Habeas Corpus! The Memoirs of a Caryatid (episode 3) – original story by @mariandavp
[His name was Metrobius; the women impersonator.]
When I first met him he was still very young. Not a child, but not a man yet either. Innocent and free from the roles he would later choose to play, he came to us full of dreams and excitement. It was love at first sight. But his love proved to be as ambiguous as his identity.
From humble origin, Metrobius prayed only for one thing; to become a famous actor. He dreamt of fame and power. He dreamt of respect. No, at the time he didn’t dream of becoming another pitiful Roman actor, giving offensive performances on the street and living a decadent life. After all, he was Greek born. He grew up knowing that Greek theater was the highest form of dramatic art. Although at that time, I believe it was around 100 B.C., the Greek world had already begun to suffer severely.
The stars signing over Athens had been long blown out and a period of darkness was overshadowing the glamorous marble structures that once inspired the whole world. The Athenians came less and less often to the temple; they had nothing left to sacrifice. I remember once a man came for prayer and offered one leather shoe to my mother Athena. The Goddess asked him “You came all this way to bring me just one shoe?” And the man replied “I would have offered you two but I got hungry on the way.”
Such was the poverty of those times. But the spiritual hunger was greater. War brings out the worse in people; maybe because they realize their mortality. That’s why I never really blamed him for his betrayal. Like most traitors, he felt he had no alternative. And like most traitors, he looked dazzling.
Long black hair that fell to his shoulders, big chestnut eyes, straight narrow nose, wide shoulders, strong long legs… he reminded me of Homer’s description of Odysseus. Only his full purple lips gave away his tendency for corruption - still they were his most attractive trait.
The first time he came to the temple he was holding a small piece of a papyrus-like material that I hadn’t seen before. After his prayer he came to the south porch and sat down on the edge, right between my sister (Caryatid n.3) and myself and unfolded it. It was an abstract from Euripides’ Medea.
Why would a boy his age be interested in the vicious and revengeful barbarian wife of mythical Jason?
“She wasn’t his wife. He never married her” he said and turned his head up to look at me.
Did he just reply to me? How is this possible? Maybe it’s just a coincidence. I’ll ask him something else.
“But why, from all tragedies in the world, would you be interested in Medea? It’s such a shocking play! A mother killing her own children?”
“Imagine how hurt she was!” he said. “This was written almost three centuries ago and we still haven’t managed to understand a female soul. The depth of her love…. The pain she must have experienced in order to do such a thing.”
“Tell me about it” I thought.
“But why am I telling you this? You know already. You are the impersonation of the perfect woman; beautiful but silent, desirable but pure, strong but stable. All these rules you have to live by… but who knows what happens in the inside”.
What a relief! To meet someone who finally understands you! He let his arm fall loosely next to my foot looked at the trembling fire lights of the city.
“It’s so beautiful up here with you” he said and leaned on my leg trusting his whole body weight on me. I’ve never felt a human so close to me. I’ve never felt so human either. I could listen to his heartbeat echo within me. This is how it is to have a heart!
Even though more that 2100 years have passed since then I still recall that night as the happiest night of my life. Though many nights like that followed.
Metrobius kept coming back every afternoon. We would watch the sunset together and then he would share his crazy ideas with me. Sometimes he played around the porch, impersonating various famous Athenians and Romans. Even my sisters, who didn’t like him that much, admitted that he was adorable; hilariously adorable to be more precise.
This went on for a few months until one evening he didn’t show up. Waiting can be a torturing experience. Imagine this torture to last for 8 days 13 hours and 5 seconds stuck on a porch. I was humbled.
On the 9th day he appeared on the hill again. But this time he wasn’t alone.
[To be continued]
Previous episodes here:
@mariandavp Can I critique without offending? Far be it from me, who barely knows more than a few words in a language other than my mother tongue, to criticize the work of someone who is writing superbly creative content in a second language. It would seem most patently arrogant to do so.
If you can tolerate arrogance, let mf-tzo know and he can PM in the bitsharestalk.org forum with your e-mail or skype address.
Of course, in fact it will be most appreciated! After all I can always edit 😊 I will ask him to do so. Thank you!
I know that he is just a lowly alter-ego of mine, hardly worthy of anyone's attention never mind an upvote, but perhaps you might find the slightest sniff of a whiff of something employabble in your artistic quest were you to grace his post with your attention? Who knows. https://steemit.com/health/@twiceuponatime/report-from-the-bleeding-edge-part-one
It's worth of everyone's attention. I followed your alter ego and will promote your great post. Your humble supporter.