Glory and the Lightning (72 page)

The huge jury was already assembled, and Pericles, somewhat to his dismay, found that many members of the Assembly and the Eleven, and the Ecclesia were there also, all avid, like men in the theatre awaiting a bloody drama. The spring day was hot. The judgment hall was crowded and very warm, and the high small windows let in shafts of smarting sun and the effluvium of the Agora. When the stately Pericles entered, all eyes turned upon him, and he knew, as he had guessed before, that Anaxagoras was not the chief accused, but himself. Some of his friends were there, also, standing against the ochre walls, a number of them with foreboding that one day, sooner or later, they would be the accused and suffer ostraka or death. They watched Pericles’ approach before the high seat and bench of the King Archon, and their quiet eyes were anxious.

Also before the bench was the Archon, Daedalus. Pericles turned very slowly and studied him as a gentleman studies some obnoxious sight—that is, with an expression of faint incredulity, faint astonishment, and cool aversion. The aged Archon, bent and even more skeleton-like than he had been at the marriage of Pericles and Dejanira, returned Pericles’ gaze with venom, his face writhing and wrinkling so that he resembled an ancient ape with jaundice. His sunken eyes were fiery, vindictive and almost insanely fierce, and his mouth twisted as if he wished to spit but his throat was too dry. He trembled visibly with his hatred; his hands appeared palsied. All looked at both the men, some gloating and anticipatory, some with alarm. Anaxagoras became insignificant before these two mortal antagonists, who loathed each other.

At a silent gesture from the King Archon, Anaxagoras was brought into the hall, walking as tall and regnant as a king, for all chains dripped from his wrists. His wonderful head was lifted. He moved with serenity and that dignity which only men who do not fear death can bring to cover them like an invincible armor. He was thrust before the bench, between Pericles and Daedalus. He bowed courteously to the King Archon. He smiled gently on Pericles and did not give Daedalus, his accuser, a single glance. Now the hall became very still, and all leaned forward so as not to miss a word or a gesture.

The King Archon spoke: “Daedalus, you have brought charges against the teacher and philosopher, Anaxagoras, who stands before us. Repeat the charges you have made to me.” The King Archon’s folded hands were clasped together on the bench before him.

Now Daedalus shook as if a wind had struck him. Some thought he would fall. Others believed he had been seized by a fit and would hurl himself to the floor, foaming and twisting in all his limbs. His dull garments of brown actually blew over his emaciated body. The King Archon observed this with silent detachment, waiting. Pericles pretended that he saw nothing. He was studying his notes. Quickly he glanced at some of the members of the government whom he knew hated him and had come here as to a slaughter. His face had taken on that deadly and daunting expression, and they saw it and a few moved uneasily. They were all powerful men.

Daedalus found his voice, as cawing as a crow. He pointed his finger at Anaxagoras and said, “I accuse this man of impiety and heresy and the corruption of our youth! I have heard him speak, myself, to the innocent boys and other students, and my heart and soul were shaken with wrath and outrage, and, yes, fear of the gods whom he had so insulted!”

“You must be specific,” said the King Archon in a steadfast voice. “Tell me. What has the prisoner said in your hearing?”

“That the gods do not exist, that they are fantasies of mist, that they have no being!” The caw rose to a loud croak, and a stammering. “He denied the verity of the gods. With these ears I heard it, and that I swear by the sacred names of Castor and Pollux.”

Pericles’ enemies affected to be horrified, and a loud groaning filled the hall and men looked, as if astounded and aghast, into each other’s eyes. Pericles smiled faintly and with obvious contempt at them.

The King Archon motioned to Pericles, who gave Anaxagoras, who seemed about to speak, a quelling glance. Then Pericles smiled broadly and shook his head as though he found the charge absurd and fit only for laughter.

His voice, clear and strong and vivid, rose when he turned fully to Daedalus. His brows lifted in pretended amazement and his smile was the indulgent one that one gives to a child or a senile old man. All listened acutely.

“My dear Daedalus, most honored Daedalus, surely you do not believe that the gods are of our gross flesh and material, and are only enlarged men? You do not believe they are mortal and will suffer death?”

“No!” screamed Daedalus, in a frenzy.

“No?” repeated Pericles, in surprise. “But that is what you imply. Homer has written that the gods ride on the wind, are often invisible and impalpable, can pass through matter and substance as if matter and substance did not exist, can change form and shape. They are protean. Do you deny this?”

“No!” howled Daedalus with fury.

“No?” said Pericles. “Then you agree with Anaxagoras that the Godhead is immaterial Mind and that all apparent things dwell in It. For that is what he maintains, and I, too, have heard him often.”

Daedalus could not speak. Pericles said with kindness, “You do agree with Anaxagoras in this?”

Daedalus still did not speak. He was shaking again. The King Archon said sternly, “Answer, Daedalus.”

Daedalus wrung his hands. His eyes darted frantically. Pericles said, “Perhaps it is you, dear friend, who defames the gods and would bring them down to the earthly gutter in which we all wallow?”

Daedalus spoke hoarsely, “If that is what Anaxagoras maintains, I must agree with him.”

“You thought that when Anaxagoras compared them with radiant mist, with the deepest and most subjective adoration a man can feel, and that when he implied that they are not in our context of existence, you believed he was denying their being?”

When Daedalus was speechless again Pericles smiled at him tenderly. “It is all a matter of semantics. You are not to blame, dear friend. We all misunderstand each other, for words are clumsy stones and they lie heavily in our mouths.”

“Do you wish to withdraw the charge of impiety, Daedalus?” asked the King Archon and his beard about his mouth stirred a little, as if with a smile.

“In that one instance,” Daedalus muttered. His bony cheeks had become dusky.

Pericles let the silence of the hall expand while he appeared to muse kindly on Daedalus, who looked at him with a helpless if ferocious malignity.

The King Archon said to the jury, “The charge of impiety—that the gods do not exist—is removed from Anaxagoras.” He said to Daedalus, with some sternness, “Do you wish to continue with your other charges?”

Daedalus gathered himself together as a vulture gathers himself, preparing to pounce. He pointed to Anaxagoras, who seemed to have withdrawn to a great distance and was meditating.

“This creature,” Daedalus said, “has declared that eclipses are not supernatural manifestations of the gods, but are natural phenomena, and therefore are not omens, as our religious teachers have taught us! He has even declared that they can be predicted!”

Pericles’ pale eyes enlarged in amazement. He stared at Daedalus as one stares disbelievingly when hearing incredible things. He said, “But Anaxagoras did predict an eclipse of the moon very recently.”

Daedalus shrilled at him, “Who can explain that? Was it chance? Was it some dire magic? Did some malevolent demon whisper it to him? Only he can tell!”

Pericles shook his head, incredulously, and turned to the King Archon. “Lord,” he said, “we Greeks boast, and with some reason, that we have a grand new age not only of the arts and philosophy, but also of science. I only pray to God, and with due reverence for Athens, that the Egyptians and the Chaldeans do not hear of this trial, and the words of Daedalus! How they would laugh at what they would call our pretensions to glory and reason!”

A deep growling roved through the hall and angry eyes focused now on Pericles, and men exchanged outraged glances. The King Archon remained calm. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. He said, “Noble Pericles, we should like to hear you elucidate more on this matter.”

Silence fell again. Hundreds of eyes glared at Pericles.

He said, “Lord, the Egyptians and Chaldeans through their wise men, their scientists, have been predicting eclipses almost to the exact moment for hundreds of years. Before Anaxagoras came to Athens he studied among those scientists.” Anaxagoras made a quick movement, as if to protest, but Pericles ignored the gesture and raised his voice. Now it was grave, earnest, almost confidential, even pleading.

“Let us pray that they do not hear of this folly. They are already envious of what we are accomplishing here. Let us give them no reason to jeer at us and call us barbarians, as they have done in the past. Their scientists would be appalled at the ignorance of—Daedalus. But one must excuse him. He is a very old man and has not had the advantages of an extended education in science.”

The King Archon almost imperceptibly smiled. The hall was hushed.

Pericles continued, “So, let us not spread the word of what has been said in this august chamber, for surely every Greek would be embarrassed, and with excellent justification.” He cast down his eyes as if with shame, and a heavy murmur rose from the assembled men, sullen yet uneasy.

“Sorcery!” shrieked Daedalus. “It is only sorcery!”

Pericles shook his head sadly. “So unlearned men through the ages have proclaimed, when confronted with something which refutes their prejudices, their unreason. But, we are Greeks. We have reached the Age of true Enlightenment, and what our elders believed was the truth we now see as superstition or obtuseness.”

“Heresy,” said Daedalus and flung out his arms.

Pericles now became stern. “What is heresy?” he demanded. “Is it not the impotent cry of those who do not know what true heresy is? True heresy is that which refuses to accept truth, which limits the capacity of man to think, which belittles our nature, which denies that we are more than animals, which would blind us to knowledge and prevent us from increasing our stature, which stands at the portals of learning with a savage sword, which will not let us enter the temples to look upon the manifestations of the Godhead, which fears the light and declares that it is darkness and an illusion. In truth, heresy is a denial of God, Himself! All that inhibits the increase of human knowledge, human wisdom, human reverence, human achievement, human awareness of God, human glory, is heresy. Heresy is that which cramps the soul and the spirit of man, those which emerged from God’s breath. Heresy is that which would force us to walk in the dust and not lift our eyes to the heavens. Heresy is that which would fill up the footsteps of the gods with mud, and declares that all things are dead and nothing is sentient, especially not the human mind. Heresy is that which worships stone and not that which the stone represents—the Being of God, His visage.”

His eloquent voice held everyone as still as the stone of which he had spoken. He turned to Daedalus with a gesture of repudiation, as if he were trying to control his indignation.

“It is you, Daedalus, who, by your own words, are a heretic! You would enclose the soul of Greece in clay and obliterate her features! If that is not heresy against God and man—” He stopped, evidently overcome, and his loud breath was heard in the silent hall.

Daedalus shrank. He had not understood much of what Pericles had said, but now he was aware that he was in some danger, himself, and he could feel vexed and umbrageous eyes upon him from every quarter. The King Archon gently pulled his own beard and looked at the old man.

“Speak, Daedalus,” he said.

Pericles raised a respectful hand. “Lord, he is an old man and his wits are confused and he does not recognize heresy when he hears it. Let us not be without mercy, without understanding. He has not had the advantages of this age of Athens. His youth was constricted, narrow. He accepted the word of ignorant men as the truth, of stupid teachers, as learning. Must we condemn him for what he did not know, for what he was not taught? If he has offended God, surely He has compassion, understanding the limits of Daedalus’ mind.”

Daedalus clenched his withered fists and cried, leaning towards Pericles, “I spit on you, wily liar and deceiver, who with words can addle the thoughts of just men!”

Pericles was never so dignified and aloof as when he wiped the spittle from his cheek. He looked imploringly at the King Archon, who rubbed his lips to quiet the involuntary smile which had begun to move them. But he said to Daedalus, with severity, “This is unpardonable. We are reasonable men in this chamber. We are here to listen to arguments, and not to spit like unweaned children. If this occurs again, Daedalus, I will order the police to seize and confine you.”

As all honored the King Archon they were moved to reluctant vexation against Daedalus, and even Pericles’ enemies felt admiration for his dexterity and eloquence. Daedalus shrank; purple pulses beat visibly in his temples. He almost whimpered, “Lord, King Archon, I forgot myself in my sincere anger against this Anaxagoras and against him who dares occupy the highest position in Athens while profaning her name and her gods.”

A faint murmur of amusement trembled in the hot air of the chamber, and smiles were exchanged among the jury.

The King Archon said, “Let us continue. Your next charge, Daedalus?”

The frail breast of Daedalus heaved. He looked about to expire, but his glance at Anaxagoras was strangely violent.

“I have heard him say, with these ears, that in Greece wise men spoke but fools decided! He defamed our government—”

Pericles gave such an exaggerated start, and looked so aghast that Daedalus stopped speaking. Then Pericles turned to Anaxagoras with a countenance full of pale reproach. All were then immediately attentive.

“My dear friend,” said Pericles to Anaxagoras, “I cannot believe this of you, that you did not give the credit for those salient words to their author, Anacharsis, the Scythian philosopher, to his beloved friend, Solon, the sacred father of our incomparable laws! With Anacharsis did Solon agree, and in sadness. How is it possible that you did not attribute the words you spoke to Anacharsis?”