Nightsong Page 2

  “Some repast for this baby, if you please,” said Orpheus. “And directions, if you would be so kind,” added the poet with a smile, “to the court of the king.”

  “I shall call this child Melia,” said Orpheus later that day as the two travelers continued into the woods. Ash tree. “Because of the branches that offered her welcome – and so that Diana might always protect her.”

  The baby was swaddled in new, fine-spun wool, a gift from the farmer’s wife, and sucked on a teat of goat’s milk and honey, fashioned out of linen by Biton.

  “Or you could, if you chose, master,” suggested Biton thoughtfully, “name her after an ox – or, perhaps even a bison.”

  Orpheus chuckled. “No little girl would be pleased with such a name, I think, dear Biton.”

  The poet was of good cheer, now that he was on a well-cleared path again, the day becoming warm with the brilliant sunlight.

  But he was troubled, at the same time, by what he saw around him. While some farms were rich, populated by plump ducks and fat hens, many farmsteads were bleak, and several of the field folk they passed were hollow-eyed, stooping to free their wooden pitchforks from the thick and clinging mud.

  Orpheus wondered if the impoverished men and women he passed might be relations of the infant Melia, brokenhearted at having to surrender the infant to her fate – but thankful, too, that the gods had found a capable-looking guardian.

  “Are we to travel the world with this mild-hearted Melia?” Biton was inquiring. The prince’s assistant was a welcoming youth, of ample cheer, but he was sometimes jealous of his master’s attentions.

  Orpheus gave a laugh. He was about to reassure the lad that soon they would no doubt find a loving home for the infant girl.

  But a sweet sound stopped him in his tracks.

  Biton crept ahead, peering down the path.

  The music of a stream rose upward through the grove, accompanied by the sound of women singing.

  “Master, I hear a most pleasant chorus,” Biton said at last.

  “I hear them, too,” Orpheus answered, rocking the drowsing infant in his arms. “Go on, Biton, and see who they might be.”

  “They could be wood nymphs,” responded Biton. “Naked and dancing, and they might blind the eyes in my head for looking.”

  Such things did happen, it was said – dryads and goddesses were careful defenders of their modesty.

  But there could be no doubt. Female voices somewhere not far off sang the hymn of Juno, praising the wisdom of women over the many follies of their husbands. Surely, thought Orpheus, they were mortal women, not wood spirits. And they had astonishingly lovely voices – one of them in particular.

  “But if you insist, master,” Biton was saying, “I shall investigate.”

  “Women – mortal human ladies! They are bathing in a stream,” said Biton excitedly on his return. “Handsome women, too, Prince Orpheus – if I may say so. And one of them has the most beautiful voice of all.”

  But the singing had stopped.

  Footsteps whispered through the undergrowth, and a man with a lance stood before the two travelers, leveling his weapon at Biton’s master.

  FOUR

  The young stranger wore a brightly polished bronze chest plate, and well-cured leather. The broad point of his spear was bright, and the pommel of the sword at his hip was the finest gold.

  Orpheus spoke the proper greeting, introducing himself formally – including the names of his illustrious parents, and his recent ports of call, Lesbos and the sea kingdoms of the Bosporus.

  It was important for a wayfarer to share such information – out of courtesy, and to help prove that a traveler was neither a fugitive from some lawful power, nor a ghost. Escapees from the underworld were thought to be angry and vindictive, and not given to civil conversation.

  “I am called Lachesis, Prince Orpheus,” responded the young stranger, lowering his lance just slightly. “My father rules this kingdom, and I do what I can to shelter my sister.”

  Orpheus bowed politely, and watched to be sure that Biton gave an even deeper show of respect. “I’ve heard of you, gracious prince,” said the poet. “You are the worthy brother of the famous Eurydice.”

  “Noble poet,” responded the prince, “although your name is praised from shore to mountain summit, I must ask you bluntly: Is it your habit for you and your servant to watch innocent women as they bathe?”

  “Oh, and is it right for a brother to hide in the reeds,” retorted Biton, “and do the very same thing?”

  The infant in Orpheus’s arms stirred sleepily.

  Perhaps the sight of the baby softened the royal brother’s suspicion. Or perhaps it was Orpheus’s good-natured answer. “The gods love a warmhearted welcome, Prince Lachesis – and a traveler who deserves one.”

  Lachesis called out, and three or four other armed figures appeared along the path, their weapons glinting among the willows.

  “Brother, what intruders are these?” inquired a woman’s voice.

  “She’s the one, master,” whispered Biton excitedly, “who sang more beautifully than all the others.”

  Mortals were thought to be dependent on divine beings for nearly every passion or skill. Battle courage was endowed by Mars, sound judgment by Minerva, and a reciter of lengthy epics was grateful to Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory. Even love was believed to be empowered by a deity – and a playful, potent one at that.

  Some said that Eros was a boylike god, armed with a quiver of barbs. Others held that the god of sudden love more closely resembled a well-sinewed youth, lancing the human heart with a spear. Orpheus knew many lyrics about the god’s caprice. However, until that moment the son of Calliope had believed such tales were merely pretty verses. Surely, he had always thought, a sensible traveler like himself could not be struck dumb with unexpected passion.

  But at that moment Prince Orpheus could not make a sound.

  “Do you not understand our speech, good traveler?” inquired Princess Eurydice with an air of friendly inquisitiveness.

  “We heard the sound of beautiful singing, Princess,” Orpheus managed to respond. “And we quite naturally had to stop and listen.”

  The princess wore a soft-woven chiton, a flowing garment, with embroidered seams of gold-bright thread. Her hair was dark, and her eyes were dark, too, like the night seas off Numidia.

  “And is this the renowned poet,” the young woman was asking her brother, “whose music is a legend among gods and men?”

  As she made this query, an attendant placed a blue cloak around her shoulders, and helped the princess fasten it at her throat with an ivory brooch.

  “No doubt my powers have been exaggerated,” offered Orpheus, with courteous modesty.

  “I have learned not to believe very much of what I’m told,” said Eurydice. “By any man.”

  Orpheus offered a silent prayer to Venus, who had power over both the human heart and the playful, often spiteful Eros.

  Help me, soul-stirring goddess, the poet prayed.

  To win this woman’s love.

  FIVE

  Eurydice had dreamed of meeting the famous singer and poet long before this moment.

  She saw that Orpheus was well favored, and the musical instrument he carried gave off a lovely glow. And he had a thoughtful eye, and a gentle voice as he spoke, the soft tones of his speech giving little hint of the fabled power of his song.

  But the princess had encountered a string of charming men – noble travelers who had sought to court her. Hippeus of Cos had been a powerfully built man, with a kindhearted laugh. He had impressed her deeply at first – but one morning she spied him beating a servant for bringing him day-old bread for breakfast, and she banished Hippeus from the kingdom.

  Likewise, Zelus from far-off Sicily had pleased her with his charming looks and many amusing stories. But when her brother Lachesis ordered him not to kick the household dogs, Zelus had called his prospective brother-in-law a weakhearted ninny. That had bee
n the sudden end of that courtship, too.

  Eurydice’s heart quickened as Orpheus drew nearer to her, and her spirit was further lightened by the sight of his tenderness toward the unexplained infant in his arms. But she had learned to mistrust men, and her feelings about them. She was, she feared, too easily won over.

  Besides, no doubt this legendary young man had been married at some point in his journeys, and she had not heard the tidings. What other explanation could there be for the baby in his sheltering arms?

  She breathed an inward prayer to Juno that a married man – even the world-renowned poet – might not steal her heart.

  For his part, Orpheus could barely meet her gaze.

  “What do we see here?” queried the princess with a skeptical smile. “Is the famous Orpheus a married father, carrying his infant through the woodland?”

  “My master rescued this baby girl from a pack of ravenous hounds, my lady,” asserted Biton. “As the gods allowed it,” he added, unwilling to give offense to any divine power that might be listening.

  Eurydice’s features softened, as her brother’s had, as she took a long moment to peer curiously at the infant in Orpheus’s arms. Certainly her tone changed as she asked, “And so you do not have a wife, good Orpheus, weaving you a new travel cloak back home?”

  “My lady,” said Orpheus, “poetry is my only home, and the truth is that I have no wife.”

  “Have you ever heard such talk!” said Eurydice to the ladies around her, and there was kindhearted – but very definite – laughter. “‘Poetry is my only home,’” mocked the princess gently.

  Eurydice put a hand on the baby’s cheek, and the infant stirred. The princess turned to one of her ladies. “Carry this baby into the shade of the trees,” she directed one of her serving women. “I think the sunlight troubles her.”

  Orpheus was reluctant to part with Melia.

  “Dear poet, you must think us heartless folk,” said the princess, her manner all the more welcoming now. “We shall find a caring home and hearth for this lovely Melia,” she continued with a smile, “in honor of the poet who saved her life.”

  With a quiet prayer of thanks to the gods, Orpheus surrendered the swaddled baby to the attendants.

  Orpheus approached the palace outbuildings beside this remarkable princess, and at times he could make no more conversation than a mule.

  “Many men travel far to offer me golden flattery, Prince Orpheus,” said Eurydice at last.

  “I am sometimes capable of spirited speech, Princess Eurydice,” he replied. “But for the moment Venus favors me with an honest silence. I hope I do not seem discourteous.”

  Eurydice, too, had heard tell of unpredictable Eros. Some said he struck the heart with a javelin, while others said he used a relentless whip. Could such stories be more than empty legend? Before this moment men had both attracted her and deceived her, but this lightning in her pulse was something she had not sensed before.

  “I’m certain I cut a rude figure,” the poet was saying, “mud-splashed as I am.”

  “Your appearance, dear poet,” the princess allowed, “does not displease me, it is fair to say.”

  “I am grateful to hear it,” said Orpheus.

  “The truth is, Prince Orpheus,” continued Eurydice, with an air of careful modesty, “I look forward to learning of your many travels – and perhaps you will go so far as to share your poetry with me.”

  Orpheus took heart at this, but before he could offer his enthusiastic assent, one of the guards uttered a cry of warning.

  “Stay back,” he cautioned everyone within earshot. “It’s yet another serpent.”

  After quick work with his lance, the long, lithe creature twisted on the paving stones.

  “Some people say that these are omens of some future ill,” said the princess. “A lynx stole over the palace wall and killed nine sacred doves just last week, and a bull went mad in the marketplace, crippling a carter.”

  A guard held up the still twitching body of a venomous asp, a slowly writhing, hooded reptile.

  “Good-hearted poet,” said Eurydice, concern in her voice, “I am afraid that my father’s kingdom may prove dangerous to you.”

  2

  SIX

  King Lycomede, Eurydice’s father, lifted his wine cup and laughed contentedly.

  “Be kind enough to sing for us, Prince Orpheus,” said the king. “Nothing would please me more.”

  He was a round-faced, silver-haired man, with a merry eye. One of the king’s first acts in the poet’s presence was to ordain a safe and prosperous home for the infant Melia – a promising adoption with loving parents, the respected potter Alxion and his wife Alope. Orpheus was grateful to the monarch.

  Music was welcome after conversation, and Orpheus was happy to oblige with the most heart-stirring songs. The royal court had dined well, on roast pig and smoked tuna – and yet, in the poet’s heart, someone’s absence was deeply felt Men and women in Lycomede’s kingdom dined separately, as was proper throughout the Greek world. But never before had the poet so missed the companionship of a certain woman.

  Soon, thought Orpheus – I must see her again soon.

  When the poet finished a song about the safe harbor of Chios, and how the keels of every ship dreamed of entering the restful waters of that isle, Orpheus sipped his wine. This court drank their wine akretos – undiluted with water. This was not usual among Greeks, who valued moderation, and Orpheus felt that his senses were already addled enough by his passion for the princess.

  “I wonder,” the king was asking now, “if you could teach my son to sing that poem you recited earlier – about Diana at her bath.”

  “I’ll be pleased and honored to,” said Orpheus with a smile. “If Lachesis so desires it – and as the gods permit.”

  The king shook his head with a bitter smile. “Talk of pleasing the gods, dear poet, does not move my heart. When my beautiful wife, Halia, died of a fever just after childbirth, I turned away from any belief in the immortals.”

  “Good king,” said Orpheus, “I am sorry to learn of your grief.”

  “My daughter never knew her mother’s kiss,” said the king with a sigh, “and I came to believe that no god existed who would allow such sorrow.”

  “I was hoping that our noble guest could tell us more about divine Diana,” said Lachesis, respectful toward his father, but hoping, too, for some further word about the immortals.

  “I am sorry to say,” responded Orpheus, “that I have never set eyes on that undying goddess.”

  “Of course you haven’t seen her, Orpheus,” said the king with a sad laugh. “Those tales are merely fireside tittle-tattle.”

  “They say the divine Phoebus Apollo,” retorted the prince, “gave Prince Orpheus his well-crafted silver lyre.”

  “This pretty instrument here,” chortled the king incredulously, “the one leaning against the footstool of our guest?”

  “So they say,” asserted his son.

  “We don’t seriously believe that,” laughed the king, “do we?”

  “You will think me an ungrateful guest,” said Orpheus, rising.

  “Tell us, please, noble Orpheus,” pleaded Eurydice’s brother, “if you have seen the god of daylight.”

  Poets of many lands still chanted of the day, many years before, when Apollo had allowed his beloved mortal son Phaeton to take the reins of sunlight’s chariot. Their verses still commemorated falcons falling in flames, and rivers flash-scalded into steam. Apollo had become a more thoughtful god, it was told, ever afterward, and had tried to make amends to mortals by helping poets create stories – and in particular by giving Prince Orpheus a lyre of perfect pitch and dazzling beauty.

  Orpheus could see it all again that instant in his heart – the day he received the lyre from the divinity’s own hands. The god’s voice had been music, and his laugh sweeter than the west wind.

  “On a cold day, Lachesis,” said Orpheus at last, breaking off his reverie, “my l
yre is still warm from Apollo’s touch.”

  SEVEN

  It was not until the following night that Orpheus walked with Eurydice beside the royal pond.

  That day Biton had asked, eagerly, “What poem will you use to win her heart, master?”

  The poet had sighed – if only he could think of one.

  Orpheus would not have admitted as much to anyone, but there was, in all his travels, more than a little loneliness. True, Biton was a steady companion, but Orpheus found the men and women he met too easily dazzled by his reputation, and sometimes too easily charmed by the simplest song.

  Bright-haired Calliope had been an absent mother, always gone to some distant corner of the sea to inspire yet another talented poet. And the prince’s royal father had resigned himself to an absent, immortal spouse by planting groves, building bridges, and seeing that his kingdom was at peace. Orpheus had set forth on his ceaseless travels because there was no place for him in a home that was empty except for the busy footsteps of servants.

  Although he was still a young man, Orpheus had seen much of the world. Now, walking beside the princess, Orpheus felt that he wanted to be nowhere but right where he was.

  The fishpond was dark in the starlight, and a sleepy carp rose to the surface, nibbling Orpheus’s fingers and darting back into the depths.

  From far off, the sound of song drifted from the servants’ quarters. Biton’s voice could be heard calling out the tune, the ever-popular ditty “Goat and Flute.” Orpheus had been working to teach Biton the complexities of music, and while the young servant still had much to learn, the sound brought a smile to Orpheus’s lips.

  A spearman stood in the distance, keeping watch against the possibility of danger. A rush of laughter reached them from another quarter, along with the distant rattling of dice. The king was at play, and – judging by the sound – he was winning.