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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?”
    â€œMy lady,” said Orpheus, “poetry is my only home, and the truth is that I have no wife.”
    â€œHave 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.
    â€œDear 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.
    â€œMany men travel far to offer me golden flattery, Prince Orpheus,” said Eurydice at last.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI’m certain I cut a rude figure,” the poet was saying, “mud-splashed as I am.”
    â€œYour appearance, dear poet,” the princess allowed, “does not displease me, it is fair to say.”
    â€œI am grateful to hear it,” said Orpheus.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œStay 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.
    â€œSome 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.
    â€œGood-hearted poet,” said Eurydice, concern in her voice, “I am afraid that my father’s kingdom may prove dangerous to you.”

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