Chapter I: The Worldly and the Wise

In her illustrious prime, the Athenian agora, an open area of market stalls and governmental complexes, often saw the overly humble Socrates followed by his train of confused disciples, confused because their philosophical teacher preferred posing the questions to them rather than they directing their concerns to him. However, when Socrates began to confess, rather immoderately, the only thing he knew for certain was that he was not wise, his averagely talented pupils understood his overly efficient solution to obtain wisdom. Perhaps if Socrates lived a few centuries later he could have sold his simple method as best selling books or online courses and save some dying educational system. But alas and alack, the party who accused Socrates of impiety and corruption of the youth failed to recognize the business opportunity. No matter, philosophy is still, as it once was, an indefinite hobby, and the socratic method still survives today, though who profits from it is sometimes difficult to tell.

Coming back to the Athenian agora, wandering philosophers continued to thread their way among its marble colonnades even when Rome returned the favor of conquest and colonization: There had been Greeks in Sicily where the Romans were now in the Acropolis. Why, Solon and Cicero could have shaken hands, if not for a few intervening centuries, under the benign rays of the Mediterranean sun. Nevertheless the stoics and epicureans attacked the other's unimpeachable truths while the cynics scoffed at them both, leaving the skeptics to doubt everyone. Of course that is not really how it happened, but it is the simplest representation. With such feuding in the philosophical arena and all, a singular scene opens near the agora upon a cloudy day suspicious of rain, rather peculiar weather of the Aegean latitudes, in the shadow of some olive trees.

"And so, all else is fickle. There is only virtue. Man is the supreme instrument of virtue; he is made for the pursuit of it. He is endowed with intellect, with reason. This rationalism allows him to discover the excellence of virtue whose influence compels him to lead a pure, untainted life. And the body? It is beautiful, fair, and proportional. The mechanism of the muscles is a marvel itself! The bones are so strong yet their architecture surpasses the Parthenon. He is agile. He is flexile. His vitality is so tangible, you can feel the pulsing heat in his neck or wrist. Men, behold—“” In the overpowering frenzy of his argument, the impassioned philosopher reached for a piece of the flowing chiton or tunic worn by a quiet youth in the group.

"I suggest," a distinctively feminine voice said "you refrain from pulling the garment away. It may expose some contradictory expectations which I fear will weaken your position. On the whole though, I enjoyed it."

"What! A woman has been in our midst without us knowing of it?" a different philosopher cried, indignant. "Antiphon, what is the meaning of this?" The question was addressed to the philosopher who had just been discoursing on virtue.

Antiphon, still grasping the mystery woman's tunic, eyed her first amazed, then confused, then disturbed, and finally defeated. "I cannot say, Androcles," Antiphon answered meekly.

"Well of course you can't account for why I am here. You philosophers are so preoccupied chasing the sun, you neglect all the other stars or, for that matter, straying comets! I rather like the constellation Leo myself," the woman returned. "Would you mind, Antiphon- that is your name, no?--letting go of my tunic? It is quite expensive, Egyptian linen in fact"

Antiphon obliged.

"What do stray comets have to do with virtue?" a disciple named Philaemon asked.

"Oh, well, absolutely nothing," the woman replied, smiling congenially at the group of stern men around her.

"You dare interrupt a discussion on virtue with stray comets? Perhaps if you were acquainted with the practices of our society for more than this afternoon, however, as you are a woman it would not be permitted, you would understand the topic of discussion is not changed unless some kind of resolution has been reached. There is no harmony then," Androcles announced.

"Oh, but I have been introduced to the way you do things," the woman responded.

"What do you mean?" Androcles inquired, his posture becoming stiff and alert.

"Relax. I joined your company a few days ago. Nobody noticed. But then again, you were all staring so intently at the azure sky. What was it you were talking about? Ah yes, very amusing argument--the nature of clouds, though there wasn't a cloud anywhere. I guess you guys have very vivid imaginations. My favorite theory is that they are the stolen bedsheets of the gods. Brilliant!" the woman explained. Philaemon shifted his weight to one leg and smirked at Antiphon who believed the clouds were filmy wisps of air which held the water that was rain.

"Do you scoff at our dialogue on clouds?" Zeno, another philosopher, questioned suspiciously.

"When sophists, like yourselves, talk about clouds and devise the most original theories to describe them, the remarks cannot be ignored because they are too profoundly funny. However, virtue, as I realize Androcles," she nodded sagely at the man, "you are anxious to continue your little conference here, is a bit boring," the woman laughed, fingering the silvery-green leaf of a nearby olive tree.

"Boring? But only an unthinking person would say that," Androcles flared up.

"Unthinking, I'm insulted," she returned. "Please, tell me what can virtue offer?" She broke off the leaf from the greenish branch of the tree. Tracing its veins, she eyed Androcles who she guessed was the ultra orthodox leader of the group.

His ego pumped to the extreme by the woman's undisguised interest in the subject, Antiphon stood pridefully tall and answered, "Virtue offers honor."

"I'll honor that offer. You were, after all, going to disrobe me," the woman quipped, flourishing the olive leaf near Antiphon's head and smiling up, a bit too mockingly, at the middle-aged man before her.

"You speak like a common hetaira," Antiphon exclaimed, outraged at the vulgar insinuation. He stepped back from the brandished leaf as if it were going to corrupt his aura.

"Peace, my good man," she returned, bowing reverently in front of him, her hand presenting him an olive sprig. "No need to get agitated. Nothing happened. I respect your modesty. I once had it myself, but I parted with it a long time ago"

"A hetaira, what is a hetaira?" a foreigner from Antioch inquired, himself nonchalantly tracing the veins of another olive leaf with his finger.

"A hetaira," Philaemon began, warming to the topic, "is a beautiful and talented woman, often quite rich, who provides companionship and pleasure to men. Some are well versed in literature, art, and music. A few, on occasion, engage in politics like the mistress of the statesmen Pericles." Philaemon sneaked a quick glance at the woman who winked appreciatively at him.

"Syai of Corinth, at your service. I am charmed to meet all you gentlemen," the woman announced. "The privilege, though never granted, is all mine," she added, giving Androcles a wry smile.

"Such impudence," Androcles muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" Syai inquired.

"Nothing at all important," Androcles replied.

"In that case, since it is not about the virtue of clouds, I shall take my leave of you gentlemen. My client is holding a dinner party at his villa where he would like me to entertain, and he has the most adorable Spartan puppy. He may give it to me if I please him. So, please kindly excuse me," she said.

With an air of audacious independence which radically shook the mental equilibrium of some of the less than progressive men, Syai, the Corinthian hetaira, exited the olive grove, passing into the agora proper where all the hustle and bustle of city life was centered. She still held the olive leaf, and she had to smile over how amusing the afternoon was spent. Androcles was undoubtedly an uninspired traditionalist. Antiphon was probably a misogynist or else a homosexual. Zeno had said too little to pass judgment on his character, but Philaemon possessed some spunk. He could not be a true philosopher. No doubt he was a tourist spending his holiday in the company of a band of men who had married frigid women and were now hoping to rationalize their dull existence because they were bored out of their minds. Though why the youthful Philaemon would want to join this sect of sorry philosophers escaped Syai's understanding. He must have some peculiar tastes she finally concluded, mounting the porphyry steps to her elegant little house in the vicinity of the aristocracy's mansions.

She would change into something red or green, anoint her body with sandalwood oil, tune her lyre, and depart for her client's villa in the evening. On the way, she would probably sneak into the Academy's gymnasium to look at the nude athletes finishing the last of their vigorous exercises, whether it is the final lap at the stadium or the last throw of the discus. After that, she may then head over to the florists' stalls before they closed and chat with the sociable flower girls about some rousing tidbit of gossip while stringing roses and myrtles onto ivy vines. She did not know what to expect at her client's dinner party, but she hoped the guests, mainly young societal dandies, were interesting. All the same it would be a very pleasant night indeed.