Just Myrto (17 page)

“And you want me to choose to build things up?” asked Xanthippe.

“On the contrary,” replied Aspasia handing the necklace back to Xanthippe. “Sometimes you have to tear things down before you can rebuild. I only want you to remember that you have this power and choose wisely how you will use it.”

“I will,” replied Xanthippe. “Thank you.” She gave Aspasia a hug and once again we heard the loud pop. This time both women laughed together like old friends.

Aspasia took a deep breath. Our visit seemed to be tiring her. Socrates stood to leave. “Shall we let you rest now?” he asked.

“Not yet,” said Aspasia. “Why don't you and Xanthippe take Sophroniscus and go find Lamprocles. I wish to speak with Myrto alone.”

“Y
OU
ARE
EVEN
more beautiful than they say,” Aspasia said once the others had left. I blushed, but I felt more flattered than embarrassed. “Come sit beside me on my couch.” I sat at Aspasia's side and let her cradle my hand in hers. Her face bore the deep wrinkles of many years on this earth, but her eyes remained clear and bright. I felt a warm, surge of energy when our eyes met and many moments passed before Aspasia broke the spell of silence.

“You, too, will have choices to make in the coming days,” Aspasia told me. “Is there something that you would like to ask me?”

Questions flooded my mind, but I could not find the words to ask what was really on my heart.
Is Socrates in danger? And what will become of me and Sophroniscus if something happens to Socrates? Perhaps it is better not to know the future.
I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, searching for something else to ask instead. Finally, I nodded and opened my eyes.

“I want to know about the symbol on the alabaster jar,” I whispered, casting my gaze toward the table.

“Pick it up, and hold it in your hands,” instructed Aspasia. I gently lifted the smooth, marbled jar and held it in both hands. “Like alabaster, you are a soft stone Myrto.”

The jar felt heavy and cold. As I raised it up to study the carvings, I found it contained olive oil with a rose and cinnamon fragrance. “This symbol,” I said. “It looks like the yin-yang that Theano wrote about, yet it is decidedly different.”

“Tell me how it is different,” said Aspasia.

“It looks like a sunset at sea,” I told her.

“If that is a sunset, what is this?” Aspasia asked. She turned the jar around in my hands so that I could see the same symbol carved on the other side, only upside down.

“A sunrise, I suppose.”

“Yes,” Aspasia agreed. “The only difference between the sunrise and the sunset is your point of view.”

“But what does it mean?” I asked, turning the jar around again from sunrise to sunset.

“The symbol represents the human soul, Myrto,” said Aspasia. “This world that we live in is a world of shadows. The truth is a world of light. In the center is the mind's eye, connecting body and spirit.”

I ran my finger over the dark swirl. “This is my body,” I said. Aspasia nodded. “And this is my spirit?” I asked, pointing to the swirl of light. Again Aspasia nodded. “And my mind is both light and dark?”

“Yes,” Aspasia replied. “Each of us is born with a mind half-opened. Some of us, like Socrates, spend a lifetime opening the eye as wide as we can. Others seem to lose their curiosity and child-like wonder. With each passing year, the eye closes further.”

“But they, too, can open their eyes if they choose, can't they?”

“They live in darkness,” Aspasia replied. When they see someone with a light as bright as Socrates, it hurts their eyes. They never give their eyes a chance to adjust.”

“What about the gods?” I asked. “Are their eyes always open and able to adjust to light and darkness equally?”

“We are the gods and goddesses, Myrto,” said Aspasia. She placed her hands over mine which were still holding the jar. “We have created them in our image because we are afraid to acknowledge our own divinity.”

I could feel my hands trembling. “I'm afraid I don't understand,” I said. “Surely you don't mean to say that human beings created earth, wind, fire and water?”

“I mean to say that the creator of all is one,” said Aspasia. She removed the alabaster jar from my hands and placed it on the table. Then she took both my hands in hers.

“One what?” I asked.

“One Mother-Father Godde,” she replied. “A Godde who not only created us, but continues to create through us.”

“Oh, Aspasia, please don't talk like this,” I pleaded. “Anyone who says such things surely would be charged with impiety. You could be excommunicated from Athens or even put to death for such heresy.”

“I'm only telling you what I've come to know.” Aspasia reached again for the alabaster jar. “My mind's eye has opened wide. It is time for me to abandon the shadows and return to the light.” She held the jar up between us and slowly turned it over, dumping the oil on both of us.

I bowed my head and wept.

Aspasia began rubbing the scented oil into our hands and arms. Before long I also began rubbing the oil into my legs, and then hers. As we massaged away the oil, we massaged away my tears.

“Now that my jar is empty, I give it to you,” said Aspasia. She handed me the jar, upside down demonstrating that it was indeed
empty. “You may carry the empty jar with you just as it is, or you may right it, and fill it with whatever you choose.”

I nodded, taking the jar and cradling it in my arms like an infant.

“And now I have a question for you,” said Aspasia. “When were you last visited by the Mene?”

“The Mene?” I asked. I only knew the word as a verb—to remain, to stand fast, to wait at home. “What is the Mene?”

Aspasia laughed, but her laugh was not unkind. “The Mene is a goddess of the months.”

When her meaning sank in, I blushed. “It has been two moons since my last blood,” I confessed.

“That's what I thought,” Aspasia told me.

“How can you tell?” I asked, eager to learn her secret.

“I cannot tell,” Aspasia explained. “I just knew. Not only by observing you with an open mind, but also by watching Socrates. He is such the proud father.”

“After the baby is born, we will visit you again,” I promised.

Aspasia shook her head. “I will not be here, child.”

My throat tightened and my eyes filled with tears. A stabbing pain pierced my heart unlike any I'd known since the death of my own mother. “You mean I'll never see you again?”

Aspasia smiled and stroked my cheek. “You will not see my old body with your beautiful brown eyes, but you will feel me and know I am with you. We are one spirit, Myrto.”

I hugged her and let her hold me until my body and the jar could not contain all of the love. As I stood to go, Aspasia whispered, “You have a strong spirit and a strong mind, Myrto. You must use your head, but always follow your heart.”

T
HE
JOURNEY
HOME
from Aspasia's house passed quickly. Lamprocles and Xanthippe led the way. As they chattered about the wondrous home and library of Aspasia, Sophroniscus slept in Lamprocles' cart surrounded by books. Socrates and I followed in silence. There were no words, no questions and no answers between us. He simply held my hand as we walked together.

That night as the rest of the house slept, I lay awake in Socrates' arms, still pondering Aspasia. Socrates kissed my forehead. Then, as if tasting my thoughts, he asked, “So what did you think of Aspasia.”

I kissed his forehead, but learned nothing of his thoughts. I sighed. “I think that we should name our first daughter Aspasia,” I said.

Socrates laughed softly. “A lovely idea,” he agreed.

That night I dreamed of our beautiful daughter, Aspasia. Her beauty radiated from deep inside her heart and mind. Everything around her danced in friendly harmony with her inner beauty. A simple wisdom adorned her with riches beyond all of the gold and jewels in Athens. I carried this dream in my heart as my baby's body formed in my belly.

I filled my alabaster vase with olive oil. Every day I rubbed the oil into my skin to keep it soft and moist. Every night I rubbed the oil into Socrates' back, shoulders, arms and hands.

That winter felt colder than usual. A voracious appetite for food replaced my insatiable appetite for reading and talking. I found contentment in tending to my growing belly and the growing thoughts in my mind. I stayed inside, weaving and watching the people around me.

Lamprocles had found both
Little Cosmology
by Democritus and
Big Cosmology
by Leucippus in Aspasia's library. He and Korinna studied them together.

“Are you sure you won't join us, Myrto?” Lamprocles asked each morning.

“Not today,” I would say. “Maybe tomorrow.”

But each day I found that I did not want to focus on anything bigger or anything smaller than the child growing within me. On sunny days Lamprocles and the girls would take Sophroniscus out to run and play. Lamprocles and the older girls read while the younger girls chased after Sophroniscus.

Xanthippe, too, frequently remained inside. We began weaving together, although neither of us spoke as we worked. Our silence was more than a truce. It was a comfortable knowing and acceptance. The whole house breathed a deep, peaceful sigh.

Lamprocles felt slighted initially when I stopped going with them, but as the time to deliver the child approached, I could sense his growing excitement.

“May I assist you with this birth as well?” he asked one evening as we sat around the table eating. I assumed he was asking Socrates, but when I looked up, his eyes were on me. I turned to Socrates.

“It's entirely up to you, my dear,” he said to me.

“Of course,” I nodded my approval. “I'm counting on you and your birthing chair.”

Lamprocles beamed. I watched as his expression changed from pleased to emboldened. He cleared his throat. “You know, I was thinking that you might like to have Mama Leda there beside you to comfort you, without the added distraction of supporting your arm.”

Lamprocles paused, giving us a moment to absorb this suggestion and ask the obvious question.

I was happy to comply. “But you can only support one of my arms at a time, Lamprocles,” I said. “Who will support my other arm as Socrates delivers the baby?”

“It just so happens I have someone in mind,” Lamprocles replied. “She's very sympathetic and keeps her fingernails clean and well-trimmed.”

Xanthippe frowned and looked at her fingernails. Socrates laughed. He appeared to be enjoying this discussion immensely.

“Do I know this person?” I asked. “Are you quite certain she'll want to assist?”

“Yes and yes,” replied Lamprocles. “She's been an aspiring young midwife ever since you taught her to read.”

A loud sigh of relief escaped from Xanthippe. “Are you telling us that Korinna wants to be a midwife?” she asked.

“She does,” Lamprocles said. “In fact, she and I may someday become Athens' first male and female midwifery team. She's very bright, you know.”

I nodded. “Korinna will make a wonderful assistant.”

“Well, then,” said Socrates, “it's all settled.”

For the first time in my life everything did feel settled. Korinna began joining us at the table for our evening meal. With her came a
new feeling of warmth and contentment. I patted the child in my belly as I watched the people I loved most eating and talking and laughing.
This is your family.

It never occurred to me that an immense calmness might precede the greatest storm.

The child growing with me turned out to be another son. We named him Menexenus, meaning a foreigner who remains steadfast. This, too, reminded me of Aspasia. I once heard Socrates say that Aspasia's only crime was not having been born in Athens. She was a foreigner by birth, and although she'd lived most of her life in this country, her body, mind and spirit would always be strangely exotic.

News of Aspasia's death came late in the winter, soon after Menexenus' birth. Socrates and Lamprocles and even Xanthippe and Korinna joined the mourners in the funeral procession, but I stayed home with the children.

“Are you sure you won't join us?” Xanthippe asked. “Mama Leda can care for Sophroniscus and the baby, or you can even bring Menexenus with you. Korinna and I will help.”

I shook my head. “It is best I stay home.”

“Do you want me to stay with you?” asked Xanthippe.

“No, you go,” I replied. “Go and mourn for Athens. Mama Leda will be here with me. While you are mourning, I will celebrate Aspasia's life and the memories I have of her.”

A
SPASIA'S
DEATH
SEEMED
to spark a new debate on piety in Athens. Should she be honored as the wife of Pericles or should she have been brought to trial on charges of impiety as Aristophanes had suggested in
The Acharnians?

One evening at dinner Lamprocles seemed particularly disturbed.

“What can they do?” Socrates asked. “Aspasia is dead.”

“It's not Aspasia I'm worried about,” retorted Lamprocles. He slammed his fists on the table and pushed himself away.

Xanthippe and Korinna looked genuinely startled. Socrates eyes were full of love and his face expressed complete tranquility. Lamprocles waited for someone to address his concern.

Finally, I asked, “What is it that you are worried about, Lamprocles?”

Lamprocles stretched both hands out toward Socrates. “I am worried about Aspasia's student,” he said.

Socrates nodded, and I felt my stomach tightening into a knot. “What would you have me do?” he asked Lamprocles.

“Stay home for a while,” Lamprocles pleaded. “Enjoy some time with your family. That's what old men are supposed to do, isn't it?”