Nightsong (3 page)

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 been 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 lyre 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.

“Perhaps you begin to believe me,” said Eurydice, after a silence, “when I assure you that I will be unmoved by your powers.” In truth, she knew, it was all she could do to keep from blurting out her love.

“You did agree to come out from the women's quarters,” said Orpheus happily. “And agree to walk with me down to this royal pond.” He was pleased to find a woman who was not easily captured by his reputation – and he sensed a warm affection in her voice.

“Do not read much into that, dear Orpheus,” she responded. “Or into the fact that I do admire a man who is kindhearted.” Caution restrained her – a lingering fear that, despite all the evidence, the poet might prove another, all the more galling, disappointment.

“I can only hope,” responded the poet, “that the gods will answer my prayers.”

“I believe you are a good-natured man, Orpheus,” said Eurydice, “a loving master and a poet blessed by the immortals. But I am afraid that perhaps you rely too much on the gods for your easy triumphs.”

Before he could answer, Eurydice put out her hand and raised a finger to her lips.

Ahead of them in the poor light, a young swan was fluttering.

Its companions were dim shapes far across the pond, but this lone straggler kicked and struggled, unable to join them.

As Eurydice approached the struggling fowl, Orpheus cautioned her, “Be careful – swans are not as sweet-natured as they appear.”

The princess knelt and stroked the white cygnet. The proud waterfowl grumbled and snapped at first, but grew gradually calm as she cradled one webbed foot in her hand.