Glory and the Lightning (59 page)

Once he said to her, “I will repeal the law I have made, that no Athenian citizen can marry a foreign woman.” Above all things, he desired her for his wife, fearing the inconstancy of human beings. But she said, “That would give a mortal lance to your enemies, and especially to those men who love but cannot marry an alien woman.” To herself she said, “Many men are more faithful to their mistresses than to their wives, for whom they invent faults in excuse for their betrayals. But a free woman can leave them at any hour, and this they know, and so must be faithful lest beloved women leave them first for men more tender and considerate and bountiful.” If her reflections seemed cynical to her she also knew that they were relevant and based on reality and human nature. To hold Pericles, who was, after all, only a man, she must withhold also. On further reflection she knew this was true of all human encounters. To give all, except perhaps to God, was to lay one’s self open to disaster.

So in her beautiful gardens she erected a bare marble altar under a marble roof and surrounded by marble columns in the calm Doric design, and without walls. The altar stood in the center and was inscribed: “To the Unknown God.” It was a small temple but with the purity of snow and silence, and on each side there were iridescent fountains with leaping dolphins within, spouting rainbows so that the columns dripped with shaking light under sun or moon. Surrounding all were beds of lilies and roses and jasmine, and a circular walk of red gravel. She did not know how it was—for it seemed fanciful to her—but the area about the little temple possessed a great and quiet peace, a promise of refuge and eternity, enhanced by a square of dark and pointing cypresses beyond the flowers and the paths. It was like a small grove, sanctified, to be approached only by those who were seeking, and who were filled with awe and reverence. It was a favorite spot for the girls in the school, but rarely did they venture to the steps of the marble floor. They would stand at a distance, in unspeaking motionlessness. They asked no questions. It appeared that in their young hearts they understood. It was Pheidias who had designed this with love and passion, and who had said, “One day He will have thousands of altars and thousands of temples, and all will know who He is.”

Also, in her garden, in a secluded place, was a plain marble plinth with the words graved on it, “Al Taliph, who taught me, Aspasia, many things of joy and many things of pain. Who can discern the difference?” Pericles had come upon it once and had felt that cold anger of his, and a sharp jealousy, but he had never spoken of it to Aspasia. He had his secrets and she had hers, and both respected them. It was another of those hidden things which bound them together, more than if all had been revealed in the bitter light of day. Bareness could be ennui, and perfect revealment, like nakedness, unenticing. Mystery, like the shadows of the moon, could create visions and awaken Poesy. Above all else, he found Aspasia mysterious and never to be held in entirety.

They entertained their friends in Aspasia’s house, rather than in his, though Aspasia’s house was smaller even if more beautiful in a very austere and elegant way. She was perpetually in revolt against the opulence and crowded intricacies of the east, and she liked the aspect of unadorned marble walls reflecting the rosy light of sunset or the shards of palm trees, and the gleaming reflections of polished marble floors. But her statues were incomparable and many of them had been created by Pheidias, though he preferred to work in ivory and gold and bronze. They too had the grandeur of heroic simplicity, and were gravely dignified. Over everything lay a numinous peace, a noble quietude.

The house adjoined the school, a square building surrounded by colonnades where the girls could study and read and converse and walk and look upon the composed beauty of the gardens. The girls lived in the school’s dormitories, under the guidance of their teachers, and guards. At sunset the gardens echoed with their laughter as they played ball or practiced archery or threw the discus or splashed in the pools. To Aspasia, it was a lovely sound and she often joined the maidens in their play, for though now twenty-five years old, she still miraculously possessed the suppleness and swiftness of youth. The maidens reverenced her; it was their ambition to resemble her in all ways. “Excellence,” she would tell them, “cannot be utterly attained, but with diligence and devotion it can be approached. One must never be content with mediocrity, for that is the complacency of low minds. Strive always. Compete always, as in the Great Games of the Olympiad. Only this pleases God.”

Zeno of Elea had often told Pericles that happiness was the dream of cattle, and not to be attained by thinking men, for thought bore with it the understanding of the tragic predicament of mankind. “It is said,” he once remarked, “that Prometheus brought down fire from Olympus to mankind, and for that he was direly punished. But it is my belief that was an allegory; he brought thought to men, which most certainly is a fire! In so doing he made them conscious creatures. Perhaps it might have been best had we remained baboons.”

“The majority of mankind is still baboons,” Pericles had replied. “I am no idiot democrat who believes that men are created equal in any fashion.”

He found the only real happiness he had ever known with Aspasia, and even that was fitful. For he was filled with the terror all true lovers know: the terror of losing that which was most dear, through death or disaster. Anaxagoras had said, “Enjoy the moment, rejoice in it, for we have lost yesterday and the future is not yet ours. Think not of evil or loss in the coming days. That sours the present hour as rich wine is soured into vinegar.” But still, Pericles was not of the nature to enjoy only the present. The future is formed by the present, he would think, and not to think of it would result in stagnation, and nothing would be built or created and we would live in a wilderness like beasts. Thoughts of the future could bring pain; that was true. However, one was armed in advance. So, he had insisted on more guards over Aspasia’s house and school. She had not wanted walls about her buildings; he demanded them, with locked iron gates beautifully wrought, and guarded day and night by burly men.

Callias had meticulously surveyed walls and gates. His desire to destroy Aspasia, and thus destroy Pericles, grew daily. His first plan had been to throw the acid into Aspasia’s face, himself. But like all physically powerful, bullying and loud-voiced men, he was a coward. He studied all possibilities and had finally concluded his plans down to the smallest detail, for he had the cunning mind of the stupid and malicious. He had been told that Pericles spent at least three nights a week in Aspasia’s house. When his cutthroat friends informed him that Pericles would not sleep that night with Aspasia, that he had spent the night before with her, and that he was due to address the Assembly this morning, he completed his plans. He did not know that Aspasia and Pericles had entertained guests the last night, that Pericles had been somewhat overcome with wine and conversation, and had remained in her house, from which he would go to the acropolis.

This morning, as usual, they walked together through the gardens just after dawn. Though high summer, it was still pleasantly cool before the sun rose too high, and the grass dripped dew as prismatic as a rainbow and the flowers exhaled sweetly in a medley of fragrance. The dark cypresses pointed against a sky as yet only a pale blue. The fountains rustled, speaking to themselves. The hills surrounding the city had burned to sepia, over which the climbing olive trees were a pattern of fretted silver against the brown and yellow earth. The temples scattered on the acropolis seemed formed of delicate white bones against the darker background and had already caught the first aureate light. The little temple to the Unknown God stood in its beatitude of isolated quiet, the unadorned altar waiting. Birds were busily conversing in the myrtles and sycamores and palms and the air was full of musical sound. It was the hour which pleased Pericles more, though Aspasia preferred the night.

“I have received a letter, some days ago, from a very rich young man who lives in Corinth,” said Aspasia, holding Pericles’ hand in her soft fingers, like a trusting child. “His parents died of the flux just recently, and he has been left with a little sister, thirteen years old. As he is often absent from his house he fears for her safety. Her name is Io. He has slaves to attend her, but is sedulous regarding her welfare. He has heard of my school, and wishes her to be with me, and so he is bringing her to see me. He spoke of her shyness and vulnerability, for she has been unusually protected, even more than is usual among the Greeks. He will arrive with his sister either today or tomorrow, for my inspection. He mentioned that she has had tutors and is considered very intelligent, in spite of her youth and inability to converse with strangers.”

“I hope she is handsomer than most of your young ladies,” said Pericles.

Aspasia laughed. “My maidens are not chosen for comeliness of countenance, but for their intellect. My house is not a house for the training of courtesans. However, many of my girls are pretty. It is just that I do not teach personal adornment, but insist on a severity of dress and hair, so they will not be distracted. The arts of luring a man are best taught by their mothers.”

“But what is more enchanting than beauty with intelligence?” asked Pericles, and bent his helmeted head to touch her lips lightly with his own.

“Ah, I am a rare vessel,” said Aspasia. Peace filled her; Pericles’ hand was strong and firm and protective, as it held hers. She sighed. She never doubted his love for her, his intense concern for her happiness, his devotion. She had dreamed of him during her years with Al Taliph, that inexplicable man whose moods were never reassuring, who could be furious at one moment then tender the next, leaving her always in a state of trepidation and uncertainty. Sometimes she was glad that she had never known that he had loved her, for then she would have stayed with him, to her calamity. There were other times when she remembered him with a gentle sorrow and a dim longing, even when she was with Pericles. A woman’s heart, once given, cannot be taken back without bleeding and pain.

The sun was rising higher. It was time for Pericles to leave. Aspasia never asked him when he would return, for this made men impatient and gave them an uncomfortable feeling of restraint, deadly to love. Pericles, on visiting Aspasia, brought with him but two guards, mounted like himself. He went to join them, after a last embrace with Aspasia, and disappeared behind the school. She stood there, enjoying the morning, and gazing about her with pleasure and comfort. Even when she was old, she thought, she would love all this and remember. She looked idly at the distant gates and the walls. Two guards stood inside the gates, well armed. She smiled. Pericles protected her thus, not that he truly considered she was in any danger, but because it gave him confidence.

A company stopped outside the gates, a handsome chariot with an awning, in which sat a young man and a young girl. It was accompanied by four horsemen, helmeted and armed. They sat on their horses like soldiers and the early morning light glanced off silver harness and helmet and made the hides of the animals glimmer sleekly. So the girl, Io, had arrived with her brother, with considerable ceremony. Aspasia walked slowly down the red gravel path, then paused. The guards were talking with the company. Then one came towards her and said, “Lady, the lord from Corinth, one Nereus, and his sister, Io, have arrived. They crave an interview with you.”

“Let them enter,” said Aspasia, and stood, waiting. The guard returned to the gates and opened them. The occupants of the chariot climbed down, and the chariot with its white horses, and the accompanying soldiers, remained outside the gates. The young man and the girl entered the gardens alone, which Aspasia idly thought was a little curious. She looked kindly on the approaching young people. The brother, Nereus, was fair and tall and dressed richly if quietly in a robe of crimson silk with a girdle of gold and a mantle the color of his robe. His smooth head was gilt; he did not affect the hyacinthine curls of the Athenians. Aspasia’s attention was directed at the girl, and she saw before her a child of an absolutely pure countenance, smooth as a lily, and as sweetly pale, with thick black hair, unbound, under a veil of blue the color of her wide and staring eyes. Her dress was white linen, bound with silver, and her mantle was of blue traced with a silver design. Her feet were shod in sandals of silver, twinkling with gems. In her hand she bore a small object wrapped in a red and blue silk cloth.

Callias, on his horse outside the gates, gloatingly observed that Aspasia was alone in the gardens, with not even a distant slave in evidence, or a gardener. His men outnumbered the guards; still, he was afraid, as a coward, of entering the purlieus of the house and the school. If the guards, after the fearful act, attempted to seize him and his companions, they would be unhesitatingly slaughtered. As for the two within the gardens, they were of no moment to him. They might be able to flee and rejoin the company. If not, then let them perish. This he had not told the spurious Nereus, who had been reassured that the company would wait and bear the two off in safety.

Nereus, who was a thief and a murderer, though young and fair, had heard of the beauty of Aspasia, but even he was surprised at the tall stateliness of her, her aspect of a statue wrought in marble and tinted deliciously. Her silvery-gold hair was not dressed; it blew about her in a radiant cloud in the morning breeze. For an instant his nefarious heart hesitated, thinking of the coming devastation of that face, that exquisite form, for he had been gently bred and had been forced from his father’s house for his incorrigible conduct. Callias had shrewdly chosen him well, for he had patrician manners and an educated tongue.

Nereus greeted Aspasia with a proper bow and said in his cultivated voice, “Lady, it is gracious of you to receive us, and we are humbly grateful. Here is my sister, Io, of whom I have written to you. I pray you will receive and nurture her, though she is shy and seldom speaks. She will observe her childish silence.”