by Laurie Gray
Before long, Socrates returned to the Agora, and Lamprocles began training in the gymnasium outside the city walls to strengthen his body for competition in the public games and for military service. Though part of me missed my days with them, I spent most of each day lost in Sophroniscus’ sweet gaze or wondering at the gentle rise and fall of his chest when his eyes closed. As the season changed from spring to summer, I began taking walks along the River Illisus. Leda fashioned an old tunic of Lamprocles into a pouch to wear around my neck and cradle Sophroniscus. He could sleep, eat or look around as he wished, while I walked comfortably.
I pretended I was Sappho, singing songs of love to Sophroniscus and dancing with him in my arms. I wove oak leaves into a crown for him to wear on his head and worshipped him as if he were truly the son of Zeus himself.
“Will you grow to be a sculptor like the grandfather whose name you carry?” I asked my child. He puckered his lips and cooed harmoniously. “Oh, I see!” I exclaimed. “You will grow to be a poet like Alcaeus. Or perhaps a statesman like your greatgrandfather Aristides the Just? Surely you will be a lover of wisdom like your father.”
I prattled on about everything and nothing. I told him the stories of the gods and goddesses. I pointed out Apollo’s chariot in the afternoon sky and told of his twin sister Artemis who guided us safely through childbirth and delivered my beautiful boy. I sang Homer’s stories of Hercules, Achilles and Odysseus and Sophocles’ stories of Oedipus and Antigone. I recounted every one of Aesop’s fables and made up a few of my own. Regardless of my words, my voice magically held Sophroniscus spellbound.
Some days a never-ending fountain of thoughts and ideas flowed through me. Other days I found comfort in the silence as I watched my baby sleep. The wonder of his life became entwined with the wonder of my own ability to conceive, bear and sustain him. Every effort to satisfy his needs seemed to satisfy my own as well.
I found little time to read, but much time for reflection on all that I had read with Lamprocles and discussed with Socrates. Occasionally, I would walk a ways with them in the morning with Sophroniscus cradled to my chest in his sling. Other times we would meet them on their journey home in the evening. Lamprocles was intentionally seeking out doctors from the Koan School of Medicine who lectured at the gymnasium and discussing the merits of midwifery with them. He was more than happy to recount those discussions during our walks and during the evening meal.
I didn’t exactly forget about the ominous favor I owed to Xanthippe; it just became further removed from my mind until I no longer gave it a thought. I watched the rising and setting points of the sun creeping north on the horizon until we reached the summer solstice. After remaining in the same place for several days, the sun’s comings and goings began to drift south. Once it became apparent that the days were again growing shorter, Xanthippe called upon me for her favor.
Leda delivered the message in the cool of the evening, before Socrates and Lamprocles had returned from the Agora. I was sitting in the courtyard nursing Sophroniscus.
“Mrs. Myrto?” Leda’s voice sounded muffled.
“Yes, Leda,” I answered. “Come have a seat beside me.”
Leda hesitated, but finally sat down. She carried a feeling of uneasiness about her, and her eyes remained fixed on Sophroniscus.
“What is it?” I asked. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes ma’am.” Leda nodded. “It’s not me; it’s Mrs. Xanthippe.”
Sensing my uncertainty, Sophroniscus began to squirm and fuss.
“What about Xanthippe?” I asked, struggling to settle Sophroniscus.
“She said to tell you that the time has come for the favor.” Leda’s eyes searched mine, offering no hint of what would be required of me.”
“What does she want me to do?”
“She didn’t say. She just said that you are to meet her on the hillside of Artemis at sunrise tomorrow,” said Leda.
“And what about Sophroniscus?” I asked. “Am I to just leave him here with you? How will he eat?”
Leda shook her head. “She said you would bring Sophroniscus, and that I should pack food for two for a midday meal.”
I paused. I really did not know what to make of this strange request. I shifted Sophroniscus to my other breast.
“Do you think she means me any harm?” I asked.
Leda shook her head. “You see Xanthippe as the Trojan Horse, her belly filled with warriors just waiting for the opportunity to attack.”
Xanthippe did appear to me as a warship, always prepared to do battle. “Isn’t she?”
Again Leda shook her head. “Mrs. Xanthippe means no harm to anyone.”
My skepticism escaped in the form of a laugh. “Then you tell me, Leda,” I asked. “What’s inside Xanthippe?”
“Her belly is full of lost souls,” Leda explained, “souls who have finally found a safe place where they can be nurtured and grow.”
I stood and put Sophroniscus over my shoulder. I patted his back, bouncing him as I paced. “I came to this house a lost soul, and Xanthippe did nothing to nurture or comfort me.”
“Mrs. Myrto,” Leda responded, “maybe it’s not my place to say, but you have always been safe in this house.” She moved toward me and put a hand on my shoulder. “And just look at how you’ve grown. You didn’t need Mrs. Xanthippe to nurture you. You’ve learned how to nurture yourself.”
“So what does she want from me, Leda?” I cried, my voice betraying my fear.
“I really don’t know,” replied Leda, and I believed her. “But there is one more thing. She said that you are not to say a word to Socrates or Lamprocles, at least not yet. You are to rise as usual, and after they have left for the Agora, go directly to the hill. She will be waiting there for you.”
I took a deep breath, followed by another. What am I afraid of? What can she really do to me? I promised a favor in return for her favor. This promise I shall keep.
I lay awake in bed most of the night imagining what Xanthippe might have in mind. Was she expecting another baby girl? Did she want me to act as a wet nurse? I looked at Sophroniscus sleeping peacefully between Socrates and me. Could I make enough milk to satisfy another baby?
I must have slipped into a fitful sleep, for suddenly I was dreaming. I am making my way up the hill. The baby boy I am carrying is not my Sophroniscus. He is hungry and crying. I try to feed him, but I have no milk. I barely have breasts. I am a young girl again. I am taking the baby up to Artemis so that she can care for him.
As we reach the top of the hill, the baby stops crying. I am happy that the baby is peaceful. But something is wrong. He’s not breathing. I reach my finger into his mouth to clear it and find an obol tucked under his tongue. I cry out to Artemis to save us both. “Myrto,” a voice calls. It is the voice of my mother. When I try to answer her call, I feel a coin under my tongue as well. I, too, am prepared to pay the ferryman to deliver me into the underworld of Hades to join my mother.
I awakened with a start. Sophroniscus stirred and Socrates rolled over to face us both. “Is everything all right?” he whispered.
I kiss the top of Sophroniscus’ head before kissing my husband’s lips. “Yes,” I murmured.
Socrates drew us both in closer to himself. A moment later I heard him softly snoring. I was not in the habit of keeping secrets from my husband. And I did not share in Leda’s trust of Xanthippe’s intentions.
22
SOCRATES AND LAMPROCLES rose early and were on their way to the city before sunrise. As soon as they left, Leda brought me breakfast and a satchel packed with a midday meal.
“Has Xanthippe already gone?” I asked.
Leda nodded. “She was gone even before the men stirred.”
Leda helped me to tie my pouch around my neck and placed Sophroniscus over my right hip. His neck had grown strong, and he preferred to hold it erect as we walked so that he could see everything going on around him.
I held a strange energy in my heart as we began o
ur journey to the hill of Artemis. Part of me felt surprisingly safe and calm, ready to face my fear and be done with this, come what may. At the same time, a sense of expectancy also stirred within me.
I walked with Sophroniscus past fields of wheat, some awaiting harvest and some already harvested. Even those lying barren from the hot, dry summer rejoiced in the cool morning breeze and the knowledge that the rains would soon come again, making them fertile once more.
I ascended the hill briskly, singing a hymn to Artemis. Sophroniscus clucked along with me, enjoying the song and our pace.
Oh, chariot of Artemis
Harnessed to golden deer
Carry this goddess to waters sweet
And dress her with raiment fair
For she has hunted through the night
Rejoicing in the chase
Arrows launched from bow pulled tight
Have found their lofty place.
Sophroniscus and I traipsed through the dense forest up the hillside like two soldiers marching into battle. As we neared the clearing at the top, our tempo slowed to a silent stop. For a brief moment, I thought I could hear the waves crashing on the not-so-distant rocky shores. The sun’s light crept through the surrounding trees, but only a crescent moon appeared dimly overhead.
“Here!” Xanthippe called from off to one side.
As I turned to face her, I noticed she held something in her right hand. She began walking toward us, waving the rectangular object that I still could not recognize. I was surprised to see Korinna following along behind her.
“Good morning.” I greeted them both with a confidence I did not quite feel.
Xanthippe wasted no time on salutations or pleasantries. “Korinna has spent the night on this hill and sacrificed her toys to Artemis. She is no longer a child.”
Korinna stood tall beside Xanthippe, and I could indeed see that she was not the same child that had welcomed me so many moons ago. A lifetime ago. I held Sophroniscus close and waited.
Xanthippe held the object out before me, and I could see that it was a wax-covered writing tablet. “You will teach Korinna to read and write,” Xanthippe commanded.
I nodded, taking the tablet in hand, its familiarity bringing me great comfort.
“You will say nothing to anyone about what you are doing until the day that you have completed this task.”
Again, I nodded.
“If you are unsuccessful, you will tell no one, and you will still owe me a favor.” Xanthippe shifted her eyes from me to Korinna. “If you are successful, you may tell whomever you wish, and you will have fulfilled your promise of a favor to me.”
Xanthippe did not wait for my response. She walked hurriedly past and left me standing there staring at Korinna, who appeared more than a bit bewildered.
I turned around and called out, “Xanthippe!” She stopped without turning around. “Must we study only here on the mountain or may we seek out other secluded places as well?”
“Do what you will,” she said. “Just make sure that nobody sees you or knows about this.” And with that she disappeared into a grove of fir trees.
“Will you really teach me to read and write?” Korinna asked.
“Of course, I will,” I replied. “It will be great fun for both of us.”
“But what if I fail to learn?” Korinna’s voice faltered.
I took her hand, and we began to walk down the hill together. “I cannot promise what you will or will not learn,” I told her. “But as long as you desire to learn, I can promise you that you will learn something.”
“You don’t mind teaching me?” asked Korinna.
“I will be learning right along with you,” I replied. “Let’s walk down to the sea.” I began to teach her the names and sounds of each letter as we walked.
Some days we found a shady place by the river, other days we found a grassy meadow where Sophroniscus could crawl around and explore. As the rains came, we often studied by firelight in a nearby cave or abandoned silver mine. On those days, Sophroniscus would stay behind with Leda and the other girls. He was able to eat soft bread soaked in olive oil and mashed fruits and vegetables by then, and only nursed in the morning and at night.
Socrates and Lamprocles knew that I was up to something. Socrates accepted my promise to tell him when I could, but Lamprocles persisted in cross-examining me on my evasive replies.
“Honestly, Lamprocles,” I insisted. “I want to tell you, but I cannot. Not yet.”
“But why not?” Lamprocles persevered. His body had grown stronger and his beard much fuller over the past year.
“I just can’t. Not now. But soon.”
“Promise?” he asked.
“I promise,” I said.
Korinna worked diligently to master the letters and their sounds. Her fingers were nimble from years of weaving, and she quickly learned to write as well. We read Hesiod and Heraclitus, just as Lamprocles and I had, but Korinna seemed less inclined to ask questions. She simply read the words before her and awaited my approval.
As her reading skills became stronger we began to study the midwifery book together. This completely captured Korinna’s attention as she began applying what she read to her own changing body. After nearly every sentence, she would stop to discuss what exactly the words meant and ask questions about my own experience in marrying Socrates and giving birth to Sophroniscus. My own understanding increased greatly as we studied and discussed the text from both sides of childbirth.
“Someday, when I have a child, will you be there with me?” Korinna asked.
“Of course,” I replied. “I will be there for you just like Mama Leda was there for me.”
The idea seemed to comfort her and somehow reassured me as well. I wondered how my life might have been different if my mother had taught me to read and studied with me, sharing her wisdom and experience. Of course, in addition to dying, my mother couldn’t read. Thank you, Athena and Hestia, for directing my path to Socrates. Imagine if I had been given instead to my uncle in marriage. Whatever would have become of me?
As much as I enjoyed spending each day with Korinna, once we had completed the midwifery book, I knew the time had come to report back to Xanthippe.
“Write all of the letters,” Xanthippe instructed Korinna. Korinna wrote each letter on the tablet and named each one with confidence and grace.
“Write my name,” Xanthippe said. Korinna complied.
“Write this sentence,” Xanthippe whispered the words in Korinna’s ear. Korinna wrote them with ease. Xanthippe inspected the writing and then handed it to me. “What does it say?” she demanded.
I read the sentence. “Penelope weaves all day while Odysseus is away.”
Finally, Xanthippe handed Korinna a piece of parchment I’d never seen before and asked her to read it aloud. Korinna did, and at last Xanthippe appeared satisfied. She turned to me, “You have done well.” Then she turned back to Korinna. “Can you teach Iris to read and write?”
Korinna looked at me and smiled. I nodded. “Yes, I can,” Korinna replied. “When do we begin?”
It appeared that Xanthippe’s intention was for all of the girls to learn to read. This surprised me given Xanthippe herself could not read and did not seem interested in learning. As I pondered what it might be like for every young girl in our household to read, I began to see my own desire to read as the catalyst. I remembered how I felt on that first day in the Agora when Plato had assumed I could read. What would the world be like if women everywhere could read? How many more books would there be like those written by Theano?
23
I WAS RELIEVED to finally share my secret work with Socrates and Lamprocles. Even more pleasing was the freedom I now felt to move about the house, whenever I wished, wherever I wished. I would often join the girls in weaving and washing. As we worked together we talked about books and stories and festivals. Xanthippe neither avoided me nor sought me out, but occasionally I would catch her nodding her head approvingly as th
e girls and I worked together.
On warm and sunny days, Sophroniscus and I would accompany Korinna and Iris to the river or meadow. As they read together, I gathered myrtle blossoms, twigs and leaves that I distilled into oils to add to our soap. Other times I made flower water by boiling what I’d collected in fresh rainwater. I spent more time at home, but less time in our bedroom. I even began taking my meals with Xanthippe, Socrates and Lamprocles. The conversations were often quite lively, although Xanthippe and I still did not address each other directly. We celebrated every festival vicariously through Lamprocles’ retelling.
One evening he returned home particularly exuberant. “Myrto,” he called, “come see what I have here!” He pulled a papyrus roll from his satchel and handed it to me. The writing was difficult to read at first. The continuous stream of letters seemed unlike the other books that I’d read, and there were blank lines scattered throughout the work. As I studied the text further, I deciphered the names Antigone and Creon and realized that each blank line indicated the beginning of a new scene.
“Oh, Lamprocles!” I cried out. “Can this be the script of Sophocles’ play Antigone?”
Lamprocles laughed mischievously. “It can be, and it is!” He reached again in his satchel and pulled out another roll. “And now look at this one.”
This time my eyes fixed immediately on the infamous names of Oedipus and Jocasta. “Oedipus the King!” I clamored.
“Written by Sophocles’ own hand,” said Lamprocles with a nod.
“Where did you get these?” I asked.
“Sophocles’ grandson loaned them to Father,” replied Lamprocles.
Socrates put his arm around me and gave me a kiss before taking a seat on the sofa. “I thought you both might enjoy reading them.”
I giggled with delight, and then wondered aloud, “How old do you suppose these manuscripts are?”