Just Myrto (20 page)

Socrates had very little time to himself, but when he did he occupied himself by composing poetry. Most of his poems honored Apollo, but some transformed Aesop's fables into verse. My favorite went something like this:

The Dog and the Bone

One day a dog was digging for a bone,

And came upon the best he'd ever seen.

So greedily he snatched it for his own.

He held it in his paws and licked it clean.

Head high and trophy safely clenched in jaw

He trotted homeward, fully satisfied.

But as he crossed a bridge, beneath he saw

Another dog and bone that walked in stride.

That bone below—the grandest of them all!

Our hero barked and leapt in to the stream,

The bone he had forgotten in the fall,

The bone he sought a hopeless, splashing dream.

The one who chases treasure out of greed,

May soon wake up to find himself in need.

“You should write your poems down,” I told him.

“You know, Myrto, writing shares a strange feature with painting,” he replied. “A painting stands there looking as if it were alive, but if you ask it anything, it remains silent.”

“It's art, Socrates,” I replied. “A good painting communicates the inspiration of the gods.”

Socrates shook his head. “The highest form of art for me is philosophy.”

“So write about philosophy,” I suggested.

“But if I write about philosophy and my words appear to have some understanding, what happens when someone wants to learn more? My words would just say the same thing over and over again like an imbecile.” Socrates made a funny face and tilted his head back and forth like an idiot.

“That's true,” I conceded, “but think of all the people who might read those words and learn from them.”

“Yes, but my words would roam about everywhere reaching indiscriminately those with understanding and those without,” said Socrates. Socrates walked his fingers up and down my legs.

“And what if I learned that something I wrote was not entirely true?” Socrates said, walking his fingers up my arm. “My writings would still say the same things over and over, true or untrue.” He walked his fingers up my neck and tapped my head. “Think about it,” he said. He kissed my head where he had tapped. “No, thank you. I'll leave the writing to those who are convinced of their knowledge or inspired by the muses.”

S
OCRATES AND
I spent every night together knowing it could be our last. We didn't talk about people or politics. We didn't talk about the past or the future. We talked about virtues and ideas— wisdom and goodness and justice in all of their forms, and whether any single virtue could stand apart from the others. We lived only in the present, enjoying the presence of one another.

I was a mother by day and a wife by night. Only when I was alone with Socrates in prison, I never thought of him as my husband or of myself as his wife. He was just Socrates, and I was just Myrto. We were friends and lovers and soul mates.

We spent hours sitting together on the couch talking about life and love. Socrates held me close in his arms, but our closeness was in mind and spirit as well as in body. “I love you,” I whispered. He kissed me tenderly.

“What is love, Myrto?” he asked.

“Love is the way I feel about you, Socrates.”

“Is love only a feeling, or is it more than just a feeling?” he asked.

“It's more than just a feeling,” I replied. “It's also knowing and being known.”

“And what is it that you know?” Socrates asked.

“That our love cannot be contained in your body or mine, or even in the bodies of our children,” I said. “And that even when your body is no longer here with us, the love will live on in my heart.”

Socrates nodded. “So is love mortal or immortal?”

“Perhaps love is the one immortal thing that a mortal animal can do,” I said.

Socrates stroked my hair. “Do all mortal animals seek to be immortal or is it only humans who dream of becoming gods?”

“Don't all animals seek immortality?” I asked. “Isn't that why wild animals mate and nurture their young, even to the point of dying to protect their weaker offspring?”

“I suppose it is,” Socrates mused. “Are you suggesting that immortality is a cycle?” He kissed me on the forehead and motioned for me to have a seat at the table. Each day a new abundance of food and wine and delicacies appeared in Socrates' cell.

I followed him to the feast. “For the gods immortality means always being the same in every way,” I said, “but for us, life perpetuates itself in cycles. Immortality is more like aging and departing, but leaving behind something new in our place.”

Socrates tore a leavened barley cake into two portions and gave me one.

“Even our bodies are constantly growing and aging,” I continued. “New skin replaces old skin; new hairs replace the hairs that fall out.”

Socrates nodded. He poured us each a cup of wine and took a drink.

“Just look at this old body,” he said. “I was once an infant like Menexenus, and a toddler like Sophroniscus and a strong young man like Lamprocles. Now I am older than my father or his father
before him. Yet I have always been Socrates, even as I've grown and changed.”

I took his hand in mine. “That is the Socrates I love,” I told him. “Your spirit—the essence of who you really are.”

I broke off a small piece of the barley cake and chewed it slowly. I washed it down with a sip of wine.

“That is the Socrates that will live forever in my heart and in the hearts of all those who know you and love you,” I said.

“And yet there are many who don't find me very lovable,” said Socrates.

“They are afraid of you,” I replied. “Your questions unravel the stories they tell themselves and everyone else.”

“So are those who don't love me unlovable?” Socrates asked. He unfolded a cloth filled with dried fish.

“I don't know,” I said. I ate several of the fish, enjoying their saltiness and the thirst they created in my mouth.

“But I don't think it's worth my time and energy to hate them,” I said. I poured some water into my wine and swirled it with my finger before taking several large swallows.

“It's one thing not to hate them,” said Socrates, “but are they lovable?”

“Surely someone loves them,” I replied. I lifted my cup toward the lamp and watched the flame's reflection dancing on a sea of redness. “When I first met Xanthippe I thought she was unlovable,” I reflected.

“And now?” Socrates asked.

“And now I love her,” I said. The words surprised me as they passed my lips, but I knew they were true. “She is part of Lamprocles, part of you, and part of the life I have come to love.” I looked deeply into Socrates' eyes and felt the strength of his love—a love
for all that is good inextricably bound to a belief that the good lives in all of us. “Xanthippe is part of me now,” I told him.

“Only now?” asked Socrates.

I shook my head. “Not only this present moment. Always.”

“Always goes in both directions, you know,” replied Socrates.

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“Always has no beginning and no end. Always just is.”

“Like now,” I said smiling. I took another drink of wine.

“Exactly,” said Socrates.

“That must be your secret to happiness, Socrates,” I said. “You always surround yourself with love by loving everything around you.”

“It's true,” he replied. “People can never be unlovable if we choose to love them.”

“And it doesn't matter if they love us in return?” I asked.

“What do you think?” asked Socrates.

“Maybe love does not come from being loved, but from loving,” I said.

Socrates nodded. “That would be true love—divine love.”

“A love that reaches beyond human bodies and human understanding,” I said thinking aloud. “Could it be that love is the spirit that comes from the gods and bridges the gap between mortality and immortality?”

Socrates smiled. “Where do you suppose our desire for immortality comes from?” asked Socrates. “Do we really desire to be forever unchanging like the gods?”

I leaned back in my chair and ran my hands through my hair. Aspasia appeared in my mind's eye. I stood and walked over to the couch as if I were attempting to escape my own thoughts. I shook my head and sat down. “Sometimes I think that we have created
the gods in our own image because we cannot even imagine a world where everything stays the same.”

Socrates came and sat beside me. “My own thoughts scare me sometimes,” I confessed. “Could it be that all of our images, everything around us that we believe to be real, are but illusions?”

“What is real, Myrto?” Socrates asked. “What do you really know for sure?”

“I know that I am Myrto,” I replied. “I am real, and I choose to love.”

“That is enough to carry you through this world and into the next,” said Socrates.

I
WALKED TO
the prison at sunset and back home at sunrise. I was always walking against the crowds. At first people stared at me. I could feel them pointing and talking. After a while, the people disappeared into clouds of fog, the fog that I walked through each morning to get to my children and each evening to get to Socrates.

One evening as I walked to the prison, I heard a voice calling me from the fog. “Myrto! Wait!”

It was Plato. I did not want to wait. I wanted to continue walking through the fog to Socrates.

Plato caught up to me and walked beside me. “Please, Myrto, I need to talk with you.”

I kept walking. “About what?” I asked.

“About the future,” he said.

“My only plans for the future are to spend this night with Socrates,” I replied. I walked faster.

“I know,” said Plato, keeping pace with me. “But it's been nearly a month since …” His voice trailed off. “I mean,” he began again, “the ship will be returning from Delos any day.”

“But it did not return today, did it?” I asked in a tone more assertive than inquiring.

“No,” replied Plato softly. “The ship did not return today.”

“Then I will spend this night with Socrates and worry about tomorrow when the time comes.” We were approaching the Street of Marble Workers in the southwest corner of the Agora, almost to the prison.

“But I need to talk with you before the time comes,” Plato said. He reached for my hand and held me back. “Please,” he said. “Just sit and talk with me for a moment.” He guided me over to a fountain and sat me on a wooden bench. “We need to make proper arrangements, Myrto.”

I covered my face with my hands and shook my head. “No,” I said looking back up at him. “Lamprocles and Xanthippe will make all of the necessary arrangements.”

“I'm not talking about Socrates' funeral, Myrto.” Plato placed his hand under my chin and slowly lifted my head. I did not resist. Soon my eyes met his. I felt a lump forming in my throat and tears gathering in my eyes.

“I'm talking about your future, Myrto,” said Plato. A future for you and for Sophroniscus and Menexenus.”

A chill ran up my spine. “I … I don't understand,” I stammered. For the first time in weeks I could hear the silent scream burst out within me.

“I have asked Socrates for your hand in marriage,” Plato said. “Not right away, of course.” He rushed on. “There would need to be a proper period of mourning. But after that, he has given us his blessing to marry.”

My heart pounded and my mind raced. I could hear and feel the roar. I shook my head. “I don't know,” I said finally.

“I know.” Plato replied. “That is why I wanted to talk to you now, so that you could ask Socrates yourself.” He raised his eyebrows and gave me a hopeful look. He reached for my hand and
his eyes filled with tears. “I love you, Myrto. From the first moment I saw you, I've loved you.” He held both of my hands in his. “We are young. Our whole lives lie ahead.”

I felt so bewildered. I could not respond. “Sophroniscus,” I whispered. “Menexenus.”

“I would love them and raise them like my own sons,” Plato promised. “I'm not asking you to be my servant, Myrto. I'm asking you to be my partner.” Plato stood and began to pace as he talked.

“Together we could rebuild Athens. We would be like Pericles and Aspasia, only we would both be citizens and equal partners. Forget democracy and tyrants and kings. Athens needs a republic, and we could build it together. We would rule justly and with integrity.”

He came back and sat beside me. “I know I'm rambling,” he said. “I know now is not the time to discuss details, and I'm not asking for your answer now either. I'm only asking that you think about your future and the future of your sons. If you have any doubts, talk to Socrates.”

“Socrates,” I said. “Yes, I must go to Socrates.”

Plato stood and lifted me gently to my feet. “Go,” he said quietly. “Go to Socrates.”

When I arrived at the prison cell, a small crowd remained. Everyone sensed that the end drew near, and many did not know how to let go. Faced with Plato's proposal, I felt myself wanting to cling to Socrates as well. I left the group in the cell, walked down the corridor and seated myself in the large courtyard at the far end of the prison.

A young prison guard followed me down the corridor. The number of jailers increased with the number of passing days and
the growing crowds. All of them treated me kindly. “Is there anything I can get for you, ma'am?” asked the guard.

“No, thank you,” I replied. I walked around the courtyard until I came upon a patch of myrtle.