Kyrillos knelt beside his father in the dark room. Gathered behind them were his brother Glaukos, his mother Doris, his sister Charmion, and the numerous manservants and womanservants of the household. The only illumination in the room came from the holy flame encased by the hearth, which cracked and cackled as all maintained a reverential silence.

Kyrillos, Apollonides’ son, passed the sacred vessel to his father. It was a golden, gem-studded goblet, filled with the finest wine that had been grown on his family’s orchard. Apollonides, his shoulders covered with a purple mantle, in a slow, reverential motion, held forth the goblet with both his hands. He then uttered prayers in a low voice—prayers to which Kyrillos, matching his father’s tone, pronounced in exact repetition.

They implored the holy ancestors of the hearth to aid their household, and petitioned them to receive their offerings, as proof of their descendants’ love. Once these secret words were uttered—words that always awed Kyrillos, no matter how many times he or his father said them—his father cast the wine into the flame. It arose in response, consuming the drink with twisted tongues of orange-red light.

Apollonides then passed the goblet into the hands of Kyrillos, who placed it upon the decorative cloth beside him, where the offerings were kept. Next to the now empty goblet was a libation bowl. Upon it was a fine cake, richly stuffed with milk, made by the attentive hands of Doris and Charmion. With a careful, dignified gesture, Kyrillos took the bowl into his hands and passed it into the hands of his father.

His father raised his hands, this time cradling the bowl that held the precious cake. Then he cast the cake into the fire. Once more it arose; it flickered a little higher this time, almost licking the hearthstone above it. The offerings had been accepted by the gods.

Apollonides began to sing a hymn, one which detailed the heroic deeds of one of the gods the flame embodied: his name was Kyrillos. He had come to this land, the fair island of Crete, as a brother-in-arms of Dorieus, leader of men. And Kyrillos, son of Apollonides, raised his voice, and sung his glory in union with his father.

Kyrillos, companion of Dorieus, leader of men, had set sail
From the sacred city of Troy, reduced to ruins by the Achaians,
With whom Dorieus and Kryillos fought.

Many among them had fallen in battle during that terrible siege,
King Agamemnon, son of Atreus, honored them that fell and them that stood;
He offered sacrifices of the finest bulls, and gave the dead burial,
And to the living, he awarded glittering treasures,
Gifts from the vaults of Troy’s citadel.

But all this could not repair the losses of the Achaians,
For nothing can purchase back a comrade.

Dorieus and Kyrillos gave him thanks, and sailed home with their men,
Placing their hope that they could see again the hearths of their fathers,
That they could abide in the shade of their peace to the end of their days.

How this hope was betrayed by the feckless Achaian kings!
After Agamemnon was pitifully slain, they grew proud:
As father follows son, so treachery follows treachery.

Blocking them from every harbor, the black ships of Dorieus, leader of men,
Were met by the Achaians’ black ships, who gave them command to depart.

What was to become of the men of Dorieus?
Were they to live in their hollow ships, exiles of the Ocean,
Deprived of the delight of seeing their home shores once more,
Never offer libation to their hearths, never to embrace their wives and children?

Dorieus did not wish to shed the blood of his fellow Achaians,
And his men shared in this desire, for they too were Achaian.

One day the leader of an Achaian navy,
A young ingrate, called to Dorieus,
And told him: “Depart from our shores, exiles:
Your hearths are ours, your wives and children
We have enslaved. Surely, it would have been better
for you to have died upon the shores of Ilion.”

These insolent words angered Dorieus, leader of men,
Who responded in turn:
“This is the thanks that you boys give?
We will repay it accordingly.”

Immediately Dorieus shouted for battle;
They overcame the Achaians swiftly,
For now they wished to shed their blood in abundance,
So they became the younger Dorians, bravest of men.

They raided the cities and took back their wives, children, and gods,
And repaid the Achaian youths by taking many of theirs in return.

Kyrillos, fearless warrior, fought beside Dorieus,
Sacking the cities, though the Dorians could not hold them.
It was not fated for them to win this homecoming—
With hard hearts the Dorians fled over the wide face of the Ocean.

Dorieus took his black ships to fair Crete, where king warred against king.
It had been a prosperous island, but now it was being laid waste by strife;
Dorieus, leader of men, waged war against these kings.
Kyrillos came to his aid, for he was faithful.

He turned many a battle in the Dorians’ favor,
For he wielded the sword and spear with power,
And driving his chariot, sent many down to Hades.

Soon the kings bowed before the Dorians,
Allotting them lands and treasures.

Dorieus sacrificed the finest bulls of the island,
And their scent rose before the gods, who accepted the conquest.
He buried his comrades and gave them rites.

Dorieus stepped before his palace, ornamented with mosaics,
Stocked with gold, and dug a hole beside it.
He threw in soil from his beloved homeland,
It bore his gods and landed into the hole;
He covered it, hallowing the place.

Kyrillos, fearless warrior, was given land by Dorieus,
For he was a lord who knew how to give thanks.

Kyrillos consecrated this land, and enthroned the gods here.
He was a righteous man.

When they finished the hymn, Apollonides took up his purple mantle, and Kyrillos followed him out of the room in silence. The whole family followed him as his father led them to the vast hall, supported by pillars of marble. The servants brought forth a polished table and fine benches, and then food and drink in abundance.

Maidservants came forth, carrying the various goods. Kyrillos and his family stood apart. There was one, a fair-haired girl named Agathe. She seemed to him like one of the Graces. Her face was lovely, her eyes were a piercing blue, and her arms were as white as ivory. He hid his quiet affection from her, for it was a source of worry to him to be attracted to his father’s servant.

Though Kyrillos knew his father to be gentle, he well understood how any appearance of violating the faith of the hearth could anger him. He feared that his father would not distinguish between the act of marrying a maidservant that is kindled by desire, and the desire itself; that he would be unable to see how his son did not truly desire these feelings for this girl.

Even if his father saw this pain of his heart and consoled him, Kyrillos thought that even in that event the outcome would be hard, though not for himself: his father would dismiss, and thus disown, Agathe. She would be an outcast from his family and his gods. And he did not desire such a fate for her. The outcast, as his father told him, is accursed by gods and by man, and thus is worse than even the most miserable servant.

Who would protect her in such dire straits? The other outcasts within the city, those impious wretches? He pleaded within himself to immortal Hera that poor Agathe would never come to that…

Agathe, unaware of Kyrillos and the troubles within his heart, poured water from a pitcher into the golden goblets that were set on the polished wood. Another maid arrived, carrying forth bread and grapes upon dishes of silver; accompanying her, two maidservants held platters of lamb and pork, and placed these upon the table.

Seeing that all was prepared for supper, Apollonides motioned for his wife and children to sit, and they did so. Another maidservant carried water and an empty bowl for washing to the table. Methodically, she went from one family member to the next, and poured it upon their hands. They cleansed themselves, and then enjoyed the good things laid before them.

During the meal, Kyrillos noticed a grave, yet peaceable look on his father’s face.

“I see worry in you, my boy.”

“Yes, father,” Kyrillos answered in a somewhat nervous voice. He glanced at his father, and then his eyes darted to the faces of his mother and siblings. All eyes were cast upon him with concern.

As he detested the impious act of lying, he resolved not to lie—and to preserve his secret. For if he was embarrassed at the prospect of revealing to his father alone, alas, how would his mother react! And his brother and sister! How would they look upon him then? The heir to the hymns, enamored with a servant-girl!

His swift thoughts carried him away from that sorry subject. Another matter that had troubled him came to mind, one that he could reveal with much less worry.

“There was…a man with whom I had spoken. Some days ago, when I was riding my horse in the fields, I came to a road, and there I found a young man, a man around my age. He walked upon his mere feet.

“I was curious about this fellow. And so I called to him: ‘Stranger, what is your name? What country do you hail from?’ He responded: ‘I am called Diodorus. I hail from Halicarnassus, student of her sage.’ Then he asked me: ‘What is your name? Are these your native lands?’

“I gave him my name, and told him that, indeed, these lands are my home. This Diodorus then proceeded to tell me his doctrine. He—”. Kyrillos stammered. “May I proceed, father? This man spoke impiously and rashly of the gods.”

Nodding his head in an upward motion, his father gave his permission. Kyrillos noticed that all eyes were fixed on him, intently. He calmed himself, and continued his tale, immersing himself in the words, concentrating upon them as though they were parts of a hymn.

“This stranger told me: ‘A flame arises: it scatters and it gathers; it advances and retires. One flame, one hearth for all men; one that shall scatter, and then gather them within its warmth.’” With considerable reluctance, the boy continued. “‘Neither Olympians nor ancestors shall prevent it from igniting.’”

He could see a scowl developing upon his father’s face, and the befuddlement written upon the faces of his mother and siblings.

“And that is what he told me that troubles me. I did not know what to tell this impious Diodorus—so I withdrew, and rode back home.”

There was a palpable silence for several moments, until the voice of his father rose in anger.

“How men foolishly speak of the immortals. Some gift of God this Diodorus is! Fool! Wanderers spouting such nonsense ought to be found out and expelled!”

After invoking the wrath of the gods upon Diodorus, he ended his condemnation and laid his eyes upon his son approvingly.

“You did well to turn away from him, my son. Those who love the gods arose the ire of those who are not favored by them. Do not allow the strange words of this would-be oracle worry you. Let us finish our meal, and come with me to the city. We have matters there to attend to.”

“Yes, father.”

Suddenly, a herald came to the table.

“Sire,” the old man said, “there has been a tumult in the city. A tyrant has arisen who goes by the name of Antipater. He has organized bands of warriors, who are going about ransacking the houses of the lords. Soon they will arrive here.”

“Who has told you this?” Apollonides asked in disbelief. “What of the soldiers?”

The herald gave him a grim look. “Those who did not defect were slain by the mob. A weary messenger from the city has told me these things.”

“Bring him to me.”

The herald gave a nod, and brought in the messenger, a disheveled boyish-looking man. After dismissing his family from the meal, Apollonides arose and made inquiry of him, with his son at his side. They spoke for some time, and Apollonides found him to be true.

When the questioning ended, the father cried out commands with a roar, which echoed throughout the halls of the mansion.

“Servants, bring my arms! Arm yourselves!”

…

After the men were fitted with plates of bronze and armed themselves with swords and spears, Apollonides, their chief, selected a few to lead the women and the boys to the family’s harbor. From there, they would set sail across the sea to Sparta, for all the lords of the city counted that nation their ally. Grey eyes piercing through his shaded face, hid by his gleaming helmet, the father instructed his son that he was to leave with this party.

Upon hearing this, Kyrillos felt his face twist in agony.

“Father, why do you ask this of me?” He began to sob, but continued his plea before he could choke on his words. “Shall I not fight at your side?”

“Son,” Apollonides said gently, himself suppressing tears, “you are the only one of our blood who can continue the sacrifices and offer prayer. Thus you must lead our kin, even into the sorrow of exile.”

His father then reached into his pouch, and withdrew a small sack from it. Kyrillos took it into his hands, quivering.

“Here is soil of our land, made holy by the presence of our ancestors. Plant in your new home—our home.”

“Why do you stand here, then, father? Why do you not come with us?”

“I must defend what belongs to us by right,” he declared. “The gods shall be dismayed forever with our line if none here take a stand in their name.”

“What of your—” Kyrillos paused, struggling to say what had to come next. “—burial, father?”

“The gods will see to it that one with honor shall come, and grant it to me. Go now, son, and delay no longer.”

Kyrillos nodded. His father embraced him, and then proceeded to embrace his mother and siblings.

The young man then led his family and his servants to the ship under the mantle of the night, which reflected its blackness upon the waters. He gave orders to the men, who loaded supplies upon the vessel and hoisted the sails. A wind soon took them out into the ocean.

Looking out from that lonely ship, Kyrillos could see his home seated upon its hill. He recognized, in sorrow, those past times when he had often sat upon that hill and gazed out into the seemingly eternal stretch of ocean. Now he was in the vastness of that ocean; and now the palace, so familiar to him, erupted in flames.

Tears welled in his eyes once more. He looked to his sides, and saw that all the rest were transfixed alike by that terrible sight. Kyrillos began to sing a hymn to allay the fears of their hearts, and the fears of his own.

He sung of the elder Kyrillos once more. The words came almost instinctively—that is, until he reached some peculiar verses. They spoke of a sage who lived by Mount Ida, who told the hero:

A man shall come, one greater than man;
An immortal who shall surpass the immortals.
A divine fire that shall scatter, and gather all to himself within his own hearth;
A forge within which the strife of the iron race shall be burnt up:
The peace of the golden race shall arise in its place.

Kyrillos, the son of Apollonides, could not continue the hymn after pronouncing these words, and wept bitterly.