Glory and the Lightning (67 page)

Zeno, too, believed in the miracle. “God has chosen Greece for a great and majestic destiny,” he said to Pericles. “What other race in our history and memory has been so deluged with glory and ferment and genius?”

Even Pericles, worn and coldly enraged and embittered now, conceded that something mysterious had occurred to cause the lightning to strike this little land with such brilliance and concentrated gifts. He said, “Anaxagoras has declared that the Universal Mind is not remote and indifferent, but chooses, not at random, to open His hands in blessing upon a nation or a race, for His own purposes, and Pheidias asserts that this is the hour of Greece and when even Athens is in ruins her spirit will dominate the world.”

“In spite of our deplorable government,” said Anaxagoras. “But what have governments to do with a nation? They are catastrophes rather than patrons of that which has splendor.”

Pericles, on Aspasia’s departure, was bereft. He visited Helena for comfort and encouragement, and inevitably, to soothe him, she took him to her bed. She was a sensible woman; she knew she was not violating his love for Aspasia, and that men needed the consolations and the soft words and hands of a woman in their extremity. Moreover, she was not afraid for him, as Aspasia was afraid. “Love makes cowards of the most valiant,” she told him. “Aspasia is a woman of valor and never knew true fear before, but now she is as weak as the daisy of the field for dread for you. I write her constantly that you are flourishing, though,” she added with a smile, “I do not inform her that you find surcease in my arms. You and I are old friends, Pericles, but Aspasia, being a woman abjectly in love with you, would not understand for all her intelligence. We could not explain to her that we do not love each other, except as friends, and that our festivals in bed have no true meaning.”

One day Pericles received a sealed missive delivered by a cloaked and hooded man who put the letter into the hand of one of Pericles’ scribes then fled swiftly into the crowds of the Agora. The scribe said with indulgence, “Lord, the vagabond was very elusive and had a voice of import. Doubtless he wishes alms, or this missive contains a denunciation against you.”

Pericles smiled and opened the letter. It was written in a peculiar hand, hardly legible, but the wording was that of a cultured man. “If the noble Pericles would like news of those who instigated the attack upon his son, Paralus, he will come at midnight tonight to a certain tavern which will be closed and locked but which, upon five knocks, repeated three times with a short interval between, will be opened to him. He may bring guards, if he so desires, but he must not permit them to cross the threshold of the tavern. He must enter alone. He will find it silent and deserted with but one candle burning on a central table. As he is an honorable man, and after perceiving a letter addressed to him on that table, he will leave a purse of gold, as promised, in the place of the letter.” The tavern was named; it was situated near the sea in a desolate and notorious section where few dared to venture except criminals.

Pericles, trembling inwardly, read and reread the missive. Was it a plot to lead him to his own death? Was it a snare to rob him of money? Was it fraudulent? A criminal could give a few names. Would they be, in truth, names of those who had paid for the attack on his son, in order to strike at his most vulnerable spot? He studied the letter over and over, gnawing his lip, rubbing his brow. He had an impulse to destroy the letter. The next moment he again read it. He had nothing to lose but a sum of money. On the other hand he had much to gain. He would tell his soldiers to surround the tavern so that if he were injured they could capture the criminals at once. There would be no escape for the traitor or the thief. Too, if Daedalus was named he would know that the message was mere trickery. Malice had done worse than to name an innocent man.

Then he had another thought. He sent for his most trusted officer, a brave young man whose courage and honor he had tested many times. His name was Iphis, and he was a distinguished soldier, short and massive, with glittering brown eyes and a square face under his helmet. Because of his small but powerful legs he waddled and planted his feet heavily, yet he could move like the darting of a sword.

He saluted Pericles and stood before him, waiting. Pericles gazed at him thoughtfully. Then he said, “My dear Iphis, you know of the reward I have offered for the names of the assassin who attacked my son, Paralus.”

“Yes, noble Pericles.”

Pericles held out the letter to Iphis who took it and read it. The young man’s face became as still and carved and hard as stone. He stood in silence for several moments then carefully placed the letter on the table before Pericles and stared down at it.

“Well?” said Pericles at last.

“Lord, it may be an ambush. You cannot go.” He looked directly into Pericles’ eyes. “I will go. I am not of your height, but I will wear a cloak with a hood and be seated on your horse, surrounded by my men, also on horseback. I will obey the instructions in that letter.”

Pericles placed a finger against his lips and looked down at the letter. Iphis said sternly, “You are too important to Athens, lord, and you are Head of State, and the people trust you. To go as directed, yourself, would jeopardize not only your person but Athens as well. It may be that this letter is sincere and the rascal seeking money. We dare not miss the opportunity, however suspicious.”

Pericles was always frank with his soldiers and so they trusted him without question. He could be most severe and then most kind. He said, “I hoped you would suggest this, Iphis, but I would not have suggested it myself. You may be in grave danger of death by going in my place. Do you understand this?”

“Yes, noble Pericles. But I will be armed, and will surround the tavern with my men, and I am a notable swordsman.” His complexion was browned with the sun and had the texture and folds of leather for all his youth, and his eyes were clear and penetrating as he gazed at Pericles. He had an aura of resolution. He added, “I have no wife, no children, no kin. I have nothing to lose, but you have our country and your family. Who am I compared with you?”

Pericles stood then and embraced him, much moved. He withdrew a flashing ring from his finger and said, “This ring is famous in Athens and I never am seen without it. When you ride at midnight, let it be conspicuous, so that it will deceive any watcher. Go to my house at once; you will be seen emerging on horseback at midnight, through my gates. I, myself, will go to my house within the hour, but will leave for the house of Helena, the physician, so that even my most trusted slaves will believe I am with her.”

He added, “Do not return to my house when you have procured the promised letter. Seek me in the house of Helena, where I will be waiting.”

Iphis saluted. “What shall I tell the overseer of your hall, sir?”

‘Tell him you have a message which you must deliver to me, and to me alone. Then, at midnight, with your soldiers, leave in yawning impatience and say that you will return at dawn.”

When Iphis had left him Pericles pursed his lips and walked up and down his office, shaking his head. Iphis was indeed a notable swordsman, while he, Pericles, had not attended a fencing match for nearly two years. Iphis was also young while he was middle-aged. If danger there was, then it would be acute. Iphis was wary, and he had been warned. He would not give up his life easily, and his men would be there to guard him.

Before I had known Aspasia I would not have considered letting another man take my place in peril, he thought. But love makes us weak, even if we are powerful, and cowardly even if we are brave. What are even my sons compared with Aspasia? Iphis was right. I must also think of Athens. Those who trust me would be inconsolable, and my enemies would caper with delight if I were murdered. I stand between them and my country. Too, generals do not expose themselves carelessly to danger, for then their armies would be in disarray.

But he was still troubled.

Helena said to him in her house, “You acted with wisdom. Iphis is intrepid. Athens is greater than you, and she is in your charge. Do not look so uncertain. Come. I have a most delectable dinner for you tonight and I will amuse you until Iphis returns.”

“You are too sensible,” he said, and began to smile.

She regarded him gravely without an answering smile. “When you have the names—and they may be illustrious ones in government—what will you do with them? Have you considered this? You cannot punish those men openly, for then, in return, your enemies will become more united and more vengeful.”

“I have considered,” he replied. “But I will find a way to eliminate them, without open accusations. However, I must be convinced. It is not my way to act with haste, and that you know.”

CHAPTER 7

Shortly after midnight, at the height of Pericles’ apprehensions, Iphis rode up to the house of Helena where every lamp was burning. He bowed deeply to Pericles and bowed slightly to Helena as the friend of Pericles only and not to be considered seriously, though she was a physician of renown.

“Lord,” he said, “it was as written in the letter. I knocked three times, as declared. There was no answer. I pressed against the door and it opened silently. None was there. On a single table, lighted with a candle, was a letter, which I have in my possession. A search of the tavern was futile. There was no sign of life or recent occupancy, though we searched.” He smiled grimly. “It is apparent no one trusted us. I left the purse of gold on the table.”

He gave the letter to Pericles; it was sealed. He opened it and read it with astonishment. There were four names. One was the Eponymous Archon, Philemon, and the second was the Polemarchos Archon, Leander, the third a member of the Supreme Court (called Heliaia), Tithonous, and the fourth, also a member of the Supreme Court and the Boule, Polites.

These four men had appeared to be his kindest and most devoted friends, serious, bearded and thoughtful. Philemon, Leander, Tithonous and Polites! It was incredible; it was impossible. But nothing, he reminded himself, was impossible in this worst of all possible worlds. A man’s enemies were frequently discovered as his friends, his friends, his enemies. He had even expected to see the name of the King Archon, who always greeted him formally and coldly, though with respect. The fact that his name had been omitted, and that of Daedalus, gave credence to the letter. He had anticipated the names of those whom he believed were his overt foes. They were not here.

He had more than expected to see the name of Thucydides, his arch foe. He was not named.

He showed the missive to Helena, who read it carefully. She said, “I believe every word. These men have been in my house. They always expressed their devotion and loyalty to you. This made me suspicious from the beginning. The more a man protests the more he is to be mistrusted.” She added, “The man who wrote this missive was no tyro, no mere vagabond. He knew the truth.”

“I have dossiers on them all,” said Pericles, but his heart was weighted. “I will study them tomorrow. It was only yesterday that Polites came to my house to speak with Paralus and bring him gifts of sympathy. As for the others, they surrounded me, weeping, and vowed that the dastardly assassin must be brought to justice. They pleaded with me to allow them their assistance.”

“The more reason for you to suspect them, Pericles,” said Helena.

“But what if the writer had a grudge against them and wished revenge?”

“You must study their dossiers,” said Helena. “You may find truth there. If I remember, they are easy and elegant men, with sincere faces, and airs of integrity. Such should be doubted and watched.”

Pericles was very perturbed. He stared at the letter and said, “I trust your judgment, but not always. I have known these men in my youth, in my childhood and early manhood.”

“So,” said Helena, “they are envious of you. They saw your rise and your popularity. They ask themselves, ‘Why is he Head of State and not I? Was he more distinguished than I at our academe? Was he praised more by our teacher than I? Was he more industrious at learning, and did he receive prizes, as I received them? Is his house more notable? Is he richer? No! Therefore, why is he Head of State? Has he bribed voters and politicians? Has he poured out treasure to be elected, when I am more justified? Doubtless. Therefore, he bought office which I, as an honest man, would not have deigned to do. I am virtuous. He is heinous. He deserves punishment.’”

“They were my comrades in arms,” said Pericles, and knew fresh grief.

“Hah!” said Helena, with a cynical face. “So, they believe themselves to be at least your equal. Did you not defecate and urinate with them and exchange lewd camp jests and sleep among them? Who are you, then, to be loftier? That is their reasoning. I have discovered that when a man is accessible and amiable to his companions he is denigrated in their estimation. He is not only on a level with them but possibly inferior. He is not to rise above them; that is unpardonable. If they guess inherent superiority they are sleepless in their hatred.”

Pericles was silent. He said to himself, Is a woman wiser than a man? She has what Socrates has said—an innate sensibility and intuition, the gods’ gifts to women! No wonder we men fear them! They are all Sibyls. Zeus hides himself in his amorous adventures, but Hera discovers them all. How? I do not know. He looked at Helena, who was gazing at him with her large blue eyes and a tender smile, as a woman gazes at a child. He touched her shoulder and said, “I will consider what you have told me. I fear you are correct.” He thought of his beloved Aspasia, who read his speeches before they were delivered, and who censored them, adding emphasis here, reducing emphasis there.

He said to Helena now, “I hate no man but an evil and stupid one. How, then, could these men be my enemies? Your explanation wounds my heart, my wise one.”

“Think on your wounds,” she replied. “They are not only valid; they bleed.”

The wounds we receive in mere living! thought Pericles. The wounds we do not invite but which are inflicted on us—by men, our brothers. No wonder that Justice was the last goddess to leave this world, and has not yet returned. She may never return. The terrible offense to other men is to show them that the superior is not of them, that he has other impulses and other goals. We must all be sweet and democratic and pretend that we are only animals among other animals. If we do that, to God, who gave us gifts, we insult Him. If we do not do that, we offend our neighbor. Better it is to serve God than man, though that is perilous, and our brothers will destroy us. My brother—my enemy. Never my friend. Only my enemy.