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diadems for the wedding march.
    Rich delicacies were planned for the banquets, rare fish ordered from the seaside villages, and a command went out for pigs’ wombs, to be simmered and basted to perfection – a dish prized by folk of that land. Flute girls gathered from far-flung farmlands, and oboe players gathered, too, bright-eyed in anticipation at playing music in the presence of Prince Orpheus.
    â€œI have decided that I do not need new clothes,” Biton said one afternoon a few days later, when he and his master had a moment together.
    A tailor had just left the two of them, bowing his way out, taking measurements for a new purple mantle to be worn by Prince Orpheus. Such dyes were rare and expensive, produced from the flesh of scarce shellfish.
    â€œI’ve ordered you fine garments,” protested Orpheus, “and a new mantle, with that pear-blossom pattern you admired in Rodos all along the hem.”
    â€œI’ll make it a point of pride,” insisted Biton, “to wear my worn traveling cloak, and my hat, too, singing Hymen’s hymn, walking along looking simple and plain.”
    â€œYou will have your hair dressed with oil of nard,” said Orpheus, referring to a precious, sweet-smelling perfume, “and in that embroidered mantle no one will have eyes for the groom, let alone the bride.”
    â€œThat’s all to the good,” said Biton. “Because then perhaps I’ll attract the attention of a new master.”
    â€œMy dear Biton, whatever are you thinking?”
    â€œWell, surely you won’t be needing the attentions of a servant named Biton once you are married.”
    â€œBiton, I give you my word,” said the poet with a smile. “You and I are spun together, like two strands of rope.”
    The young servant stirred, and scurried off to the well to see the pretty women of the palace, perhaps, and to fetch his master a fresh pitcher of water.
    He kept his happy eyes downcast. It was not wise, Biton knew, to let the Fates see a mortal so full of hope.

TEN
    One morning, not long before the wedding, Orpheus paid a visit to the home of Alxion the potter and his wife Alope, the adopted parents of the baby Melia.
    To his surprise, Eurydice had arrived beforehand, and knelt singing a soothing lyric beside the sleeping infant.
    â€œWhy are you surprised to see me here?” asked the princess with a smile, when her song was done. “After all, Orpheus, I have good reason to be grateful to little Melia – you were holding her in your arms when I first set eyes on you.”
    The baby was drowsing peacefully in a blanket of soft-combed lamb’s wool. Alxion was eager to show the prince the snug and neatly crafted cradle he had built of poplar wood so that, as the earnest potter put it, “Not even the north wind will shake her sleep.”
    Alope modestly showed the poet the mantle she was weaving of blue- and gold-dyed yarn, so when the child was old enough to accompany her mother to the water well, no winter mist could chill her.
    It gave Orpheus great happiness to see the joy in their eyes.
    And he was touched, too, at Eurydice’s generous nature. The princess did not depart without leaving a wreath of silver laurel leaves with the parents, affixed to the head of the cradle.
    Before she left, Eurydice brushed the infant’s forehead with her lips, and Melia stirred happily.
    As the wedding day grew near, as custom decreed, the couple were rarely allowed to set eyes on each other.
    It was not considered good luck to let betrothed lovers spend much time together now, and laughing but insistent women gently pushed Orpheus away from Eurydice’s gate when he arrived with his lyre.
    He did linger outside the high-walled refuge, where he could hear her singing her favorites, poems in praise of Juno. And he did see her plainly, once – on a sunny afternoon, as she made her way down to the well.
    Orpheus had been waiting