Just Myrto

by Laurie Gray

  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.

  2

  ONE 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.

  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

  WHEN 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

  AS 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?”