by Laurie Gray
“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 love
r of wisdom and justice, I, too, would earn my husband’s approval.
10
THE 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.
Thoughts and questions swirled in my mind as we walked home from the Agora. Unlike the morning journey, few traveled the road outside the city wall. Lamprocles alone spoke. His voice buzzed on in my ear about Plato and the Thirty Tyrants and Alcibiades. What does any of this have to do with me as a woman?
“Alcibiades calls himself your student!” exclaimed Lamprocles. “People will say he learned his treachery from you. Plato calls himself your student, too!” Lamprocles continued. “What will people think?”
Socrates strolled along at a leisurely pace. “People will think what they want to think.” He looked at me and smiled. “They always do, you know.”
Lamprocles huffed and shook his head. “But you’re turning everyone against you. And for what? It’s not like they’ve paid you anything.”
Socrates shrugged. “I’m only interested in discovering Truth and Goodness. You can’t buy that with money.”
“The truth is that the Thirty Tyrants want to kill you,” retorted Lamprocles. “And if they don’t get the chance, the citizens of Athens will do it for them if they think you’re in cahoots with Alcibiades.”
I waited for Socrates to dispute these accusations. He did not. Nor did he look the least bit concerned. Can someone seeking Goodness acquire mortal enemies?
“Is what Lamprocles says true?” I finally asked. Still, my concern was my own. Socrates’ death would leave me in an even worse place than my father’s had. My brother Aristides might have no choice but to give me to Uncle or sell me into slavery.
Socrates raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.
“Of course it’s true!” cried Lamprocles. “Last week the Thirty summoned Father and four others to the hall and ordered them to bring Leon from Salamis to be executed. And do you know what Father did?”
I stared at Socrates who appeared as serene as ever. “No, I don’t,” I replied.
“Tell her, Father,” insisted Lamprocles. “Tell your new wife of the danger you’re in.”
A coldness overcame me. I pulled my cloak more tightly around my shoulders and waited to hear what Socrates would say.
Socrates cleared his throat. “I did what any just and pious person would do,” he replied.
“The other four men ran to Salamis to get Leon,” said Lamprocles. “They brought him directly to the Tyrants for execution.”
“Leon did nothing to deserve execution. His blood is on their hands, not mine,” said Socrates.
“No one seems to mind having Leon’s blood on their hands,” said Lamprocles. “And now that you’ve directly disobeyed the Thirty Tyrants, they’ll mind your blood on their hands even less!”
Socrates said nothing.
“Is he really in danger?” I asked Lamprocles. I tried to keep Socrates’ calm, easy pace, but inside I was running with Lamprocles.
“What do you think?” Lamprocles snapped. “How long do you think the Tyrants will let someone live who directly defies them?”
Lamprocles turned to me. “And don’t think people didn’t notice that he’s teaching young women now, too.” He looked to Socrates. “If they disapprove of your influence over the young men of Athens, what will they say about including young women among your followers?”
“She is my wife,” Socrates said sternly. “I may do with her as I please.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. Impiety of any sort could be charged as a crime punishable by death. If something happens to Socrates, where will I go? What will become of me?
Socrates’ face softened as he looked upon me once again. “It’s not as bad as all that,” he said, taking my hand. “I fought face to face against Spartans, swords in hand and raised to kill me. During the campaigns in Amphipolis, Delium and Potidaea—I was in real danger then.” Socrates lifted my hand to his lips. “Yet here I am, alive and well, right here with you.”
My heartbeat quickened. Warmth returned to my body.
“Potidaea!” Lamprocles spat on the ground. “I curse that Corinthian colony where you saved Alcibiades. The traitor!”
“Ah, Lamprocles,” Socrates laughed. “Alcibiades did repay me by rescuing me from certain death in Delium.” His laughter was not unkind.
“He’s still a traitor to Athens!” Lamprocles insisted.
Socrates shook his head. “Alcibiades is as brilliant as he is beautiful. Men and women alike have worshipped him and felt betrayed.”
“Alcibiades loves no one but himself,” said Lamprocles. “He betrays all who love him without remorse.”
“And that is precisely why he stands accused by both Spartans and Athenians,” Socrates conceded. “Perhaps he is a traitor or perhaps he is merely human like the rest of us, doubly cursed by talent and beauty.”
My emotions tossed to and fro between Lamprocles’ anger and Socrates’ tranquility. I wanted to believe Socrates, but I feared Lamprocles was right. If not about me, at least about Alcibiades. I pushed thoughts of Plato from my mind. So many thoughts. So many feelings. The floodgates have opened. Rushing waters carry me downstream. I gasp for breath.
I must have gasped aloud. Socrates and Lamprocles both stopped. They looked at me.
“Are you all right?” asked Socrates.
I nodded.
Socrates took both of my hands in his. “What are you thinking?” His full attention filled me with courage.
“You both say different things, but you both sound like you’re telling the truth. How can that be?”
Socrates put an arm around my waist and a hand on Lamprocles shoulder. The three of us walked on. Socrates was not ignoring my question. Instead, the three of us pondered it as we walked.
Socrates spoke first. “I am a man,” he said. He paused as if this were somehow the answer to my question. “Is that a true statement?”
“Yes,” I replied. Lamprocles voice echoed mine.
“Are you both quite certain?” Socrates persisted.
“Yes,” Lamprocles and I answered in unison, our voices filled with confidence.
“Very well,” replied Socrates. He turned to me. “Now you say it. Make the same statement I just made.”
“I am a man,” I offered. I suddenly felt foolish and ashamed.
“Now, Lamprocles,” said Socrates. “Is that a true statement?”
Lamprocles sighed. “No. That is not a true statement.”
Socrates nodded. “Now you repeat the statement, Lamprocles.”
Lamprocles inhaled deeply. “I am a man!” he proclaimed.
Socrates turned to me. “Is this statement true?”
I looked at Lamprocles. He clenched his jaw and awaited my judgment. I took a deep breath. “If it is not, it most certainly will be soon,” I replied gently.
Socrates nodded, and Lamprocles gave me his first smile.
“Myrto,” said Socrates. “Even when I do my best to tell you and Lamprocles the truth, you cannot simply repeat what I say as truth for yourself. If you wish to tell the truth, you each must speak your own words from your own experience.”
We walked on in a comfortable silence. As we neared the house, Lamprocles asked, “What is black with three heads and two arms and doomed to die at sunset?”
“An excellent riddle, my boy!” said Socrates, sliding his hand off Lamprocles’ shoulder and patting him on the back.
I imagined a monster with the heads of three black panthers and the arms of Achilles, sword in hand, poised to kill or be killed.
“What do you think, Myrto?” asked Socrates.
“I cannot imagine,” I replied.
“Nor can I,” agreed Socrates, “but it reminds me of the Sphinx’s riddle that only Oedipus could solve. Do you know that riddle?”
I nodded. Everyone knew the story of Oedipus the King. “What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening?” I said.
“Exactly,” said Lamprocles. “And the answer to that riddle can be a clue to my riddle.”
“The answer to the Sphinx’s riddle was man,” I said, “because he crawls as a child, walks upright as an adult and requires a cane in his old age.”
“Does that give you a clue to Lamprocles’ riddle?” asked Socrates. His eyes twinkled with delight.
I pictured the Sphinx with three heads and a pair of arms hanging out of one mouth as she devoured the poor souls who failed to solve her riddle. I shook my head. “I’m afraid I still don’t know,” I confessed.
Socrates turned to Lamprocles. “Do tell us. What is black with three heads and two arms and doomed to die at sunset?”
Lamprocles grinned. “The shadow of an old man, a young man and a young woman,” he said pointing east, to the long shadow traveling beside us.
Tears of happiness and sadness combined and rolled down my cheeks. This was the best day ever, coming to a close.
Bright red and orange banners streaked the evening sky welcoming us home. Leda, Korinna and Iris greeted us and washed the dust from our feet. A table set for three offered cheese and bread, olives and fruit for dinner.
“Where is Mother?” Lamprocles asked Leda.
“She and Praxis took Melissa to her new home,” said Leda. “I don’t expect them back for a while yet.”
Thank you, Athena. I ate hungrily and crawled off to bed. A deep, dreamless sleep overcame me the instant I rested my head on the pillow.
11
THE FAST, RATTLING song of a warbler awakened me before dawn. Socrates lay beside me in the bed. I rolled over on my side and moved closer to him. His body radiated heat in the cool darkness of morning. He turned over to face me. I had never lain so close to a man, yet I did not feel afraid.
He reached out and gently stroked my cheek. “Good morning, Myrto,” he whispered.
I captured his hand with mine, kissed it, and pressed it against my cheek. “Yesterday in the Agora I discovered my first desire,” I confided.