Once Upon a Time, on Lesbos

PROLOGUE

At the turn of the sixth and seventh century BC, i.e. around 610-570 BC, a great civilization flourished on the island of Lesbos that lies off the coast of Asia Minor, in the north-eastern Aegean Sea. Originally, Lesbos was called Makaria, i.e. the land of blissfulness. It was also called Imerti, which means ‘desirable’, and Lassia, i.e. ‘thickly forested’, in the language of Homer.

In parallel to that bloom, there was a great deal of social unrest aimed at the downfall of the Geomori, the very rich aristocratic landowning families, the aristocrats ruling this part of Greece inhabited by the Aeolian race.

The Aeolians, one of the three races¹ that had settled and inhabited Greece by that time (the etymology of the word betrays their mixing up with the original inhabitants of Greece, the Protohellenes/Pelasgians) originated from Thessaly. Under the leadership of Orestes, son of Agamemnon, and Penthilus, son of Orestes, they wandered their way through Macedonia, and Thrace, to north-western Asia Minor, and eventually to the island of Lesbos, where they settled and live to the present day, without any dramatic demographic changes, naming the area after them. The inhabitants of Lesbos, kept in close contact with their kinsmen, populating also the mainland coastal area across the narrow stretch of sea, on Asia Minor—bearing the name Mytilenian coast after Mytilene, the most prominent city in the area, and later capital of Lesbos island—ever since those days, up till their massacre and uprooting in the blood-stained year of 1922. There, they made a living in prosperity, not only because of the richness of the soil, but also the strategic advantages of the area, in relation to mercantile routes.

These strategic, as well as economic advantages attracted the early Athenians who colonized Sigeum, a small but well-positioned city on the Asian coast near Troy, in the mouth of the Hellespont, commanding the passage through it. The aim was to control the trade of wheat cargos, shipped down to Greece from Propontis and the Black Sea.

Thus, the Athenians started a long war with the chief city of Lesbos, Mytilene, during which, Pittacus had the chance to become glorious on the field, to the degree that the majority of his fellow-citizens recognized his outstanding services, and voted to give him full authority to rule the city for life, in the year 590 B.C. The ‘Aesymnetes’, as was the title they gave him for the office, an elected dictator for life, ruled for ten years, during which he eliminated the political instability and brought the city back to prosperity. He then, stepped down voluntarily, to live the rest of his life in privacy. His public life, his attitude towards his political enemies, his formal way of thinking that outlived him, surviving to this day, placed him amongst the Seven Sages of ancient Greece.

In that same war, another brilliant offspring of the Mytilenean society of the times, and a most renowned poet, the aristocrat Alcaeus, still young, lover of life and its joys, threw away his shield—an action of terrible shame—and ran for his life, without even feeling the need to conceal his act, or apologize, since he described his action in verse we can still read. Alcaeus and his elder brothers, Cícis, and Antimenidas (who at some time went to Babylon and fought against the Hebrews as a mercenary) became the leaders of the oligarchy, the faction which opposed Pittacus, after an initial period of co-operation with him. Sappho, a third, but equally, if not more important celebrity of the island, the aristocrat poetess from Eressus—another city on the west side of the island—who lived in Mytilene, was also, in their alliance.

The aristocrats, who descended from royal families, the Penthilids (from Penthilus, the descendant of Agamemnon), the Archaeanactids (meaning: of archaic royal family), and the Cleanactids (i.e. of glorious royal family), owned most of the land in Lesbos. Sometime between 625 and 620 B.C., the aristocrats confronted successfully a plebeian uprising, led by Megaclis, who killed a few of the Penthilid faction before he met his own death, but were defeated some years later. It is further known that in 612 B.C. Melanchrus is the one in power, leading the plebeian party, some form of an agricultural party, since the re-allotment of land was the main issue at that time. Melanchrus met the joint opposition of Pittacus, and the brothers of Alcaeus, Antimenidas, and Cícis—the poet himself being an adolescent at the time—aided by the middle class, the merchants and marines, who were displeased with the extreme political views and plans of the tyrant Melanchrus. However, when Melanchrus was murdered in 610 B.C., and the social unrest in Mytilene was almost beyond control, it became obvious that the situation had to be remedied somehow, to appease the revolutionary spirits amongst the poor.

Nonetheless, the arrogant, self-centered Lesbian aristocrats preferred to ignore them and live in wealth, in large mansions, breeding horses, worshipping beauty, participating in symposia, i.e. all-night drinking sessions where Bacchus was praised. Poverty was treated with contempt. No pauper is a man of quality or high esteem sang Alcaeus. Sweet wine was abundant. Arts related to poetry and music flourished, to entertain them, but not as they did in the past, that is to praise epic deeds of heroes and kings, who conquered cities and fought bravely against gods and monsters. Now, their themes were more mundane, i.e. the value of life itself, human passions and feelings, bearing a more down-to-earth attitude towards life, dealing with the needs of flesh, since the heart itself is flesh. The personal element, the ‘ego’ stood up against the high-deemed values of chivalry, and the moral way of life, as seen in the traditions of the golden generation of Hessiod. It is a way of life, which, to our belief, has come down, and can still be detected in the genes of their Aeolian descendants, who continue to abide in eudemonism, being nonetheless laborious and progressive people.

When the war with the Athenians came to an end, through the arbitration of Periandrus of Corinth, whose verdict did not fully satisfy the Mytilenians, a new round of friction arose amongst them. The small land owners, together with the very poor, managed to gain power once again, under the leadership of Myrsilus, who was the son of Cleanax, of the Cleanactids family. (One has to bear in mind that all leaders of the plebeians, at the time, were of noble birth.) Alcaeus, together with his brothers, and Phanias—an aristocrat, whose name we learn from Strabo as a partner to Alcaeus’ schemes, without providing us with any further information—aided to a degree by Pittacus, and counting on the support of the oligarchy in Pyrrha, another city in the centre of the island, conspired to overthrow Myrsilus. The attempt failed, and the conspirators—with the exception of Pittacus, who changed camps in good time—escaped to Pyrrha, in self-exile. The betrayal of Pittacus caused immense anger and bitterness to Alcaeus, who wrote many poems, not only to castigate his behavior, but further to discredit him on the grounds of his origin, his physical appearance, etc., producing the first libel-writing in history.

At this point, having referred to the basic historical information that the reader needs to be acquainted with about Lesbos and its people at the time, we may well start our narration, based on the facts mentioned.

Lastly, we believe it is proper to note, that the historians, as well as the known sources—at least, those known to us—disagree with respect to certain dates, providing alternative arguments, interpretations, or conclusions. Thus, for the sake of the economy of the novel at hand—because it is a novel, after all—and abstaining from whatever aspiration to solve the problems of historians, we made those choices which best fit to the structure of the plot. At the same time an immense effort was made, to remain as close as possible to the consensus, with regard to historical facts and persons we refer to.

Alex G. Tsagarellis

1

TO THE TEMPLE OF ZEUS,

SEEKING FOR SANCTUARY

Phanias opened his eyes, and fixed them on the round disk of the moon, hanging in stillness, right in the middle of the dome above him, shedding its silver light in the air, so bright that all the other tiny lanterns embroidering the width of the night sky, had faded away.

His head was drumming, and aching so much, that every sense had given way to that feeling of pain, as if his whole existence had shrunk to nothing but his head, lying on the ground, bodiless, facing the sky with hollow eyes that allowed the pale light pierce them like an arrow, and plunge mercilessly deep down to the pit of his brain, annihilating it.

He let his eyelids slide gently down and blanket his pupils, to ease the torture and get a hold of himself, back from the grasp of the Moon Goddess, the night Witch.

He remained in that position for a long time, with no real sense of it, till, piece by piece, like fragments of an old, shattered cylix, he had glimpses of his past life, together with instant comebacks of his senses, his nerves beginning to come to life again, pain shafts, and memories interweaved, scenes from his childhood, long passed and buried under the turbulent life of his manhood, scattered amongst flashbacks of drinking nights, hunting wild animals on forested mountains, and fierce combats. Memories that sprang into his mind, and then vanished hastily, as if chased by an irritated caper, or like billows pushed by the rage of Aeolus² onto the rocky precipices of Mount Ida,³ piling on one another, and going dark.

For a moment, all that flashback made him think that he was passing away, like the elderly say it happens when the mortals are getting ready to cross the river Acheron⁴ and enter the kingdom of Pluto.⁵ On the other hand, his body began to emit messages, signs of life. A feeling of sharp pain, like the burning of hot iron just pulled out from Hephaestus’s furnace, went down his left shoulder close to the neck, while he felt that the oxen of Gyryones had cradled on his chest.

He opened his eyes again, this time timidly for the fear of the silver arrows of the Moon-goddess, but she had rolled down from the top of the sky, and was staring at him askew, hanging from the upper branches of the trees in the horizon, making it easy for him to evade her glances. His headache and dizziness were still intense, but he felt now that he had a grasp of himself, that he could resist the call of Death. In a final effort, aided by his indomitable nature, he managed to recover his senses adequately, to come to contact with reality again.

His thoughts were emerging in a logical sequence now, while he was working with his right arm trying to release himself from the weight of the dead body of Iadmon, lying on his face over his own chest, making it hard for him to breathe. In the moonlight, he discerned the tip of the arrow that had pierced the hand of his dead friend driving into his shoulder, as if Iadmon had plunged the weapon into Phanias’ body, during his fall. Pushing the lifeless body, to get rid of its weight, he pulled the arrow out of his flesh. Iadmon’s hand—out of a curious coincidence—had found its way between the body of Phanias, and the course of the arrow, taking up the deadly force, allowing but a shallow wound on his chest, only to give the impression that Phanias too, had entered the gates of Hades⁶, and had passed away, as if its copper tip had run through his heart.

But Iadmon, his dearest Iadmon, was dead. The thought itself was unbearable. It came along with a sensation of intolerable distress, a twinge of pain that ran through his heart. The last scene of their brief battle sprang up into his head; their fighting side by side when swarmed unexpectedly by a band of thugs. They came out of the blue, when both had come to believe that there was no danger around them, that there were no enemies near and that they had walked recklessly into the clearing. Their bronze swords were soon covered in blood, as they plunged mercilessly into their attackers’ pelvis and throats, skillfully avoiding the shield and armor-covered parts of their bodies. Phanias and Iadmon, like malevolent gods, like Titans struggling against demons that came loose from the bottom of the earth, bloody all over, bathed in the purple rays of the sun setting, and bleeding himself, stood on the low peak and gave death freely to those profane bastards, whose ill-made wish pushed them against the bravery of both. Phanias plunged his sword deep into the throat of an enemy, seemingly their leader. He fell onto his knees forcing Phanias to bend over him, to drag his weapon out of the flesh, and the blood sprang onto his face blinding him. Then the blow on his head came sudden, thunderous, as if the flaming sky had fallen onto his skull. He saw his bronze helmet rolling down in front of him, crushed, like it had been trodden by mares with the desire of spring biting hard on their rump, kicking fiercely, battered like it had fallen off the walls of ‘Mytilana’⁷ onto the rocks beneath, on the north-eastern side. He saw his clenched fist go loose on the hilt, go indifferent to his sword, which, up to now, had always been a part of his arm till the battle was over, till the slaughter was done, to wipe it then, and put it back proudly into its sheath. He saw the big stone that was thrown at him from a distance beyond the reach of his sword’s edge, falling right there, in front of him, and waiting for him to follow, losing its white colour, as it was covered in blood, his own maybe, or the slain one’s, still on his knees, his soul leaving him, his body hanging rather from the sword that Phanias was pulling out of it with the power of a horse, out of his very soul, where he had driven it up, just a few moments ago.

Phanias let out a yell, a long-drawn yell, like an animal that senses the rise of death inside him, and is willing to disperse it all around, before he becomes the first victim. He let out a howl of rage, mixed with worn-out willingness to remain at his post, fighting side by side with his dearest Iadmon, who was sweeping out the attackers in his serene, lofty, and robust manner, as he used to behave in every occasion, be it the carefree times of wine-drinking, or those wild ones, in the midst of a battle, when he would move forward calmly, as if it weren’t his own arm that went up and down ceaselessly, but an arm made by Hephaestus—just like that of Talos⁸—chopping the enemies, the unlucky ones that misfortune tossed in his path. Phanias, in his final effort to stand up—his very last remainder of strength was called upon for the purpose—yelled at such a pitch, that everyone around froze to stillness, every other sound was silenced, and all appeared as if they were figures in a newly painted fresco, with red paint so very much in use, that it refused to dry, and kept on flowing out of the wounds. Only an arrow, that had already left a cord made of double twisted bowel, went on its way indifferently, hissing fearlessly, towards the two men.

Phanias stood up, staggering and searching for wounds, driven by the sense of self-conservation, urged to know whether the Gods were to allow him to stay in this world longer, or had made up their minds to send him soon enough on his last voyage, to the world of the souls. Except for the wound on his chest, still bleeding because he had just pulled out the tip of the arrow from the flesh, but for this, and the headache that made him wish he were lying on the grass next to Iadmon’s figure with that look of surprise frozen onto his handsome face, Phanias was almost intact. Despite the drying blood that covered his body, drying, making him look like a slaughtered animal that the priests performing the sacrifice abandoned on the altar and vanished hastily before their work was done, he bore no serious damage.

He leaned over Iadmon’s body. He went down on his knees. His eyes, burning hot, were filled with tears. Large, warm teardrops were trickling down his cheeks, dissolving the dried blood and falling onto Iadmon’s lifeless face, only to abide there for a tiny moment. Purple pearls they looked, reflecting the moonlight, resembling ornaments, funeral gifts for the dearest friend to take with him to Hades. Then, they rolled down his cheekbones, as if the dead mourned for himself, wept for the world he had left, the beloved friend he had abandoned, the life he lost so abruptly at his prime in the countryside of Lesbos, scented with wildflower and pine-tree aroma, on this warm summer night.

The sun had already climbed high into the skies, pouring down like molten lead and scorching Phanias’ back, as he was leaning over Iadmon’s dead body. He had spent hours like that, his eyes fixed on his friend’s face, with no more tears, nor words, trying to engrave his portrait in his memory and save it for eternity. It was then that he heard the clang of metal, of bronze and copper clanking, as in combat, breaking through the buzzing sound within his head, silencing the sound of insects, and the birds’ singing and fluttering of wings. The familiar sound of swords clashing, well known to a lifetime soldier like himself, one brave fighter trying to cut down his foe but met with his skilful opposition, spreading sparks and metallic terror all around, woke him up, alerted his sluggish senses. He looked around, searching for his sword, or even Iadmon’s. Nothing! Not even any of the weapons that belonged to their attackers, who had lost their lives before he fell. There was nothing there, but blood, tinting the grass blades, soaking the soil. No doubt, he had to find a place, to stay low, to hide for a while, to avoid any further hostile encounter.

He lifted Iadmon’s body, lifeless as it was. He lifted it gently, like a mother lifts the sleeping child, taking care that she does not awake it, and startle it with the emergency of their departure. He took it in his arms, and made his way towards the lowland, where the greenery flourished along the banks of a stream, offering its cool and serene nature to every creature. They were to hide there for as long as necessary for tranquility to return, and the fighting to come to an end. By the sound of it, Phanias judged it more like a skirmish.

At the thought of the cold crystal-clear water flowing there, at the recollection of its freshness, when they both dipped their heads into it yesterday, to cool down the heat and clean the dust after the long day’s walk he felt an immense thirst, unfelt before. So overwhelming it was that for a minute moment, short as a distant lightning, he wished he could let the dead body down and run freely to the water-stream. He had not even felt so terribly thirsty when the Athenians made them run for their lives in that first battle they fought on the Trojan coast, near Sigeum, when they confronted them with disregard to tactics, with no fighting plans, only to end in desperate flight, dispersed on deserted coves by the sea, awaiting for their ships to collect them, and daring not to go out in the open in search of water to quench their thirst.

He sensed the shamefulness of his thoughts. He was scared of the Gods watching from above, from behind the clouds sitting on the top of the mountains, and got a hold of himself. He had to be patient, though the need for water made him feel dizzy. The wound on his shoulder was bleeding all the time, and torturing him. Even worse, now that he was carrying his dead friend it felt as if there was a fire burning on it, as if a red-hot, glowing horseshoe, just drawn out of the furnace of the blacksmith was laid upon his flesh. Every step felt like a knife stabbing his heart filling it with poison and intolerable pain. Each step was shorter than the previous, weaker it was, as if he had been entangled in a web of a gigantic spider and his every effort to get away stretched the web, never releasing him, always making it more difficult to move farther, always pulling him back, towards the ground, forcing his fall, to humiliate him once again, especially now that Iadmon was in his care.

Upon reaching the first thicket, where the green was rich in every possible shade, spotted with yellow, violet and purple colours, he felt exhausted as if he had walked to the end of the world. His dried-up lips were trembling and the sweat, springing underneath the dried blood on his forehead, rolled down into his eyes, turned crimson, transforming the world in front of him into the wild one which used to terrify his tender soul when a child, as depicted in the songs of minstrels, describing the adventurous travels of Jason and other heroes to places and countries beyond and beneath his universe. His knees failed him; his whole body failed him abruptly and broke down like the forest oak that is struck by the thunder of angry Zeus. Both bodies, that of Phanias, together with the dead body of Iadmon, hit the ground and rolled down the slope to the stream’s bank, entangled, embraced, to rest, one half on the brambles and the other half in the water. Only Phanias, whom the gods of good fortune favoured again, came on top this time, his bosom and head remaining above the surface, supported by the lifeless body of his friend lying underneath. Later, when the water settled down and the mud cleared, one could see the red colour in the current, as it washed away the blood from their bodies.

Damn you, drag-foot, prancer alien!⁹

It was the thundering voice of Alcaeus that brought him back from the lethargy he was in. Upon hearing it, although it sounded very austere, betraying the poet’s anger, Phanias realized some feeling of delight springing up and growing inside him, some feeling of relief that spread its cool wings over his heated cheeks. At last, he was to see some comrade, some friend, so to say, to fill him in with the end of his story. Alcaeus! Praised be the gods, he is well! He certainly sounds well, speaking as passionately, as he always does, but against whom this time? Whom, does he really call those names? Be it whoever! He cares not, since Alcaeus is in good health. The person that Iadmon admired so much is well!

Being frank with his own self, Phanias recognized he was not really that much enchanted by the gifts of Alcaeus, by his art of mastering the language, subduing it to metrics, making music out of it. These were the elements that had appealed to Iadmon tremendously and made him invite the poet to join their company. Phanias did recognize those talents, but he was more of the mood to please Iadmon, thus concurring to have Alcaeus around, while drinking sweet wine together in the evenings. Then again, he had to accept that the poet fitted well in their company as he came down from a gentle family. His stature was close to divine, and above all, he was very handsome, his well-trimmed beard adding to his aristocratic looks.

He turned his head towards the door—not without pain—and saw Alcaeus crossing the threshold, covering the whole of the opening with his well-built body and broad shoulders, darkening the room, as the door was its only opening. He then, made a couple of hesitant steps forward and the light came back into the room, allowing him to spot Phanias lying in a rather small bed in the shadows. Resuming his determination, he advanced—almost rushed—straight to Phanias, and grasped him in his arms, closing them around him so firmly, that he could not refrain from giving a hollow groan, his wound being still fresh. Alcaeus did not even notice it, and started talking. He talked incessantly, as he always did on every occasion he had attentive listeners. His speech, flowing like a torrent, exciting, loaded with passionate expressions, and ornamented admirably, captured his audience, who never objected to his monopolizing the discussion, nor interrupted him, but awaited respectfully for the time to come that his throat would dry up and he would pause to quench it with wine and honey mixed together, even at times of the day others drank water mixed with honey. However, at the moment, Phanias was not in the mood of appreciating the art of Alcaeus, his sophisticated language. Nor had the patience to listen to every minute detail of his story. He was eager to hear about a few other things, besides what he already knew. He really did not need to be told that he was in the shelter of the temple of Messon¹⁰, which fortunately was not too far from the location where he had collapsed, and had fallen, probably to meet his own death. Ever since he came to himself, maybe two, maybe three days ago, they would not allow him to get up, nor was he able to—in all sincerity—and stayed there, in that half dark room, sleeping most of the time, probably because his body needed it, but again, it might be because of the herbs they used to treat him to recovery. So, apart from the place he was hospitalized, he knew nothing.

Iadmon, he said in a weak, cracking voice, Iadmon? He repeated louder, and this time he sounded more like imploring, than asking.

We must not brood upon our ills, repining will not help. Alcaeus responded in verse¹¹ that kept popping up in his mind, those recent unhappy days, responding to thoughts motivated by his own miseries, but no less fitting to Phanias’ grievance. He held his hand between his own, trying to make him see that he understood him, and then went silent, as if his thoughts suddenly flew away, leaving his physical presence with Phanias who was shivering in anguish, his fingers wet and trembling. However, Alcaeus remained indifferent to him, lost in meditation unconfessed.

A soft, swishing sound drew them both back to reality. The rustling sound of a young girl’s clothes, walking into the room with a jug in her hands brought them back. They both turned their heads, simultaneously, and stared at her, as she stood for a brief moment in front of the opening, the midday light, bright and hard to tame—exactly like the hair of Apollo¹²—piercing her vest, wiping it out like she never had it on and rendering her unripe bodyline in clear view.

What is your name? Alcaeus asked her with a slightly discernible quiver in his voice.

Bycchis, she responded quickly, and added promptly: I was sent here, to bring you some fresh water, in case you are thirsty.

We must not brood upon our ills, Bycchis; repining will not help. The best cure is fetching wine here and getting drunk.¹³ Alcaeus cried out with evident satisfaction, because he managed to carry on with the verse he had started earlier. Phanias couldn’t stand him anymore. His anger, swelling gradually inside him, would have surely burst out, if Alcaeus did not change his attitude suddenly, all by himself. He drew his stool closer to Phanias’ bed, and speaking in a grave manner, started his narration from the point he and Iadmon went ahead of their column to scout the road to Pyrrha.

Initially, he said, they had some mishap. A wheel of an ox-cart was broken, and they were forced to pause marching for a while, thus missing their target. The location they had agreed to be their meeting point at sunset was not within their reach anymore. They decided to send Charaxus¹⁴ ahead, to climb the hill in front of them, and scan the opposite slope, the clearing next to the forest, where Phanias and Iadmon would be expecting them to come, after their work was done. They stressed to him not to go any farther, but instead to return to camp before darkness fell from the dome, before its black sheets are spread over the world.

Charaxus returned alone and reported that he had seen no-one, met nobody, but at around sunset, when the lord of the skies was about to lie down in fatigue over the horizon, he heard a howl, a wild, eerie yowl, that did not sound like a man, nor a wolf, but of another world as it broke through the ethereal layers, made the tree-tops shiver and beasts lose their voices. It came from a distance. That he was sure of, but could not say how far. His legs were paralyzed and quivered like the grass leaves, or bushes, beaten by a sudden gust of cold wind. In an effort beyond his known abilities, he pulled himself together, and started running, going arse over tip to get back to his own people as quickly as possible, to his kin and comrades, who were unsuspicious of the evil, and warn them about the beast that had escaped from Hades, probably through some cleavage of the earth, some unknown gate of the Underworld, and was wandering in rage, freely, on the outside.

Charaxus returned to them out of breath, and began telling his story in words of great anxiety. The whole camp shuddered in the hearing, and the trepidation soon changed into anguish and panic which spread fast and was eventually heightened to fever pitch.

It is true that the men, dazed and almost convinced, had managed to contain themselves up to the moment Charaxus’ voice choked in sullen disposition. His words died away, but the women, who were not restrained by shame, collapsed on the ground in wailing, lamenting their bad luck for they had to leave the secure walls of Mytilene, only to find themselves in the calamities of exile, due to the foolishness of their husbands’ uprising against Myrsilus. The children, who believed that the dragon of the underworld—the beast that devours naughty children—of whom their nannies spoke of so often to scare them into eating their food or stop being mischievous, joined them in their lamentation. Then, when almost all were either in despair or just in dismal thoughts, bewailing their lot, Sappho, the young lass from Eressus, rose up from the black ground and started singing to them. She sang in a honey-voice, verse unheard up to that time, so tender to their ears, so sweet, that you might as well mistake her for one of the Muses, a heavenly creature that pitied them and came to their consolation. The guitar came alive in her hands, in the same manner as Arion’s guitar used to do, and little-by-little the panic died down, the fear in everyone’s heart calmed down, because they knew that even Cerberus would go as tame as a puppy, had he heard such a melody.

It was now the turn of Antimenidas to speak. The elder brother of Alcaeus, well-known to everybody for his bravery¹⁵ and well-respected by his enemies for that same reason, drew his long sword and raised it high, like a flagstaff, glittering in the silver light of the full moon climbing the skies and spreading its pale light all over sleepy nature. He brandished it with a superb gesture, with the serenity of the experienced warrior who fears nothing, and swore in the name of Cronides¹⁶ that the blade he had in his hand, the same one that cut down all who had stood against him, would save them from the teeth of the beast. The only and best thing they should do was to spend the night in the clearing, around big fires, with double watches, in order to couple their valour with prudence.

So they did. The icy breath of fear vanished, and the anguished camp calmed down swiftly. Morpheus¹⁷ came soon to embrace them all, but for their leaders, Alcaeus himself, Antimenidas, and Cìcis, the three brothers who had led the coup against Myrsilus, together with Phanias, and Pittacus, the traitor, who stayed behind, in Mytilene, while Phanias—as he knew for himself—had gone ahead, scouting, together with Iadmon. Having lost hope that they would return to camp that night they held a brief council and decided that Antimenidas, with a party of another three including Charaxus, should leave camp at daybreak to scout the whereabouts of the beast Charaxus talked about and to meet with Iadmon and Phanias. Then, they were to return to camp altogether and lead them safely to Pyrrha.

Soon as the sky in the East turned violet, announcing the arrival of Phaethon climbing the chariot of Sun to cross the dome, the valiant Antimenidas started to strap on his arms, silent, in deep deliberation of his responsibilities, because he knew well that everyone was looking up to him, even though they pretended they were still asleep, except that the sighs they couldn’t keep inside their chests betrayed their anxiety. On either side, his comrades, were busy in preparing for the same mission, one kneeling to strap his greaves, another standing, putting on his helmet with the horse’s tail, tasseled, falling gracefully over his shoulders, while the third—this was Charaxus—was sitting quietly and waiting, ready as he was long ago, like he had not slept at all during the night.

When the very first shaft of light, in orange and gold colors, came down from the ridge of Mount Pyrrheo and tinted the top branches of the pine-trees in crimson colours, all four of them moved simultaneously. They rushed into the forest, heading west, where the howl came from, according to Charaxus’ tale. They ran through the murky landscape, obscured in a dismal fog, under the thickly knit canopy of branches. They ran one behind the other, like devils, and the copper that covered their bodies sounded menacingly boisterous, scaring the elves and goblins back into their holes and nests. They held their swords in their hands, and the empty sheaths danced onto their buttocks.

Alcaeus ceased his narration for a while, and fixed his eyes to Bycchis, who appeared in the doorway fetching the wine they had asked for. He made a pause to fill a cup with the ruby-colored liquid and then raised