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Authors: Laurie Gray

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BOOK: Just Myrto
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I held my breath, expecting Socrates to laugh and dismiss Aristides' foolish notion. He did not. Instead, he sat quietly gazing at our terra cotta rooftop as if it were a stage; he appeared transfixed
by the drama unfolding before him. Aristides did not seem troubled by this long silence. He finished all the figs and bread, then reclined on the grass near Socrates feet. Aristides' smile broadened with every passing moment he waited.

Finally, when the midday sun shone directly down upon them both, Socrates nodded suddenly, slapped his knees and announced, “Aristides, I am flattered by your kind offer. I accept.”

“The gods will most certainly be pleased!” cried Aristides.

“I wish I could say the same for Xanthippe,” replied Socrates. Everyone in Athens knew how exasperated Xanthippe was over the way her husband chose to conduct his affairs. What would she say about a second wife? “Then again, my old wife and my new wife may quickly conspire against me.”

Aristides laughed. “You've always said that a good wife makes a man happy, but a bad wife makes a man a good philosopher. Whatever shall become of a philosopher with two wives?”

Socrates smiled. “We shall see soon enough. I'll make the necessary preparations at home. What would you like to do about a wedding?”

Aristides shook his head sadly. “We've exhausted our funds on Father's funeral. Anyway, a formal ceremony would only publicize Myrto's shame in having no dowry and sorrow in having no surviving parent to present her to you. A modest, private ceremony will be best.”

Socrates nodded. “Very well. You may deliver my bride to my door tomorrow evening.”

And so my fate was decided.

3

W
HEN
I
AWOKE
the next morning, I begged Pegasus to carry me back to sweet slumber, but to no avail. Instead, our slave Timo knocked and entered my chamber in a single motion.

“Bion and I have filled your mother's vessel with water from the river to give you your bridal bath,” advised Timo.

Father had purchased Timo the month before Mother died to help care for the new child. He'd gotten a good price because Timo was heavy with child herself. When he presented her to Mother, Father said, “A slave for you, my love, and one for our child.”

“But what if she dies in labor, Lysi?” Mother worried aloud.

“No matter,” Father replied. “I'll find you another.” Then he kissed mother's forehead and added, “But she won't. Everything is going to be fine.”

Father was so right and so wrong. Timo did not die in labor, but everything was not fine. Several weeks after Mother's death, Timo's son Bion burst into the world oblivious to our sorrow. His rosy cheeks and curly locks exuded happiness regardless of circumstance.

“Timo, how can I marry Socrates today? There's been no feast and no sacrifice. The women of Alopeke will surely be offended
that I've not called upon them to attend to my pre-wedding rituals. How will I ever face them?”

“I am sorry, miss.” Timo sighed and held out my tunic. “What would you like for me to do?” She handed me my garter belt so that I could wrap it around my waist one last time.

I stared at the belt thinking of the young brides-to-be who chose to wrap that garter around their necks and hang themselves rather than allow an undesirable groom to remove and discard the belt forever. I closed my eyes and rejected the impulse to dishonor myself and my family. I focused my eyes on Timo as I put on the belt.

Timo had mothered me right along with Bion for the past six years. This morning of all mornings I wanted her to talk to me like a real mother, to give me the strength and courage to face this day. My only desire was to pull the covers over my head and fade into my dreams forever.
What do I want?

“Would you please bring me the chamber pot?” I asked.

“Yes, miss.” Timo nodded and fetched the shallow clay vessel and lid.

As I arose from my childhood bed for the last time, I realized that it was not the scorn of the village or the events of the day that I feared most. What would happen when the day was done and I lay down to sleep in Socrates' chambers? I shuddered.

“There seems to be a bit of a chill this morning,” said Timo. “We'll warm your bath water for you.”

“Thank you,” I replied. I felt my chest and throat tighten, filling my eyes with tears. “I'm going to miss you, Timo.”

“Thank you, miss. Bion and I will surely miss you and will offer prayers to Hera every day. Wife of Zeus and goddess of marriage, she will be with you always.” Timo took my hand and wrapped me
in my tunic for extra warmth. “Come now, miss. Your wedding is cause for great celebration, with or without a feast.”

“Without. And without a dowry. And without my parents. Oh, Timo, this is not how I imagined it.” I flung my body back on the bed, buried my face in my pillow and sobbed. The pillow eagerly absorbed my tears, but refused my sorrow.

“Nothing is ever really as good or as bad as we imagine, miss,” Timo said trying to reassure me. “Apollo will ride his chariot across the sky tomorrow just as he's doing today.”

There was no stopping Apollo's chariot. My thoughts returned to Socrates' empty hands as he spoke of Pandora's dowry. Not everything in Pandora's dowry was evil. After all of the plagues and pestilence had released, there—hidden beneath it all—was hope. Pandora at least brought hope into the world. But Socrates' hands remained empty. I would enter this marriage with no dowry and no hope.

I took a long, ceremonial bath. Timo anointed my body with scented oils, but I found no pleasure in the aroma. I cut two locks from my head of already short hair, leaving one amongst the flowers in the courtyard as a remembrance. The other I burnt as an offering to Artemis, praying that she would protect me and ease my passage to womanhood. I ate my last meal with Aristides and Apollodorus and packed my clothing and personal items.

Shortly before sundown, Timo placed my bridal veil on my head as Apollodorus prepared the cart for my departure. Epiktetos, who had been our slave for as long as I could remember, brought me a beautiful bouquet of myrtle, Aphrodite's favorite flower. Was it even possible that the goddess of love and sexual desire would accompany me to my new home?

Aristides took my hand and helped me into the wooden cart. “You are a beautiful bride, Myrto. I'm sorry we have no horse-drawn chariot to carry you away.”

Hiding behind my veil, I didn't bother to force a smile. Instead, I nodded to reassure him. “I am grateful for a cart pulled by mules,” I said, and it was true. Horses would only have carried me away more swiftly.

Our humble wedding party set out. Apollodorus joined Aristides and me in the cart and played wedding songs on his lyre. Timo and Epiktetos walked along beside us carrying torches to scare away Hades' spirits of death. Wearing a crown of thorns and nuts, Bion danced around in between Timo and Epiktetos, swinging a basket filled with the traditional bread, apples and flowers.

I rode silently, watching the half moon. The beat of the donkeys' hooves accentuated the sound of the cart's turning wheels along the dusty road. As darkness descended upon us, the others began chanting,
“Oh, Hymen! Oh, Hymenaeus!”
After several rounds of chanting, Apollodorus began to sing:

Hear this hymn to Thee, Oh, Hymen,

Holy God of Bride and Groom.

Make this marriage ever fruitful,

Many sons born from this womb.

Oh, Hymen! Oh, Hymenaeus!

Oh, Hymen! Oh, Hymenaeus!

Son of Muse and God Apollo,

Revel in this couple's love.

Join them in their consummation;

Send your blessings from above.

Oh, Hymen! Oh, Hymenaeus!

Oh, Hymen! Oh, Hymenaeus!

I bowed my head and closed my eyes the remainder of the journey. The cart lurched to a stop in front of Socrates' house. Socrates and his son Lamprocles greeted our wedding processional. I studied Lamprocles and guessed his age to be somewhere around 14 years. He did not look like a young Socrates, so I imagined he looked more like Xanthippe.

Bion danced his way over to Socrates and handed him a loaf of bread. His sweet young voice imparted the ceremonial words of prosperity and good luck: “I fled worse and found better.” He giggled and danced back to his mother.

Socrates handed the bread to Lamprocles and performed the rite of grabbing my wrist and pulling me from childhood to adulthood. Since Father was deceased, Aristides declared solemnly, “In front of witnesses I give this girl to you for the production of legitimate children.”

Socrates helped me out of the cart and lifted my bridal veil. I dared not look into his eyes. Instead, I watched Apollodorus as he poured a cup of wine for each of us. I searched the silver moon for a sign from the gods that I was to drink from this cup.

It is not too late. Artemis may yet shoot an arrow that whisks me off to Hades and restores me to my parents.
I held my breath, but the gods did not intervene. Instead, Aristides offered a toast for our health, happiness and fertility, and I drank from the cup I was given.

4

A
S THE
MEAGER
wedding party departed, Socrates led me into the house. Two small lamps on a table cast shadows across the room. Lamprocles picked one of them up and bade us good night. Socrates took the other one.

“The household has retired early this evening,” said Socrates. He placed his hand on my shoulder and guided me back to his chambers. “You'll meet them all tomorrow.”

I said nothing. An eternity existed between tonight and tomorrow. I stole shallow breaths from the air as we entered the room. I searched for anything familiar that might bring me comfort in my new home. The most dreadful fright possessed me as I beheld for the first time the bed of Socrates.

There was nothing frightful about the bed itself. It was larger than my own, but seemed smaller than the marital bed of my parents that I recalled from childhood—the bed where Mother died; the bed that Father burned.

Fear strangled my heart, and coldness passed through my limbs. I closed my eyes and imagined I was staring into the face of Medusa, hair of serpents, eyes that turned men to stone.
Change me to stone! Make me a rock! Do not revive me until this awful night has passed.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” His voice was kind.
What trickery is this? Do not be fooled by the sweetness in his voice. I am a stone. Stones do not speak. Stones do not feel. Stones do not care.

“Myrto, I mean you no harm.” Socrates seated himself on one of the wooden chairs at the foot of the bed.
You mean me no harm; so you say. I suppose the spider means no harm to the fly. He merely wants his supper.

“Come, have a seat.” Socrates motioned to the other chair. “Are you hungry?”

I recognized Bion's basket on the low table between the chairs. The bread, fruit and flowers came from my own home. I kept my eyes on the basket and sat down.

“You've not spoken a word,” said Socrates. “I want to hear your voice. I want to hear your thoughts. I want to see the world through your eyes.”

I closed my eyelids firmly, damming a river of tears.

“Can you speak?”

I nodded, bewildered.
Yes, I can speak, but I have nothing to say.

“Is there anything you'd like to tell me?”

I shook my head.

“Very well, then, my lovely Myrto, let the first word that passes from your lips to my ears be my name. Would you say it, please?” He waited.

“Socrates,” I finally whispered.

“Delightful!” Socrates exclaimed. “Oh, please do say it again.” Again he waited.

“Socrates.” I spoke the word softly.

“Absolutely beautiful! And now, my dear, would you do me the honor of looking into my eyes as you say it?”

Slowly, I shifted my gaze from the basket to Socrates' countenance, keenly aware that I had never looked into any man's eyes other than Father's. Curiosity replaced a small portion of my fear. I felt my own eyes fill with tears as they met Socrates' eyes for the first time.

“Socrates,” I said again, feeling as if I were seeing and being seen for the first time.

“Myrto,” whispered Socrates. “My Myrto.”

I began to tremble, not from fear, but overcome by a feeling of awe. Socrates eyes were very light brown—the color of my favorite goat when I was a child. I milked her every morning for years. On cold winter days, she would let me stroke her soft fur and rest my head against her side. Listening to her little heart beating, I found comfort in the warmth of her body. I scratched the top of her head until she bleated gratefully.

Then when I grasped the goat's teats between my fingers and pulled, the milk flowed so freely. The sound of the liquid streaming against the bottom of my metal pail always made my mouth water. When the bucket was full enough to please my mother, I aimed the teat directly toward my mouth. There was always enough sweet, warm milk left to satisfy my own belly.

I realized I was still gazing into Socrates' eyes, so warm and inviting were they.

“Did you see yourself?” Socrates asked.

I nodded, still holding his gaze.

“Excellent,” whispered Socrates. “You know the eyes are windows to the soul. As I looked into your eyes, I saw the most beautiful, happy child.”

I puzzled over this. Did he also see me? Did he see himself? Did he see the child he hoped to conceive?

“Myrto,” said Socrates, taking my hand. “What is it you desire?”

No one but a slave had ever asked me this.
What do I desire? What have I asked for in the past? Food, water, a chamber pot. These are needs, not desires. Have I ever dared desire? Only in my dreams …

My mind raced back to the wedding hymns and blessings. This was what I was supposed to say. “I desire what every woman desires,” I said. “A son.”

BOOK: Just Myrto
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