Free Sappho by Nancy Freedman Page B

murdered body of Melanchros.”
    The captain and his soldiers laughed. “Melanchros is in exile. Everyone knows that.”
    â€œMelanchros is in this grave, butchered by order of Pittakos.”
    There was no laughter now. “These are serious charges.”
    â€œBring up the body. You will see.”
    â€œStep back then.” Going graveside, the captain yelled to Khar. “Out of there. Give him a hand up,” he instructed. Khar landed beside his sister.
    Sappho turned to the soldiers. “You are witnesses.”
    Alkaios whispered. “It is unwise to speak so to those in the pay of the Tyrant.”
    â€œWhy?” Sappho demanded. “Are they not citizens?”
    The shrouded object was raised. There was something odd about its shape, even obscured by the winding sheet—it was too short. Had the body been dismembered? Was this but part of the torso? Was the head at some other site to make identification impossible?
    The sheet was unrolled and the carcass tumbled out. Sappho peered to see. She gasped. It was the remains of a large dog.
    She heard Alkaios groan, saw him tear his tunic. They were betrayed. Atreus had bargained for his life with theirs.
    Sappho felt Alkaios’s anguish, but there was no comfort for him. Khar’s sandaled foot kicked the dead cur. Sappho drew back from the stench.
    â€œFollow me,” the captain said. “You are prisoners.”
    â€œFor what crime?” Sappho demanded.
    â€œPlotting treason.”
    â€œWe were teasing about Melanchros,” Sappho said. “Everyone knows he is in Rhodes. This is my good dog. How does it injure Mysilos or Pittakos if I bury my faithful dog?”
    Khar grinned. But the soldiers closed ranks and marched them quickly through the city. Every doorpost was smeared with pitch to keep off wandering shades and ghosts from upper air. The frenzy of the death of Dionysos had passed, leaving the populace subdued, lethargic, worn out from the excesses of days of celebration. In the quiet of their houses, each family did honor to their dead. An intimate feast was decorously eaten as tribute to the joy-god, the tragic god, the only god to experience death. Wine jars, seed jars, and funeral jars, which had been opened to allow the spirits final hours of freedom, were once more bottled. In the morning the houses would be vigorously brushed with buckthorn to chase away any lingering shade. All would be born again in new crops, new stock, and new infants. The Earth replenishes itself and man has his part to play, in life and in death.
    Past these shuttered houses the prisoners were marched. All Mitylene would hear of it and enjoy the joke: betrayed by the putrefaction of a dog. Claiming they were digging up the murdered body of Melanchros! What shame! For Sappho, the ridicule was worse than any punishment.
    They entered the town hall, where Mysilos and Pittakos waited. These judges of her life were seated on high-backed chairs, their faces passive and unreadable.
    The accused were led forward. It was Pittakos who spoke. Naturally—it was he who baited the trap. “I am sorry indeed to see you three before me again. Apparently a warning was not enough, for you are here on the same charges—calumny and plotting against the city. In particular, you persist in the belief that Melanchros was murdered, and tonight made an attempt to dig up the body. Tell me what you found.”
    There was silence in the hall. For once Sappho had no words either sung or spoken.
    Pittakos continued, “The gracious Tyrant of Lesbos cannot permit this seething atmosphere of suspicion, slander, and false accusation. You chose to disregard my counsel. You, Kharaxos, and you, Alkaios, and you, Sappho, have not desisted. You still plot. The body of the cur will be dragged to the main square and the story told. I am sorry. I am sorry, too, that sentence this time must be pronounced against you.” He nodded to a henchman, who read