titanomachy,” Prometheus said, “was the great war between the Titans, the old gods, and the Olympians, the gods who now rule. It lasted for ten terrible years. The ruler and commander of the Titans was Cronus. The Olympians were commanded by Zeus, the youngest son of Cronus.

“Before Cronus came to rule the Titans, the gods were ruled by his father Uranus. But Uranus was a tyrant and Cronus deposed him. The years that followed were known as the Golden Age. It was a time when there was no need for laws or rules. Everyone did what was right. They lived lives of respect for others and of humility. Immorality and jealously did not exist.

“But then Cronus learnt, from a seer, that he would be deposed by his sons in the same manner in which he had usurped rule from his own father. He became corrupted by the fear of losing control and the world was plunged into darkness. He devoured his new-born sons so that they could not rise up against him. But Rhea, his wife, hid their youngest son, Zeus and, when he came of age, Zeus rose up against his father, and so began the Titanomachy.

“Disgusted by the tyranny of Cronus, I sided with my cousin, Zeus and after ten terrible years, Zeus and his Olympians were victorious.” Prometheus paused and looked at Meliton. “You have a question?”

Meliton nodded. “You fought for Zeus, and yet he still bound you to this rock? I do not understand.”

“You will in due course,” Prometheus responded grimly. “Immediately after his victory Zeus was virtuous and benevolent. But, as with all powerful men, he started to demand recognition from those over whom he ruled. The focus of his arrogance was not on the gods, but on the mortals. He started to demand sacrifices. Initially, he demanded only small, insubstantial offerings, but as his arrogance grew he demanded more and more by way of offerings. Eventually the priests requested a meeting with the gods to settle on some agreement as to what would fulfil the requirements of Zeus, and which would also be acceptable to the mortals. The meeting took place in the city of Mecone.” Prometheus paused, and looked, again at Meliton. “You have heard about this?”

Meliton nodded. “I have, My Lord.”

“Then tell me what you know.”

Meliton gulped, he hoped he would get the story correct. “I believe, My Lord, it goes something like this. Zeus and his entourage, including yourself, My Lord, met the priests at Mecone, the city we now call Sicyon. There was much heated debate. It is said that Zeus took the opportunity to try and increase the size and value of the sacrifices he wished to be made to him. The priests, of course, tried to make him see reason, but it was clear that they were unlikely to win the argument. And then you, My Lord, intervened, although I do not understand why a god would take the side of mere mortals.”

“I did so,” Prometheus said, “because I could see Zeus going the same way as his father Cronus. Power had gone to his head and there was the danger of him turning into a tyrant, as his father had.”

Meliton bowed his head at the god. “We are indebted to you, My Lord.”

“Carry on with the story,” Prometheus commanded.

“During the debate, you asked for an ox to be brought into the room. You stipulated it had to be the largest beast available and the most magnificent in terms of power and horns. Such a beast was found and brought to you. You then told everyone, including Zeus and his entourage, to leave the room. After a while you requested everyone return to the room and they saw that you had slaughtered the ox and made two piles of its remains. One pile seemed to consist of the stomach and intestines. The other, larger pile was covered in a layer of glistening fat. It is said that Zeus’ gaze fell immediately on the larger pile. Once everyone was back in their place, with Zeus back on his throne, you stood before him, saying, ‘My Lord. I have slaughtered the beast and from it I have made two sacrifices to you. I wish you to decide which offering you are to accept.’

“Zeus immediately went to choose the larger, more appealing looking pile, but you held up your hand to forestall him, saying ‘Think carefully, My Lord, because the offering you accept will be the one you will receive henceforth, forever.’

“Zeus laughed and said, ‘Then, my friend, Prometheus, you have made my choice even easier. I choose that offering,’ and he pointed to the larger pile.”

“So be it, I said,” Prometheus gleefully interrupted Meliton. “And I strode over to the larger pile and grabbing the edge of the fat I pulled it aside to reveal that the fat was nothing more than the inner of the hide and when it fell away it exposed a pile of bones and offal.”

He looked jubilantly at the two shepherds. “Zeus was astonished. ‘Where’s all the flesh and the heart?’ he demanded, anger starting to redden his face. I walked over to the smaller pile and slit the stomach lining with a knife. All the best cuts of meat tumbled from it. The priests clapped, roared and laughed with delight.”

“It is said that Zeus was angry at being tricked, thus,” Meliton ventured.

“Angry?” Prometheus laughed, “He was beside himself. He hurled bolts of lightning about in a fury, causing considerable damage to the city and killing those priests who had laughed the loudest. I was lucky that he did not bind me to this rock then, but he decided to take it out on you mortals instead. His punishment was to take fire from you and hide it.

“That night I wandered amongst you mortals and saw the consequences of Zeus’ action. People were tearing at hunks of raw meat and eating hard, uncooked vegetables, but the main problem was the cold. It was winter and a cold wind was whistling down Mount Olympus. People were dying of cold. Guilt drove her stake through my heart. This was my fault. Because I had made a fool of Zeus, you mortals were suffering and dying. I had seen where Zeus had hidden the fire, so I decided to sneak into his chambers and steal it back for humanity. I took the flower-head of a giant fennel plant with me and placed the flames amongst the yellow blossoms. It was easy, Zeus was still consumed by anger at being tricked and was stomping about his palace in a fury, not taking any notice of what was going on around him. I returned the fire to the mortals, but Zeus, of course, found out that it was I who had returned it. He was incandescent, and so here I am, chained to this rock for eternity,” Prometheus finished resignedly. He looked up at the sky. “You must go,” he ordered, suddenly. “Now! Go!”

His voice carried so much authority that we had no choice. We scuttled, like startled deer back, around the outcrop of rock, without a second glance back. Brutus was hot on our heels. But once behind the shelter of the rock, I paused. Something was wrong. Why was he suddenly so adamant that we leave? Something was about to happen – something that was probably outside the imagination of any mortal. I had to see what it was.

“I’m going back,” I told Meliton. And, give him his due, although fear showed in his eyes, he did not hesitate to turn back with me. We stole back up the mountain track, and hiding behind the outcrop we watched. My heart was beating as it had never done before.

4

I heard the rattle of chains and then saw the chains slithering across the altar stone. It was as if some invisible spirits were drawing them tight. Prometheus was hauled over the altar by the insistent tug of the chains. He did not appear to resist, but simply allowed himself to be positioned across the altar as if in resignation of his fate. When the chains stopped their rattling, Prometheus was stretched, spread-eagle across the smooth surface of the stone. A troubled silence fell over the mountain, even the cold wind died down. Everything seemed to be waiting in mute expectation. I could feel the cold, silent, leaden clouds weighing down on the world as though squeezing life from the very air itself. Then I vaguely became aware of a shift in the atmosphere, as though some monstrous presence was approaching. I scanned the skies, but all I saw was an eagle soaring in the grey heavens. As there was nothing else to attract my attention I watched as it soared majestically across the leaden skies. It soon became apparent that it was flying in our direction.

At it drew nearer I was struck with awe – it was immense. Were it not for the golden feathers I would have mistaken it for a dragon. It landed lightly beside the prone Prometheus, standing some six feet tall. My sense of awe turned to exaltation. Prometheus was saved. One of the gods must have sent this immense bird to tear up the chains and release the Titan. The eagle placed one of its huge, clawed feet on Prometheus’ legs and its monstrous talons curled around his thighs and then to my horror it dropped its yellow beak and tore at Prometheus’ abdomen. A scream of agony rent the air. It was the most horrific sound I had ever heard in my life. In a fury, I leapt forward from behind the rock and ran at the eagle, my staff raised, ready to …”

“You thought you could defeat a six-foot tall eagle with a shepherd’s staff?” Isokrates asked, his voice dripping with incredulity.

Kleitos looked at the man. “It was all I had to hand.”

“You could have run away.”

“I wish he had,” Meliton interjected.

“The thought did not cross my mind,” Kleitos said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Here was someone who had fought for humanity and as a result he found himself chained to a rock and being consumed by an eagle of godly proportions. I just thought I needed to go to his aid.”

“And you survived?” asked Isokrates, doubtfully.

“Not quite, but I shall leave that part of the tale to Meliton, as my recollection of what happened next is somewhat vague.” He looked at his fellow shepherd.

5

I nearly evacuated my bowels when I saw my master rushing towards the beast. But I had no choice but to follow. Loading my sling, I dashed after him. Brutus was at his master’s heels, barking furiously.

The noise drew the eagle’s attention and with a shrill, spine-chilling keen of anger and a single massive beat of its wings, it lifted itself over the altar and landed in front of my master.

Behind the bird I had the vague sense of Prometheus shouting furiously for us to get away and not to interfere.

The bird lowered its vicious beak at my master and he struck it with a well-aimed blow to the head. The bird reared up in anger and thrust a clawed foot at him. My master beat at its reptilian leg as the talons curled around his body. My stones flew at its head, but seemed to have no more effect than a snow flake would have when landing on the back of an ox. The bird lowered its gaping maw at my master. It seemed nothing could stop it from ripping my master asunder, but Brutus sunk his teeth into the back of the bird’s massive, yellow leg. The bird shrilled in pain and turned on the dog, releasing my master.

He lay there, lifeless. I rushed forward, and grasping his wrists pulled his bloody body down the track, and to safety beyond the rocky outcrop. I dashed back to call Brutus off the bird, but I was too late. The brave animal lay ripped apart on the cold rocky ground. The eagle had turned back to Prometheus and I, in a fury over the killing of Brutus, hurled stone after stone at it. But it took no notice of my attack as it ripped the guts from Prometheus and devoured his liver. Then with a scream of victory it lifted itself from the altar stone, the beat of its wings almost knocking me from my feet. I stood, breathless and awestruck, watching the gigantic bird fly back from where it had come. A groan from the altar drew me from my reverie. I walked cautiously over to the altar stone.

Prometheus lay there, his abdomen was torn open. Blood seeped from the horrific wound, but he turned his head to me as I approached. Even in the increasing gloom, I could see the agony etched on his features.

“You’re alive?” I gasped, unable to tear my eyes from the gaping, bloody mess that was all that was left of his stomach.

“I’m immortal,” he said acerbically. “Where is that foolish friend of yours?”

“I dragged him to safety?”

“Is he alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“Go and check. If he’s still alive, bring him to me.”

I turned and scrambled across the rough ground and around the outcrop. I dropped to my knees beside my master, his clothes were in ruins and blood seeped from deep gashes where the eagle’s talons had sliced his flesh. I lowered my ear to his mouth. His breath was so shallow it was difficult to hear, but he was breathing. I cradled him and lifted him. He moaned. I carried him back to the altar stone. I noted the chains had loosened and Prometheus was able to move his limbs freely. He shifted cautiously to one side of the altar top.

“Place him beside me.”

I did as I was commanded and Prometheus rested an arm across my master’s body.

“Has the food arrived?”

I looked into the deepening shadows at the base of the rock.

“It has,” I nodded.

“Then eat what you need and sleep.”

I crouched down beside the cold altar and tried to eat some food and drink a little wine but found I had no appetite. I curled into a tight ball, against the increasing cold and watched the grey skies darken to night. I fell into a fitful sleep, which was interrupted by nightmarish images and the bitter cold. Eventually, I crawled across the icy rocks and collected the body of Brutus. I dragged it back to the shelter of the altar and hugged the animal to me like a blanket. It was the longest night of my life, but I dared not look at the top of the altar – some sense told me to do so would send me out of my mind.

6

I did fall asleep and when I stirred the next morning, stiff from the cold and the hardness of my bed, I became aware of someone sitting beside me. I started awake. It was Prometheus.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked.

I did not answer. Instead my eyes ran rudely over his body as he sat there casually eating breakfast. There was not a mark on his body.

“Did I dream it? Did I dream about the eagle and …,” my voice came to a croaking halt.

“No.”

“Then how are you alive, and sitting beside me? There is no wound. It is as if it never happened.”

“Oh, it happened alright and will again this evening and again tomorrow and for the rest of my immortal life.”

I stared at him in horror. “But how …?”

He looked at me ruefully, as a man resigned to his fate. “That is the brilliance of Zeus’ punishment. I am immortal. Each evening the eagle comes and rips me open and devours my liver. The following night I heal, only to have the eagle visit the following day and repeat the process.”

“That’s grotesque!”

Prometheus laughed. “It’s genius.”

“My Master! He’s not immortal!” I stood up and looked onto the altar top. My master lay there. The wounds had healed to ugly scars and he was still as a corpse. “Is he … dead?”

“No, he’s sleeping. He’s been through quite an ordeal. As have you. I thank you for your bravery, even though it was misplaced. There is nothing you could do to help. This is my fate, from now until eternity.”

I was not really listening. For my master had stirred. I leant over him and called his name. His eyes flashed open. He sat up quickly, but moaned in discomfort.

“Ah, Master Kleitos, you have woken,” Prometheus observed.

My master looked around anxiously.

“The eagle has gone,” I assured him.

“I’m starving,” he announced.

“Come, join me for some breakfast,” said Prometheus.

My master heaved himself from the altar and sat down beside the Titan. They ate heartily and in comradely silence.

“So, My Lord,” my master broke the silence, “there is nothing we can do to help you?”

“No,” Prometheus responded shortly. “But I thank you for attempting to.”

My master laughed. “It was a rather pathetic attempt.”

“But brave beyond any measure. Here let me see your wounds.”

My master removed the tattered remnants of his cloths and Prometheus examined him. He frowned. “That is the best I could do,” he said. “I am sorry about the scars you’ll be left with.”

My master smiled. “I shall bear them with honour, My Lord.”

“Good. I have a gift for you, for both of you. I cannot make you immortal. But I would not wish that on anyone, anyway. However, I will gift you both a very long and very healthy life. Now go my friends. I do not want to become too attached to you, because it will make my loneliness all the worse once you have gone.”

We stood up and bowed at the god. As we turned to go a thought came to me.

“My Lord?”

He looked up at me, a smile cut across his face. “Hercules,” he said before I could ask my question. “The only one who may be able to break my chains is Hercules.”

I bowed at him once more. “Then, My Lord, I shall find him and bring him to you.”

“I would appreciate that very much,” he grinned at me.

We turned and left.

7

Their audience stared at them in stunned silence.

Then Isokrates guffawed loudly. The moment was broken and the men around the table burst into laughter. Isokrates slapped the table gleefully.

“That is the best tale I have heard in my life, Kleitos.” He turned and shouted across the room, “Barman, bring Kleitos and Meliton a tumbler of your very best mead.” He looked back at the old shepherd. “Kleitos, I never knew you could tell such tales. You had me on the edge of my seat.” He laughed merrily, running his eyes joyfully around the table of chuckling men. The serious look he got when his gaze returned to Kleitos caused his merriment to falter. He looked from Kleitos to Meliton. Their grave expressions did not alter.

“Come, Kleitos, you’re not going to tell me that your story is true? … Are you?”

“I am.”

Kleitos started to rise slowly, Meliton assisted him up.

“Remove my shirt,” he said to Meliton.

Meliton lifted the old, worn shirt above the old man’s head. The others all leaned forward. Gasps rose from their lips as they saw the ragged lines of red scars running around his torso. Isokrates ran a finger along one of the welts.

“By all the gods,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s true.” He looked the old man in the eye. “Why have you never told us about this before?”

The old man shrugged as he put his shirt back on. “I suppose, because I am not a boastful man,” he said with a glint in his eye.

His friends burst out laughing and slapped Isokrates on the back. He grinned sheepishly. Then a thought struck him. He held his hand up for silence and looked Meliton in the eye.

“So, did you seek and find Hercules, as you promised?”

Meliton went to speak, but Kleitos placed a hand gently on his arm.

“That, my friend” Kleitos said, wryly, giving Isokrates a wink, “is another story, for another time.”