TWENTY-EIGHT

Biton found Orpheus in the sunlight the next day, sitting on the shore.

The youth led a sure-footed donkey burdened with ripe dates and sesame cakes, red wine and fresh-baked loaves – the makings of a welcome feast for Orpheus and his rescued bride.

The poet spoke no word, and gave no sign of hearing Biton’s questions. The youthful servant could only spread a blanket, prepare a meal, and taste some of it encouragingly. And then, when his master made no move to eat, Biton packed the rest of it away.

The young servant could not imagine what his master had seen or suffered. Biton knew it was a selfish, small thing to take delight in, but he was glad to have his master back safe.

That was enough to make Biton thankful, but as the days went on, the servant grew increasingly concerned for the princely poet.

Biton had observed his master’s deep mourning before, but nothing like this. The poet was not bereaved so much as void, lost to nearly every sound and sight around him. For days Orpheus did not eat, and he said nothing, watching the waves break and the foam sink into the rocky shore.

Biton held a cup of weak wine to his master’s lips, and the poet – his face a silent mask of sorrow – took in just enough to stay alive. His lyre rested against a stone untouched as Orpheus watched the round sun set and the stars rise. How many days were spent like this Biton would never be able to guess, but it was at dawn when at last he saw his master standing, letting the salt water lap at his ankles.

Orpheus gestured out to sea, indicating a vessel beyond the waves, drawing in its sail.

Biton recognized the Actis even though her canvas was new and dazzling white. Red-haired Captain Idas waved from the bow.

“We were worried about you,” called the seaman. “How are you faring?”

The poet waded toward the ship, out into the easy surf, leaving the lyre of Apollo on the shore.

Biton gave a cry of alarm. He hurried to rescue the instrument from the sand. It remained heavy and silent in the youth’s grasp as he carried it out to the newly painted vessel and her friendly crew.

Days later the Actis delivered the poet and his servant to the island of Delos, a wooded, prosperous island with a wide, shallow harbor of industrious net weavers and sturdy fishing vessels.

Biton and the captain selected the destination. Orpheus had said nothing regarding where he wished to journey, neither to the captain nor to any of the crew, and Biton could offer little to enlighten them.

“The little isle is a sunny place, with a balmy wind,” Captain Idas suggested. “And the priests of the famous temple of Apollo there will be sure to honor your master.”

The poet took no interest in the smiles of the fisherfolk, however, nor the delegation of white-haired temple priests bringing fig cakes and berry wine – a specialty of the island – to express their welcome to the poet.

“My master is bereaved,” explained Biton simply.

Every time a request arrived for the renowned singer to join the villagers in a celebration of a recent birth, or to sing a song of blessing for a departing fishing fleet, the answer was the same.

Every day Biton made sure that his master’s tunic was fresh, and his hair groomed. As the weeks passed, however, the servant was increasingly lonely for stories or poems – for any sort of conversation at all. And Biton felt curious, too – altogether too curious to keep silent much longer.

What had happened across the black river Styx, he wondered, in the palace of Hades?

One evening Biton cut a finger on the scales of a large red fish, a gift from the villagers. The scaly prize was nearly as big as Biton himself, and the servant had been cleaning the giant, when blood welled on his finger.

To his surprise, Orpheus was at his side in an instant, after a month of stony torpor, dabbing at the injury with a bit of linen.

“Be careful, Biton,” said Orpheus, wrapping the finger with a bandage, the first words he had uttered in an age.

The poet dressed Biton’s cut with care the next morning, talking haltingly all the while, telling of his journey to Hades’ palace.

“Two times, Biton,” he said, anguish in his voice, “my beautiful Eurydice was taken from me.”

The poet would say nothing more.

“Sing me a song about her,” suggested Biton, tears in his own eyes. “Make up a poem about lovely Eurydice, master. Please, to ease our sorrow – both yours and mine.”

But Orpheus turned away from the sight of his lyre.

The thought of poetry was so much long-cold ash to him, and the memory of song was bitter. Orpheus did not foresee his hands ever plucking music again, and could not imagine spinning a verse as long as he might live.

Immortal Hades knew that I would turn back, thought Orpheus bitterly. And so did the lovely Queen Persephone.

The condition set forth by her enigmatic husband was little more than a snare, sure to trap Eurydice, and send me into daylight alone.