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died to win back and all those since him? Lesbos will not accept such a treaty!”
    â€œLesbos has accepted it.”
    She shook her head, denying.
    â€œThe war is over, Sappho. The army is weary; the squadrons will no longer obey their captains who whip them to their posts. They will not fight anymore.”
    â€œIt is the fault of those up here on the mountain who resort to old ways. They brought this misfortune of an ill peace upon us.”
    â€œSo it will be said. And so you are safe.”
    â€œStop,” she said viciously. “I hate comfortable words.” She sank down, her small body folding inward.
    â€œCome Sappho, men and ships will be sailing into the twin harbors—tired, defeated men. Mitylene must make them feel like heroes. There will be feasts and acrobats, wine and flowers. The sound of the lute must be heard, your aunt Tyro’s and the good Kleis’s tables must be spread with welcome.”
    She lifted her head and looked at him. “I will keep anger from the words I sing.”
    *   *   *
    This was more difficult than Sappho imagined. Her island world was changing. As Alkaios predicted, the harbors that had been so serene filled with navy pentekoneters, and ships that had patrolled far out crowded dockside. Into her city through its crooked streets swarmed a race of strangers. Giants with unmodulated voices, they trampled the wildflowers with large, coarse-sandled feet. They gathered at taverns, roared their jokes, laughed harshly and unmusically. Their shouts when they hailed one another were enough to reach dark Tartarus. It was an invasion of creatures from some other world. They were called men.
    Were they perhaps Poseidon’s changelings, created by Kronos in ancient days? Or the offspring of the sky king, Uranus, whom Zeus imprisoned below the abyss that broods in unspoken darkness?
    The city went mad. It welcomed these dolts as though they had been victorious and brought home great prizes. But the only prizes they had to bestow were themselves. Everyone seemed to think that quite enough. Petal confetti rained down on swaggering figures naked to the waist, glistening from scented oils the bemused girls rubbed them with.
    Sappho watched this new race, exuding the lusty maleness of bulls and stallions, assume leadership in all things. They returned as masters in every house, and this was seen as natural. The best wines were brought from dark cellars and chill wells. Every kitchen competed in the making of jellies and preserves. The fattest among the flocks were slaughtered, and the maidens of Mitylene appeared in fine cambric with flowers braided in their hair. Music was everywhere: bells were fastened to the manes of horses, tied to chariot reins and over doorposts, accompanied by the sound of lute, lyre, and castanets.
    Pittakos was the only Lesbian leader to return a hero. As the balladmakers and storytellers recounted the tale, Pittakos of Lesbos challenged the Athenian commander, Phynon, to single combat, choosing the art of wrestling-boxing. This seemed to give Phynon the advantage, as it was an event he had won years before in the Olympics. But now, at fifty, he was too old to fight and too proud to refuse. The Athenian met the Lesbian on the field. Pittakos, not trusting to his opponent’s years, hid a net behind his shield. When they clashed, Pittakos, with a mighty heave, entangled his enemy and broke his neck.
    The Athenians cried foul. But the Lesbians needed some claim to success, and for his deed Pittakos was the pride of the entire Lesbian army.
    Sappho watched from her window as the hero rode through the streets with the merchant prince Melanchros and the noble Pinytos. It was plain to her that Pittakos was a rude man, a man of the people. In spite of this he held a strange fascination for her. She tried laughing at him. He did not know how to wear his himation, and the sureness of breeding was lacking, placed as he was between