Just Myrto (10 page)

House doors opened, and the masters stepped into the street, accompanied by sons and servants. I was the only wife. Just me. Yet with Socrates holding me close and our child in my belly, I did not feel alone or out of place. I took a deep breath and imagined Xanthippe, heavy with Lamprocles, in my stead.
Xanthippe is afraid of me.
I laughed. Socrates looked over at me and smiled.

Lamprocles was waiting for us beneath our favorite bay tree in the market place. I felt Lamprocles' dark eyes staring heavily upon me as we approached. The eyes of Xanthippe.
Perhaps Lamprocles is afraid of me as well.
This thought carried a wave of sadness. I made myself a seat in the grass beside him and wished that he felt closer.

It was time to tell him about the baby.

“Forgive me, Lamprocles, if I do not seem quite myself today,” I began. “My thoughts were not in our conversation this morning, but on something that I've wanted to tell you from the moment I learned.”

Socrates had seated himself directly before us both. Lamprocles looked at him searchingly, then looked back to me.

“What is it?” Lamprocles implored, leaning forward. I looked at Socrates, who nodded that I should proceed.

I struggled to my feet and pulled my tunic tight around my growing belly.

Lamprocles eyes brightened, and he leapt to his feet. “A baby!” he shouted.

Tears of relief and joy filled my eyes and flowed down my cheeks. I nodded.

“When?” asked Lamprocles, turning to Socrates. “When will the baby arrive?”

“The baby will come with the spring,” replied Socrates. The words were simple, but the love in his voice was as profound as
that of Demeter anticipating the annual return of her daughter Persephone from Hades. I wiped the tears from my eyes.

Lamprocles again turned his gaze toward my belly, his eyes filled with wonder. “There really is a child growing inside you.”

I nodded and reached for his hand, placing it gently on my stomach. “Your brother or sister.”

“My brother or sister,” Lamprocles repeated. Then, as these words seemed to sink in, Lamprocles withdrew his hand and furrowed his brow. “Does Mother know about this?”

I shook my head. Fear seized me.

“I don't know,” replied Socrates.

“You haven't told her?” asked Lamprocles.

“No, but she may have guessed,” said Socrates. “Or Leda may have told her.”

“You told Leda?” This was an accusation, not a question.

“Lamprocles, Leda guessed it herself only last night,” I responded quietly.

Lamprocles still looked hurt. “So you've told no one?” he asked Socrates.

“Only Myrto,” Socrates said with a laugh.

Lamprocles looked puzzled. “Father told you?”

I nodded and shrugged my shoulders.

“How did you know?” Lamprocles asked. Without waiting for a response, he turned to me and asked, “How can the man who professes to know nothing, be the first to know anything?”

Socrates' eyes twinkled. “By knowing I know nothing. Others see what they think they know and miss what really is right before us all.”

Lamprocles did not seem to hear this. “When will you tell Mother?” he asked. “How will you tell her?”

Socrates shrugged. “Your mother will know when she wants to know. She doesn't need me to tell her anything.”

At that moment, a group of young men called from a short distance, “Good morning, Socrates!” We exchanged greetings as they approached. Lamprocles looked at me and motioned south toward the Acropolis. I nodded.

“If you'll excuse us, Father, Myrto and I are going to walk up to the Acropolis and finish our discussion about what to study next.”

The young men bade us a polite goodbye, but seemed eager to have Socrates' full attention.

Lamprocles and I walked in silence along the Panathenaic Way past the Hill of Ares. It seemed a long walk for such a short distance. When we arrived at the statue of the Graces, Lamprocles finally broke the silence.

“What does it feel like,” he asked, “to have a child growing inside you?”

I placed both hands on my belly. “It feels very strange and very wonderful,” I replied. “I also feel very tired sometimes.”

Lamprocles immediately took my hand and found a place where we could sit comfortably. “Can you feel the baby moving inside you?” he asked once we were settled.

“Not yet,” I replied. My mind carried me back to my childhood to a faint memory just before my mother's death. “I remember putting my hand on my mother's belly when her time was near and feeling the baby punch and kick. Once I even saw the movement.”

“Was it a boy or a girl?” asked Lamprocles.

“A boy,” I said softly.

“I didn't know that you have a younger brother, too.”

I shook my head. “He died at birth.” I paused. “And mother went with him,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. Tears filled my
eyes. I could not stop them. I did not want to stop them. They streamed down my cheeks.

Lamprocles looked frightened. He took my hand. “How old were you?” he asked.

“Twelve.”

After a long silence, Lamprocles said, “I don't want you to die, Myrto.”

I gave him a hug. His acceptance of me and my child might mean a safe place for both of us eventually if Socrates were to die and Lamprocles were old enough to be the head of the household. And brave enough to stand up to Xanthippe. I pushed these thoughts from my mind and focused on the present.

“Would you be willing to read a book on midwifery with me?”

“What book?” he asked.

“A book by Theano, wife of Pythagoras. Your father has it at home.”

Lamprocles nodded. “Let's study that next.”

I
COULD
HARDLY
contain my excitement as we walked to the Agora the next morning, Theano's book in Lamprocles' satchel.

“Father, tell me about your mother Phaenarete,” Lamprocles inquired.

“Ah,” Socrates responded with a knowing smile. “She was a woman of wisdom, but she would have loved and indulged you beyond measure.”

“When did she die?” I asked.

“Soon after Xanthippe and I married,” answered Socrates. “My father Sophroniscus died long before we were married. Neither of them lived to see the birth of their first grandson.” He smiled at Lamprocles.

“That's because you waited until you were 50 years old to marry!” Lamprocles laughed. “I was lucky to be born at all.”

I wondered whose idea it was to name Lamprocles after Xanthippe's father rather than Socrates' own father, Sophroniscus. Despite the warmth of our conversation, I shivered in the chilly morning air. Our walks became increasingly brisk as the days grew shorter and the sun ceased to be an early riser. Socrates must have noticed because he removed his own cloak and wrapped it around my shoulders.

“Why didn't you become a sculptor like your father?” I asked. “Your marble statue of the Graces stands as a testimony to your talent.”

Socrates chuckled. “That was truly a gift to my father before he died. Sophroniscus could look at any amorphous hunk of stone and see a beautiful being, a living form within.”

“And you?” I asked. I could feel heat radiating from Socrates' body to mine, even though I was bundled and he was barefoot and wearing nothing but a light tunic.

“My father trained me in the family business when I was young, but I never had his vision for sculpting,” confessed Socrates.

Lamprocles nodded in my direction. “Mother says more often than not Father seemed compelled to chisel and pound away until nothing remained but a pile of dust and gravel.”

“I'm afraid it's true, my dear,” Socrates agreed. He drew me in even closer to the radiating warmth of his body. “I did a little better when my father at least told me what he envisioned for the stone as he did with the Graces, but we all knew that I wasn't born to be a sculptor.”

“What were you born to be?” I asked, ready to pursue this topic further. But we had reached Piraeus Gate, marking the end of our morning walk and our entrance into the city.

“Father is a born lover of wisdom,” offered Lamprocles before our conversation vanished in the crowd. Socrates did not disagree.

At Lamprocles' urging, we left Socrates in the Agora and walked toward the Parthenon. But we did not stop at the Parthenon. We continued walking south with the sun rising over our left shoulders, leaving Socrates and the crowds far behind.

“Where are we going?” I asked. My mind remained fixed on the book in Lamprocles' satchel, and I was anxious to begin our studies.

Lamprocles responded in verse reminiscent of Homer's
Hymn to Artemis:

When Artemis is satisfied

Her huntress heart well-cheered

She journeys to her brother's house

And slackens her great bow.

Oh, Muse! Oh, Grace! It's time to dance

With her dear Twin Apollo.

“What's that supposed to mean?” I asked impatiently.

“It means that if we are to study midwifery, we must find a place pleasing to Artemis,” said Lamprocles. “The Acropolis is a place for men. We must seek out another place—a place of women, inspiration and wild beasts.” He pointed to the pine-green Hills of the Muses. “There.”

We walked in silence to the very top of the tallest hill and found a small clearing that overlooked the Parthenon. Finally, Lamprocles removed the book from his satchel and handed it to me. “Now,” he said, “let's read.”

I began. We did nothing but read the whole day through. We read reverently without discussion, taking turns whenever one voice grew weak. A growing sense of wonder engulfed me as we read about the mysteries of the female body and the miracles of life and healing.

Theano showed no disrespect for the gods, yet they were oddly absent from the actual cause or cure for illness, injury and disease.
Hygeia, Panacea and Iaso, goddesses of cleanliness, prevention and healing, responded to all equally. There were no stories about how Apollo saved their father Asclepius by cutting open the womb of Koronis or how Asclepius grew in the art of medicine, using the sacred power of snakes for healing.

Nor was it all about the female body and childbirth. There was a strange mixture of male and female and the body's own healing power when kept clean and properly nourished. I studied Lamprocles' body as he read and marveled at how his hands held the book for his eyes to see and his mind to comprehend and his mouth to voice the words aloud. Each part worked together as a whole with such natural ease. It was no harder, really, to accept that each of us holds within us the ability to re-balance the four humors of blood, black bile, yellow bile, and phlegm.

We read about using citrus to reduce phlegm, how the crushed leaves of lemon balm can be rubbed on the skin to repel insects or brewed into a relaxing tea. We read that dry treatment of wounds is best, and we should only use water or wine to clean wounds when absolutely necessary. We learned the importance of keeping our fingernails trimmed and clean and the meanings of different fevers, pains and excretions. We began to understand the implications of subtle changes in complexion, movement and pulse and the value of keen observation.

Both light and darkness shimmered in each word, with shadows looming behind every moment of enlightenment. The book told of the need to survey carefully the patient's environment and to listen closely to all family history. Theano even recommended measuring a patient's pulse as she talks to discern when she is lying. There were instructions on using pessaries of lemon, pomegranate, fig
and even sea sponges to preserve the honor of a mistress and prevent the birth of a child.

In the end, Lamprocles did much more reading, and I did much more listening. He devoured the book with voracious appetite while I quietly opened my heart to its meaning. The text answered question after question I'd never thought to ask, and when that first day was done, we had not even begun to learn about childbirth itself. We did, however, make a pact to memorize, recite and keep the oath that Theano required for all midwives:

“I swear by Apollo, Asclepius, Hygeia, Panacea and Iaso to keep according to my ability the following oath: I will consider dear to me as my parents she who taught me the art of midwifery. I will look upon her children as my own sisters and teach them this art.”

“I will never do harm to anyone, but will act for the good of my patients according to my ability and judgment. I will preserve the purity of my life and art.”

“In every house where I come, I will enter only for the good of my patient, keeping myself far from all intentional ill-doing and all seduction. All that may come to my knowledge through the exercise of midwifery which ought not to be spread abroad, I will keep secret and never reveal.”

“I will keep this oath faithfully so that I may enjoy my life and the practice of my art, respected by all for all times.”

As we descended from the Hill of Muses, I breathed in the cleansing odor of pines. Lamprocles and I were not merely stepson and stepmother or simply fellow students in the art of midwifery. We had sworn an oath that would forever bind us together as brother and sister in the eyes of Apollo and Artemis.

W
E
RETURNED TO
the Hill of Muses day after day to study midwifery. The earth awakened from her slumber, and winter's cool dampness faded away. As our studies moved from general health into graphic details of labor and childbirth, Lamprocles insisted that we discuss every sentence in depth. At times we would spend an hour on the meaning of one word. There are countless ways for things to go wrong during the actual birthing; I died a thousand deaths in my heart as we read about each one of them.

Some parts were comforting, however. For example, the midwife should ask the woman what she believes will help. “Do not argue with her or attempt to dissuade her. Always acknowledge her requests and address her concerns. It is more important that she believes you are doing as she asks than to actually do it, especially when the requested treatment would be particularly odorous, bloody or dirty.”