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he come from? He stood blocking her way in a narrow alley. She was not afraid, merely annoyed that he did not move aside. She was about to raise her voice to request this, for he was a common soldier, his single garment coarsely woven—when two rough arms took her and she was brought against a body like a boulder. One of the kolossos’s arms was all that was needed to hold her; with it, he backed her against a building, bringing his face against hers. A rank man-smell combining sweat and wine and something more intangible made her frantic. But she was too shrewd to struggle.
    â€œWell, well, what have we here?” The misbegotten creature smiled down at her, showing a space in his mouth through which wine dribbled. Protuberant lips fastened against hers and a callused hand felt its way inside her chiton. A thumb dug painfully into her buttocks, and she was tipped toward the blunt weapon of flesh rising under his tunic. It was a searching thing with a life of its own, groping for the center of the three folds which must not be violated.
    â€œI am virgin.” She hissed the words between their two mouths. “My family is powerful. You will die for this. Consider, is it worth it to have your parts hacked off, and your head afterward?”
    Her body twisted to keep from being penetrated by that blind, thrusting organ. “My father is the prince Skamandronymos,” she cried.
    The soldier laughed. “He’s dead.”
    â€œAnd Pittakos, that leader of men, was earlier at my house.”
    â€œAnd you would call on him? On Pittakos?” The man’s laugh rumbled through his body. “He’s the one who tells his friends to be on the lookout for a pretty morsel like you. Any girl who wanders alone at night is looking for trouble.”
    Sappho sank deadweight in his arms. He bent over her to hoist her up so he could finish his business. But she had positioned herself under him so she could knee him in the vulnerables, as vicious a blow as he’d ever been struck. He doubled over.
    Sappho gave a shove and was under his arm, racing away. She didn’t know which turnings she took. She ran wildly, her breath coming jerkily. A great rasping filled her lungs and the cavities of her head, and she thought she would strangle. She was not crying, but tears hung before her vision— I am blinded like the Cyclops —and she fell upon the stones of the street.
    Lying in a heap, her skin prickling in anticipation of that rough hand falling upon her to finish what had been started, she slowly became aware that no one followed. And at the same instant the gods showed her herself, debased by fear, cowering in filth. Sappho, descendant of a noble house, humiliated by one of Pittakos’s soldiers.
    Her question had been answered. Pittakos had not forgotten, nor would he. He must know her habit of running about the streets at night. She had always done it, and thought nothing of it. But now the men had returned. Presenting themselves as protectors, they were violators lying in wait. And he encouraged them. Had he singled her out? Did he have her in mind when he let loose his dogs? Did he plan to ask for particulars, insist on details, deriving as much pleasure as though his rod committed the rape? And she had softened toward him, believed his glib, easy speech.
    If only he had known. Had he himself come after her, she would have put up no resistance. And she cried for shame to be swept by unbearable desire.
    What had become of the Sappho of old, who abhorred the rough and the vulgar? “O Artemis, Apollo’s lovely twin, I will burn hekatombs! Pure virgin, help Sappho be as she was.”
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    Zeus, capricious in all things, gave victory to the forces raised against Melanchros, and the Tyrant was exiled. Mysilos of Leanex became the new Tyrant. Atreus and Pittakos, as the chief architects of this political insurgency, were his closest counselors. Pittakos had the