Just Myrto (2 page)

I
HAVE A
favorite dream. In it, my mother is a goddess. I live, eat and play on Mount Olympus with the gods. I have an endless supply of ambrosia to satisfy my hunger, and the nectar flows freely upon the slightest notion of thirst. I ride on Pegasus, the winged horse, with no fear of flying, no fear of falling and no fear of dying because the gods never die.

In this dream, I am free. I am not just Myrto, daughter of Lysimachus and granddaughter of Aristides the Just. I am an immortal soul, living and breathing eternally. The entire universe is my playground.

But then it never fails. As I soar through the white clouds, Pegasus vanishes. I feel myself falling. The clouds turn dark, and I disappear in the fog. I awaken to a memory of death and the misery that is my life. I was born into a world where life itself depends upon man's pleasure and woman's pain. I am doubly cursed to be both mortal and female.

Memories of my mother's death often awaken me at dawn. They drive me out of the house and up the hillside to a place where the virgin goddess Artemis decides the fate of abandoned baby girls. The hill is very near my home in Alopeke. From there I can
see across the River Illisus to the wall surrounding Athens. I sit and watch the sun rise upon the temple of Athena in the Acropolis.

M
Y MOTHER DIED
during the month of Poseidon in the winter of my twelfth year. I had just blossomed from girl to woman. I dedicated the clay toys of my youth to Artemis in anticipation of the wedding that was sure to follow. But there was no wedding for me. Instead, I watched my mother perish giving birth to a stillborn son.

The moment my mother's breath stopped, the midwife ripped her apart in haste to free the child. The midwife's wailing drew my father into the room. Father took my lifeless brother from the midwife and fell to his knees still holding the child. He stayed there, silently clinging to the infant corpse as the midwife cleansed the room of my mother's blood, washing away the remains of her life.

I saw no anger on Father's face. Bewilderment gradually changed to despair as the winds of truth fanned sparks of realization. He named the boy Acheron after the river to Hades, the final resting place of all mortal souls. At the time, I thought he meant to keep the dead child. I wondered which was the greater tragedy—a stillborn son or a live daughter who, having no mother to raise her, very likely would have been abandoned on the hillside. Was Father mourning the loss of a son more than the loss of a wife?

Father remained in a trance throughout Mother's burial preparations, funeral and cremation. Then the despair consumed him, eventually subsiding into the ashes of grief. He wanted nothing more than to have me near him as the life slowly drained from his aging body. Other girls my age, all betrothed to marry, left their homes one by one, but I spent each day at Father's side in the place that had been my mother's.

Every morning as I greeted him with a kiss Father would say things like, “Your beauty reminds me daily that the gods have been good to me despite my shortcomings. My father before me lived a life of greatness, but there is no greatness in me. May the greatness of my father, Aristides the Just, pass through my seed to your brothers.”

There was never any talk of anything being passed on to me or any future for me apart from my father. My only dreams were those that came to me in my deepest sleep. My only hope was in the charity of the man to whom I belonged. As I rubbed olive oil into his leathery skin each day, he would often say, “Forgive me, Myrto. I am old and foolish. Perhaps I find too much pleasure in the fact that I have no dowry for you to marry.”

In the evenings before dinner he frequently remarked, “You are such a comfort to me, my child. Your unfailing devotion brings me great joy.”

And so the years of my full bloom passed. My older brother Nikomedes joined the military, and my younger brother Apollodorus became the apprentice of a prominent Athenian physician. Eventually, our oldest brother Aristides returned from battle. I had no life apart from caring for Father and no notion of what might become of me when Father died.

Shortly after my eighteenth birthday, Father summoned Aristides to his bedside. I remained in the room, though they discussed my future as if I were not there.

“Aristides,” said Father, “The gods are calling. Apollo has certainly pulled an arrow for me from his quiver and drawn his bow. All that I have, though I know it's not much, belongs to you to do with as you will. Your marriage is already arranged to Charis following her fourteenth birthday. Nikomedes and Apollodorus will find their own way. My only request is that you find a worthy husband for Myrto.”

“How am I to give her in marriage?” Aristides implored. “Who would take her without a dowry? It would take years to scrimp and save a reasonable sum. By then she'll be well into her twenties or thirties!”

“It's true I have no riches to offer with her,” Father said sadly, shaking his head. “Aristides the Just was a brave soldier and much beloved statesman, but he never accepted wealth in exchange for serving Athens. I have given you his name and done my best to educate you in good citizenship, but I leave you little more than he left me.”

“Father, what would you have me do?” asked Aristides.

“I have no answers,” Father admitted. “Talk to Socrates, your boyhood teacher. The Oracle once declared him the wisest man alive. Ask Socrates.”

And with that Apollo released the arrow that ended our father's life. I felt the warmth escape his body as I bathed him in rose water. I dressed him in his most festive white tunic and wound a crown of wooden ribbon and ivy around his forehead. I removed an obol from his coin purse and placed it in his mouth to pay the ferryman for the journey across the rivers Styx and Acheron into
the Underworld. I prayed that Hermes would deliver Father safely to Hades to be reunited with his own more renowned father, Aristides the Just.

When Apollodorus arrived later that evening, he and Aristides laid Father out on a couch in the front courtyard. “Face him toward the door to greet the mourners,” instructed Aristides.

Apollodorus complied. “Don't forget to set out the purifying water, Myrto,” he said.

“I will do that now,” I replied. I selected a tall earthen vase and placed it in front of our house. Then I grabbed two large buckets and walked to the river. By sunup the house would be full of mourners dressed in black for the gloomy vigil. Friends and relatives alike would moan and weep loudly as they entered. As they left the house, they would all sprinkle water on themselves to wash death from their bodies.

The cool night air filled my mind with questions.
What will become of me now? Will Aristides find me a suitable husband?
Other brothers might consider selling a sister who had no dowry into slavery, but surely Aristides would honor Father's dying wish to find me a husband.
Socrates will know the best way for Aristides to find me a husband.
I prayed to Athena that she would grant both Aristides and Socrates wisdom.

When I returned Aristides and Apollodorus were sitting in the courtyard. “Father is to be buried along the Street of Tombs next to our grandfather, Aristides the Just,” said Aristides.

Apollodorus nodded. “He will need a tombstone.”

“I've already made the necessary arrangements,” replied Aristides.

“And the inscription?” asked Apollodorus.

“Lysimachus, son of Aristides the Just, farewell.”

Tears filled my eyes. I carried a lamp back into my bedroom where I let down my long dark braids.
How long my hair has grown in six years.
I ran my fingers through the thick strands.
How well I remember the one and only night I cut it.
I sat fiercely brushing the memory of Mother's death out of my head. Then using a razor, for the second time in my life, I severed every flowing strand of hair in mourning.

O
NE
MORNING
NOT
long after Father's funeral, I awoke to see Aristides sitting beside the statue of Hermes in our courtyard. One of my earliest memories as a child was of Aristides sitting in that exact spot waiting for Socrates to arrive. Normally, Aristides would go to the Agora to find Socrates, but on this occasion, Father had invited Socrates to our home. Aristides sat poised with his wax-covered, wooden tablet and a narrow bone, chiseled to a point, desperate to write something that he could memorize and recite to please our father. Socrates engaged Aristides in a conversation that lasted all morning, but he never instructed Aristides to write a single word.

Now when Socrates arrived, Aristides jumped to his feet and practically shouted, “Good morning, Socrates!”

“Greetings, my young friend,” Socrates replied. “I offer you my most sincere condolences on the passing of your father.”

Aristides nodded and ushered Socrates to a wooden couch in the courtyard. They continued to pay their respects to Father, speaking well of the life he had lived.

Socrates looked exactly the same as a decade ago. Perhaps his gray beard was a bit longer, but his feet were still bare, and he wore the same weathered tunic. He was a curious old man, eyes full of
laughter and lips full of questions. Was he really the wisest man of all? He didn't look at all like the judges and sophists I'd seen at Father's funeral. They seemed to take themselves and their wisdom more seriously.

I gathered a number of figs and dipped some crusty bread in wine for Aristides and Socrates to enjoy as they discussed my future. A pleasant taste in their mouths would surely result in a more pleasant life for me.
Please let them choose for me a husband who is kind. It is better to be slave to a kind master than the wife of a cruel husband.

“So this is Myrto.” Socrates smiled warmly as he said my name. I bowed my head and offered him the food I had prepared.

“She is already in her eighteenth year with no marriage prospects and no dowry,” Aristides lamented. “What would you do if she were your daughter, Socrates?”

Socrates selected a fig. “Ah, but she is not my daughter, Aristides.”

I could feel his eyes upon me, but I dared not let my eyes meet his. I placed the plate between them and backed away.

“Have you someone in mind who might accept her if she had a dowry?”

“No. Most of my friends are already married or betrothed. Others have died in battle. My mother has a brother who was recently widowed. He might agree to marry her out of family duty and the hope of having another healthy son or two.”

“There you have it,” said Socrates. “A perfectly good solution.” He sampled a morsel of bread.

A perfectly good solution indeed! It was Uncle's abuse which fated our auntie to an early grave!
I stepped back into the salon and perched by an open window. My flesh quaked and my blood swirled. I felt
consumed by Poseidon himself.
Oh, Hera, goddess of marriage! Hear my prayer and intercede on my behalf. Anyone but Uncle!

“I'm not so sure,” pondered Aristides. “If that is what Father had intended he could have arranged that himself or instructed me to do so.” Aristides reached over to the plate, grabbed a handful of figs and popped several in his mouth.

“True enough,” agreed Socrates.

“But he did not,” Aristides continued, shaking his head and chewing slowly. Finally, he swallowed. “Father instructed me to talk to you.”

Socrates smiled and helped himself to a large portion of the wine-soaked bread. “A rather strange instruction, don't you think?” Socrates asked.

“I do. After all, you never really taught me anything,” said Aristides. He furrowed his brow and stroked his shiny, black beard. “Still, when I was with you, I made tremendous progress in my education.”

“Yes,” mused Socrates. “I've often wondered how our lessons would have concluded had you not sailed away so abruptly on that military expedition.”

Aristides began pacing about the courtyard. “And now that I've returned, and with Father's passing, it seems everything I ever learned has trickled away,” he confided. Aristides stopped directly in front of Socrates and threw up his hands. “What should I do?”

“So far, you have considered only the widowed and the unmarried,” said Socrates. “What about the Athenian decree that allows married men to take a second wife in hopes of replenishing the citizenry in these war-torn times?”

“An excellent suggestion!” Aristides sounded encouraged. “But she still has no dowry,” he said, pacing once more. “Who will want another mouth to feed with no dowry to offer?”

“Dowries are not always such a good thing,” countered Socrates. “Recall the dowry of the very first wife, Pandora. When her jar opened, all of the evils known to man flew out.” He held out his arms as if offering Aristides a world of pain and suffering. Slowly, Socrates brought his hands back together and held them in an empty cup before Aristides. “Wouldn't you prefer nothing over a dowry of sorrows?”

“I would,” agreed Aristides, “but I doubt that I can persuade another as easily as you've convinced me.” Aristides studied Socrates from head to toe. “I can never tell if you are being serious or just playing with me,” Aristides said, taking a seat beside him.

“My boy, I would never recommend for another that which I could not accept for myself,” said Socrates. Aristides stared at Socrates with a look of puzzlement. All at once his whole face brightened.

“By Zeus, that's it!” exclaimed Aristides, jumping to his feet again. “Socrates, you must marry Myrto! What could be more suitable to Father and the gods than for the lineage of Aristides the Just to be joined with Socrates the Wise?”

I pushed the wooden shutter open and beheld Socrates with new eyes. I surveyed his rounded belly and short, hairy arms and legs. When I focused on his face, I saw only bulging eyes, big ears, fat lips and a large, pug nose. Socrates had absolutely no feature that one might call attractive.