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festival of Carnaiea had begun. Once a year, under a certain moon, the mares all come into season. It may be that there are magical ceremonies which bring this about, of course - I would not dare enquire into such mysteries. One of the things which precedes it is a boar hunt, for at this time the centaur men have connection with the centaur women, after a feast of boar flesh.
    Previously we had been excluded from this hunt and Jason had chafed, wondering if it was because we were human children, not of the race of the small horsemen. 'Can we hunt with you for Carnaiea, Master?' he asked.
    The dark eyes surveyed us. We were naked, as he was, and Cheiron handled us as though we were horses. A hard hand ran down to my loins, cupped my genitals, tested my pubic hair and the hair under my arms, tugging. Then a thumb ran across my chin where down was sprouting. He grunted, then treated Jason alike. Then he nodded toward the boar spears, and ran to get one each.
    'At last!' said Jason with satisfaction, choosing the longest spear and feeling the edge. I nodded, taking a shorter but thicker spear, and tried not to remember the terrible strength of the boar, the filthy tusks dripping with poisonous saliva, and the death of the centaur boy the year before - exactly a year. They had brought him into the camp, limp and dying, and as they laid him down beside Cheiron's house his guts had spilled onto the earth, a flash of curving blue and red intestines, uncoiling, and he had so died. I hoped I could die silently, as he had. I did not think it likely.
    The centaurs did not approve of idle speech, considering it a valuable commodity to be used sparingly and for effect, so that every word was treasured and remembered. Jason and I, said our master, talked far too much, wasting precious words.
    'A man has a measure of words, as he has a measure of semen,' Cheiron said. 'More will not be made if he has wasted his substance. Keep silent, humans, on this hunt at least. The boar can hear a hunter's footfall across the mountain forest. He can smell us from a hundred paces. No words, young men.'
    We nodded, overwhelmed by the honour of graduating from children to young men. There would be no manhood ritual for us. The eldest priest cut the foreskins of the centaur boys, wounding their breasts with a bronze pin dipped in soot and rolling them in the skin of the sacrifice; the only horse ever killed by the horse-people.
    We would not mate as our first gift of seed with a young mare in her first season. She who receives all of the brotherhood into her body, symbolising their kinship with the goddess of horses, whom we Achaeans do not know. Then the queen-mare is garlanded with flowers and led to the sacrifice, and all of her lovers eat of her flesh and drink of her blood, and thereafter are centaurs.
    Jason and I were fosterlings, not centaurs. The boys our age had gone from us, joined the clan of men, and we were left with the children, unable to join our friends, cut off from the ones we had known. We had been feeling lonely, but now, it seemed, we were to be admitted to the life of the tribe, to be young men.
    Jason and I had lain together since we were children. When we grew newly sensitive flesh, we had touched and caressed, fascinated with the gush of seed, the strange scent, the jolt of pleasure. Cheiron had caught us, beaten us and forbidden us to lie under the same covering, saying that we would waste our strength.
    I did not believe it. It might have been so for the centaurs, but not for a human. The earth soaked up my seed every night in silence, and I muttered the only prayer I remembered from my mother's teaching. It was a prayer to Aphrodite, goddess of love, and my mother had told me to say it to my lover, the first woman I lay with:
    Lady of Cyprus, delight your supplicant.
    Lady of Doves, receive my offering.
    Foam born, teach me thy mystery.
    Â 
    I began not to burn, as the stories of lovers told grudgingly by Cheiron described - he