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men who gave no place to women and yet decided their fate?
    The trophy was a mixing bowl of silver finely wrought by Phoenicians from beyond the sea. Second place brought a large ox and a talent of gold; this was won by Sappho’s brother Eurygyos, named for the uncle in whose house they lived.
    Discus throwers now took their stance. Sappho thought of the story of Apollo. It was in such a game that he accidently struck his friend Hyacinth, who died in his arms. “Alas, alas!” Apollo wept. And where his friend fell a hyacinth flower sprang up with “Alas!” etched on every petal.
    The final contest of the day was the wrestling match. Sappho’s attention was riveted once more on Pittakos, who, rested from his exertions of the morning, stepped forward to try his skill as he had with Phynon the Athenian. Sappho took in the raw power of his body, the naked, gleaming sinews of a lion. His breast heaved as he circled his adversary looking for an opening. They gripped tentatively, and moved apart. The opponent closed but Pittakos broke the hold. Again they were at each other like Zeus’s lightning. The crowd thrilled to see them wind their bodies around each other in attitudes intimate as sex. Feeling the erotic arousal of the spectators, both men swelled like stallions. The crowd shrieked their pleasure at this proof of virility. The next instant, one of the stallions was on the ground, deflated, sweating from every pore and groaning. Pittakos had given him a tremendous knock behind the knees that sent him sprawling.
    The audience yelled derisively as an old she-goat was led out. There were catcalls and laughter as the defeated wrestler got lumberingly to his feet and with chagrin led away his prize. The winner, Pittakos, was presented with a double goblet of handcrafted gold. He stood turning slowly for all to see—the cup, Sappho wondered, or his own magnificent torso?
    Sappho was on her feet. Curving her hands about her lips she called, “Where’s your net?” The mocking tone carried. There was a moment’s silence while the joke penetrated. Heads wagged; sharp-tongued Sappho had hit the mark.
    Laughter swelled against Pittakos, who seemed to shrink as he stood there, his role reversed from hero to butt. He turned and looked at the woman who had robbed him of his triumph. All who saw that look knew a struggle had commenced between the poet and the strongman.
    Sappho smiled at him. She knew he knew lawless things and was without shame, and that he was her enemy. As her enemy she could withstand him, but if he turned his parts and passions toward her, she would be his slave. That she would not have.
    *   *   *
    The merchant prince Melanchros was declared Tyrant of Lesbos. He made a stern, inflexible ruler, and it became fashionable to quote Sappho:
    You cannot bend a stiff mind
    Melanchros made things worse by taking up the Spartan cry “No one belongs to himself, but all to the State.” Would he segregate women then, Sappho wondered, and take their children from them? She saw that privileges taken for granted could easily vanish. But it was the tax laws, enforced with new rigidity, that had the common people openly muttering. Even the aristocracy were critical of Melanchros’s heavy-handed approach, and plots against him seethed. In the taverns men put their heads together; in many of the wealthy homes there were meetings that lasted late into the night.
    Alkaios and his brother, Atreus, met often in the home of Sappho’s aunt. Sappho sat with them and Kharaxos over spiced anchovies and nettles fried in oil, sipping wine, talking revolt.
    There was a thought in her mind she had not expressed to the others. Her position was unique, she recognized this. Was she, the only woman, included because she was Khar’s sister, Alkaios’s good friend, because it was her aunt’s home—or because she was Sappho? Until she could be more sure, she kept