love."
112
Artem wrapped Hyacinth's fingers around the green gems and squeezed her hand. "There is
no one else I will love."
He swung his legs over the balcony and prepared to climb down. "Keep these," he said.
"Give them back to me on the day when you are sure you do not love me."
Artem sat on the Acropolis playing his flute. Months had passed since he last saw Hyacinth.
As he had predicted, he had won the Olympic gold medal at the archery competition. He'd
even had the pleasure of beating Macar. He didn't know which had been sweeter, winning
the prize or seeing that fool's face twisted in outrage when he saw who had beaten him.
But still, Hyacinth would not see him. Each time he came to the temple of Athena, she sent
the shifty-eyed Iphigenia to send him away.
He was not so easily deterred. Night after night, he sat under her balcony playing his flute.
He would break and recite his poem of ancient Egypt which he had completed during his
long recuperation from Macar's beating.
It was no longer just a story of a Nubian slave captive in Egypt. Now it told of an Egyptian
woman he had loved. They had escaped from Egypt together and sailed south down the
Nile. The song was rich with images of the golden sands, the imposing pyramids, and then
the majestic temples and palaces of Nubia, the slave's beloved home.
These pictures had come to him in a rush of inspiration
113
sent, he had no doubt, from the muses of Mount Olympus, the divine creatures who
inspired all the arts. Where else imaginings like that could originate in one such as himself
who had never been out of Athens, he could not think.
And then one night, she appeared. How his heart had leaped at the sight of her, the silken
dark hair, her form so desirable silhouetted there in the lamplight. Standing on the balcony,
she sang to the sound of his flute, singing the words of his poem that she had committed to
memory. That voice! Surely the siren mermaids upon their rocky cliffs that had mesmerized
countless sailors with their sorceress songs could not sing more beautifully than did
Hyacinth.
In the light of the lamp hanging above her door, there shone a glint of brilliant green at the
side of her chin. She wore his earrings! She loved him still!
But when he began to climb to her balcony, she turned and went inside, shutting the door
behind her.
Curse her stubbornness -- her foolish, misguided sense of duty! What had her family ever
done for her but make her feel stupid and unworthy? It was her destiny to be with him! Why did she let fear and duty rule her in this way?
But even as he cursed her, his heart exploded with love for his beautiful girl, his Hyacinth. He
would never give up on her.
Iphigenia stood in the doorway to Hyacinth's chamber. It was the feast of Pallas Athena, the
one day of the year
114
when they would go out among the people in celebration of Athena, the guardian of their
city.
Hyacinth stood at the window, gazing out over the Acropolis. Her hair was done up in
golden cords. Her tunic was a fresh one. She was absently humming a song that Iphigenia
recognized. It was the song she sang at night to the one who had once been known as the
wild boy.
Iphigenia's eyes roamed to the gorgeous green earrings, clasped one to the other and
sitting in a ceramic dish on Hyacinth's night table. They were a gift from the wild boy --
stolen by him, no doubt. Hyacinth never wore them in the temple. It had to be that she only
wore them at night when the two of them made music together.
Nightly, Iphigenia had fallen asleep restlessly listening to that maddening song drifting
into her room.
Hyacinth played such games with that poor fellow, singing to him and yet shutting her door
on him, refusing to see him. Either she loved him or she didn't! Why did he put up with it?
And that stupid boy did not even recognize Iphigenia when he saw her. He had never
noticed her, even before, when he had come by the temple begging for
112
Artem wrapped Hyacinth's fingers around the green gems and squeezed her hand. "There is
no one else I will love."
He swung his legs over the balcony and prepared to climb down. "Keep these," he said.
"Give them back to me on the day when you are sure you do not love me."
Artem sat on the Acropolis playing his flute. Months had passed since he last saw Hyacinth.
As he had predicted, he had won the Olympic gold medal at the archery competition. He'd
even had the pleasure of beating Macar. He didn't know which had been sweeter, winning
the prize or seeing that fool's face twisted in outrage when he saw who had beaten him.
But still, Hyacinth would not see him. Each time he came to the temple of Athena, she sent
the shifty-eyed Iphigenia to send him away.
He was not so easily deterred. Night after night, he sat under her balcony playing his flute.
He would break and recite his poem of ancient Egypt which he had completed during his
long recuperation from Macar's beating.
It was no longer just a story of a Nubian slave captive in Egypt. Now it told of an Egyptian
woman he had loved. They had escaped from Egypt together and sailed south down the
Nile. The song was rich with images of the golden sands, the imposing pyramids, and then
the majestic temples and palaces of Nubia, the slave's beloved home.
These pictures had come to him in a rush of inspiration
113
sent, he had no doubt, from the muses of Mount Olympus, the divine creatures who
inspired all the arts. Where else imaginings like that could originate in one such as himself
who had never been out of Athens, he could not think.
And then one night, she appeared. How his heart had leaped at the sight of her, the silken
dark hair, her form so desirable silhouetted there in the lamplight. Standing on the balcony,
she sang to the sound of his flute, singing the words of his poem that she had committed to
memory. That voice! Surely the siren mermaids upon their rocky cliffs that had mesmerized
countless sailors with their sorceress songs could not sing more beautifully than did
Hyacinth.
In the light of the lamp hanging above her door, there shone a glint of brilliant green at the
side of her chin. She wore his earrings! She loved him still!
But when he began to climb to her balcony, she turned and went inside, shutting the door
behind her.
Curse her stubbornness -- her foolish, misguided sense of duty! What had her family ever
done for her but make her feel stupid and unworthy? It was her destiny to be with him! Why did she let fear and duty rule her in this way?
But even as he cursed her, his heart exploded with love for his beautiful girl, his Hyacinth. He
would never give up on her.
Iphigenia stood in the doorway to Hyacinth's chamber. It was the feast of Pallas Athena, the
one day of the year
114
when they would go out among the people in celebration of Athena, the guardian of their
city.
Hyacinth stood at the window, gazing out over the Acropolis. Her hair was done up in
golden cords. Her tunic was a fresh one. She was absently humming a song that Iphigenia
recognized. It was the song she sang at night to the one who had once been known as the
wild boy.
Iphigenia's eyes roamed to the gorgeous green earrings, clasped one to the other and
sitting in a ceramic dish on Hyacinth's night table. They were a gift from the wild boy --
stolen by him, no doubt. Hyacinth never wore them in the temple. It had to be that she only
wore them at night when the two of them made music together.
Nightly, Iphigenia had fallen asleep restlessly listening to that maddening song drifting
into her room.
Hyacinth played such games with that poor fellow, singing to him and yet shutting her door
on him, refusing to see him. Either she loved him or she didn't! Why did he put up with it?
And that stupid boy did not even recognize Iphigenia when he saw her. He had never
noticed her, even before, when he had come by the temple begging for
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