"Sing out, goddess!"
"Sing of the wrath of Achilles, son of Peleus!"
"His fury brought this disaster upon us,"
"Brought endless suffering to the Achaeans,"
"And drove the souls of warriors down into the underworld..."
In the southeastern Peloponnese, in Boeotia, within the magnificent stone palace of Thebes, a blind old man held a battered lyre and chanted an ancient epic in a voice that was far from beautiful.
A banquet was being held in the hall. The king of Thebes and his children were celebrating their recent victory in the war against Attica City.
The long tables were laden with delicacies from all along the Mediterranean Sea, while servants carried clay jars filled with wine, constantly refilling the goblets held by richly dressed nobles and priests of the gods.
The feast had already gone on for most of the day, and everyone was thoroughly drunk. People let out vulgar bursts of laughter, indulged themselves without restraint, and made a great racket.
In the middle of the hall, a young man dressed in black suddenly rose from the table, gently pushed aside two tipsy, dazed young women, and slowly walked over to the blind singer.
Seeing the old man's cracked lips, he offered him a cup of wine. "Old sir, have a drink to moisten your throat."
The music stopped. The old man's hollow eyes still faced straight ahead. "Thank you, kind lord."
He reached out, groped for the cup, and carefully took a few sips. "Ah, Dionysus, great god of wine, thank you for your gift. This is nectar fit only for the gods."
"It's only a cup of wine made from grapes." Murphy smiled. "I like your epic very much. Did you compose all of it yourself?"
"Of course not, my lord," the old man said humbly. "Most