Just Myrto (14 page)

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?

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 the 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?”

Lamprocles shrugged, and we both looked to Socrates who was watching us as if we were actors in a comedy.

Socrates cleared his throat and motioned to Lamprocles to pour him a glass of wine. “As you know, even though the chronology of the stories puts
Oedipus the King
before the story of his daughter Antigone, Sophocles produced
Antigone
first and
Oedipus
over a decade later.”

As Socrates spoke, Lamprocles poured wine for all of us. “Yes, but how long ago, Father?” Lamprocles asked as he handed a glass to Socrates.

Socrates drank most of the pour and gave a long sigh. “I was probably close to thirty years old when Sophocles entered
Antigone
in the tragedy contest at the festival of Dionysus.” Socrates finished the wine in his glass. “Funny thing, though; he didn't win the contest that year.”

“What tragic play could be better than
Antigone?”
I asked in disbelief.

Socrates shook his head. “I cannot recall the play that actually won that year.”

“Probably something from Aeschylus or Euripides,” Lamprocles suggested as he poured more wine for Socrates.

“Not Aeschylus,” replied Socrates. “He was dead by then. Must have been Euripides. Yes, I'm quite certain Euripides won it that year.”

I was calculating the years in my head. If Socrates was thirty when he saw
Antigone
and in his early forties when Sophocles produced
Oedipus the King,
then even the newer one must be approaching thirty years old.

“How odd that Sophocles never wrote a third play to go with them like most writers of tragedy do,” I commented.

Socrates eyes sparkled. “And why do you think that Sophocles never completed the trilogy?”

I looked from Socrates to Lamprocles who could not hide a grin. “I've never heard of a third play,” I stammered. “And Sophocles died several years ago.”

“All true,” Lamprocles interjected. “But now for the most amazing news of all: Before Sophocles died, he did write a play
called
Oedipus at Colonus,
and his grandson will be producing it for this year's festival!”

“At Colonus? A play about the events that occurred after
Oedipus the King
and before
Antigone?”
I asked.

Socrates nodded. “How very appropriate that Sophocles ended in the middle, don't you agree?”

I didn't know what to think about the order of the plays, but the desire to attend the production overwhelmed me. I had never known any women to go to the theatre. I did not even consider attending last year with my large, pregnant belly. I walked over to Socrates and placed my hand on his shoulder. “Do you suppose I could go with you to watch the play?”

“Of course you can come, can't she Father!” exclaimed Lamprocles.

“I don't see why not,” agreed Socrates. He patted my hand reassuringly. “There are often foreign women scattered around the edges of the crowd, so you would not be the only woman present.” Socrates pulled me around and seated me across his lap so that I could face him. “I would be most pleased to have you in the seat on my right and Lamprocles seated to my left.”

“Then it's settled!” proclaimed Lamprocles. “Myrto and I will study
Oedipus the King
and
Antigone
together just like old times, and then we can all attend
Oedipus at Colonus
next month.”

Socrates assured me that Sophroniscus would be fine with Leda and the girls looking after him, so the next morning I once again accompanied Socrates and Lamprocles to the Agora. When we arrived, Plato was there under the laurel tree waiting for Socrates. From the look on his face, I knew he was surprised to see me, but he appeared pleased nevertheless.

“Good morning, Socrates,” he said, shaking Socrates hand. Lamprocles also received a greeting and handshake.

“Good morning, Plato,” I said, extending my hand as well.

Plato reached out as if to shake my hand, but then swiftly lifted my hand to his lips, bestowing a kiss upon it. His lips felt soft and warm against the back of my hand. “Good morning, Myrto,” he said with a smile. I wished that I could tell him how his belief that I could read had led to all of the young girls in our home learning to read. But the words did not come.

“What's that you've got around your neck?” asked Lamprocles.

Plato removed the thickly woven cord from around his neck and held up a beautifully decorated wineskin for us to see. “Do you like it?” he asked. “I won it last week in a drinking contest at the Festival of Flowers.”

He handed it first to Lamprocles, who looked at it only briefly before passing it to me.

“See the ram with golden horns?” Plato asked, moving closer to me, placing his hands over mine on the wineskin and turning it to display the ornamentation. He followed the swirl of the horns with his finger. “That's all real gold,” he said. Then he took the wineskin from me and handed it to Socrates. “Please, Socrates, accept this gift from your humble student.”

As Socrates thanked him, Lamprocles and I excused ourselves and went to find a place to study the plays of Sophocles.

“Shall we go back to the Graces?” asked Lamprocles.

I nodded. “That would be fine.”

We took turns reading, arguing over which three characters were on stage at any given time and who was saying what. Although I enjoyed this immensely, the city did not seem to energize me as it had when we first began studying here. My mind
frequently returned to Sophroniscus, wondering if he was playing happily or needing comfort.

“What's wrong?” Lamprocles asked, interrupting my thoughts of home.

“Nothing,” I said. “I was just thinking that maybe tomorrow we could study in the meadow or near the river. Would you mind?”

“I don't care where we read,” replied Lamprocles. “I just want you to pay attention to what we're reading.”

“Then perhaps Sophroniscus could come with us. We could bring along one of the girls to watch him,” I suggested.

Lamprocles studied me from my head to my feet. “You know, Myrto, you've changed.”

I laughed. “Me?” I said. “What about you? Your voice has dropped an octave and your beard is as full as any soldier's.”

He stroked his shiny, black beard. “It is getting full, isn't it? And look at this.” He flexed his arms. I watched in amazement how the muscles bulged on command.

“All of that time at the gymnasium has paid off,” I said, happy to give him a compliment.

“I do enjoy exercising, but I'd still rather read and talk with you.” He leaned back against a stone and put his hands behind his head, continuing to flex his biceps beyond what it took to support his head. “Do you know what I really wish, Myrto?” He sat up and looked at me in earnest. “I wish we could find another book like that midwifery book to read together.”

For the first time in nearly two years, my mind flashed back to a book Socrates had shown me before any of the markings could speak to me—the book written by the same hand as the midwifery book. I nodded. “I know what we can read after the festival of Dionysus.”

T
HE
NEXT
MORNING
Leda sent us off with enough food to feed a small army, which is what we had become by the time we left the house. When Korinna heard that Lamprocles and I would be studying by the River Illisus, she asked if she and Iris might join us in our studies. Leda suggested that Myrrine come, too, to care for Sophroniscus while the rest of us read the plays of Sophocles. Myrrine was about six months younger than Iris, and everyone expected that Iris would soon be teaching her to read and write as well.

“What horrible fate,” Lamprocles reflected on the tragedy as we walked. “I can think of nothing more heinous than murdering your father and marrying your mother.”

“I agree,” I said, “but it seems Oedipus might have avoided this if he had simply followed the Delphic Oracle's instruction to each of us: ‘Know Thyself.'”

“Are you saying that Oedipus brought all of this upon himself?” Lamprocles asked in a reproaching tone. “He did not bring the prophecy upon himself. He was doomed before his true parents conceived him. How could he know that he had been abandoned by the king and queen of Thebes at birth, rescued by a shepherd, and raised by the king and queen of Corinth?”

“But when he learned of the prophecy, he chose to flee Corinth. If he'd only talked to his parents there about it, they would have told him that he was not their natural son. By running away, he brought everything he feared upon himself,” I insisted.

Day after day during our reading we talked about fate and the choices we make. As we finished
Oedipus the King,
I remained firmly convinced that when we try too hard to avoid a fate we bring it upon ourselves and, likewise, when we seek to judge others, we unwittingly judge ourselves. Lamprocles appeared less convinced than I.

As we read
Antigone,
we decided it might be entertaining to act out the play. Of course, in the original production all of the characters were played by men. Lamprocles decided that he should be Antigone, and that I should be Creon.

“But Antigone is a woman and Creon is a man,” I objected. “Wouldn't it make more sense for you to be Creon and for me to be Antigone?”

“But Antigone is the main character, and I want to be the main character,” Lamprocles responded.

“Creon is the main character,” I insisted. “He's the reason Antigone and Creon's wife Eurydice and their son Haemon all kill themselves. He's the only one left living at the end.”

“You just don't want to be Creon because you don't like him,” said Lamprocles.

“No,” I said. “You're the one who doesn't like Creon, and that's why you want to be Antigone.”

“Yes,” admitted Lamprocles. “So you get to be Creon.”

“Fine,” I conceded, “but let's have Korinna be Antigone and you can be all of the other parts.”

We asked Korinna to be our third actor, and Iris, Myrrine and Sophroniscus became our chorus. Our chorus required a substantial amount of assistance from our main actors. Sophroniscus did prove to be a good little wailer every time someone died. Lamprocles played the role of Creon's son Haemon with great passion, both in defense of his betrothed Antigone and in attempting to persuade Creon that the gods would punish him for ordering that Antigone be locked in a cave to die. Though it wasn't really supposed to be acted out on stage, Lamprocles and Korinna portrayed both the ardor and the deaths of the ill-fated lovers with such fervor that for a moment I would have believed that the two of them had truly fallen in love.

Creon didn't appear to feel much remorse for the death of Antigone, but I could feel tears stinging my eyes as I delivered Creon's final lines:

“Lead me away! I am the rash man who killed you, my son, and you too, my wife. Alas, wretch that I am, I cannot look on either of you; I have nothing to hold onto. Everything these hands have touched has turned to grief and fate has come down upon my head.”