Just Myrto by Laurie Gray

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.
    â€œI 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?
    â€œWhy 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œForgive 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œAnd you’re very perplexing,” Plato replied. “What brings you to the Agora with Socrates and Lamprocles?”
    â€œSocrates invited me to come,” I said.
    â€œHe 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.”
    â€œI am not here to be corrupted!” I said more assertively than I’d ever spoken to anyone, women and slaves included, but the factremained 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œAnd your husband? Where is he?”
    I gestured toward the tree.
    â€œYoung Lamprocles? You must be joking!” Plato exclaimed.
    I shook my head. “Not Lamprocles. Socrates.”
    â€œNow 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