Glory and the Lightning (46 page)

Agariste had left the house of Daedalus to return to her own house, there to greet the bride and bridegroom. She looked about the perfection of the house, comparing it with the chill meagreness of her brother’s, and gave orders to slaves who were splendidly dressed. She waited, pale and composed in her rosy robes, her shoulder and hair pins sparkling in the light of fragrant lamps, her golden hair seemingly carved on her head. She was satisfied with the decorations of the atrium. The house was embellished with laurel, olive and myrtle leaves and late flowers, and there were many handsome braziers warming every room. An odor of nard drifted through the house as if on a balmy breeze.

A slave brought her a torch and a myrtle wreath. The wreath was carefully placed on her head. She sighed, thinking of Xanthippus who should be wearing the wreath while she alone held the torch. Then she heard the noise of the procession and went calmly to the doors. The overseer of the hall, bowing, flung them open for her. The cold wind stirred her garments and she shivered. The procession was now at the doorstep, the wagon leading. Male slaves ran out to assist the bride and her groom. Dejanira heavily lumbered down, her veil flowing. The slaves had some difficulty with Pericles, to the laughter of the guests. They had to lift him down and then hold him upright. He had begun to sing a ribald ditty of the city streets and this increased the hilarity of the guests, who joined in—to Agariste’s humiliation. She was not certain of the meaning of some of the coarser words but she guessed their import. Dejanira stolidly and silently walked at the groom’s left hand, trudging like a milkmaid. Daedalus ignored the lewd singing for many of the singers were his friends, but Semele muttered.

On entering the atrium, Dejanira was showered, as was traditional, with dried figs and nuts. Her little black eyes darted under her veil, surveying the festive scene but above all the luxury of the house which she considered too costly. Agariste was apparently prodigal with money. Dejanira, having been reared in a frugal household where every drachma was counted twice before being reluctantly relinquished, was busily deciding in her mind that as she was now the mistress of her husband’s house she would be firm in its management. There were too many slaves; there was too much lavishness. The beautiful rugs would be rolled up and carefully set aside except for occasions of festivity. The murals would be covered with cloths to preserve their lustre. She did not admire her aunt, whom she considered pretentious and unwomanly in her learning, and Agariste would soon learn who was mistress in this house. As she thought these things she munched on the bridal cake of sesame and honey, the crumbs littering her veil and falling on her bloated breast. The juice of the quince she had been given ran down her chin.

Pericles was glazed of eye and deeply red of face. The guests propped him upright. It was evident that he was not very conscious. He was led to the bridal chamber and dropped on the bed, where he sprawled. The bedside lamp was glowing with golden light, and it shone on the figurine which Pheidias had given him. The bride entered, still munching. The door was closed behind her and she was alone with her groom. In the atrium Daedalus formally bestowed Dejanira’s dowry upon her husband’s surrogate.

Dejanira lifted her veil and regarded Pericles and now her large face flushed and her black eyes gleamed. Having been married before she knew how to deal with a drunken husband. She slowly removed all Pericles’ clothing, strongly moving him from side to side until he was a fallen white statue on the bed. She stood for some time, surveying him. She was smiling and her breast began to heave. Dear love, she said in her mind, I have adored you since first I saw you at a family festival, and you were but a child and I was little older. My dream of marriage to you has come true at last. Now I shall lie beside you and hold you in my arms as I have longed to do for many years.

On the other side of the door one of the bridegroom’s friends stood formally on guard. The guests raised their voices in a nuptial hymn with such enthusiasm that the house rang. This was intended to ward off any evil spirits which might be prowling to do mischief.

Dejanira, no novice to these ceremonies, divested herself of her clothing until she stood only in her shift. She hesitated, then removed the shift and stood in the short massiveness of her nudity. The lamp glimmered on the bulges and ripples of her fat expanses. Her more than ample breasts swelled and tightened; her shapelessness quivered, and her obese thighs, thickly veined in purple, trembled. She gleamed with oil. She took the pins from her hair and the black and lightless mass fell over her shoulders and back and breasts. She blew out the lamp and climbed into the bed beside her sleeping and snoring husband.

She put her hand on his chest and pressed her head against his shoulder. She began to pant deeply. Her hands roved. Now she did not hear the singing uproar beyond the door. Her breath was burning on Pericles’ flesh.

He was dreaming again of the lovely figurine which was rapidly becoming the supple form of a woman. He could see her face as if illuminated by the moon. She was lying beside him and murmuring endearments in his ear; he could feel her breath on his mouth, his cheek, his belly. “Love, love,” she whispered. “My own beloved. I am beside you. Take me.” Her hand was hotter and hotter, and roamed deliciously, and he began to shake with delight.

“Heart of my heart!” he cried aloud and Dejanira closed her eyes on a spasm of joy. He rolled upon her, groaning with ecstasy, clasping her tightly in his arms. He saw his love’s red lips and brown eyes, smiling up at him in ethereal moonlight which existed only in his intoxicated mind. A fragrance of lilies floated up to his nostrils. “Sweetness of my soul,” he said.

And so the marriage was consummated but Dejanira did not know that it was a woman of a dream with whom it was consummated, in the blackness of the chamber.

CHAPTER 9

One day, some years later, Pericles, in his official offices in the Agora, meditated on the incredible confusion, duplication to the last degree, chaos in the administration of government, the multiplication of mindless bureaucrats, the numerous Archons, the Areopagus, the Assemblies, the teeming magistrates of various titles, the Council of Five Hundred, the Eleven, the Heliaia, the Dikastai, the milling courts and tribunals where there were juries of from five hundred to two thousand men all convinced that their opinions and judgments were the truth and only the truth, and who shouted accordingly during sessions, and the Boule—which democracy had brought in Athens in the “name of the people.”

He, himself, had fought the Areopagus, which had attempted to restore its authority to appoint only cultured aristocrats to positions of power in the government, and sometimes he ruefully reflected that perhaps he had been wrong in this. Perhaps anything was better than the tumult and turmoil in every department of government, hoarse with the base voices of the mob and masses and their sykophantai (informers), lowborn judges who resented men of superior intelligence and education and family, and the general corruption of democracy.

Government by asses! he said to himself with gloom. Such was democracy, which now governed Athens. (But he mistrusted his fellow aristocrats only a little less, for such led to tyranny by a few contrasted with the tyranny of the mobs.)

He contrasted all this with the simple Republic which Solon had envisioned, where a firm Constitution which all men must obey guided government and judges. Alas, that the vehement and volatile nature of Athenians in general had made this impossible, for they were always screeching for “new laws for new times,” and the government invariably obliged, in the name of votes. Good and just men were now being ostracized, especially when they attempted to restore order and the rationality of a republic or protested the tyranny of the mob-elected government. At least half the electorate—“democracy!”—were illiterate. Solon had said that only men of some education and common sense and integrity should be permitted to vote, but later statesmen had called this “discrimination against the free citizens of Athens.” They had known, in their contriving and wicked and exigent hearts, that if the kind of voter suggested by Solon was alone permitted to vote they, themselves, would never attain public office.

Republics were stable, forthright, and organized and cautiously prudent in respect to wild and irresponsible proposals for new laws. They were as humanly impartial as was possible in a naturally unequal world. Republics dealt with probity with every man, under a Constitution; favoritism had no place in republics. Republics had the masculine nature of strength, firmness, cold justice, reason and mistrust of emotionalism and had a horror of the passionate and seething anarchy of mob rule. For mobs were first of all intent on the satisfaction of base appetites and little mean pleasures. Republics were truly equitable in the administration of law; they held no distinction among malefactors, whether wellborn or peasant. Republics were discreet and wary when dealing with other nations, always aware that men are men and so could not be trusted when their emotions—and not law and order—were concerned. Republics were not imperialistic, for they were concerned only with the welfare of their own people; hence, republics entered into war only after profound reluctance had been overcome and the national safety was imperiled. Republics had the masculine love for conservatism in all things and a discreet suspicion of dangerous innovations. Law, to them, was sacrosanct, the distillation of the wisdom and experience of mankind. When they built they were certain that the building was based on stone. Above all things, Republics were mature.

But democracies were feminine, in that they were propelled only by fierce and passing emotions, concern for the immediate, unduly ambitious because they were vain, were many-tongued and chaotic, devious, passionate over trifles, ruled by bellies and not by mind and reason, discordant and arrogant, feuding and conceited, swayed by gossip, heedless and exigent, immature and often childish, caring nothing for integrity but only for instant satisfactions, anxious for amusements and laughter and transient concerns, eager for titillations. They had no concern for the future, and the concepts of law and order made them impatient and the enforcements of such led them to revolutionary rebellion. Republics could be trusted as much as any human institution could be trusted. But democracies were hazardous not only to themselves but to all the world, for in them lived terrorism and the seeds of their own violent death. Democracies, governed only by passions and unreason, loved wars. In short, Republics were ruled by law, democracies by the lawless.

Pericles began to dream of Solon’s Republic, and his position and power under it.

When Ephialtes had been assassinated Pericles had been given, or had assumed, the position of leadership in the government. His eloquence was hypnotic. He was credited for the expansion of the State and in the continuance of Cimon’s policy. He had sent two hundred ships to support the Egyptian rebels against the Persians, and had ordered detachments against Phoenicia and Cyprus. He was more or less forced to carry on the ambitions of the democracy of Athens and he had acquiesced in wars against Greece, proper. (He had the thought of consolidating the various factions and rebels into one cohesive nation.) He had allied Athens with the Megarians, who had been threatened by Corinth, and had gained the hostility of Corinth. He knew that there would be more war and bloodshed before his hope for a united nation could be realized. Perhaps, under such a nation, peace and commerce would come into being and Athens would be the sun of the western world. He had not been deterred by the cool cynicism of Anaxagoras and the timidity of Zeno, his dear friends. There were times when a powerful man must act alone.

“I did not create these situations,” he would argue with Anaxagoras. “But I must contend with them. Only when passions are subordinated to reason can a nation hope for freedom, the rise of the arts and sciences, and just government.”

“You would, then, meet force with force?” asked Anaxagoras.

“When confronting a tiger one does not sing sweet songs,” Pericles had replied. “I am no Orpheus. I must look at things as they are and not a chimaera of delusion. Hope is a liar when she does not deal with reality. Have you not said this yourself?”

“I have also said that the greatest art of man is meditation,” said Anaxagoras.

“A dead man cannot meditate. Therefore, I intend to remain alive,” the younger man had answered. “Later, I will meditate—when confusion dies.”

He knew that his leadership in Athens was precarious. He was dealing with a vagrant democracy and not the republic of Solon. He was dealing with judges and bureaucrats and the unpredictable Archons and all the other Myrmidons of a corrupt mob-controlled government. He might be assassinated as Ephialtes had been assassinated. But he had long ago decided that too much prudence would result in inertia. He did not have the philosophers’ fatalism or renunciation. He was driven by a vital dream, as he had been driven from childhood. He loved his country. He would rescue her from the rule of the base, the disorder of mindless rebels. Often he would gaze up at the acropolis and imagine there a crown of light, a diadem of brilliance, the rise of the free western world as opposed to the elaborate despotisms of the east. Athene Parthenos was his patroness, and in Chronos his hope.

He talked of this with Helena, his random mistress. She listened not only with sympathy but with understanding. “You need a hetaira of mind and greatness of heart,” she told him. He tried to embrace her, laughing, but she moved out of his arms and said, “I belong to no man, and am not your hetaira, beloved. You must have a woman solely dedicated to you and not to a dead love.”

She pondered, and then her face became cheerful. “I think I know the lady,” she said, looking at him with brightening mischief. “A young woman, a protegee of Thargelia of Miletus, most beautiful, most accomplished. She has opened a school for girls of good family, wealth and position, here in Athens. Surely you must have heard of her.”