“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.
“The servants catch fish for our meals,” explained Eurydice. “Sometimes the nets tear, and float where no one can see them. This princely bird has been caught in a bit of such webbing.”
Her fingers worked quickly.
Soon the swan waddled free, grunted solemnly at the two of them, and set forth across the water.
Continuing through the torch-lit half-dark, Orpheus and Eurydice wandered out to the venerable temple of Minerva. The poet was glad they were visiting this sacred place. Surely, he thought, I need divine guidance in wooing such a woman.
But the poet stopped as the two approached the holy site, and gave a cry of dismay.
“Eurydice, please tell me,” gasped Orpheus, “what terrible thing has happened here?”
EIGHT
Marble columns had tumbled and grown thick with moss.
Ivy had cloaked the steps, dark leaves glowing dimly in the starlight. The inner chamber, where the goddess could be made welcome should she ever visit this kingdom, was bare and open to the sky, the temple floors dense with weeds.
“My father says,” explained the princess, “that we should not be prayerful, like the men and women in other lands.” She added, “The small temple of Juno where I pray is kept quite pretty.”
“But the queen of wisdom must be sorrowful,” said Orpheus, “when she sees this crumbling marble step.”
By night the vista from the ruined temple was only an abyss of empty darkness, the hills and far-off ocean sullen and invisible under the stars. Something about the sight gave the poet a shiver. Orpheus loved daylight, with its lively animals and laughter – he knew that darkness was no human being’s friend.
The poet reached down to tug at a weed. “I am afraid for your father’s kingdom, dear Eurydice.”
Some said that only the sweetest herbs grew in a temple, even one lost to ruin like this. Orpheus placed the leaves gently on the broken marble altar.
The poet gave voice to a poem he crafted at that moment.
Forgive the rain,
Eurydice, the rain and the wind,
for not loving you as I do.
A presence approached from the darkness above, a pale shadow slipping across the stars, called forth by Orpheus’s voice.
Silver-feathered plumage circled closer, the breeze from the beating wings stirring Orpheus’s hair as he reached up into the darkness.
The poet took a great owl onto his outstretched hand.
Some said that Minerva occasionally took the form of a feathered hunter like this. The warm talons gripped the poet’s wrist, and the black, all-seeing eyes looked into his own.
The princess was unable to make a sound, shocked into wonder.
The owl turned her night-conquering eyes toward Eurydice. And then the luminous bird spread her wings and glided off, lofting upward through the starlight.
“Orpheus, do you think this is how you can win me?” asked Eurydice breathlessly. “By showing off your wonderful powers?”
Orpheus made an attempt to respond, but Eurydice silenced him with a kiss.
Did Orpheus ask Eurydice to be his wife by whispering a poem, or did he employ ordinary speech, like any mortal?
No one will ever know.
Later that night Eurydice knelt in the small temple of Juno, the tidy marble interior and starlit columns a contrast to the forgotten sanctuary of Minerva.
She thanked the divine consort of Jupiter for bringing the poet to her father’s kingdom.
She did not forget to add a prayer for her future husband’s health.
“Please, immortal Juno,” she breathed, “may he encounter no harm.”
NINE
King Lycomede clapped his hands and danced when he received the news.
“My permission?” he chortled. “My dear Orpheus, do you think me a madman? I prayed for this, even in my godless heart!”
The king called for the minister of ceremonies, an official who arrived dabbing at his lips with a linen napkin.
“I decree it!” cried the king with a laugh. “No sad faces will be allowed anywhere in my kingdom.”
“My lord king, as you wish!” said the minister, looking with dazed amazement from his monarch to Orpheus.
“We’ll have a glorious wedding,” cried the king, “and every single mortal under the sky is invited.”
Plans for the wedding began, and they took a fortnight to unfold, even with eager hands helping every hour.
Some of the preparations were traditional throughout Greek lands, such as the torchlight procession being readied so that the celebrants could sing the solemn, beautiful hymns of Hymen, the mysterious deity who oversaw weddings.
Other details, like the great bronze bathtub being smithed for Eurydice’s ritual pre-wedding bath, were peculiar to her kingdom. New drinking cups of silver were hammered into shape in the artisans’ shops, and garlands of agate and gold leaf were spun, rare diadems for the wedding march.
Rich delicacies were planned for the banquets, rare fish ordered from the seaside villages, and a command went out for pigs’ wombs, to be simmered and basted to perfection – a dish prized by folk of that land. Flute girls gathered from far-flung farmlands, and oboe players gathered, too, bright-eyed in anticipation at playing music in the presence of Prince Orpheus.
“I have decided that I do not need new clothes,” Biton said one afternoon a few days later, when he and his master had a moment together.
A tailor had just left the two of them, bowing his way out, taking measurements for a new purple mantle to be worn by Prince Orpheus. Such dyes were rare and expensive, produced from the flesh of scarce shellfish.
“I’ve ordered you fine garments,” protested Orpheus, “and a new mantle, with that pear-blossom pattern you admired in Rodos all along the hem.”
“I’ll make it a point of pride,” insisted Biton, “to wear my worn traveling cloak, and my hat, too, singing Hymen’s hymn, walking along looking simple and plain.”
“You will have your hair dressed with oil of nard,” said Orpheus, referring to a precious, sweet-smelling perfume, “and in that embroidered mantle no one will have eyes for the groom, let alone the bride.”
“That’s all to the good,” said Biton. “Because then perhaps I’ll attract the attention of a new master.”
“My dear Biton, whatever are you thinking?”
“Well, surely you won’t be
needing the attentions of a servant named Biton once you are married.”
“Biton, I give you my word,” said the poet with a smile. “You and I are spun together, like two strands of rope.”
The young servant stirred, and scurried off to the well to see the pretty women of the palace, perhaps, and to fetch his master a fresh pitcher of water.
He kept his happy eyes downcast. It was not wise, Biton knew, to let the Fates see a mortal so full of hope.
TEN
One morning, not long before the wedding, Orpheus paid a visit to the home of Alxion the potter and his wife Alope, the adopted parents of the baby Melia.
To his surprise, Eurydice had arrived beforehand, and knelt singing a soothing lyric beside the sleeping infant.
“Why are you surprised to see me here?” asked the princess with a smile, when her song was done. “After all, Orpheus, I have good reason to be grateful to little Melia – you were holding her in your arms when I first set eyes on you.”
The baby was drowsing peacefully in a blanket of soft-combed lamb’s wool. Alxion was eager to show the prince the snug and neatly crafted cradle he had built of poplar wood so that, as the earnest potter put it, “Not even the north wind will shake her sleep.”
Alope modestly showed the poet the mantle she was weaving of blue- and gold-dyed yarn, so when the child was old enough to accompany her mother to the water well, no winter mist could chill her.
It gave Orpheus great happiness to see the joy in their eyes.
And he was touched, too, at Eurydice’s generous nature. The princess did not depart without leaving a wreath of silver laurel leaves with the parents, affixed to the head of the cradle.
Before she left, Eurydice brushed the infant’s forehead with her lips, and Melia stirred happily.
As the wedding day grew near, as custom decreed, the couple were rarely allowed to set eyes on each other.
It was not considered good luck to let betrothed lovers spend much time together now, and laughing but insistent women gently pushed Orpheus away from Eurydice’s gate when he arrived with his lyre.
He did linger outside the high-walled refuge, where he could hear her singing her favorites, poems in praise of Juno. And he did see her plainly, once – on a sunny afternoon, as she made her way down to the well.
Orpheus had been waiting there, and while servants and matrons laughingly suggested he fly off like a jackdaw and leave honest women alone, it was a tradition that men and women – even when they were betrothed – could meet at the watering place to make conversation.
“Tonight!” breathed Orpheus when he was close to her.
We’ll meet tonight.
“I’ve a new poem for you,” whispered Orpheus when passion allowed him to speak that evening.
The white walls of the royal dwellings reflected the soft light of stars. A gentle breeze blew, swirling Eurydice’s mantle, and the round opening of the wellhead gave off a hush.
And yet there was no telling what divine powers might be listening – the gods were said to be fascinated with humans and their loves and woes. Rumor herself was thought to be a persistent being, in form somewhat like a young woman. She was an assistant to Mercury, messenger of the gods, and was said to have ears that could hear a promise broken far at sea.
Orpheus had nothing to fear from any divine power, but he wanted his song to be for Eurydice’s ears only. And so he began to sing softly, words that he had woven and reworked all the hours they had spent apart.
“Who’s there?” cried a distant voice, interrupting the first verse.
An armored figure tramped forth out of the lamplight.
“Oh, my lord prince and my lady princess, do forgive me, please,” said the helmeted guard, starlight reflecting from the point of his spear. “We have an extra watch out tonight,” the guardsman continued. “They say that a griffin attacked a mule driver out by the olive grove this afternoon.”
“Was the poor man hurt?” asked Eurydice.
“Oh, my lady princess,” laughed the guard, “our muleteers are made of heartwood.”
But the guard waited, and would not depart, adding at last, “If you’ll forgive me, the king’s orders are that it is not safe to be out tonight.”
“I’ll hear the rest of your poem, Orpheus,” whispered Eurydice to her husband-to-be, “tomorrow – on our wedding night.”
Juno, look
to the apple blossom,
protect it,
cupping your hand against the frost.
Orpheus was disappointed at the delay.
But he looked forward all the more ardently to singing these living words to Eurydice – his new wife.
ELEVEN
The wedding ceremony was as grand as the exultant king had wished.
The procession was splendid, every voice joining in the hymn to Hymen. Torchlights carried by the throng illuminated the early evening. The princess stopped at the newly garlanded temple of Juno, and she left a lock of her hair on the altar, as tradition dictated.
Then she continued on to her father’s main hall, where further hymns to Hymen were chorused, accompanied by flutes and tambours – vibrant, soul-stirring music.
But as Orpheus took the hand of Eurydice, in harmony with ancient ceremony, some small event troubled him.
One of the torches in the great hallway flickered and expired, giving off a plume of white smoke.
Perhaps Orpheus was the only celebrant who observed this. Even as he completed singing his wedding hymn, he added an additional, silent prayer – to Apollo, the lord of daylight.
Protect this marriage, he earnestly prayed.
And may that spume of pale, twisting smoke not prove to be an omen.
The celebrations went on through the night, but at one point not long before morning, as was proper, Orpheus excused himself.
Following wedding custom, the bridegroom would wait in his chambers while a further procession, of the bride and her friends, took her through her old neighborhood, dancing to the sound of tambours, clapping hands, and much laughter. Then, after the gathered friends sang a wedding song, all would retire, leaving the newly married couple to the delights of the approaching dawn.
Biton was nowhere to be seen, but he had prepared the wedding bed, and left lamps alight and a pitcher of pink wine.
It was usual for the groom to feel some impatience as he awaited the approach of his bride. But now the poet paced his room, aware that birds were stirring. Dawn was upon them, and yet he was still alone.
Surely, he thought, this time-honored procession was taking too long. And the palace and the surrounding neighborhood – hadn’t they seemed to have fallen too silent?
At that moment a cry startled Orpheus.
Somewhere far off – a wail of anguish.
3
TWELVE
Alarmed, Orpheus joined the stream of men and women hurrying from the palace buildings toward the royal pond.
Lachesis, tears on his cheeks, turned from where he crouched beside the fishpond. His gold-hilted sword was in his hand.
A viper writhed and struggled, cut into several pieces, at the royal brother’s feet. The snake’s head snapped at the early sunlight, fangs flashing, and its tail lashed the spreading puddle of blood.
“Orpheus,” tearstained Lachesis managed to say, “we are too late.”
The words meant little to Orpheus at first, stunned and confused as he was.
Questions awakened and vanished in his mind before the poet could find the power to put them into words. Women were weeping, garlanded in their wedding finery, and a guard began to bawl, hammering the ground with the butt of his spear.
Pale and unmoving, Eurydice lay sprawling among the tall grasses.
“She was about to conclude the wedding procession, Prince Orpheus,” Lachesis explained, with a broken voice. “She was leading the singing, impatient to reach you.”
Two bleeding holes in her ankle showed where the viper had buried its fangs.
He spoke her name.
He called to her again, but still she did not respond.
The son of Calliope, grandson of Jupiter, knew well that his beloved was already gone, but he summoned all of his powers as he put his hands on her, feeling for a pulse and at the same time murmuring a prayer.
Then the grieving poet gathered her into his arms and sang, a full-voiced, sorrow-broken cry, calling to the immortals to return Eurydice to life.
THIRTEEN
Not a single smith worked metal throughout the far-flung towns and villages, and in the fields no plowman parted soil.
Lamplight in every dwelling was smoky and thin, the wicks left untrimmed, and no one spoke above a whisper.
The kingdom mourned.
No one, however, grieved more deeply than Orpheus.
He did not speak, except to comfort the king, who sat in the broad oak chair, his royal throne. The bereaved father did not respond to any human voice except that of the poet. And the only sign he gave of hearing Orpheus’s condolences was to reach out and take the poet’s hand each time he entered the room.
The muse’s son did not touch his lyre. He did not even want to set eyes on the silver instrument, and draped it with a cloth. He did not sing a syllable, day after day, and even the prettiest of birdsong in the eaves gave him no pleasure.
Orpheus fasted – as was proper – while the funeral pyre, cords of laurel wood, was prepared in the main courtyard. A palace that had been flush with flowers and wine was now colorless and silent, ashes scattered over the courtyards. Grief singers – women well rehearsed at dirges – keened hourly beside the lifeless body of Eurydice.
The princess was cremated. Her ashes were secured in an urn, and buried in a place sacred to her family, not far from the temple of Juno.
After the rites were completed, Orpheus did not take in more than a swallow or two of watered wine. He touched no food.
“Please try a bite of this bread, master,” said Biton one evening as Orpheus fastened his mantle, preparing to pay his respects once more to the king.
Nightsong Page 3
