Just Myrto (9 page)

“What does that mean, all is one?” I asked.

“I don't know,” said Socrates. “He seemed to talk in circles. I'm hoping you and Lamprocles can study the poem together and enlighten me on the journey home.”

Lamprocles and I walked through the Agora and found our favorite place near the entrance of the Acropolis. We sat next to the marble statue of the Graces carved by Socrates himself. These thinly cloaked goddesses of beauty, charm and creativity invited us to study the mysteries of nature, life and divinity.

I read the poem aloud, uninterrupted. Parmenides rides in a chariot pulled by two mares who deliver him to the gate where night meets day. The daughters of the sun welcome him warmly on their journey from darkness to light. They push back the veils from their heads and lead him through truth and appearances.

The daughters of the sun claim that despite all appearances, change is an illusion that supposes things to both be and not be. They insist all things must always genuinely be. The more I read, the more puzzled I became. I finished reading and looked to Lamprocles, whose eyes were wide with wonder.

“I think he means to contradict Heraclitus,” said Lamprocles. “He talks about Being—all things whole and unchanging. But we only perceive part of the Being or part of the truth. Our varying thoughts and perceptions create the illusion of motion.”

“That makes no sense to me,” I said.

“I'll show you what I mean,” said Lamprocles. He jumped up and ran off without another word.

I sat reading and pondering this strange poem full of paradox and riddles. The poem spoke not only of light and darkness, but
also of male and female. At the center of all is the goddess who created Eros to unite male and female, a goddess of union and painful birth who mixes the seeds of Love in proper proportion, producing new well-formed bodies, both male and female.

Like the body forming in my own belly.
I wanted desperately to tell Lamprocles of the child within me. I wanted us to read the midwifery book together.

Lamprocles returned with a handful of small papyrus squares, a pen and ink. On the first square of papyrus he drew a caterpillar at the bottom in the far right corner. On the second he drew the caterpillar a bit higher and further to the left. He continued drawing the caterpillar, each time a little higher and a little further left until a caterpillar appeared on each page.

When the ink had dried on the last page, he stacked them all up. “Hold them right here,” he said turning the left side toward me.

I held the pages with my left hand at the top and my right hand at the bottom. “Like this?” I asked.

Lamprocles nodded. “Now watch!” Lamprocles pulled open the stack to the back piece of papyrus. He dropped one sheet after another and I watched in amazement as the caterpillar climbed to the top of the page before me.

“Did you see the caterpillar move?” Lamprocles asked, his voice trembling with excitement.

I nodded. He took the papyrus from me and spread them out in order.

“But if you look at them all at once, each remains still,” he said. “The appearance of movement comes from seeing only one sheet at a time.”

“The appearance of movement comes because you were moving the pages,” I said.

“But that's not the point,” said Lamprocles. “The point is the caterpillar seems to move. Each complete drawing becomes part of one moving caterpillar.”

“Show me again,” I said. We took turns holding the pieces and flipping through them until the joy of watching the caterpillar climb completely replaced my confusion about its meaning.

T
HAT
EVENING
WHEN
Leda brought me my supper she eyed me carefully and stroked her chin. “You've got the glow about you,” she said finally.

I knew instantly that she knew. “What glow?” I asked anyway.

“There's a baby coming,” Leda stated with an air of authority.

“Another girl to rescue from the mountain?” I asked, still pretending I did not understand.

“Not on the mountain.” Leda shook her head. “In your belly.”

I neither confessed nor denied the fact. It still seemed more like a dream. Talking to Leda about it would somehow make it real.

“Have you told Mr. Socrates?” Leda asked.

I shook my head. “He told me.”

Leda burst out laughing. “Who ever heard of the husband telling the wife!” Then she put her hands on her hips. “And just when were you planning to tell Mama Leda?” she scolded. “Why, you need to be eating boiled eggs and fresh fruit and drinking goat's milk.”

Leda began pacing around the room, fussing and planning and scolding as if the baby were coming tomorrow. I watched her with amusement.

Finally, I worked up the courage to ask her what was really on my mind. “What do you suppose Xanthippe will say?” I asked.

Leda froze. “Well, now, that is hard to guess, isn't it?” She stared at my belly for the longest time. “Pull your tunic in tight and let me see how big you are,” she instructed.

“How long has it been since you've had the blood?” she asked finally.

“Not since summer,” I said.

“Then we'll have a baby come spring,” Leda calculated.

I liked the way she said “we'll have a baby.” Indeed, I would not march into this battle alone.

When Socrates joined me after supper, I told him how Leda had guessed that I was with child.

“You can't get much past Leda,” said Socrates. “She saw it in your eyes, though, not in your belly.”

“Still, I'm wondering if we should tell Lamprocles,” I said.

Socrates wrapped his arms around me placing both hands on my tummy. “It's your baby,” he said. “You can tell anyone you like.”

“What if it's a girl?” I asked.

“Then we shall love her,” replied Socrates.

“But surely you must want a son.” It seemed impossible that anyone could actually want a daughter.

“I have a son,” said Socrates.

“Yes, but surely you want another son,” I insisted.

“Do you not want a daughter?” asked Socrates.

I did not know how to answer that question. “I am afraid to want a daughter,” I finally replied.

“Why?” asked Socrates.

Inside I was screaming.
You know why! You know that people are as likely to expose a girl as they are to keep her! Don't you know what a curse it is to be a woman in this world?
Outside, I just shook my head.

“It seems like such a curse to be a woman in this world,” I whispered. I felt a tear slip down my cheek.

Socrates brushed away the tear and kissed my lips. “Those who believe themselves to be cursed are cursed, men and women alike,” he said, still holding my face in his hands. “I do not believe you are cursed, Myrto. Do you?”

Do I? Of course, I do! How could a woman not believe she is cursed? And yet…
“I do not feel cursed when I am with you,” I admitted.

Socrates smiled. “Then it is good that we spend so much time together.” He poured himself a cup of wine. “Would you like some?”

I shook my head. “Just water will be fine.”

“Then I'll add a little honey to sweeten your disposition.”

Socrates swilled a mouthful of wine before swallowing. He poured me a cup of water and added a drizzle of honey. Then he poured a splash of water into the wine in his own cup. He sat down beside me and swirled his wine before taking another swallow.

I stared at the cup of water between my hands.
It is good that we spend so much time together. But everything will change when the child is born. No more marketplace. No more discussions. At least I'll still have books to read. Surely Socrates and Lamprocles will at least bring me books to read.

“Myrto,” Socrates said gently.

When I looked up I realized my eyes were full of tears.

“What is it?” asked Socrates.

I shook my head.

“You do not want to tell me?” he asked.

I shook my head again.
Why is it always so hard to find the words … and then to find the courage to say the words?

“Do you really think that my going with you and Lamprocles to the Agora is a good thing?” I asked.

“Of course,” replied Socrates. “It delights me to see you learning and growing together with Lamprocles. How could that not be a good thing?”

“It's not that it's not good,” I stammered. “It's just that …” I could not finish the thought.

“Just what, Myrto?” Socrates set his wine on the table and moved to comfort me.

“Just that everything is changing.” I struggled to get the words out.

“Are you not happy with how your life has changed?”

I shook my head. “No. I mean, I am happy with my own change, but now, with a baby …”

Socrates nodded. “I see. What do you think will happen with the baby?”

My shame prevented me from facing Socrates. I stood and walked to our bed. Socrates followed me.

As we lay side by side on our backs in bed, Socrates asked again. “Myrto, what do you think will happen once the baby is born?”

“I will have to go back to being just another woman,” I whispered. My tears flowed freely in the darkness.

Socrates propped himself up on his elbow and rested his head on his hand. With his other hand, he reached out to me, turning me to face him. “There's no going back, Myrto,” said Socrates. “We can only go forward and become who we are.”

“That's easy for you to say.” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “In all of your philosophical being and becoming, you will always be a man, free to come and go as you please.”

“What do you want me to do?” Socrates asked. “Do you not want our child?”

“I do want our child!” The truth of this declaration surprised me. “I do want this child,” I said again. “But I know that I will have to stay home to care for the baby.” I paused hoping that Socrates would say something. He did not. “I do not want to be trapped here without you,” I whispered.

“Trapped?” asked Socrates. He paused. “Myrto, what is it that you are most afraid of?”

I took a deep breath and summoned the courage to tell my husband the truth. “Xanthippe,” I replied.

Socrates laughed. I pushed him away and rolled over on my back. “Please don't be angry,” Socrates said, still laughing. “I'm laughing at my own foolishness, not at you.”

I do feel angry. Angry and hurt.
I said nothing.

“I thought that you were going to tell me that you're afraid of death,” said Socrates. “Your death, the death of our child, or maybe even the death of this old man.”

Am I really more afraid of Xanthippe than of death? And Socrates' death would leave both me and my child without a home. Am I the foolish one here?
I turned back to face Socrates and put my hand on his side. “I really am afraid of Xanthippe,” I confessed.

Socrates laughed again, but this time I did not feel hurt. “Let me tell you a secret,” said Socrates, “but you must promise never to tell a soul.” He wrapped his arms around me and held me close.

“I promise,” I said.

Socrates whispered in my ear. “Xanthippe is afraid of you.”

X
ANTHIPPE IS AFRAID
of me.
This new thought completely possessed me. The words sang over and over in my mind as we walked to the Agora the next morning.
Xanthippe is afraid of me.
The idea was absurd. I found myself covering my mouth with my hand to stifle the giggles.

Xanthippe was afraid of nothing. She did not fear Socrates. The image of Xanthippe dumping the chamber pot on Socrates' head stayed with me.
Xanthippe is afraid of me. Xanthippe is afraid of nothing. I am nothing.
Yet as we crossed the river on our path to the city, I did not feel like nothing. There was something inside me—alive and growing.

Xanthippe is afraid of me.
The thought continued to amuse me greatly. I began to reconsider my own fears. What else was I afraid of? Was I not still afraid of what the future might hold, especially when Socrates dies? Afraid of giving birth? Afraid of being trapped in Xanthippe's house once my child was born while Socrates and Lamprocles continue spending their days in the Agora without me?

Xanthippe is afraid of me.
I must have laughed aloud.

“What's so funny?” Lamprocles asked.

“Nothing,” I said. I shook my head, but my lips formed a smile. I was surprised to see that we had passed the last belt of olive trees outside the city wall.

Socrates took my hand. “Lamprocles and I were just discussing what the two of you might study next.”

“Everyone's talking about Protagoras and Gorgias. They can use logic and reason to prove or disprove anything you like,” said Lamprocles.

“What's the point of that?” I asked.

Lamprocles stopped and crossed his arms. “The point is to become a more excellent and persuasive public speaker,” Lamprocles retorted. “This is the most useful skill in a democracy; wouldn't you agree, Father?”

“Public speaking does seem to be important,” Socrates replied. Without releasing my hand, he touched Lamprocles' elbow. “But I wonder why it is so important.”

Once again we were walking together.

“It distinguishes those who lead from those who follow,” insisted Lamprocles. “Those who can persuade best direct the course of public opinion.”

Socrates sighed. “Perhaps the public is too easily persuaded.”

We passed through the gate and into the city. Lamprocles made his way through the crowd toward the marketplace and was soon out of our sight. Socrates kept hold of my hand through the hustling and pushing. We nestled in the wake of a sturdy slave girl, gracefully carrying her pitcher on her head. When she reached a fountain on the next street corner, I watched her reach her hand into the cool, gushing water. I stopped for a drink as well. A pair of schoolboys scurried past us, writing tablets in hand, each trying to out stride the other.