Glory and the Lightning (83 page)

Now he looked up at Paralus and said, “You asked to see me, my son. I must beg of you that what you have to say will be short, for it is very late and I have more maps to study.”

Paralus said in the voice of Pericles’ youth, firm and resonant, “I should like your permission to visit my mother for a time, until her grief subsides. She is all alone, except for her very aged mother, who cannot leave her bed any longer.”

Pericles looked at him intently. Then he said, “You are not a child, or even a youth, Paralus. You are a young man. It is for you to decide.”

Paralus bowed a little. Then their eyes fused together for several long moments. Finally Pericles sighed, and said, “I know there is something troubling you. I do not ask you to tell me, for you are a man and have the problems of a man, and it would be wrong for me to intrude on your thoughts. I have the fate of Athens in my hands; even my family must not supersede my duty there, or my strength.”

“I understand,” said Paralus. “I am not a petulant woman, demanding attention when weightier matters must be considered. I am the son of a soldier, the brother of a soldier. I would I were a soldier, myself. No matter. I thought, in all courtesy, that I should ask your permission to visit my lonely mother for a time, for I am still under your roof.”

Pericles regarded him even more intently. He leaned back in his chair, and his light eyes were curiously shadowed though they glistened in the lamplight. It was as if he gazed through clear ice at his son, and not membrane. His hand tapped the maps slowly. Still holding Paralus’ eye he said, and his voice had changed and become hard and slow:

“My son, Athens will never recover the glory she had in my dear friend, Pheidias, so heinously murdered. Part of the soul of Athens died when he died. He was of a stature of a god. When men die their families and friends mourn them. When a god dies the very heavens are shattered.”

A small spasm passed over the face of Paralus, but he remained silent. For a moment his eye shifted; then it returned to the countenance of his father.

“Pheidias,” said Pericles, “was, as you know, murdered not because he was hated—for who could have hated such a soul as was Pheidias? He was murdered in order to render me desolate. There was also a plot against me, your father, to depose or exile me.”

Paralus said very quietly, “Yes. I know. I have heard rumors in the city. Athens is the very well of gossip.”

Suddenly Pericles became almost wildly impatient. “Enough! I am glad that you have shown filial devotion to your mother, who indeed is alone. Return if and when you wish.” He thought to himself, What father ever knows his son, or can break through the barrier of selfsame flesh to the profound spirit of complete understanding? We do not give our children their souls; we give them only their material bodies. We are not one with our children, as we are one with a beloved woman, and there is something mysterious in that, something arcanely ordained. The fruit of our loins are strangers, after all, and can sometimes be our deadliest enemies.

Then he softened somewhat towards Paralus, and held out his hand to him. “Is it farewell, my son?”

Paralus took his father’s hand; his own fingers were very cold. He said, “No, it is not farewell, my father, but it may be for a long time.”

Pericles tried to smile. He held his son’s hand and said, “There are many things you do not understand, Paralus, which must remain a secret to me. There are others who need my silence, and their needs are greater than your own, or even mine. Go, then. Console your mother, who grieves for her dead son. She has, in you and Xanthippus, deeper consolations than she knows, unfortunate woman.”

Paralus bowed again to his father, then left the room with Pericles’ own stateliness, and Pericles watched him go and his heart was heavy. He returned to his maps and scrolls and pen. Suddenly he felt exhausted and sorrowful. Pheidias’ death never left his mind; all at once his pain was as acute and as unbearable as if Pheidias had just been murdered, and his old incredulity returned that Pheidias was dead. Savagely, he flung a scroll from him and it dropped to the marble floor, which was so cold that even the thick Persian rug and his boots could feel the penetration of it. He shivered. He blinked his tired eyes, for a film had formed over them, which dimmed his vision. For the first time he felt a bitter anger against Paralus, who was obdurate and who had, in spite of his admirable self-control, a streak of softness in him and emotion. He would never have made an excellent soldier, thought Pericles. There is little ruthlessness in him, and not enough iron, and I am disappointed as well as saddened that his youth prevents him from understanding that what a man must do he must do. He does not think things through to their conclusion and accept them. Strange that I never knew that before, and I am chagrined.

Xanthippus, for all his seeming frivolity at times, and despite his easy laughter and mercurial temperament and gleefully ascerbic jests, and all his high grace and extreme elegance, was a stronger man than his brother, and, above all, a soldier. He had written of Callias, “I rejoice that such a monster has met his just fate, for he strewed disaster as careless children strew crumbs, or birds their droppings. The world is a cleaner place in that some unknown assassins sent him to Hades. I would that Chiton had drowned him in the Styx! Or Cerberus devoured him. If I knew his assassins I would send them my greetings and my congratulations.”

Pericles’ embittered heart warmed. He forgot that Xanthippus had disagreed with his father’s latest strategy and had written him very recently to that effect, in colorful and eloquent protest. Xanthippus could not be outwardly calm, as could Paralus. He was either joyous or furious, depressed or elated. But always he was a soldier. When his wife had given birth to his son he had expressed his pleasure and gratification to her in vehement language in a letter which she cherished. Yet under his vivid froth there was the essential iron of a soldier and a man dedicated to his country, though often he had laughed at too-fervent patriotism. Despite his surface appearance of animated lightheadedness, and his mockery of those who were too serious and pompous, he was, in his inmost being, as inexorable as his father when it came to truly trenchant matters, and as immovable. Pericles considered his elder son with something like gratitude.

He blew out the lamp and went to his large chamber. Aspasia was not yet asleep, though it was very late. She seemed to know when he was disturbed and ill at ease, even if she never spoke of it. She held out her arms to him and he dropped on his knees beside the bed and rested his head on her breast, and she held him close to her. Her flesh was warm and sweet and fragrant; her hair fell over her shoulders and far down her back. Her touch was one of comfort and tenderness. Her eyes quivered with many sparkling lights, like brown wine in the sun.

He said, revelling in the clasp of her arms, “Paralus asked me for permission to leave my house and visit his mother—for a long time.”

“I thought he would do that. I have thought he would for several months.”

Pericles was astonished. “But you never told me.”

“No. Were you not anxious enough, and distressed enough, at the outbreak of this great war which has been smoldering for many years? Until the hour came when Paralus had finally come to a decision was time, alas, for you to know. Before that, the added burden would have been too much.”

He clung to her. He said, “Did I ever tell you that I love you, my darling?”

She rested her cheek on the top of his head, and laughed so that she would not weep. “No! Never did you tell me!”

His body was cold, and he shivered again, and he threw aside his robe and went under the blankets to her, and they made love as if this were their wedding night and they were young and ardent lovers, exultant and cleaving together, one flesh, one soul, consumed with passion and rejoicing in it, and it was a reprieve.

Among the associates of Xanthippus was a dissolute and very rich young man of considerable brilliance of mind, and a general in the army. He was also a relative of the family of Pericles, for he was of the house of the Alcmaeonidae. He was notable for his extreme handsomeness and his love for fine horses, and was infamous for his dissipation. His name was Alcibiades, and he was considerably younger than Xanthippus. When he chose to display it—which was not very often—his intelligence was extraordinary. He was somewhat of the character of Xanthippus and a great favorite among his men and the populace, for unlike Xanthippus in this regard he had a suave tongue and rarely offended anyone by a joke touched with the urbane cruelty Xanthippus could smilingly display. His men jested with him, but they knew they could not go too far in this respect, and loved him as they did not love Xanthippus, who, on occasion, could reveal a sudden flash of his father’s cold hauteur and ruthless command. Alcibiades and Xanthippus were not friends, even if courteous to each other as fellow officers, for they were too close in character to be congenial.

Xanthippus held some resentment against Pericles, his father, because Pericles was fond of his young relative and esteemed his qualities as a soldier and as an incipient and potent politician, who could charm, Pericles often said, the marble peplos off a Vestal Virgin statue, and cause her immediately to lie supine, warm flesh and blood. At all times, even in the field, he was immaculate in appearance and even perfumed, and languid of manner and effeminate in gesture, though he was completely masculine of personality. It vexed Xanthippus that Pericles admired the young exquisite, for Xanthippus held a secret jealousy of his father and often had been annoyed when Pericles showed too overt an affection even for Paralus, whom Xanthippus himself loved dearly. So Xanthippus often surprised his father with complaints of Alcibiades in his letters, complaints not always justified.

This puzzled Pericles, and added to his woes, for he was ever susceptible to the members of his family and too sensitive concerning them. Callias’ father had been married to another woman before he had married Dejanira and she had borne him a daughter, and before Callias had been murdered he had given his sister in marriage to Alcibiades. Xanthippus now began to refer to this fact in his goading letters to Pericles, and he would show those letters to Aspasia. She said to him, “Xanthippus is jealous of you, my love, and would have you love no other so strongly as you love him. He was, at times, even jealous of your affection for me.”

“Nonsense,” Pericles would reply in irritation. “That is a womanish interpretation.” So his perplexity was not assuaged. Aspasia would tell him, “When writing to Xanthippus, do not refer to Alcibiades very often,” sage advice which he ignored. So Xanthippus’ complaints of his kinsman, who was already a general, took on a bitter edge, though the complaints were not entirely explicit. Once he wrote, “No doubt your affection, my father, for Alcibiades rises from the fact that at one time he saved the life of your friend, Socrates, on the field of war. But Socrates,” he added, “returned the favor, if you will remember.”

It was at that point that unknown to Pericles Aspasia wrote to Xanthippus: “Your father feels grateful to Alcibiades in that he saved the life of Socrates. Alcibiades is also very amusing, and your father needs all the amusement he can encounter in these direful days.” To which Xanthippus replied, “I am subtle enough, my dearest friend, Aspasia, to understand that you wish to soothe my natural resentment against Alcibiades, who is corrupting the morale of our men. He often drinks with them, and gets drunk with them, and their bawdy laughter and shouts are not in the military tradition.” Aspasia smiled at the last, for Xanthippus could be very bawdy indeed, even when speaking to her and his wife. She answered him, “Your father speaks of you constantly, for though a long time has passed Paralus has not returned home and rarely visits your father’s house. You are Pericles’ surrogate in the field, and his pride in you is overwhelming.”

For a time Xanthippus was placated and did not mention his kinsman, but as Pericles inquired of him more and more Xanthippus’ dangerous temper grew stronger, and his resentment. His letters became fewer and more formal, and again Pericles was distressed. Aspasia could only sigh. It was bad enough that the great war was raging and Athens endangered, and Athenians, long ago wearied by skirmishes and small battles that were incessant, regarded the rising conflict not only with alarm but with increasing anger. The treasury had been drained by the intermittent wars and was now being impoverished to a huge extent in the larger struggle, and young Athenians were dying in enormous numbers. The Peloponnesian War had reached a perilous climax, and many said that even the Persian wars had not been so frightful and so devastating. Moreover, Athens’ ally, Aegina, reluctant member of the Athenian empire, protested that Athens was taxing her too heavily for this war, and that Pericles had refused to grant her the Home Rule established by treaty. It was no secret that her revolt both against the government of Athens and the war itself was very probable and soon. She had not too secretly been engaged, lately, with overtures to the enemy, Sparta and her allies. Sparta, though a city-state of warriors, had preferred in the past to let her allies skirmish with Athens, and had contented herself with raids into Attica. Now she was only too eager to fight Athens to a finish and break up the Athenian empire and its maritime supremacy and its formidable navies. Moreover, Potidaea, another ally of Athens, or rather a subject ally, was showing alarming signs of betraying Athens, and some of her people had taken up the war-cry of Sparta, “Liberate the Hellenes from the rule of the despot, Pericles!” “Liberty or death!” cried young men in the streets of Potidaea, and often they fled rather than fight Sparta.

All this, darkened by the disaffection of many Athenians, notably the young, was a heavy burden to Pericles. “Do they not understand, our people, and our allies, that we are fighting for our very existence?” he would exclaim. “Sparta, if victorious, will not only make us a subject state but will enslave our people and impose on them her gloomy and barbarian philosophy, and make of Athens one vast prison camp, where all will labor and no song ever be sung again.”