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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.
    â€œPerhaps 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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œDo 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.
    â€œI can only hope,” responded the poet, “that the gods will answer my prayers.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œEurydice, 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