Glory and the Lightning (73 page)

“I did,” said Anaxagoras, and his great blue eyes glinted with mirth. “But it is probable that Daedalus had never heard of Anacharsis.”

Pericles covered his eyes with his hand and sorrowfully shook his head. When he dropped his hand there were actual tears in his eyes. Now he looked fully at the jury and then at the whole assemblage, which was showing signs of acute embarrassment.

“Alas,” said Pericles, “this august company has been presented another evidence of piteous ignorance. Again, let us be compassionate.”

Daedalus almost went mad with rage. He even struck the sides of his cheeks with his clenched fists, and some of the jury involuntarily laughed until halted by the imposing frown of the King Archon. “Let us have no levity here,” he said. “This the court of justice,” and he glanced at Pericles, “‘founded by the sacred father of our incomparable laws.’”

The friends of Pericles stifled their happy chuckles and the jury and the members of the government assumed an air of gravity, though inwardly they seethed against Pericles and Anaxagoras.

The King Archon let his weariness become plainly seen. He said to Daedalus, “Your next charge.”

“Pederasty,” Daedalus squeaked. “The foulest crime against naturel”

No one moved. But Pericles turned and with slow glances like shards of ice he fixed one man after another with his eyes, and each man who encountered his glances shrank and huddled himself in his robes. But Pericles held them with those cold and rigorous looks and they could not turn away. Many were almost overcome with terror.

“Pederasty,” said Pericles, with loathing. “No doubt every man in this chamber is horrified at the very word, and recalls his own virtue to mind. No doubt but that every man here is guiltless of such an act, and shudders even as it is mentioned.”

He, himself, shuddered elaborately. Then he took his notes from his pouch and studied them carefully, letting his brows lift to the rim of his helmet, and letting murmurs of shocked disgust rise from his lips. And each man, watching him, felt his terror increase, and each wondered what names were listed on those notes in Pericles’ hand, praying that his own was not among them. The King Archon watched their faces and tight lines appeared about his eyes.

Pericles raised his eyes and said to Daedalus, “And who was Anaxagoras’ eromenos (male adolescent lover)?”

Daedalus’ frantic eyes went at once to one of the Archons, who had two adolescent lovers, and what he saw on the face of his friend made him quiver, for the other Archon was a man of remorseless vengeance when offended.

Pericles patiently repeated his question, then added, “You have accused Anaxagoras of corrupting our youth, and have said that he is the erastes (older male lover of an adolescent male) of at least one boy. It is true that our laws forbid pederasty, which openly flourishes in Sparta. But we are Athenians, and do not practice perversions. I have heard rumors, however—Let us continue with Anaxagoras. You have said that he is the erastes of a youth, or youths. You have not named names, Daedalus, though we have been patient. Is it possible, too, that you know those among us who do practice pederasty? If so, it is your duty to name them immediately.”

He looked at the King Archon with deep seriousness. “Is it not his duty to accuse others, also, of the crime of which he accuses Anaxagoras?”

“It is his duty,” affirmed the King Archon.

Fear nearly caused Daedalus’ collapse on the spot, for he felt at least a dozen pairs of threatening eyes upon him. He tried to moisten his gray lips, but he could not speak.

“If a man accuses another man of a crime, and speaks his name, and knows of the same crime among others of his acquaintance, then in justice he should name them all,” said Pericles. “Is that not so, lord?” he asked the King Archon.

“It is also the law,” said the King Archon. He looked at Daedalus. “If you have the name of any eromenos of Anaxagoras’, speak now, and also speak the names of those who are also guilty.”

Daedalus dropped his head on his breast. “It is possibly only a rumor—”

“A court of law is not the place for rumor,” said the King Archon. “You have uttered a vile slander against Anaxagoras, which is punishable. Therefore, you are fined five talents, Daedalus.”

When Daedalus was struck dumb the King Archon said, “I have observed your countenance. You know of men here who are truly guilty, for I have followed your eyes. Speak, then, their names.”

It was then that the relentless Archon rose with a rustle of his robes and bowed to the King Archon. “Lord,” he said, “my fellow Archons and I have come to the conclusion that all that Daedalus has said is a slander, the foolish wet mouthings of a senile and pathetic old man.”

The King Archon gazed at him for a long time, then looked at several others, who tried to avoid his eyes.

He said, “I agree with you, Hyperbolus. We have wasted precious hours of our time in this chamber. But when one of the position of Daedalus makes reckless charges against another we are compelled to listen, for is he not an Archon?” He paused and said with quiet meaning, “And are we not all honorable men?”

He let his glance rove slowly over the jury. ‘To what conclusion have you gentlemen come?”

Several members of the jury rose and said with reluctance, “We agree that Anaxagoras is not guilty of any of the charges brought against him by Daedalus. We do not approve of Anaxagoras, but he has done no obvious wrong.”

The King Archon next turned to Pericles. “Is there aught you wish to say, Pericles, son of Xanthippus?”

Pericles sighed, and wiped away non-existent sweat from his forehead. It was as if he were very tired. Then he addressed the whole assemblage, and only the King Archon and Anaxagoras heard the irony in his resonant voice.

“I have always been proud, as Head of State, of the nobility and balanced judgment of the men of Athens. We are all but human, yet sometimes we rise to grandeur, as the acropolis is now rising. What stands there, what is being built there, is a poor if beautiful reflection of the Athenian soul, the glory of that soul. Let no man now or in the future denigrate Athens, her integrity, her holy passion and reverence for beauty, her arts, her scientists, her philosophers. But above all, let all admire, in every corner of this world, the spectacle of our matchless impartiality, our craving for the orderly processes of law which were given to us by Solon. Where else in the world do such processes exist? Who can be compared with us? Despotisms abound, tyrannies which will not let a man speak the truth or lift his head as a man and not a slave, and who exact the last coin of tribute from their helpless people.

“But in Athens a man is free. His opinions may not be honored or regarded highly, but he may speak them—as you have permitted Anaxagoras to speak. You have refuted slanders with that mighty sense of justice which only Athenians possess. There are some among us, I admit, who possess the tarnish of a despot’s evil urges, but only a few. Only a few. But from those few may the gods deliver us!”

Even his enemies felt their hearts swell with emotion at this subtle flattery of themselves, and they experienced a thrill of gratitude for Pericles who had so elevated them in their own estimations. For a brief moment or two they actually loved him and forgot their enmity. As for the men who had known terror, they sweated with relief and were grateful to Pericles for delivering them from open accusations. Some of them said to themselves: “That fool of a Daedalus nearly destroyed us. We must warn him to hold his tongue hereafter.”

The King Archon ordered the chains to be struck from the wrists and ankles of Anaxagoras, who stood there eying Pericles with a most peculiar smile. The King Archon then rose and all bowed to him, even the Head of State, Pericles himself. The King Archon retired from the chamber and a loud buzzing of voices rose as a storm of bees in the hall. No one noticed that Daedalus, staggering, was leaving like a gaunt shadow.

Pericles himself led Anaxagoras from the chamber. “Come with me to my offices, for a little refreshment,” said Pericles. “My throat is dry.”

“I do not doubt it,” said Anaxagoras. “My dear friend, you are worthy of the most prominent role on the stage.”

“Tut,” said Pericles. “Do I not always speak the truth?”

“No,” said Anaxagoras, smiling. Then his face changed. “But I am afraid I have not heard the last of this.”

That night the unfortunate Daedalus, consumed by his own rage and defeat, had a seizure and died before dawn. To the last he cursed Pericles.

Dejanira, his daughter, wrote to her son in Cyprus: “My dearest Callias, what calamity has fallen on this house! My beloved father, and your grandfather, has died in his bed, in our arms, weeping. Alas, it was his own fury against Pericles which killed him.” She then related what Daedalus had incoherently gasped before he succumbed.

On receiving her letter Callias lifted his hand in an oath and said, “We will be avenged! Of a certainty, we will be avenged!”

CHAPTER 10

Socrates said to Pericles, ‘This, of course, is not the end.”

“In the meantime,” replied Pericles, “let us not anticipate trouble before it arrives. Each day we live is a day gained.”

“We, your friends, are alarmed for you, Pericles.”

“So am I,” said Pericles, laughing.

“You are an orator,” said Zeno of Elea.

“Have I not had an excellent teacher—you?”

“Alas, what a world this is,” said Pheidias.

“When was it not? It was and ever will be a dangerous and precarious planet, full of evil and contention, of malice and envy, of death and fury, of murder and pillage, of lies and hatred. Human nature is, was, and always will be detestable and unchangeable. We are a monstrous species.”

He looked at his friends and added, “With rare exceptions. But you are in this world but not of it. There is a difference. Future ages will proclaim your names, forgetting that you were outlaws among your contemporaries, just as they will persecute their own contemporaries who are superior, leaving them for future generations to extol.”

Zeno of Elea said, somewhat sadly, “You grow more caustic and embittered with time, my dear Pericles. But then, you are not a philosopher.”

“Thank the gods! I, therefore, will not perish.”

His enemies in the government, however, declined to sanction the name of his illegitimate son, the infant Pericles, and refused that name on its records.

Aspasia was too wise a woman to attempt to soothe Pericles with the metaphorical substitute of a honeyed tit, as one soothes a fractious or frightened infant. She said, “Our son is Pericles, in our minds and our hearts, and so he will be called among us and in our houses. The malice of governments is always present, and its attempts to punish its adversaries or those who criticise it. It should not be pertinent to our own lives. We should remember who and what it is, and disdain it.”

“Unfortunately, it has the power to defame, exile, depose and even kill,” said Pericles, who was both humiliated and angered at the insult. He knew now why some men like himself desire to be dictators, when inflamed, mortified or impatient with lesser functionaries of government. He knew that his own government, and many of the rabble, were accusing him of plotting to become a monarch or at least a dictator. He told this to Aspasia. She touched his cheek gently with her soft hand. She smiled and dimpled.

“That, too, has its worth, for it is only when the lesser functionaries of government, and the rabble, fawn unanimously on a man that he can attain despotism.”

He laughed. “So I am kept in salutary check! I do, at times, have an imperative impulse to override the rules and regulations of the functionaries and the bureaucrats with one powerful gesture—which, I am certain—would cow them. Adversaries, I see, can not only be abrasive and irritating, but can make a man pause and take measure of himself, unpleasant though that is.”

Aspasia now lived almost always in his house, for he feared for her since the birth of his son. They resumed their dinners for their friends and the long and exciting conversations which ensued during them. Only Aspasia observed that Anaxagoras was unusually silent these nights, or started when someone addressed him. Since his trial and exoneration he had become melancholy, though he continued to have his academe and to speak in the colonnades. However, it was as if some vital virtue had either been wounded in him, or lost. Each time she saw him Aspasia became more anxious, for he was aging. Sometimes his hands trembled. There were rumors that he was mocked and threatened on the streets even more than usual, and that his little modest house was stoned. If this were true he did not speak of it.

Xanthippus, the enthusiastic soldier, and Paralus, an avid student, loved their infant brother and played with him at all opportunities, remarking how much he resembled their adored father. The child had a merry temperament, like Aspasia, and his father’s stateliness also. He was strong and vigorous. “What an athlete for the Olympian Games he will be,” said Xanthippus. “And what a soldier.”

The young men were now permitted to join the dinners and discussions in the house of their father. They saw that not only were gifted and beautiful hetairai present but the advanced wives of many of Pericles’ friends. The dinners, because of Aspasia who presided, were becoming more and more famous throughout Athens, and hundreds of wives became rebellious against their husbands who kept them in subservience, and hundreds of daughters demanded the education given their brothers. The young ladies, graduates of Aspasia’s school, often refused the husbands chosen for them and insisted on their right to choose their own. They did not encounter much opposition, however, for their parents had sent them to Aspasia. But the girls’ influence extended to their friends, who had not had their own opportunities, and this outraged more conservative parents.

In the meanwhile Pericles was being attacked covertly in the theatre, to the hilarity even of his adherents. Cratinus, the poet and playwright, had an actor declaim:

“Here’s Pericles, our own squill-headed Zeus.

Where did he buy that hat? What, what excuse?

It’s new head-cover in Odeum style,