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Authors: Laurie Gray

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BOOK: Just Myrto
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Socrates turned back to me. “What do you think, Myrto?”

The questions swirled in my brain.
What do I think? What an odd idea. I can think. Do my thoughts even matter?
The road crested atop the small hill allowing us to see a scruffy drover with his herd of grunting pigs on their way to the market before us.

“I agree with Lamprocles,” I said.

“Agreement does not require thought,” retorted Lamprocles. “Father asked you what you think. You can't just agree.”

The harshness of these words pricked my heart. I walked on, silenced by the shame of my confusion. Socrates combed his fingers through his beard, but did not say a word. They both waited for my reply.

“I don't know,” I said finally.

“Then you must think about what it is you do not know and ask a question aimed to find out,” replied Lamprocles.

There is so much I do not know. How can I think about all of it?
I pondered this as I watched the road ahead. Though the sky was still mostly dark, I could see the swine overtaking a long-bearded farmer carrying a cage of chickens in each hand. The drover's dog barked and circled to herd the pigs, but it was herding them right into the farmer who was shouting unimaginable curses.

I, too, felt like cursing.
Sacred Athena! I don't know! And my husband won't tell me! Instead, he claims to know nothing!
Gradually a question formed in my mind. “Socrates says he knows nothing, but isn't that something?” I looked from Socrates' serene smile to Lamprocles' furrowed brow.

Lamprocles stared at Socrates, who again remained silent. “It may be something, but it is not wisdom. I think it is experience. Don't you have experience, Father? More experience than Myrto and I combined!”

“I've certainly lived longer,” conceded Socrates. “I have been a sculptor and a soldier, a husband and a father. These experiences are different than yours, but I can't say that they are more.”

“But you can share your experiences with us and we can learn from them, right?” asked Lamprocles.

“That's an interesting thought,” said Socrates, and Lamprocles looked pleased. “I wonder if one can truly learn from another's experience.”

“Isn't that the basis of all apprenticeships?” Lamprocles asked. “A young man learns his trade from an experienced blacksmith or cobbler or ship maker.”

“It seems to me that the young apprentice learns from his own observation of the master and his own experience working with the
master,” Socrates countered. “Who would you hold accountable for what the apprentice learns?

“Why, the master, of course,” replied Lamprocles.

“Can the master somehow transfer his experience to the apprentice?” asked Socrates.

“No, of course not,” replied Lamprocles. “The young apprentice must gain his own experience.”

“So then the young apprentice is responsible for his own experience, what he chooses to study and think and learn for himself?” asked Socrates.

“Yes,” agreed Lamprocles.

Socrates reached out for my hand and pulled me back into the conversation. “Myrto, do you think the same is true of teachers and students?”

“I would suppose so,” I replied.

“Is there a question that you can ask that would help you discover what you think?” Socrates prodded.

I shrugged.

“Teachers teach, right?” said Lamprocles.

I nodded.

“What do students do?” asked Lamprocles.

“Students learn?” I offered timidly.

“And which is more important?” Lamprocles probed further. “Which is the objective—teaching or learning?”

“Learning,” I said, this time with more conviction.

“And who does the learning?” Lamprocles asked.

“Students,” I replied.

“Precisely!” exclaimed Socrates. “This is why I have never claimed to be a teacher or charged fathers for the time I spend with their sons. I cannot teach anyone anything. I can only help him,”
Socrates paused and looked me directly in the eyes, “or
her,
to learn.”

We entered Athens at the break of dawn. As we passed through the city gate, the noisy business of living surrounded us. Donkey carts overflowing with produce impeded foot traffic on the narrow streets. Gentlemen dressed in their best white mantels pressed onward, careful to avoid the mud and manure. A group of soldiers talked brusquely and laughed loudly, shields and spears clattering.

Our conversation succumbed to the raucous crowd. In the midst of the noise, I felt a strange quiet within me. Each breath brought a different sweet or pungent odor of city life. My body absorbed the chaotic energy and surged with excitement. Regardless of what lay ahead, at that moment, for the first time in my life, I desired to be exactly where I was.

9

W
E
FLOWED WITH
the stream of people from the constricted roadways into the openness of the Agora. A sea of men flooded the marketplace. I stayed close to Socrates and searched the multitudes for other women. Aside from the girls selling flowers and several women selling bread, there were none.

We walked past the fish vendors and away from the crowd. Beneath a bay tree, a small group of men sat chatting. They shouted greetings as we approached.

“Good morning, Socrates!” said one, jumping to his feet and rushing to meet us. The breadth of his forehead matched the breadth of his shoulders. He nodded toward Lamprocles, then turned to me with a look of wonder. Lamprocles returned the nod and went on to greet the others.

“Allow me to introduce you to Myrto, daughter of Lysimachus,” said Socrates.

“Granddaughter of Aristides the Just?” the man inquired.

“The very same.” Socrates nodded. “Myrto, may I present Aristocles, son of Ariston.”

Aristocles took my right hand in both his hands and held it. “You can call me Plato.” He smiled. “All my friends do.” His arms were strong like a soldier, but his hands were soft and well-oiled. I
guessed him to be about 25 years old and wondered if he was married. His loose curls rested on his shoulders, but his tawny beard was neatly trimmed.

“Good morning,” I said. I slipped my hand away from between his. Socrates had already moved on toward the others. I quickened my pace to catch up to my husband. Plato matched my stride.

“Are you a student of Aspasia?” he asked, slowing to nearly a stop. His question held me back with him.

Me? A student?
I shook my head. Aspasia of Miletus was the mistress of the great ruler Pericles. Pericles died of the plague before I was born, but I had heard that Aspasia still educated young women in music and the arts.

“I just thought that since Socrates was once a student of Aspasia and now here you are with Socrates … well, I thought maybe she sent you to study with Socrates.”

I stopped. “Socrates was a student of Aspasia?” I asked. I looked over at the old man surrounded by youth beneath the speckled sun and shade of the bay leaves.
Is there nothing ordinary about him?

“Why do you seem so surprised?” asked Plato. “Socrates is always saying that Connus taught him to play music and Aspasia taught him the art of public speaking.”

I shrugged my shoulders. Part of me felt I should join Socrates immediately, but part of me wanted to hear more of what Plato might say.

The rising sun shone brightly upon us. Plato turned me gently so that we were facing each other without the sun in our eyes. “Do you like poetry?” Plato asked.

I nodded.

“I absolutely adore the poetry of Sappho,” said Plato. “Only the nine muses can compare.” He stood straight and breathed in deeply, as if to command the attention of the gods. “On your dappled throne, Aphrodite, cunning daughter of Zeus. I beg you, do not crush my heart with pain, oh lady.”

A strange rushing swept my chest and warmth gathered in my cheeks. I stepped to one side to look past Plato and look again at my husband. Plato was much more like the man I had always pictured myself marrying.

“Forgive me, Myrto,” said Plato. “You've inspired me with your beauty, and I've offended you by being so forward.”

I shook my head. I meant to clear my impious thoughts more than to disagree.

“I also have many poems of Solon,” Plato offered. “My family traces its roots back to him directly. I've got the most complete collection of his writings that you'll find anywhere in the world. If you like, I'll let you borrow some. You may read them at your leisure.”

I turned back to Plato, who was looking at me curiously.
He thinks I can read.
“You're very kind,” I said.

“And you're very perplexing,” Plato replied. “What brings you to the Agora with Socrates and Lamprocles?”

“Socrates invited me to come,” I said.

“He did?” Plato glanced over at Socrates. “Those who are loathe to have him teach young men will be absolutely scandalized to think he may begin corrupting young women as well!” His eyes returned to me. “I, however, rather like the idea of inviting beautiful young women to join our discussions.”

“I am not here to be corrupted!” I said more assertively than I'd ever spoken to anyone, women and slaves included, but the fact
remained that custom required me to be in the home, not in the marketplace among men.
But it's my husband who suggested I come.
Surely there was nothing immoral about a woman accepting her husband's invitation to join him in the Agora.

“I feel as if I'm missing something,” said Plato, shaking his head. He looked at my waist. Out in public for the first time without my garter belt, I suddenly felt exposed. “Are you married?” Plato asked.

I nodded.

“And your husband? Where is he?”

I gestured toward the tree.

“Young Lamprocles? You must be joking!” Plato exclaimed.

I shook my head. “Not Lamprocles. Socrates.”

“Now I'm sure you're playing with me,” laughed Plato.

I shook my head again. “Socrates is my husband.”

Plato laughed harder. “Oh, yes! You're exactly the little woman that Xanthippe would choose to bear more sons for her husband!”

A ball of anger and confusion rose in my throat. I struggled to spit it out. “I can assure you Xanthippe is not pleased.” I wanted to run home. My home. All the way back to my childhood before Mother died. Back to a world that was safe and made sense.
There is no place for me to run.
I straightened my back with determination and walked toward my husband. I could feel Plato watching my back, but he did not follow me.

The men were in the midst of a rather heated discussion. Lamprocles glared at me.
Oh, yes, it could be worse. I may not be married to someone as desirable as Plato, but at least I'm not married to Lamprocles!
Without meaning to, I smiled. Lamprocles scowled. The only one who seemed to be completely at ease was Socrates. He gestured for me to have a seat by his side.

“Gentlemen, this is Myrto,” said Socrates. “She'll be joining me for as long as she chooses.”

The men nodded their greetings, but continued arguing. Everyone was talking at once.

“I don't trust him, I tell you. He's too close to the Thirty Tyrants!”

“It's true. Charmides is his uncle and Critias himself is a cousin.”

“They've ordered the execution of Alcibiades!”

“Socrates could be next!”

Socrates winked at me and cleared his throat. Every head turned to hear him speak. “Do you mind if I summarize our discussion for Myrto?

“Please do, Socrates,” the men all agreed.

“Very well,” Socrates began. He pointed to two men on his left as he spoke. “Ever since Sparta defeated Athens and imposed the reign of the Thirty Tyrants, Dion and Megellus here have been plotting to overthrow the Tyrants and restore democracy to our people.” The two men nodded their agreement.

“The Tyrants destroyed our city when they tore down the long walls that protected us and connected us to the sea,” said Megellus.

“And Critias himself celebrated during the ruin by dancing and playing his flute,” added Dion.

“Of course, he was celebrating,” said Lamprocles. “He's the leader of the whole, rotten bunch!”

“Critias and Charmides,” growled Dion. “Two peas in a pod!”

“And your friend Plato hails from the same vine,” chimed in Lamprocles. He was looking directly at me. At least ten years younger than all of the other men here, Lamprocles seemed a bit out of place, too. He and I were the only ones without beards.

“Their days are numbered,” said a man to our right.

“You speak the truth, Theages!” proclaimed a chorus of voices.

“What do you say, Socrates?” asked Dion.

“I say we must continue to examine the path to justice,” said Socrates. “Have decades of war brought us justice?”

“No,” the men agreed.

“Have politicians and tyrants brought us justice?”

“No,” sang the chorus again.

“Then we who love Athens and love wisdom, must ask ourselves, what is the justice we seek,” Socrates said.

“But what about Plato?” asked Megellus. “Can we trust him?”

“When we were at war, did Plato take up his sword and fight?” asked Socrates.

“He did,” replied Dion. “He fought bravely for Athens for at least four years.”

“Is there anyone who loves wisdom and justice more than Plato?” asked Socrates.

“Only you, Socrates,” said Theages.

“If that is true,” said Socrates, “it is only because I have loved them longer.”

Socrates admiration for Plato seemed most genuine. Perhaps if I became a lover of wisdom and justice, I, too, would earn my husband's approval.

10

T
HE
DAY
PASSED
quickly with conversations here and there throughout the marketplace. Food and drink appeared with no apparent exchange of money. I quietly and gratefully soaked it all in, still wondering how one becomes a lover of wisdom.

BOOK: Just Myrto
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