Lysias, son of Hyperides, summoned his two male servants and set off for the lower City. The morning sun had not reached the streets of Athens, and yet the columns of the rebuilt Temple of Athene, high up on the Akropolis, glowed with the beautiful pastel shades of dawn.

A cock crowed, a dog barked and Lysias wondered afresh why he had agreed to collect the lyre from Skilios in person.

His young daughter gazed expectantly, excitedly, from an upper window as he passed through the gateway of his estate and walked purposefully down the hill, his servants dutifully in his wake.

The message from Skilios, a masterpiece of scribbled brevity, stated only that the lyre was finished and ready for collection. "You must come personally and bring your purse,' added the messenger in a tone of rehearsed authority. Skilios the Instrument Maker, though renowned for his undoubted craftsmanship, had gained an equal reputation for bad-temper, intolerance and cantankerousness. Only the splendour of his creations kept him from forced exile, or worse!

And Lysias, a senior magistrate of middle years, was equally an irascible man of limited tolerance! The meeting, the finalising of a contract, an unspecified number of drakhmai for a daughter's gift, promised to be a volatile affair.

"But why,' mused Lysias as he trod the dust and avoided the occasional pile of thrown excrement, "did Skilios choose the lower City, in the poor district of Kollytos, to build his workshop?'

The shadowy streets, flanked for the most part by the boundary walls of terraced houses, and the occasional open-fronted shop, grew narrower as Lysias progressed southwards. The stink offended his nostrils; the poverty offended his oligarchic sensibilities.

"For my daughter, soon to be fourteen and eligible for marriage; what joy, what sadness!' he muttered to himself by way of encouragement. It did not occur to him to communicate with his servants in the streets, not now, not ever. They were non-citizens, barbarians from the northern borders of Thessaly.

The incongruous entourage entered a small market square, turned to pass under a massive and dusty plane tree and came upon the workshop and dwelling of Skilios the Instrument Maker.

The small workshop door was open and already the sounds of industry spilled enticingly onto the street. It paid to advertise in all the traditional ways of the working class!

Lysias ducked under the timber lintel and entered the workshop, condescendingly resigned to meeting his contracted artisan in person.

Suddenly the atmosphere of the workshop, a large open room dominated by unprepared timber columns, work-benches and stagnant, dust laden air, beset his senses and jolted him into a new level of awareness. Shafts of borrowed light from a flanking alleyway caught the fine particles of wood-dust, as though to stir them gently into drifting motion. Large oil-lamps with floating wicks hung occasionally from the low ceiling, the warm light almost wasted on the timber soffit. The odours of the place, redolent with the residue of sawn wood, brought an unwanted sense of pleasure to the opinionated magistrate.

Lysias glanced around, his two servants stationary a pace or two behind. Most of the work-benches and the areas reserved for special processes were vacant. But occasionally an artisan, perhaps an apprentice or craftsman contracted for the year, worked away, chiselling, carving, moulding or assembling a dazzling array of instruments.

The spellbound magistrate, normally conscious of time and eager to move on, shuffled slowly through the workshop. He was in no hurry to meet Skilios. Quite the contrary, he wanted this moment of suspended pleasure, stolen from the working-class, to last a while longer.

He gazed upon instruments of many styles, but all from the stringed or percussion group. Some were half-built and seemingly discarded on a work-bench, some were almost complete and suspended from the ceiling; and others waited in mysterious order to be varnished, painted or finished with coloured embellishments.

He cast his layman's eye over so much, not appreciating that this Master craftsman had a reputation for copying instruments from far flung places; like the four double-stringed Laouto from Byzantion, with its frets and long neck perfect for rhythmic and harmonic accompaniment. Or the triangular Kanonaki played on the lap and plucked with fashioned thimbles worn on the thumbs of each hand. And only Skilios, with his fascination for musical history, appreciated that the ancestor of the Kanonaki was the Kanon, a single-stringed instrument with a moveable bridge and allegedly invented by Pythagoras, several generations ago! Should some nimble-fingered musician bring this polished beauty to life, the sound would be as the ancients heard drifting across the mountains and valleys of Samos!

And what else lay silently awaiting the musicians touch, a Sumerian harp; a framed-drum from Makedonia and played with the fingers; a Daouli played with two sticks of unequal thickness, and so much more just waiting to be brought to life.

But then Skilios emerged from a corner of the workshop separated by hanging drapes, and shattered this unexpected vision. The Instrument Maker paced the length of the workshop purposefully, his back bent by years of industry, his eyes careful to avoid those of his client. There was no formal greeting, no recognition by name or title, the craftsman simply declared when sufficiently close that the lyre was not quite ready. "We are making a few minor adjustments," he stated with false breathlessness, and then turned to scold an apprentice attempting to fix a bridge the wrong way round.

Lysias immediately took the statement as an insult. "But you said the lyre was ready, I have your mark upon the clay!"

Skilios shrugged his shoulders: he was quite prepared to be resolute and intransigent in the face of this magistrate from the office of the Arkhon; prepared that is, all the while his courage lasted.

Lysias felt strangely uncomfortable as this fascinatingly alien world became transformed into a place of frustration and annoyance. Such treatment was simply an affront to his undoubted authority and status! He grew angry, his superior height a significant advantage as he pushed past Skilios and stepped purposefully towards the drawn drapes.

Skilios, forced sideways by the glancing blow to his shoulder, reacted instinctively and moved with deceptive speed to position himself between the drapes and the now stationary Lysias. "It is being re-strung, that is all! Please wait a moment, your honour." The Instrument Maker's courage was by now ebbing away; his acquired gruffness crumbling before this man of breeding and education. "Let me tell you what happened during the making of your lyre," he began with a sudden spark of enthusiasm.

Lysias sighed and glanced sideways as a sign of tacit consent.

Skilios straightened as best he could as he spoke: "When you first commissioned the lyre for your daughter, and requested that the sounding box should be made of wood, and not the usual tortoise-shell, I realised that particular care should be taken over the selection of the materials. So I set off with my assistant for the timber-yards of the Peiraieus, to purchase the very best pieces for your sounding box. But as you know, Athens is rebuilding her fleet after the disasters in Sicily."

Skilios paused to emit a forlorn and patriotic sigh. "Terrible you know, so many of our young men dead, and for what...?"

Lysias raised an animated hand, intended, without much thought, to cut short the unnecessary diversion. He failed to appreciate that Skilios merely wished to point out that the timber-yards were flooded with pine, cedar and other ship-building woods not suitable for instrument making.

Skilios continued, "We were about to leave when a stranger, a Hellene perhaps from our eastern borders, drew our attention to a drum of maple , unprepared and rested upright like a sawn stump still rooted to the ground. We did not realise the value of this sawn bole until the dark and troubled stranger scraped the sawn surface with his knife, and directed our attention to the fine and even grain. In every respect this man of few words epitomised sadness, for the lines about his eyes and etched into his fulsome brow spoke of despair."

"Suddenly the stranger fell to his knees. "It will be hard to carve,' he cried, and by way of demonstration he raised a short-bladed knife to the height of his shoulders and brought it down with all the strength he could muster. The sharpened tip penetrated the wood only sufficient to support itself as the stranger let go the jewelled handle."

"He urged me to withdraw the knife, but I only managed to comply after much effort."

"So we thanked the stranger, hired a hand-cart and brought the whole piece back to the workshop. I tell you, we blunted many a fine chisel and saw on that piece of seasoned wood. Eventually we managed to construct a sounding box of remarkable tone. We modelled the shape on the Ionian lyre, now fairly common in the eastern isles. We used oak for the frame and animal-gut for the strings. Eventually, after much polishing and gentle tuning, we found ourselves staring in admiration at a most beautiful instrument!"

Unless a means of prevarication, Lysias could see no point to the story. Romantic history of any kind was of no interest to him, particularly since his only objective was to acquire a musical instrument of sufficient quality to enable his daughter to win first prize at the forthcoming festival, the City Dionysia.

Skilios, sensing his client's frustration, quickly gave poignant relevance to his monologue. "Last night, after dark would you believe, our stranger from the timber-yard appeared in the doorway. He thrust a package into my hand and turned to walk away without as much as a word. We asked him what was in the package, but he only replied, "For your lyre! You have three sets of strings made from Persian flax and woven by women brought from the far-east for this single skill. Fit them to your lyre and remember, do not fall in love with your creation, lest it breaks your heart.' We called after the stranger, now half-way across the square and almost lost to the shadows of the spreading plane tree, "What is your name, you never told us your name?' He hesitated for a moment, as though reluctant to turn back. And from his hooded cloak came the plaintive cry, "Orpheus, my name is Orpheus!' The name caught us by surprise, our silence an unfortunate excuse for him to slip away."

Skilios glanced at his client's face. "Let me add that this took place late last night. We were tired and my wife, bless her soul, had prepared a chicken stew for me and my sons. We decided to re-string the lyre first thing in the morning, thinking it would be an easy task for our oldest apprentice."

Lysis relaxed and rested himself against the nearest workbench. The story did have a passing interest, and certainly represented a credible excuse for the delay. "At least I have not been insulted,' he thought to himself.

Moments later the apprentice and the assistant appeared from behind the drapes and nodded with relief at Skilios. "Then pull the curtains back," said Skilios with a clasp of his hands. "Let us show the honourable Lysias what we have built for him." The two employees, clearly proud of their finishing touches, drew back the heavy drapes and revealed the lyre of Orpheus.

It stood upright on a low table and supported by a willow frame bound together with strips of dried bark. Skilios gasped and Lysias had to steady himself lest he fell over.

Several oil lamps had been placed either side of the display, the orangey-yellow light only serving to enhance the fine, polished grain of the maple. And the rigid whiteness of the flax strings seemed to deceive the eye and stand apart from the instrument, like lines of pure light. The contrasts, the richly polished surfaces textured by the lamp-light, bedazzled all those who gazed upon this instrument of perfect form. It was truly a thing to behold!

Curiously Skilios looked upon the lyre as though for the first time. The light, the upright presentation, invoked in him the feeling that his creation had come to life. Strange passions surged through his body and filled him, initially, with an overwhelming sense of melancholy.

Then he saw Lysias reach out, the fingers of his client's hand stretched and headed for the strings. Instinctively Skilios grabbed the moving wrist and pulled it violently to one side. "I must be the first, you understand. She is mine, my creation!" he gasped with a deeply felt conviction that he was in the right. Lysias had no grounds for complaint!

Although besotted with this living thing, erect and beckoning, Lysias advanced very slowly, his fingers almost straight and together. They caressed the body of the lyre as one, feeling the waxed surface as the softest, warmest flesh imaginable. Gradually his fingers slithered towards the open strings in a movement as erotic as it was mesmerising. "A touch, just a touch," he whispered to himself and his whole body enjoyed the overwhelming sensation of a passionate caress.

Then his index finger, now parted and bent just a fraction more, touched the nearest string and stiffened in preparation for the climax. The pliant string made no sound as it weakened to the will of its master.

The finger, now shaking in anticipation, released the tensioned flax and the string sang out in vibration. Then the sounding box sprang into life and a thing of perfect pitch leapt forth and stood in the room as something real and tactile. It filled the space around the men, encapsulating, embracing as a form carved from an invisible and mystical substance. It retained its imagined shape for a few moments, then weakened, waned, and died as the subject of a memory.

The four men gasped afresh and gazed at one another.

Lysias felt exhilarated through the sheer energy generated by the sound, his ability to think and calculate impaired to a point of stasis. But Skilios knew only one thing; the lyre was his to possess, to cherish as a loved one full of potential and promise. "It is mine," he whispered to himself, the others an almost forgotten presence.

Lysias, stimulated by the chatter of the apprentice some distance away, composed himself to the urgency of the occasion. "We did not agree a price," he croaked, his throat full of unwanted phlegm. He coughed, "How about five hundred drakhmai, a fair price and easily justified if we assume eighty days at five obols a day for the labour, and a hundred drakhmai for the materials!"

This sudden lapse into common bargaining did nothing to shake Skilios from his idolatry. "It is not for sale! It is mine! Are you too stupid to understand?" Any respect for class, status, breeding or education shrivelled to nothing as the craftsman dramatically re-ordered his priorities after a lifetime of conformity. "Now get out of my shop! Take any of the tortoise-shell lyres you like, have it, now, and be gone!"

The assistant, two workers and the apprentices all shuffled to the further reaches of the workshop. They had never witnessed such behaviour from their master. Skilios could be stubborn, morose, intransigent, but never foolhardy. He had always been too canny for that!

Lysias became enraged at the treatment he was receiving from this artisan and member of the lowest of the voting classes. Lysias was one of the elected magistrates from the office of the Arkhon, one of the nine archons. This office, considered the highest in the City-State and responsible only to the Assembly of Five Thousand, managed, among other things, all lawsuits concerning households, property and inheritance among citizens. Poor Skilios could not have chosen a worse subject for his outburst and insults!

The magistrate straightened and set an authoritative tone to his voice. "Listen my man, the lyre is mine, we have a contract! Fulfil your obligations immediately and I will excuse your insulting behaviour. Prevaricate any more and I will lodge a formal complaint in the Court and have you punished in ways you cannot imagine."

In simple terms, Skilios did not care. His gaze remained fixed on the lyre, as though to hold it as his own by not letting it wander from his sight. He shouted, his legs shaking, "By Zeus, you arrogant turd, how many times do I have to tell you, it is not for sale? Now, get out!"

Lysias held his ground, the lyre, and thoughts of his daughter waiting patiently for her gift, paramount in his mind.

Further insults flew from the mouth of the Instrument Maker, his care and consideration for himself and his family completely abandoned. Lysias could not compete with this tirade of insults, this impressive display of verbal warfare. He huffed and puffed, making incoherent noises and offering vague gestures.

Suddenly one of the apprentices, for some inexplicable reason, crept up to the lyre and struck the sounding box with his knuckles. Another different but equally pure sound exploded into the room. Lysias thought a God had spoken; Skilios only heard the plea of a lover. The energy of this sonorous cry sought out the softness of those fortunate beings in its presence, and dissipated by setting in motion the organs of their bodies. They felt the sound, experienced it as a living and invading power.

Skilios fell silent; Lysias, both stupefied and bemused, waited for the sensations to cease before turning to walk towards the street door. Both men realised that this profound instrument also had a say in the matter. The disharmony of argument was an affront to its innocent purity

The magistrate strode out into the daylight, his two servants materialising out of obscurity to hasten after him at the usual and respectful distance. Lysias, beset by a plethora of emotions, found the exercise, the sunlight and relative fresh air a catalyst to his overriding thought. He was returning home without the gift for his daughter.

His scheming mind found objectivity as he planned the next step. Initially he considered hiring sufficient muscle to forcibly remove the lyre from the clutches of Skilios. But common sense prevailed as he realised he only needed to formally lodge the complaint with the Court and obtain an injunction to stop this illegal act being committed by Skilios. The lyre would have to be removed to neutral territory, awaiting the decision of the jury-court. And the court session would only take a day. If he acted speedily, and exerted sufficient authority, he could be in possession of the lyre within five days!

Skilios, on the other hand, felt elated. His client had gone and the lyre remained close to him. Despite entreaties by his wife, children and employees, he insisted in having his meals seated next to the object of his desire. That evening he gave orders for his bed to be carried down and placed near the lyre. He did not want to touch it again, not yet, not until he had prepared himself in a manner befitting a holy object possessed by the God Apollo.

"Yes that is it', he whispered to himself, "the God has breathed life into her.' This thought satisfied him for a while. But then he grew jealous of Apollo and let his thoughts churn impiously. "The Gods cannot hear our thoughts,' he whispered foolishly. "Or can they?'

That night Skilios slept alone in the dark and empty workshop; although he did not feel alone, not even for a moment. And upstairs his dutiful wife lay awake and truly alone. She gave her thoughts to her husband, feeling concern and sadness for his sudden malady of the mind. She felt no concern for herself, since she did not appreciate that another had usurped her position, her place as a loved one. If her husband rejected her, and threw her into the street, she would have no rights, no rights at all!

The next day, just before the sun had reached its zenith, six burly men, armed with written authority from the office of the Arkhon and a few judicious weapons, burst into the workshop of Skilios the Instrument Maker and removed the lyre. They came and went in a flash, leaving poor Skilios lying on the floor, an open wound visible on his temple.

The case was heard in the new courthouse built into the northern boundary of the Agora. Five hundred jurymen true and impartial heard the evidence from plaintiff and defendant and decided, with a majority of four hundred and ninety, to vote in favour of Lysias. For a set sum of five hundred drakhmai the lyre was officially declared the property of Lysias, who immediately carried the precious gift home and gave it to his daughter.

There was much joy in the house as this tender young daughter, so refined and alluringly delicate, played the maple lyre and filled the planted courtyards with plangent sounds keyed in the gentle Ionian Mode. She sang with a voice steady and pure, harmonising with the tone of the lyre as though the two lived and breathed as one. She sang the words of her favourite poetess, Sappho of Lesbos. The music was her own creation! The magistrate's house, set up on the wooded slopes between the Agora and the Akropolis, echoed with these beautiful sounds. And the words of the poetess painted vivid pictures in the minds of those sufficiently sensitive to their profound simplicity.

Tamas, daughter to Lysias, had no need to practice, for she played all day long and cared nothing for suitors or marriage.

The first day of the Festival of Dionysos arrived, a day given to the women to celebrate the advent of spring. Although not permitted to attend some festivals like the Panathenaic Games, it pleased Dionysos to have the women dressed in flowing robes, dancing, playing music and pouring offerings of wine in the name of the God.

The Agora had been transformed from a market place into a holy accumulation of performing platforms, rings for wrestling competitions, tracks for foot races, stalls for the selling of sacred objects carved for the occasion, and tents for the wealthy to retire when the noise and bustle became too much; and everywhere was bedecked with colourful banners and decorations to catch the eye.

The Sacred Way had been formally delineated with posts in preparation for the chariot racing and final procession up the holy slopes, through the unfinished gateway and into the open space between the temples of the Akropolis.

But this was the first day and the women processed in, blowing flutes, tapping hand-drums, waving sticks woven with leafy vines and carrying painted vessels filled with wine.

They came to a table attended by a priest, then ritually poured the wine into larger, unpainted bowls ready to be tipped by the priest and his assistance.

Soon the music competitions began and Skilios, with many of his relatives, moved through the crowd in small bands, hoping to appear innocuous, and seemingly intent only on enjoying themselves.

As Timas mounted the performer's platform, an unusually large crowd, kept some distance away with flimsy barriers, gathered to hear for themselves whether the rumours were true. Was the music created by this young girl as beguiling as the purveyors of gossip told?

This insular and taciturn young woman carried her lyre in both arms as though clutching a child. She sat upon the performer's seat and unhurriedly composed herself, feeling the instrument with her body and delicate fingers. The crowd, including Skilios and his band, waited in silence, fascinated to watch this young thing contract completely into her world.

A delicate melisma emerged from this concentration as nimble fingers plucked the pliant strings and a pure voice sang forth a love poem by Sappho. The crowd gasped and cooed as the deceptively simple music transported them away from their troubles and petty squabbles.

Skilios could not believe his ears, nor resist gazing in admiration at this innocent player so engrossed in her music-making. He could see that the two, player and instrument , were made for each other. They were one, a single entity, a personification of harmony brought together by the Gods.

His jealousy fell away, dripping from him like cold sweat and he motioned to his brothers and cousins and uncles to back away and meet him in the nearest open space.

The men withdrew from the crowd slowly, some still beguiled by the music, some confused by the gestures from Skilios, and some not yet aware of the command. But eventually they gathered around the poor and defeated Instrument Maker, his desires torn and stripped from him as the remains of unrequited love crept forlornly into the dark voids of his heart.

"I cannot go through with it," he whispered. "The lyre belongs to her, I can see that now! I have been stupid and foolish, neglecting my work and my family for something that does not belong to me!"

Several of the men still wanted to go ahead with the plan, which centred on the theft of the lyre as the daughter of Lysias walked back to her father's tent. They would create a disturbance around the performing arena as two hired men grabbed the instrument and ran to an awaiting chariot; a simple plan now in tatters.

A number of attempts were made to persuade Skilios to go through with the plan; after all he had been cheated by a rigged trial and bribed jury, and forced to sell the lyre. The contract said he would make a lyre for sale; it did not have to be that particular one! It was all a travesty of justice, or so the brothers of Skilios argued, the family pride still badly injured.

But Skilios could not be dissuaded from his conviction, the lyre belonged to the girl, he felt it, knew it, became convinced of it as the final song drifted on the fresh spring air.

The jury voted unanimously, Timas daughter of Lysias had won the women's music class. The crowd cheered and clapped as the demure young girl received her prize, an ornately decorated vase filled with the finest olive oil. Her name would go on the winners' board and posted outside the Council House.

So the days passed by without further trouble; the story concerning the mysterious lyre all but over. Over that is until both Timas and the lyre disappeared into the night, never to be seen again in the City.

Witnesses came forward to relate what they had seen on that dark and moonless night. Some thought they saw several men carrying unidentified objects covered in cloth. They allegedly dropped their burdens into the back of an open cart and rode away as bold as anything. Others claimed they saw a winged beast settle upon the roof of the house, and later flew away northwards with two unidentified objects in its clutches.

Imagination feasted upon imagination and even sightings of Apollo in his sky-borne chariot became a common ingredient in the accounts. Abductions were not uncommon, but they usually took place outside the City walls where unscrupulous foreigners broke the rules of the slave trade. A City abduction was a rare event, demanding priority in the streets of gossip.

Shock gave way to despair in the magistrate's household; and despair ground upon itself in the mind of Lysias until he became bitter and angry as the search revealed nothing.

Gradually an irrational thought took hold in his mind, irrational because the property of Skilios had been officially searched and declared free of any damaging evidence, many times.

But Lysias could not help himself, his daughter and the lyre had to be somewhere, hidden in that labyrinthine workshop, or in the dwelling above. He had noted on his first and only visit, a small, bolted doorway in a shadowy corner of the workshop. It was laced with sawdust-sprinkled cobwebs and had not been used for many a year-or had this mysterious place grown from nothing in his tormented mind?

Then one day Lysias could bare the torment no longer. He set off for the workshop of Skilios, a short stabbing sword under his cloak, an imperfect plan in his mind. His singular, some would say obsessive, objective was to bring an end to this ridiculous saga, rescue his daughter and the lyre, and resume his normal public and private life. This had to be done; his social standing in the community demanded it, his self-esteem commanded it!

So Lysias called Skilios into the street, stepped up to the man with a resolute stride, produced the sword from beneath his cloak and thrust the blade deep into the Instrument Maker's chest. Without a sound, Skilios fell dead to the floor, the leather grip already stained with blood.

The family of Skilios naturally lodged a charge of murder in the Public Court and built a convincing case using the many eager witnesses. And Lysias, not so much broken as totally bemused by all the fuss and condemnation, stood trial in the full knowledge that Skilios had nothing to do with the abduction of his daughter. He knew because a harper from Lesbos came to visit him in jail the day of the trial.

This aging singer of beautiful laments, a man too old to travel but driven nonetheless, came into the jailhouse with sad news. He sat on the floor of the single jail-room and produced a small wooden lyre and a sealed jar from a shoulder sack. He set the jar on the ground, between himself and the seated magistrate, and positioned the lyre on one raised knee. "These are the words of the poetess, Sappho, but the music belongs to your daughter." He said nothing else but put his fingers to the strings and produced an achingly beautiful sound, a sorrowful lament instantly recognisable by Lysias.

The poem, stripped of gauds and ornamental tropes, told the story with poignant delicacy, with eloquent simplicity.

We put the urn aboard the ship
With this inscription:

This is the dust of little
Timas who unmarried was led
Into Persephone's dark bedroom

And she being far from home, girls
Her age took new-edged blades
To cut, in mourning for her,
These curls of their soft hair

Tears streamed down the face of Lysias, coursing like rivulets of rainwater over the sodden land. He knew by the musical mode chosen by the harper that his daughter was dead, gone to the Underworld where places both pleasant and horrible exist.

Lysias knew and shuddered afresh as the last vibrating string came to rest. "Has she gone to the Elysian Fields, the Isle of the Blessed as befits a perfect creature?" he asked with all the energy left in his body.

The harper stretched a bony arm and tried to touch the broken magistrate. It was his natural habit, to feel in all the ways possible. "She rests in that beautiful place," he whispered, his voice firm and warm and as calming as the sound of a summer sea.

"And how did she die, where did she die?" asked Lysias after a period of rest.

"She died in the land of Sappho, on the island of Lesbos," began the harper to the gentle strumming of his lyre. "She came there with a stranger, and with a wondrous lyre built by Apollo and tuned by Orpheus. The followers of Sappho took her into their community and she feasted and danced and played and sang with them, smiling as though for the first time. The stranger, stricken by unrequited love, bore his torment for a while but eventually disappeared one night, never to be seen again.

Poor Timas reproached herself harshly, unreasonable, and set out to find the man who called himself Orpheus. A few days later they found her lying on a beach, at the foot of high cliffs. The entrance to a small cave lay open, as though an immortal hand had cast the obscuring rocks aside. Her dress hung loosely on her broken body, the fabric torn and dirty and blackened as though by fire. But her face bore a sweet smile, and her lips, so gently parted, seemed to form a kiss!"

The story moved Lysias to shed more tears. But the harper, and he refused to give his name, positioned his lyre once more and played the music and songs of Timas until the distraught magistrate felt a new mood course his body. His daughter came to him as though in a dream. She stood in the sound and became a tangible thing in his mind. He felt contentment, knowing that he was listening to her echo, to her playing on the Isle of the Blessed.

Eventually the harper finished his inspired recital and stood to leave jail room. "And what of her lyre?" asked Lysias. The harper sighed and said that Timas had taken it with her when she went to find the stranger. "But it has never been found," he added, almost as an after thought, his eyes averted from the gaze of the magistrate.

Lysias nodded thoughtfully.

The harper slipped away, brushing past those coming to take the magistrate to trial.

They found Lysias guilty of murder. He was condemned to death, his property to be confiscated, his name to be inscribed on the stele of disgrace and his family and relations ordered to leave Athens for a period of ten years. The sentence was harsh but he refused to exercise his right to propose an alternative for the jury to consider.

As they marched poor Lysias to the northern gate he whispered repeatedly to himself, "At last, I will meet my daughter again!" He whispered sufficiently loud for his friends and relations to hear. But he kept to himself a deeper desire, to see and hear the Lyre of Orpheus sounding across the Elysian Fields!

"The Lyre of Orpheus" by Richard Mann