Glory and the Lightning (54 page)

“I disagree—my friend.” He withdrew a large purse of gold coins from his girdle and laid it on the table between himself and Jason. “I would not have you bribe the murderer yourself, Jason. This is my money. There is another matter. Before the assassin kills, in whatever manner he devises, he must say to Turnus, ‘This is vengeance for Ichthus.’ Let Turnus think of that before he dies. Otherwise the murder will be pointless.”

When Jason did not speak Pericles said, “The first assassin was truly inventive. Calypso was inadvertently hanged by her rich necklace of pearls, which she accidentally caught on a hook in her bedroom. I trust the second assassin is as inventive. Only you can know. But you must not tell me.”

Still Jason did not speak. Pericles sighed. “If Turnus is not executed—we must call it a just execution—then I will be forced, in honor, to make public my dossier on you, my poor friend.”

Jason spoke weakly. “Then you will be asked why you had not not shown the dossier heretofore.”

Now Pericles’ eyes became young and candid. “My dear Jason, I was only thorough in my investigations and did not wish to prematurely accuse you! The dossier was completed only yesterday!”

“I never thought you would injure me, Pericles, or ruin me.”

“Have I done so? Never will I do it unless you become my enemy, or fail in your authority.”

“That I will never do, and so you know it, Pericles.”

Pericles shrugged. “Make no rash promises, Jason, for you are only a man and also possess malice, the one evil which all men, regardless of virtue or station, possess. I trust you as much as I am capable of trusting—which I confess is very little. Sometimes men are driven to malice, against their very scruples. Tell me, Jason. Is not Turnus deserving of—execution?”

“Yes, that is true,” said Jason with reluctant honesty.

‘Think of it, then, not as murder, but as a justified execution. If someone murdered you, Jason, I would have the assassin executed. As you know, I am a determined man on the subject of law and order. But there are some things beyond the reach of law. I am not advocating private justice, though sometimes it is very necessary. The heinous crime must be expiated. Law is often dilatory, even if the crime is obvious. There is the rule of evidence, which must be explicit. However, often the worst crimes are so cleverly wrought that evidence cannot be found, and the judges are frustrated. We are now the judges of Turnus, who not only is beyond the vengeance of conventional law; he would be extolled for his act of ‘patriotism’ by government.”

Jason half-covered his eyes with his hand. “Why did Turnus betray Ichthus?”

Pericles looked impatient. “I thought I had told you that. Ichthus loved and trusted him, and that inspired his ridicule and his malice. He also sought profit. The government cancelled his debts.”

“O gods,” groaned Jason. “How wicked is man!”

“I never disputed that. Our iniquity calls for vengeance by the gods, themselves.”

Jason stood up, slowly, his hands visibly shaking. He looked down at the purse of gold for a long time and Pericles watched him. Then Jason took the purse. Suddenly he was resolute. “It will be done,” he said.

Pericles embraced him. “Do you think this is an idle petty judgment on my part, and that I rejoice in it? No. I am not only Head of State. I do not know any assassins.”

“You will destroy your dossier on me when this is done, Pericles?”

Pericles was silent for a moment and then he shook his head with true regret. “No, Jason. That I cannot promise you. One day you may become my enemy. I pray this will not happen, for I love you.”

When the distraught Jason had departed Pericles was filled with gloom. He had been ruthless, even more ruthless than customary with him. He disliked himself for the misery he had imposed on Jason. But Jason was only a weapon in behalf of justice. Justice, that much abused goddess, must be appeased. The gods, themselves, often chose men to wreak retribution on the wicked.

Five days later Turnus suddenly arose from a dice game with his friends and called for his chariot in a condition of great agitation. He then raced off in the direction of his father’s house. The horses mysteriously bolted, or he had whipped them in too great a frenzy, and he was thrown from the chariot and killed, smashing his head against a marble column. His friends spoke of his sudden pallor at the gaming table, his staring eyes, then his flight. Among them was Jason.

Pericles sent for Jason, who came into the offices silently, his face gray and still. Pericles closed the door and said, “Nemesis rode with him.”

“Yes,” said Jason. He briefly closed his eyes. Pericles said, “Your assassin is very clever. Unfortunately, my agents had no time to eliminate him, for I had had no word from you.”

Jason was silent. He bent his head and gazed at the floor. Pericles continued: “We must know his name and where he lives.”

Jason shook his head. “He will never speak—that assassin.”

Now he looked up at Pericles and his tired eyes were still and intent. He repeated, “He will never speak.” He laid the purse of gold Pericles had given him, on the table.

Pericles stared at the purse for a long time. He was filled with pity. At last he said, “You must tell me nothing.” He went to his closet, unlocked a brass chest and withdrew a sheaf of papers rolled and sealed. He put them into Jason’s hand. “I, too, will never speak. Here is your dossier, my friend. Destroy it as soon as possible.” I hope I do not regret this, Pericles thought to himself somewhat ruefully.

Jason said in a faint voice, “He was a most iniquitous man.”

The next day Anaxagoras said to Pericles, “God took His own way in avenging Ichthus.”

Pericles smiled at him blandly. “Was it not fortunate? I did not have to intervene.”

Anaxagoras answered the smile with his own, though reluctantly. “Who shall limit the instruments of God? He often employs men to carry out His will.” He drank from a goblet of wine and said, “However, do not presume too often, Pericles, in deciding that what you do is His will. He may have other plans.”

CHAPTER 13

Pericles arrived at the house of his beloved Helena, who greeted him with her usual robust and rosy smile, and embraced him. “I fear I shall lose you tonight, O Apollo.”

“Never, my Hebe,” he said, kissing her soundly and stroking her auburn hair in which were diamond pins he had given her. They were no brighter than her eyes. He smacked her rump and she led him from the atrium into the dining hall, laughing. She whispered a short lascivious joke to him, and he smiled in appreciation though he did not admire lewdness in women except in the bedchamber. But physicians were famous for their improper jests.

The dining hall was already filled with guests, though they had not yet seated themselves. Slaves went among them with wine, beer and whiskey and various savory tidbits. The silken curtains at doors and windows moved in a brisk breeze and there was a sullen stalking of thunder in the hills and an occasional flash of blue lightning. Beautiful Egyptian and Damascan lamps of glass and gold and silver stood on the long waiting dining table, and hung from the frescoed ceiling where nymphs and satyrs and fauns frolicked in intense colors. The table was strewn with late roses and lilies and ferns in delicate patterns and the air of the dining hall was suffused with their fragrance. The chairs and the divans, both at the table and against the yellow marble walls, were rich with silk and velvet of many hues, which were all harmonious. Even the Chinese vases, overflowing with blossoms in the corners and against the walls, had been chosen with meticulous taste for their form and their decorations. Helena was a physician; she was also a woman of great artistry and discrimination.

Helena rarely if ever entertained dull and stolid matrons so Pericles knew that the beauteous women present were rich and courted and beguiling courtesans, all selected for their appearance, wit and intelligence and gifts of entertainment. With pleasure he observed that his friends, Zeno of Elea and Anaxagoras, were among those present. But with surprise he saw the roughly clad young man, Socrates, with his goatlike beard and vivacity and ugly face. Even more to his surprise, Pericles saw that Zeno and Anaxagoras were listening to him intently and with evident pleasure. Also present was the shy sculptor, Pheidias.

Pericles had halted in the archway with Helena and so he surveyed the guests, particularly the women, before entering the hall. Beautiful women were no novelty to him; he knew most of them present and had enjoyed their loveliness and their conversation. Then he saw the stranger, and his heart rose like a fountain in him and he was lost.

She was the woman of his figurine and of his dreams, with whom, in a drunken fantasy, he had consummated his marriage with Dejanira. She was not young; she was in her early twenties and so had lost the first freshness of youth. But she had the maturity of a ripe pear, of opalescent grapes ready for the treading. She was speaking gravely to Pheidias, a goblet in her hand, and the sculptor appeared entranced. She was much taller than Pheidias, and, unlike the other women’s her hair, a cobweb of silvery gold, flowed simply down her back and almost to her knees. She wore a garland of pink rosebuds. She had the easy grace and slenderness of a trained courtesan, and the courtesan’s elegance of movement and gesture. Her robe was of green silk, Pericles’ favorite color, and seemed to flow about her body like tinted water rather than fabric, and so outlined her incredibly perfect body. Her breasts were high and full, her waist delicate and fragile, her hips swelling daintily. Her waist was entwined with a girdle of gold, blazing with gems, and there were armlets clasped about her round white arms and bracelets about her small wrists and a multitude of flashing rings on her adorable hands. She wore golden shoes, also ablaze with jewels, and when she moved a little Pericles saw her ankles, as beautifully wrought as a statue’s. There was, to Pericles, a strange air about her, a lack of personal consciousness, a lack of artifice, in spite of the splendor of her garments and her jewels, in particular a necklace of incomparable opals set in rubies and diamonds. Her intimate attention was not on herself, unlike other women, but upon Pheidias to whom she listened with intensity and respect. The sculptor seemed almost animated in her presence, forgetful of his shyness, his eyes glowing eagerly. He had lost his stammer; his gestures were vehement; he shone with excitement, and Pericles marveled.

Pericles looked at her face, disbelieving that any countenance could reveal so faultless a contour, whether she was in profile or facing him.

Her face, like her arms and shoulders and neck, had a translucence, as if light went through them rather than around them. Her cheeks and lips were a natural vermillion, her brown eyes like wine, her nose and her brow clear and pure, as was her dimpled chin. Her mouth, Pericles saw, had a certain lovely sternness about it, as if she had suffered much, and she had a tranquility which was not assumed but natural. She appeared composed and restrained, and betrayed discipline. Sometimes she threw back her hair with a pretty impatience, but never stopped listening to Pheidias whom she apparently found magical. Once she smiled and dimples raced over her cheeks and about her mouth. Above all was her aspect of extreme intelligence.

“Aspasia,” whispered Helena, smiling broadly. “The harpy, the Medusa.”

Pericles confusedly thought of Helen of Troy, of nymphs and dryads, of green water and moonlight, of fire and flame and snow, of hushed restful glades, and of storms. This woman was all women in one person. Yet, she did not have the appearance of pliancy and complaisance, for all her feminine attributes. She was a woman of convictions, of certitude, of mind, and he, well acquainted with human nature, knew that she could be bent through love but never broken. Passions might rule her briefly, but never would they destroy her. Always, she would remain herself, intact and invulnerable. There was something formidable about this, something that warned against vulgar intrusion, for she implied explicit aristocracy.

Once or twice she turned her head and looked at Pericles, but as if she did not really see him. He saw that her eyes were lustrous and autumn topaz and filled with brilliant lights like moving water in the sun. Still, they were unreadable, starred with golden lashes. He thought of a forest pool, shifting with shadows as wind blew the trees, holding secrets, seeing nothing but its own being.

In that he was wrong. Aspasia, though listening with all her attention to Pheidias, had noticed Pericles immediately and knew who he was. An instant glance had revealed his tall stature to her, his strength of compact body, his tawny mane of hair like a lion’s, his air of power and assurance, not flaunting but immediate. She had seen his face, calm and impassive and rigorously controlled, his strong straight nose, his carved severe lips. She also saw his helmet, which he invariably wore even on festive occasions, and which hid his towering brow and skull. He wore a tunic of green and a toga of white linen and a silver girdle and there were silver armlets on his arms and he wore one jewel on his finger, a sapphire as blue and as iridescent as a Grecian sky. He is puissant, she thought, a man of men, and Helena had not exaggerated in her buoyant enthusiasm. He had eyes so very pale that they seemed to have no focus at all. She doubted that they ever overlooked anything, even of the smallest importance. Above all, he had Olympian grandeur.

She was stirred for the first time since she had left Al Taliph, and she was annoyed with herself. She had vowed never to look again on a man with interest or provocation. How different they were, the man of the unknowable and intricate east, and this western man who had the appearance of immovable marble. She saw that his eyes were fixed on her, those inexplicable eyes which revealed nothing. No doubt to him she was just another beautiful woman, ripe for exploitation. She would enlighten him. Helena had assured her that Pericles was not as other men, but the skeptical Aspasia had not believed this.

She permitted a slave to refill her goblet with Syrian whiskey. She drank with almost the same gusto as Helena. She glanced briefly at Pericles. He did not display any distaste or disapproval. Now Helena and Pericles were advancing on her and she showed them a face without expression, and not even a smile. She said to Pheidias, in her lovely voice, “We must continue this conversation, for I, too, think of Athens as the glory of Greece.” She turned to Helena and Pericles and her eyes were merely expectant and courteous. Helena had told her, “Pericles is a man who respects women and does not regard them as animals fit only for breeding, or stupid. When you know him you may be able to exert influence on him.” Aspasia had smiled cynically to herself. Helena was an intelligent woman but Aspasia suspected her of being too ardent in her relations with men, and too gullible, for Helena had boasted of her lovers, all of whom, according to her, were men of intellect as well as distinction, and who had regard for women. Aspasia was now mistrustful of all men, remembering Al Taliph. She had led an ascetic life since leaving him, despite the malicious rumors in Athens. She had promised herself over and over never to love another man. That way led to destruction. Thargelia had been correct.