Athens buzzed with the promise of the Dionysia, but a different weight hung over this year's festivities. The city's air was a tapestry of contradictions: the sweet scent of myrrh and warm barley loaves mingled with the tang of spilled wine and burning laurel leaves. Ivy garlands drooped across humble shops, while merchants paraded amphorae of wine, offering fresh bread and dried figs to passersby. In the Agora, gilded politicians sponsored grand spectacles even as they plotted war strategies between hearty laughs, ignoring masked actors reciting fractured verses about Dionysus to a crowd of vacant stares and empty wineskins. Dust blurred the statues of the Theatre of Dionysus, and the Odeon lay silent except for a lone lyre player whose out-of-tune strings grated on Roxana's nerves.
She climbed the Acropolis hill amid hungry faces pressing the Parthenon's steps for scraps of celebration. The invitation from Alcibiades felt like a weight in her hand. She passed crossed-lance guards, sandals squeaking on polished marble. In the courtyard, magistrates sipped wine in silver cups, their voices hollow beneath oil lamp glow. A servant offered her wine; she declined with a curt gesture—still tasting Alcibiades's breath on her neck, his fingers ghosting her shoulder.
— Ah, the messenger from Lesbos! Alcibiades's voice cut through the air like a blade. He appeared, smile as calculated as his stride. — Still wearing that wounded eagle's gaze. Charming.
Roxana forced a smile.
— I come for verse, not politics.
— Verse? he laughed, nodding at a stumbling poet clutching an empty wineskin. — These beggars can't tell couplet from hiccup. You'd do better.
She turned, cheeks burning, but Alcibiades pulled her into a circle of generals gossiping over Spartan warships like tavern jokes. Roxana feigned interest, eyes drifting to an improvised stage where a young woman trembled through an ode. Erato wouldn't whisper that even in nightmares, she thought, clutching her invisible lyre.
— Excuse me, she interjected, pointing to a distant servant. — I need to… check something.
She melted into the shadows by silver platters piled with figs and cheeses. She filled her hands with grapes, the sweet juice staunching the nausea Alcibiades always provoked. Her ears caught subtleties few noticed—a gift from her mentor, Sappho. These artists, though talented, lacked the poetess's depth. Could I ever stand on that stage?, she wondered.
Then Alcibiades's triumphant voice rang out:
— Ladies and gentlemen! Clap for today's performers—undeniably gifted. But tonight we honor one of Greece's greatest voices, a true muse among us: Roxana of Lesbos, disciple of the legendary Sappho! He presented her like a prize.
Roxana froze, grape dropping from her hand as all eyes turned to her. Applause erupted before she could protest. She forced a smile through tears, swallowing grapes whole as their acidity burned her throat. Alcibiades approached, offering a cedar lyre inlaid with gold. His hand lingered over hers as he handed it.
— Honor us with your muse, Roxana, he urged, an edge in his smile.
Roxana's fists clenched. It would be perfect if I punched him now, she thought. She extracted the lyre with sudden force and held it aloft like a shield to hush the crowd.
— Alcibiades is too kind. I claim no such title. This honor belongs to Sappho, my teacher. If I sing tonight, it is her voice you hear.
Murmurs swept the crowd at the name. Roxana perched on the rickety stool—one leg notably shorter, or perhaps the ground was uneven. The seat wobbled. Her heart raced. Breathe, she reminded herself. You can do this.
She closed her eyes, imagining Sappho's hands guiding hers over the strings. Let the verses carry her like wind through ruins. The mentor's voice grew in her mind above the crowd's din until her melody, tender yet fierce, filled the courtyard with reverent hush. Her verses flowed, soft and sharp as a river she barely controlled:
I speak plain: I wished myself dead.
Let me dissolve in tears:
Yet, oh, how sorrow marks our fate!
I swear against my will, Sappho—
"Be happy," I said,
And remember how I hold you love.
Or have you forgotten? Then I'll remind you
Of garlands we wove in your lap:
Roses, violets, saffron bright—
Many-colored necklaces we strung
For Attis's tender neck; perfumes
In your hair, rare oils on your skin—
Soft bed where love was born
Of your beauty, and I slaked
Your thirst…
When her final chords faded, applause crashed like waves—but Roxana heard only silence. Her eyes locked on a single unmoving face in the crowd: the stranger from the day before, before Pericles's council. He stood silent, not clapping, lost in unseen thoughts. The noise around her melted away as she wondered, What do you see that I cannot? She longed to shout, but Alcibiades was already shepherding her toward a circle of politicians praising her "exotic grace" as if appraising a rare vase.
As night deepened, she scanned for the stranger once more—he had vanished, leaving only a wine-stained patch on the marble, crimson as the blood she knew so well.