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I knew what his face, his whole bearing expressed as he sat there at the head of the table. He exuded satisfaction, and pride, the smug complacency of a man who has just become a father. I was his baby. Helena’s eyes were on me, filled with tender concern.
    ‘Take no notice of my husband, Mr White, his sense of humour is very wicked.’
    I looked quickly away from her. The musicians advanced, and took up a position near the fire. The light glanced on their instruments and sent little flashes flying with the sparks into the sky. A hand fell on my shoulder, and a blast of fetid breath whistled past my ear. Erik stood unsteadily above me, peering down with one eye comically closed.
    ‘So you woke up,’ I said.
    ‘Agh.’
    ‘Why don’t you go to sleep again.’
    He winked. That left both eyes closed. The sudden cessation of the lamplight baffled him. Then he opened his eyes again. I could almost hear the lids creak as they lifted. A sly hand went into the pocket of his jacket, a sly tongue-tip slipped into the corner of his mouth, and he drew out a flat leather flask. I had seen it somewhere before. I took a sip of the brandy. As it exploded in some tender recess of my gut I discovered that ouzo had been added to it since Andreas (that was it) had given me the healing cup. I put the flask into Erik’s hands, and tried to push him away from me. He swayed a little, but stayed onhis feet. Julian watched us with interest.
    ‘And do you know why they are in the Bouboulinas?’ Erik asked, as though there had been no lapse between his last remark and this one.
    ‘Oh go away Erik, you’re drunk.’
    He made a short speech in German, and awaited my reply.
    ‘Erik, will you go back to sleep.’
    His knees gave way, and he sat down abruptly in the dust beside me, one arm draped amicably across my knees. He belched thoughtfully.
    ‘Because some one person got drunk, and told a very secret thing to the Colonel,’ he said, and then put his face into his hands and began to weep. Helena peered at him over the edge of the table.
    ‘Is your friend unwell?’
    ‘He’s all right.’
    I took the flask away from him, and emptied a mouthful of the scalding stuff down my throat. I wanted to be drunk. I was drinking the right poison. Erik’s shoulder shook with sobs. I kicked him, not very hard. He rolled over on his side and went to sleep. Two young men of the village had begun to dance. With their arms outstretched they circled the fire, while the musicians played a mournful melody. The shirts of the dancers were open on their chests, and their feet were bare.
    ‘The anastenarides,’ Helena whispered.
    ‘It’s what the world needs,’ I said wildly.
    Her knee was against mine again.
    ‘Pardon?’ Julian asked, leaning forward with a hand cupped around his ear.
    ‘Ritual and magic,’ I cried, trying not to laugh, for I was sure that somewhere something hilarious was happening. ‘Ritual, rhetoric and magic, the foundations of the ancient world. The Senecan sweet, do you see, a pagan St Sebastian with a soft centre.’
    I looked at Julian. His eyes, bright red in the firelight, rested mischievously upon me.
    ‘Magic?’ he murmured.
    ‘Magic? Magic is the language of the devil, and very usefulto know.’
    Erik, on the ground, woke up for long enough to raise a fist and cry,
    ‘Der Teufel, ach, was könnten Sie über der —’
    The music ceased. There was silence. Into the black sky the echoes faded, tinkling like small steel springs uncoiling. Silence. My drunken brain stopped reeling for an instant, and I saw enormous cylinders of polished glass gliding in utter silence through the depths of space. Then, from somewhere close at hand, I heard small sounds, the scuffling of feet in dry dust, and a gasp, another, of laboured breath and, last of all, a grunt. The one-armed cripple from the taverna came limping into the firelight, leading on a piece of string a — what was it? — what? … a little lamb. They halted near the