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the question to herself.
    Atreus struck the table with his fist. “Then we are agreed. The Tyrant Melanchros and his bribe-devouring council must go. And tonight one is coming who will help us accomplish this.”
    Who should walk through the door at that moment but Pittakos? Sappho could not believe what her eyes beheld. Trembling, she got to her feet. “You are here without invitation, sir.”
    â€œSappho!” Kharaxos remonstrated, for the laws of hospitality were strong.
    Her small face was white as a death mask. “I speak as I am minded.”
    â€œHe is our guest,” her brother said, “here by my invitation. I remind you, Sister, that all guests are from Zeus.”
    And when this formula failed to soften her, Atreus spoke: “Pittakos is our chance to rid ourselves of Melanchros.”
    Sappho did not relent. “Look at him. I have insulted him and he stands there to hear more.”
    Pittakos was a man turned to stone. He did not know how to battle in words. He did not know how to battle a woman, especially one who spat so fiercely. Atreus leapt to his defense. “Sappho, I, not Khar, asked Pittakos to come tonight. I tell you, the army is with him, and through him the Tyrant can be overthrown.”
    Sappho turned on him. “You are children! Would you trade the Tyrant Melanchros for the Tyrant Pittakos?”
    Pittakos took a step toward her, he had found his tongue. “Sappho, songstress of Lesbos, your words are both true and untrue. It is true that I am a rude fellow unused to the company of such as you and your noble friends and brother. It is untrue that I would raise myself in rank, thereby placing in jeopardy all I have gained. As for becoming Tyrant … you could not have said it but in jest.”
    Sappho sank back in her place, her ever-ready words gone from her. She had never been so close to him. She watched as he took command of the little group. He was, after all, a commander of men. She felt the power in him, not only in his person but in the thoughts he set before them.
    Pittakos spoke of democratic goals, a council in which all voices were heard.
    â€œEven women’s?” Sappho asked, bringing out the thought she had so long suppressed.
    â€œSappho.” Khar was embarrassed. “What god puts such mad notions into your head?”
    â€œWho do you think ran the city of Mitylene for ten long years?”
    But it was Pittakos who, weighing his words, said, “It is good that a woman’s voice be heard. For did not far-darting Athene spring from the head of great Father Zeus?”
    The topic turned to various problems the city faced and how best to address them. Sappho did not follow this. She was thinking that Pittakos had spoken well, better than Khar, and the others had made no comment at all. A new young Tyrant with the juice of manhood in him might indeed be more generous toward women. She excused herself and went upstairs.
    She sat statue-still in her room, waiting for the meeting below to break up. Then she reached for a cloak and slipped along the interstices of the house, using both interior and exterior staircases. Knowing the habits of the family and servants, she was able to avoid being seen.
    She gained the courtyard unobserved, moving stealthily along its walls, lifted the latch, and, once in the street, ran. This she had done since she was a child, when she wanted to escape herself.
    She felt her heavy hair fall rhythmically against her shoulders as she sped the night-darkened world. But tonight she could not outrun the many impressions that jumbled in her. Had she been mistaken? Had Pittakos magnanimously forgiven her public humiliation of him? How well he had spoken regarding far-darting Athene, to whose counsel great Zeus gives ear. Was it true he did not think of becoming Tyrant? Perhaps he should.
    So absorbed was Sappho in introspection that she did not see the man until he stepped in front of her.
    Where had