In the oppressive safety of the guest room, the scent of medicinal herbs and clean linen filled the air, a sterile contrast to the stench of death that hung over the city. The aroma of herbs was strong, but beneath it, Roxana caught a phantom trace of something sweeter. Jasmine. And the memory came in a rush, not as a dream, but as a tide pulling her toward a sun that no longer warmed her.
Five years earlier...
The sound of soft footsteps interrupted the rhythm of the mop on the stone floor. She looked up. Sappho stood under the archway of the entrance, her saffron-colored dress floating like a butterfly's wings. The poetess smiled, and Roxana gripped the wooden handle until her knuckles turned white.
— Roxana — Sappho called, her voice as soft as the rustle of laurel leaves. — Come. The sun is generous today.
She hesitated, wiping her dirty hands on her apron. In her world, kindness was the prelude to cruelty. Sappho's skin, when it touched hers, was soft, unmarred. A warmth she was not used to. Roxana pulled her arm back almost immediately, as if the touch could burn her.
They walked to the gardens, where the air was heavy with the perfume that had assaulted her in the present. At the end of the path, in a clearing, stood a solitary wooden easel. Upon it, a blank canvas waited.
— This is my refuge — Sappho said, her voice tinged with a melancholy Roxana recognized. — This war... sometimes, the only thing that still makes sense is this school. And you. — Her eyes reddened. — I know that silence can be a prison, Roxana. The face you show the world is strong, but I feel there is a song inside you that has not yet been sung. Perhaps today, it does not need words.
The recognition in those words struck her like a blow. Sappho saw her.
— I do not know what you want from me, my lady.
— Nothing you do not wish to give. And, by the gods, call me Sappho.
A fleeting, almost pained smile touched Roxana's lips.
— Sappho.
— Do you see this? — the poetess continued, gesturing to the canvas. — I believe that within us, there is a truth that words cannot reach. Poetry, music, painting... they are bridges. Paint what you see. Paint the beauty... or the lack of it. Paint your truth.
Roxana looked at the blank canvas. With hesitant fingers, she picked up a brush. The colors on the palette were vibrant, but her hand went straight for the charcoal, diluting it in water until it became an ink of shadows. a flash of memory—the smell of smoke and salt, the sound of wood crackling under fire—guided the first stroke.
And then, the song erupted. The strokes emerged, heavy and furious. Dark lines tore through the serene landscape. The green of the trees bled into blackness, the river became a murky reflection of a sky heavy with clouds that writhed like hands. When she finished, breathless, her chest burning, the wind carried a dry leaf to the canvas, sticking it to the wet ink like a scar.
Sappho examined the painting in silence, absorbing every brushstroke of despair. Then, she stepped closer and, without a word, began to recite, her voice a balm on the open wounds of the canvas.
Fear not the night, my daughter,
For in it, a lost sister sings.
In the lake's depths, in the river's silence,
A crownless queen spins your thread.
Her voice broke on the last line. Roxana didn't realize she was crying until she tasted salt on her lips. She looked up at Sappho and saw the tears streaming freely down the poetess's face. But in her eyes, there was no pity. There was a mirror.
Sappho did not wipe away her own tears; she let them stain her saffron dress.
— I used to see the world this way too... — she whispered, the confession a secret shared between two survivors. — Before I learned to lie to myself.
That night, Roxana sat on the studio floor, her charcoal-blackened fingers tracing verses onto a scroll. The words were not perfect, but they were hers—crooked, angry, full of exposed roots and heavy skies. They were the song Sappho had helped her find.
The memory faded, leaving a trail of jasmine and charcoal. Roxana opened her eyes. She was back in the silent room in Athens. She picked up a stylus and a wax tablet. Sappho's poem echoed in her mind. A crownless queen. The stylus felt as heavy as the brush had that day. And, for the first time since she had arrived, the words she wrote were not a lament, but the sharpening of a blade.