by Laurie Gray
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.”
“Ah, yes,” replied Socrates. “Sons are wonderful. I have a son.” Socrates poured us each a cup of wine, raised his cup and waited for me to raise mine as well. “To sons.”
With that desire in mind, I drank deeply from the cup. The wine was much stronger than I expected. In our home our wine was mixed with equal parts of water. Socrates’ wine tasted uncut. I could feel it rushing into my stomach and swiftly making its way into the muscles of my neck and shoulders.
Socrates smiled and again raised his cup. “To sons!” Again we drank deeply. The wine danced down my back and into my legs. How many cups of wine will it take for me to be ready for Socrates to try to give me a son? I set my cup on the table and again found myself afraid to meet his gaze.
Socrates also set his cup down and gently lifted my chin with his hand, looking once again into my eyes.
“Myrto,” he said. “Are you afraid?”
I felt my heart pounding, but the wine was loosening my tongue. “Should I be afraid, Socrates?” I examined his face for the answer.
Socrates tilted his head and appeared to give this serious consideration. Finally, he replied, “Fear is not about shoulds and should nots, Myrto. If and when you feel it, fear just is.”
As he said these words, my fear evaporated.
“I will never force myself upon you, Myrto. If you desire a son, I am honored to attend to that desire at your request.”
I hesitated, wondering if I could believe my new husband. “But my brother has given me to you for the production of legitimate children regardless of my desire,” I said.
“I made that contract with your brother, it’s true,” conceded Socrates. “But your brother is not here. Now that you are my wife, are we not free to make our own covenants?”
Surely he is mocking me. Men make agreements with men, not women. No contract with a woman can be binding. “You would make an agreement with a woman?” I asked.
“Most certainly,” Socrates said nodding, “but even more importantly, how can I be sure that you are a woman and not a goddess in disguise?”
I laughed aloud. “The wine is playing tricks upon us both!” I poured more wine in both our cups and raised my glass. “To the wine!”
Socrates raised his cup, but took only a sip before setting it back down on the table. “Would it not be just like Pallas Athena to disguise herself as the granddaughter of Aristides the Just to see if I would indeed treat her justly? Or Aphrodite to appear in the form of a beautiful young woman named after her favorite flower?”
Socrates took the wine from my hand, set it on the table and took both of my hands in his. “My flesh is mortal, my dear Myrto. I have learned to allow a goddess to express her desire rather than impose my own desires upon her. No mortal man can dominate a goddess and hope to survive.”
He kissed my cheek and led me to the bed. “Come,” he said. “Let us sleep. Tomorrow you can think again about what it is you desire.”
5
THE NEXT MORNING the fear of living in Xanthippe’s house replaced my fear of sleeping in Socrates’ bed. I awoke to distant sounds of her ranting. Xanthippe means “yellow horse.” I pictured her reared up on her hind legs, neighing loudly and knocking me to the ground with her powerful front hooves. Perhaps it would be best for me to stay right here until Socrates returns.
I surveyed the room. My clothes and all of my worldly possessions were neatly placed in one corner. A chamber pot awaited in the far corner. I adjusted my tunic and ran my fingers through my butchered hair. I pondered my garter which was draped across one of the wooden chairs. Socrates had neither removed it from my waist nor consummated our marriage.
I sat in the other chair and poured myself a quarter cup of wine. I added another quarter cup of water and mixed the drink with my index finger. I licked my finger, gave the mixture another swirl, and then licked my finger again. Had the wine clouded my memory? I checked the bed. No blood.
Am I or am I not a married woman? I mulled this over as I broke off pieces of bread from the basket, softened them in my wine and ate. I did feel strangely different. Hungry and alive. What is it I desire? I don’t know. But I shouldn’t mind being married to a man who treats me as a goddess.
I sprinkled some of the uncut red wine on the bed. Close enough. No one but Socrates and I knew the truth. And surely no man would tell such a secret. I admired my handiwork before packing the garter away with my other belongings.
I selected the most aromatic red apple from the basket and was munching contentedly when I heard a light tapping at the door. I wiped the apple’s juices from my mouth and considered who it might be. I knew of no one to fear but Xanthippe, who seemed unlikely to tap lightly.
“Come in,” I answered.
“Good morning, ma’am,” said a young girl. She kept her eyes on the floor and hid behind silky chestnut hair. “Mr. Socrates says to make sure you have what
ever you need.”
“What is your name, child?” I asked. She reminded me very much of myself when I was eleven and serving my father.
“Korinna, ma’am,” she replied shyly.
“Good morning, Korinna.” I had indeed been transformed from a “miss” yesterday to a “ma’am” today. “Please have a seat here beside me and tell me about my new home.”
Korinna hesitated. Hers was indeed a friendly face. Perhaps she could show me other secret pockets of safety in this home.
“Please join me,” I invited her. “I was just enjoying some breakfast.”
Korinna glanced back at the open doorway before giving me a slight nod and sitting awkwardly on the very edge of the chair.
“Where is Socrates?” I asked.
“Mr. Socrates and Mr. Lamprocles left for the marketplace at sun-up,” she said. “Mr. Socrates always meets his students there.”
The sound of scurrying outside the door catapulted Korinna to her feet. An even younger face peeked into the room.
“Iris!” cried Korinna. “What are you doing?”
“I just want to see her, too,” the small voice said sheepishly.
“Do come in, child, and let me see you,” I coaxed. “Your name is Iris?”
The girl stared at me wide-eyed as she nodded.
“Iris!” Korinna again scolded her. Iris shifted her inquisitive eyes to the basket on the table.
“Are you two sisters?” To their great fortune, neither of them looked anything like Socrates. In fact, I had never heard anyone suggest that Socrates had any daughters.
“Oh, no, ma’am,” replied Korinna, “We’re not sisters. Mrs. Xanthippe just saved us both.”
“Saved you from what, Korinna?”
“Why from exposure, ma’am,” Korinna replied.
“And as soon as we’re old enough to bring a good price, we’ll go live with the richest family she can find,” Iris added.
“The nicest family, Iris,” Korinna corrected her.
“How many of you has Xanthippe saved?” I pictured the yellow horse trotting up the hillside through the darkness of night drawn by the cries of exposed baby girls. And why does she save them? Why, to raise them as slaves and sell them for a profit, of course.
This reality seemed completely lost on Korinna. “There are 14 of us,” Korinna told me. “Melissa will be going to her new family soon, so I expect Mrs. Xanthippe’ll be looking for another abandoned baby girl to save,” Korinna explained. Iris stood close beside her nodding her head.
“Korinna! Iris!” a voice called from the hallway. Both girls froze.
“Yes, Mama Leda,” they responded in chorus.
An older woman shuffled through the door and put a hand on each girl’s shoulder. The sun had darkened her hands and given her many wrinkles.
“Good morning, Mrs. Myrto,” she said in a voice that carried a soothing song through each word. “Did you sleep well?” Her eyes drifted to the bed and stopped briefly on the stained bedding.
I nodded.
“We’ll be washing the coverings and anything else you like, ma’am,” Mama Leda said, gathering up the blankets from the bed. “Is there anything else you want washed?”
I glanced around the room before shaking my head. How can I ask you what I really want to know? What am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed to go?
“Is everything to your liking, ma’am?” Mama Leda asked.
I nodded again and struggled to find the right words. “Mama Leda,” I stopped. “Should I call you Mama Leda?”
“You call me whatever you like, ma’am.”
I again tried to work out the right questions to get the answers I needed. “What does Socrates call you?” I asked at last.
“Mr. Socrates calls me Leda,” she responded. She seemed to sense my true predicament, and shooed Korinna and Iris out the door with the bedding. “You girls go on. Get started on the wash now.”
Once they were safely out of earshot, Leda turned her attention back to me. “Mr. Socrates told me to show you around the place, answer all of your questions, and make sure you have everything you need until he returns.”
I walked around the room, running my hands along the chairs and table. “When will he be back?” I asked.
“That’s hard to say, ma’am. Usually by sunset, but sometimes not until closer to sunrise.” She paused to see if I had another question. After several moments, she broke the silence. “Let me introduce you to Zoe the cook. Then we’ll see if we can find Praxis. He does most of the farming and the buying and selling at the market.”
And so I allowed Leda to extract me from the safety of Socrates’ chambers and lead me into the fearsome house of Xanthippe.
6
LEDA WALKED ME through the common rooms of the house and into the courtyard where Xanthippe lay in wait. Again I heard her before I saw her.
“So, this is the soil of Aristides the Just where Socrates wants to plant his seed!” Xanthippe roared. I spun to face her. Her dark brown eyes pierced mine with a jolting force. My body wrenched backward. I steadied myself and fixed my eyes upon her leather sandals.
Leda stepped between us. “Yes, ma’am,” she mumbled.
“Well, forgive me for not celebrating when the old goat tracks dirt into my house.” Xanthippe spat on the ground in my direction. My face flushed and my ears burned as Xanthippe continued her tirade.
“Socrates can keep all the filth he likes in his own bed chambers. I’ll never set foot in there again; but you, Miss Myrto, will do well to get it into that pretty little head of yours that this is my house, and you best not set foot in it unless you intend to do exactly as I say!”
Anger seized my chest, and tears began to sting my eyes. Before a sound could pass through my quivering lips, I retreated to Socrates’ room and hurled myself on the bed. Arms wrapped around my stomach, I shook violently from head to toe. “Oh, Athena, goddess of war and wisdom, what am I to do?” I cried in quiet whispers. “Surely I cannot win a war against Xanthippe!”
My mind returned to my garter. I should have ended this before it ever began. Perhaps it’s not too late. I sat up and dried my eyes. The wine on the table called to me, and I answered, hands trembling as I poured the first cup. Would I be better off dead? Is there any hope for me?
I drank the strong wine quickly before leaning back in a chair to catch my breath. I was well into my second cup when Leda returned to check on me.
“Are you all right?” she asked. Her arms were full of fresh bedding, and she set to work making the bed without waiting for a response.
“Leda, what am I going to do?” I wailed. “How can I possibly stay here?”
“She does have quite the temper, ma’am; there’s no denying it.” Leda let out a burst of air that sounded like a soft chuckle, followed by a cough to disguise it. I felt betrayed by her amusement.
“I’ve known Mrs. Xanthippe her whole life, and you can believe me when I tell you that I think you’ve survived the worst of it.” Leda finished making up the bed and walked over toward the chamber pot. “She’s always got a mean bark, but she hardly ever attacks.”
“But you heard what she said,” I argued. “I never should have set foot in this house.”
“Mrs. Myrto, this all came up very sudden-like for Mrs. Xanthippe.” Leda said. “Why it was only the night before last that Mr. Socrates announced most unexpectedly that he would be taking a second wife.”
I tried to imagine that conversation. Had the Socrates that promised to treat me as a goddess somehow tamed the yellow horse? My heart and head were still pounding. I went back to the bed to lie down.
“As the gods are my witness, they had the most fiery argument I’ve heard in years,” Leda confided. “The young girls were cowering in their beds, and Mr. Lamprocles left the house altogether.”
“Do tell me what they said,” I beseeched her.
“Oh, they moved from room to room, and I don’t pretend to have listened in on every word, but I ca
n tell you that they ended up in this very room.”
I pushed the image of Xanthippe and Socrates together in this room out of my mind. “She said she’d never set foot in this room again,” I reminded Leda.
“Oh, she told Mr. Socrates that, too,” Leda said. I scooted my body up in the bed and propped myself up on my elbows. I stared hard at Leda who was trying to hide a smile, but couldn’t keep her belly from shaking with laughter. “Right after she dumped this here chamber pot on top of Mr. Socrates’ head, she swore by the graves of her parents that she would never set foot in this room again.”
“No!” I was aghast at the very thought. “Surely not the chamber pot!” I whistled under my breath in disbelief. How could any woman in the world have such daring? “What did Socrates do?” I asked.
“He chuckled and said that rain almost always follows the thunder,” Leda responded. “And then he proceeded to clean up the mess. With my help, of course.”
Part of me hated Xanthippe more than I’d ever hated anyone or anything in my life, but somewhere inside me a kernel of admiration took root. I tried to ask myself what I would do if I were her, but I had no experience at being a woman or being married or bearing and raising a man’s children. All I knew is that I had never stood up to any man, or even another woman. I would have swallowed my anger and let it devour me from within.
“So what should I do, Leda?” I asked in earnest.
“I cannot rightly say, ma’am,” Leda responded, shaking her head. Slaves were not normally called upon to tell their owners what to do.
“But you know both Xanthippe and Socrates,” I pleaded. “What would you do if you were me? Xanthippe surely hates me.”
Leda seemed to ponder the question. “She has no reason to like you, it’s true. Just don’t give her any real cause to hate you. It won’t be long before she finds something entirely different to thunder about.”
“And until then?” I asked. “Am I to stay hidden away in this room all day?”
“Mr. Socrates would be the one to talk to about that, ma’am,” Leda replied. “I just came in to make the bed and empty the chamber pot. Is there anything else I can get you for now?”