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.”