Back at home, there’s a commotion in front of our house. An enormous cart is tethered out front, and Olympios is supervising the unloading of a massive marble sculpture. “The other one’s already inside,” he says, when we come close.

  They lean the two pieces up side by side in the courtyard. “Do you know about this?” Nicanor asks, while the driver waits, narrow-eyed, for his pay.

  I’m blank, and it’s Tycho who answers. I remember as he’s saying it: Daddy sent Simon to Athens to commission statues to Zeus and Athena to commemorate Nicanor’s safe return. They’re to be erected in Stageira, but the cost of transport being what it was, Daddy only wanted to pay to have them sent as far as Chalcis; we’d have to take them the rest of the way ourselves. They’ll watch us from now on: Zeus, big-chested and big-bearded, with the piercing eyes; Athena of the clear brow and crested helmet. Here they will remain for many months, eerie at first and later familiar, finally just furniture.

  Nicanor pays the driver and says he’s going to his room. He asks Tycho to send his tray there. I feel the ghostly throb of him still in my vagina, but realize we have had no easy breakthrough, and there will be no cosy cuddling in the marital bed tonight. We have done what we can to ensure agricultural good luck, and who knows what soup is cooking inside me now, but in his mind my husband is still in Egypt, Persia, Bactria, Kandahar, India, Babylon—torching villages, raping peasant girls, starving, night-marching, eternally suffering under the obsession of an eternally suffering king. Wren bones and fish glue, indeed.

  I could end it here. But there is one more thing to mention: a gift I asked of my husband, a wedding gift. At first he was reluctant.

  “Oh, pink cloth,” I said. “Poof. Pink cloth. What am I supposed to do with that, sew myself a dress?” The chick was done by then, as done as he was going to be, and hanging from the ceiling in the big bedroom by a piece of thread. He flew in the slightest breeze. I don’t see what’s gruesome.

  “Fine,” my husband said. “But don’t come crying to me when you have regrets.” We weren’t sharing the room—probably never would—but we used it for private conversations, particularly concerning the servants. It was high spring by then, and he was mostly living at the farm, camping out there with the men he employed. He came home every now and then for a bath and a meal, and some evenings when he’d seemed less distant than usual I’d visit him in his room, then return to my own for sleep. He’d got the good Euboia dirt grained into his hands by then, under the nails, and maybe he drank a little less. I never asked him, nor Thale neither, who kept the stores and would know.

  “You’ll have to come with us, to the magistrate.”

  “Have you considered terms?”

  “As few as possible,” I said. “It’s what my father would have wanted.”

  So today we return to the home of Plios the magistrate. My husband is resentful that I’ve kept him from the fields; he was late getting the seed in, and his inexperience makes him anxious. But then he is proud, too, shyly proud of the pale green nubs he’s already coaxed from the mud. I’ve begun a vegetable patch by the house so we’ll have something to talk about in the evenings. The first harvest from that patch, an early lettuce, I’ve brought as a gift for the magistrate’s wife. Tycho follows us at his usual distance, leading Frost. Nicanor plans to ride straight from the magistrate back to the farm.

  “I’ve been thinking I might do some teaching,” I say as we walk. “Girls from wealthy families. Do you remember Thaulos? He asked if I’d teach his daughter to read. Maybe a bit of math, a bit of biology. There’s a fashion for it.” I finger the stone and the snail-shell from Daddy’s school that I’ve taken to carrying in my pocket, lately, as talismans. I’ve already started with Pretty; she can say her alphabet very nicely, and she likes it when I draw numbers on her tickly back with my finger and she has to guess what they are. Slow Philo likes to watch us, squatting on his heels, clapping his hands when Pretty laughs. Once he held up three fingers to show her and said in his thick voice, “Three.”

  Pretty looked at me. I told her she had two teachers now. Philo beamed.

  “Not for money,” Nicanor says now.

  “Of course not.”

  “I wouldn’t set them on skeletons, either,” he says. “Not right away, anyway.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you to bring me a fox, if you find one. I’ve never done a fox. I know farmers kill them if they can.”

  “Chicken farmers,” Nicanor says dismissively. Then: “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll ask Demetrios. He has traps.”

  He’s made friends with Demetrios, and Euphranor, too, who is beyond deferential. Star-struck, almost, by my husband’s experiences in Alexander’s army, by his hard edge and remote silences. Star-struck, lovestruck. He looks a little silly, these days, Euphranor. But he’s helping enormously with the farm, and says he’ll put my husband in touch with an honest dealer when it comes time to sell the harvest to Athens, in the fall.

  “Come, Tycho,” Nicanor says. Tycho follows us through Plios’s gate. A slave leads us into an inner room, Plios’s office, where the magistrate rises from his desk to greet us. I’m heavily veiled; he ignores me.

  “This is the fellow?” he asks, and Nicanor says yes.

  “A great day for you,” Plios says to Tycho.

  I pay the token coin to Plios—a privilege I had particularly asked of my husband. I wanted to do it myself. I put the coin on his desk, like a lady, so our hands won’t touch.

  “You are no longer a slave,” Nicanor tells Tycho. “But your obligation to the family will remain until your death. You will come to us three times each month for instruction. These are the formal terms. Additionally, you will owe a freedman’s tax to the city. Any children you might have will be exempt from this tax. Plios the magistrate represents the city as our witness.”

  “Children I might have?” Tycho says.

  “Done!” Plios says, most jolly. “Now. Do we have time for a cup?”

  A slave brings a tray with a jug and three cups for the men. Tycho looks like he’s going to throw up.

  “Drink, man!” Plios says. “Look at him. He’s terrified. Where are the others, anyway? I thought we were doing four today.”

  Of course, as magistrate, he’s read Daddy’s will: And Tycho, Philo, Olympios, and his child shall have their freedom when my daughter is married.

  “Their terms are different,” Nicanor says. “No rush there.”

  Outside, Nicanor mounts Frost. My hand has strayed to my belly again; I see him look, look away. “Walk her home, will you?” my husband says to Tycho. “I’ll be a week at least. Your lady will explain everything to you. So.” He spurs the horse and is gone, my unmoved mover: gone without a backward look.

  He’ll probably remember my fox, though.

  “Lady,” Tycho says. “I don’t have money for the tax.”

  We walk; not home, but to the beach where my father swam and then washed up, where Euphranor saw my birthmark, where Myrmex and I fucked each other all ways. We sit on the flat rock where Daddy used to leave his clothes. “You can have the shed behind the stables,” I tell Tycho. The biggest of the outbuildings. “I’ve been fixing it up. It’s clean and dry, weather-tight. I put in a new bedroll, and a chair and a lamp, and a chest for your things. You’ll keep working for us, only we’ll pay you now. And you’ll have free time, to do what you want.”

  We sit for a long time, quietly, as morning turns hot noon.

  “Children,” he says.

  I put my head on his shoulder, and after a while he puts his arm around me.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Huge thanks to Professor Susan Downie and Professor Shane Hawkins, of Carleton University; Professor Pauline Ripat and Professor Mark Golden, of the University of Winnipeg; and Professor Maria Liston, of the University of Waterloo, for sharing their vast knowledge.

  Thanks to Anna Avdeeva for her generous gift of Medicinal Plants of Greece and Conni Bagnall for Robert Graves’s The Greek Myths.

  Thanks to Anna Avdeeva, Amanda Holmes, Ariel Levine, and Christine Lorimer of Carleton University and the University of Winnipeg, who came to Aristotle’s Lyceum with me.

  The poem Pythias reads on the road to Chalcis is from If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho, translated by Anne Carson.

  The iunx spell Pythias recites is a combination of four incantations cited by Christopher A. Faraone in Ancient Greek Love Magic.

  Thanks as always to Anne Collins and Denise Bukowski, my colleagues and friends.

  A Note About the Author

  Annabel Lyon’s first novel, The Golden Mean, was the winner of the Rogers Writers’ Trust Fiction Prize and a finalist for the Scotiabank Giller Prize, the Governor General’s Literary Award, and the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize. The Golden Mean became a number one best seller in Canada and has been translated into fourteen languages. Lyon’s short story collection, Oxygen, and book of novellas, The Best Thing for You, were also published in Canada to wide acclaim. Her juvenile novels All-Season Edie and Encore Edie have been translated into three languages. Lyon’s short fiction has appeared in Toronto Life, the Journey Prize anthology, and the Harvard Review. Lyon lives in British Columbia with her husband and two children.

  Other titles by Annabel Lyon available in eBook format

  The Golden Mean • 978-0-307-59444-0

  Visit: annabellyon.blogspot.com

  Like: www.facebook.com/annabel.lyon

  For more information, please visit www.aaknopf.com

  The Sweet Girl

  Annabel Lyon

  A fascinating journey into ancient Greece, The Sweet Girl is the story of Pythias, the daughter of the philosopher Aristotle. Inspired by a fragment of Aristotle’s will, the award-winning novelist Annabel Lyon portrays the coming-of-age of a bright, independent young woman trying to find her place in a culture that offers her few opportunities.

  Pythias is her father’s earnest and adoring student, sharing his investigations into science and nature and displaying a quick wit and intellectual precocity in philosophic debates at his school. As she grows into adolescence, she feels the first stirrings of love and desire, her longings aroused and perhaps requited by the mysterious Myrmex, her father’s ward.

  But Aristotle’s death brings questions and problems that cannot be solved by science or logic. An orphan without financial resources or a male relative to protect her, Pythias finds that her fate depends on manipulative officials, women whose comforts come with strings attached, and even gods and goddesses with capricious whims.

  Narrated by Pythias in a contemporary voice and style, The Sweet Girl has an immediacy rare in historical fiction. As Lyon captures the place of women in the ancient world in lush detail, she illuminates the timeless struggle between reason and emotion, dreams and reality.

  For discussion:

  1. What do the early scenes between Aristotle and Pythias convey about their relationship? Why does Aristotle encourage Pythias’s involvement with his work? In what ways does Herpyllis provide a contrast to Aristotle and his expectations for Pythias? What does each of them represent about the intellectual, social, and cultural environment of the time?

  2. What insights do the discussions with his students offer into Aristotle’s philosophy (this page–this page)? What do they reveal about differences between Aristotle’s thinking and the views of others? How do Pythias’s presence and comments influence the content and tone of the conversation?

  3. How does Pythias’s transition into womanhood affect her relationship with Aristotle and Herpyllis? What is the significance of the ritual at the temple (this page–this page)? Of Aristotle’s reaction to her first period (this page)?

  4. In what ways does Myrmex’s arrival upset the atmosphere of Aristotle’s household? What feelings does it provoke in Pythias? How do their positions within the household help cement their relationship? What qualities does Myrmex share with other romantic heroes in literature—or in real life?

  5. How does Lyon meld the political and the personal in showing the impact of Alexander’s death on Aristotle and his family? What do the philosopher’s reactions reveal about the private man behind the famous public figure (this page–this page, this page, this page–this page)? What aspects of life in exile are particularly difficult for him and why? What ethical concerns are evident in the provisions of his will (this page–this page)?

  6. After Aristotle dies, Pythias begins to learn how difficult life is for a woman alone. What internal resources does she call on in the immediate aftermath of his death? Why does she choose not to return to Athens with Nico or accompany Herpyllis to her hometown?

  7. What does Herpyllis’s response to Aristotle’s death reveal about their relationship and the qualities that made her his cherished companion? Why does Myrmex react to Aristotle’s provisions for him with anger? Are his retaliatory actions understandable?

  8. What sets Euphranor apart from the other men Pythias deals with? What facets of his character come to light during their visit to Aristotle’s farm (this page–this page)?

  9. As the life she knows unravels, Pythias discovers deep divisions in Greek society—between men and women, the powerful and the powerless. How do her interactions with Glycera (this page–this page) and the priestesses at the temple of Artemis (this page–this page, this page–this page) contribute to her nascent sense of what it means to be a woman in her society? Why does she reject the lives they represent?

  10. Why does Pythias choose to work with the midwife (and abortionist) Clea? How does it help her integrate the teachings of her childhood and the knowledge and awareness she has developed as a young woman?

  11. What do the appearances of Artemis (this page–this page) and Tycho’s apparent possession (this page–this page) demonstrate about the line between the real and the fantastical in ancient culture? If you are familiar with Greek myths or classic plays that portray interactions between humans and gods, discuss how the encounters in The Sweet Girl fit into the tradition.

  12. In what ways do the divine intercession and other mysterious events in the novel symbolize the psychological and emotional turmoil of adolescence?

  13. “There is the rational mind and the animal body.… I understand, finally, that Daddy suffered so because he was practically all mind and no animal.… I am lesser. Is it because I’m girl? Daddy would say so. But that theory doesn’t account for the animal natures of Nico, of Myrmex” (this page). In what respects does this dichotomy embody the themes of the novel?

  14. In describing her heroine, Lyon said, “For me, she’s on the cusp of modernity. She’s the first modern woman.” (CBC Books, October 29, 2012). Do you agree? What issues in the novel support your point of view?

  15. Little is known about the real Pythias. What are the negative and positive sides to reimagining historical characters in works of fiction?

  Suggestions for further reading:

  The Oresteia of Aeschylus, translated by Ted Hughes; Angela Carter, The Bloody Chamber; Grant Buday, Dragonflies; Robert Graves, Homer’s Daughter; David Malouf, An Imaginary Life; Zachary Mason, The Lost Books of the Odyssey; Marie Phillips, Gods Behaving Badly; Mary Renault, Fire from Heaven; If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho, translated by Anne Carson

  About the Author

  Annabel Lyon is the author of The Golden Mean, a bestseller in Canada and short-listed for Governor-General’s Literary Award. She is also the author of a story collection, Oxygen, and a book of novellas, The Best Thing for You. She lives in British Columbia with her husband and two children.

  ALSO BY ANNABEL LYON

  The Golden Mean

 

 

  Annabel Lyon, The Sweet Girl

 

 

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