Glory and the Lightning (84 page)

“The lion is at bay at last,” Pericles’ enemies said. They exulted in this, though their own lives would be forfeit if Athens were conquered. Many of the rich aristocrats scoffed at Pericles’ alarm and his grim determination to save his city no matter the cost. These particular aristocrats had had no part in the old plot against Pericles, and had been honestly horrified at the murder of Pheidias, preferring their ease and feasts and the Great Games and the theatre to controversy. But now that their own fortunes were being diminished in taxes in the war they wanted only peace with Sparta, forgetting that Pericles for many years had sought such a peace in vain, for Sparta had never given up her determination to rule all of Greece, and force it to adopt her own way of life. “Do they not understand, these idle sybarites, these effetes, that if Sparta wins they will be the first to be eliminated?” Pericles would ask his friends. “Barbarians detest such as these. Yet, our lazy covert traitors would even have us surrender to Sparta, or grant her incredible concessions for what they call ‘peace and amity.’” He would add with icy rage, “If my city would be able to throw off the rule of Sparta, in the future, I would delight in watching what Sparta would do to these elegant dissidents.”

“They have deluded themselves that Sparta would give the governing of Athens, with all despotism, to them,” Aspasia suggested, and eventually Pericles had to agree with her. “They not only want to keep their money but they desire power, too. Power,” said Pericles, “is the final and deepest lust of those who have too much money and too much amusement and too much leisure. They are jaded; they would have absolute authority over our industrious middle class and abolish it, and have a nation of docile and voiceless slaves.”

Now once more the old allegations that Aspasia had urged this war upon Pericles, and that the gods were in a vengeful mood, and that Aspasia was angering them with her impiety, her corruption of the young girls of Athens, and that her house was only a house for courtesans and assignations, began to be heard louder than ever and publicly. The rabble milled and seethed with hatred, inspired by the aristocratic enemies of Pericles and their money. They told each other that Aspasia, as an alien, had no love for Athens and wished to see her downfall.

One day, when Pericles was absent, visiting the garrison of Athens in the company of his son, Xanthippus, Aspasia was arrested “for her many crimes, this foreign woman, against Athens, including treason.”

CHAPTER 17

On the pretext that he needed the advice of an excellent physician, Polybius granted Helena permission to visit him at his house. He took to his bed, and even his beloved hetaira was not admitted. He was a widower. Helena entered, and he marvelled that time had so little changed her, for though she openly admitted that her once auburn hair was now dyed to its original color, and though the years had fattened her so that she appeared even more robust and rosy and hearty than ever, her big blue eyes had lost none of their vital hue and she still exuded the enthusiastic and expectant air of youth, and that abounding animal exuberance which men found fascinating.

Once Polybius, the King Archon, had been one of her lovers, and when she fondly dismissed him he had wept for many nights. Out of her kindness for her rejected lovers she inevitably found younger and more complaisant hetairai for them, and the King Archon was no exception. His hetaira was young, gentle, intelligent and attentive to all his needs, and for this he owed Helena deep gratitude.

He was eating a light meal of anchovies, sardines, wheaten bread, goat’s cheese, fruit, roasted onions with garlic, cold roasted pig, broiled fish, olives and wine in his chamber when Helena arrived with her two female attendants, whom she left outside. She regarded the meal on the table and said, “I see we are eating very sparingly these days, dear Polybius!”

“Spare me your sarcasm, which I well remember, dear Helena,” said the very slender Polybius. “After all, I am not really ill; this was your own suggestion. Join me, will you not?”

“And deprive you of your meagre sustenance?” exclaimed Helena, with pretended astonishment. She picked up an anchovy in her fingers and said, “Too much salt. I have warned you about this, my cherub, but you will not listen. Hippocrates taught that salt is harmful in middle age, and should be used in only slight measure. Do you desire to die suddenly in the arms of Daphne?”

Polybius’ friends would have been astounded at his grin and to hear him say with rare humor, “Would that not be the death best to be desired?”

Helena shrugged as she sat at the table with him and accepted a goblet of excellent wine, Polybius’ only real extravagance in the matter of niceties. Though an austere man of prudent conversation, who preferred to listen and not comment, he loved gossip of the city, and Helena obliged him until his laughter was so loud that his distant slaves heard him and were amazed.

At last Polybius became sober and he looked at Helena with his piercing and knowledgeable eyes. “Now that we have had our hilarity, dear Helena, I must say that I know why you entreated this visit. Aspasia.” His face became very somber.

“Of a certainty,” said Helena, sipping at her refreshed goblet. Her pink cheeks had turned quite red with the wine. “Who else? You know the charges against her are ridiculous, Polybius.”

He considered her thoughtfully for a long moment or two. Then he said, “I have no love for Pericles, as he is extravagant and I do not approve of his war strategy, which is costing too much money and too many Athenian lives. No matter. However, I respect him deeply, and I know him for a just man, who, therefore, attracted enemies. I have never seen a rascal who did not have a legion of devoted friends. A good man, no. As Pericles’ enemies struck at him through Pheidias they now strike at him through Aspasia. They thought they could put him to flight through Pheidias, but he was stronger than that. They know Aspasia is his most vulnerable Achilles’ heel. To save her, they believe, he will agree to be deposed, or banished.”

“You think he will agree to that?”

“You know he will not, Helena. It would not even occur to him. Athens is dearer to him than all else, Aspasia, his sons, his friends, his life.”

When Helena was considering this, which she knew to be true, the King Archon said, “This is a grave matter. Charges have been brought against Aspasia through not only the Eponymous Archon, who tries civil suits, the Polemarchos Archon, who presides over metics (foreigners), but through the Thesmothetai Archon, who protects the city’s material interests. Also, alas, through me, on the charge of impiety.” He added dryly, “But not through me, on the charge of murder! That would have been absurd.”

“You know she is not guilty of any of these things, Polybius.”

Prudence came once more to the King Archon. He pursed his lips.

“What you and I or any other may believe, Helena, is not pertinent. The charges have been brought before me. They must be resolved in open court, before a jury also. I have no other choice.”

“You cannot give me the names of those who have brought these comically monstrous charges against Aspasia?”

He looked at her rebukingly. “Helena, you know I cannot, not before the trial.” He hesitated. “Have you sent for Pericles—I know his own government would not inform him, alas.”

“Instantly, on learning of Aspasia’s arrest.”

The King Archon turned the goblet around in his fingers and stared at the wine. “It is the desire of his enemies that Aspasia be tried, and convicted, and disposed of, before Pericles has the opportunity to be here in time. Sad for them, is it not, that the King Archon, the chief magistrate, is so stricken at this time that he cannot preside, as he alone must? I am an old man; I have such palpitations of the heart, and such indigestion, that I am completely indisposed, and no one can take my place—for mine is not a mortal illness.”

Helena stood then, threw her arms about his neck, and, with tears in her eyes, she kissed him soundly over and over. He deftly slipped his hand under her peplos and she leaned against him. “I know it is not for your magnanimity that you dare to caress me, lord, and that I permit it. It is your justice, and so my pulses bound towards you.”

She then slid the bolt on the door and blew out the lamp and they repaired to his bed. He would remember that night for the rest of his life, for Helena had given him once more the passion of youth, which he had thought he had lost forever. Even his young hetaira had been clumsy and inexperienced compared with this delightful wise woman, whom he had never forgotten.

Helena, as she did daily, visited Aspasia, carrying with her a basket of dainties and fine wine. She had already noticed, before, that special military guards were in attendance and not the usual prison police, and that the guards compelled her to eat of the food she brought for Aspasia before releasing it for Aspasia’s consumption. They had told Helena, “It is the orders of the King Archon, Lady.” At each admonition Helena felt her heart swell with tenderness for Polybius and she promised herself that she would occasionally give him her favors whenever he desired. She almost loved him. A just man, she would reflect, is a rare jewel among politicians, or even among other men, and he should be cherished as the adornment of his country. However, he is more frequently despised, rejected and murdered, or, at the least, defamed. Mankind, at the last, cannot endure justice and honor and integrity.

Aspasia’s cell was really a comfortable chamber; at whose instigation Helena could only guess. She had with her her favorite furniture and books and ornaments, and there was a large window which admitted light and air, though it was barred. Moreover, one of her slave women was permitted to attend her, a woman she could trust.

Helena laid down the basket, which also contained plates, a jeweled goblet, silver cutlery and linen napkins, and she prepared the table for Aspasia. She said, robustly, “You must eat every morsel of this. Do you think Pericles, on his return, will be disposed to rescue a hag?”

Aspasia had been confined but a week; her face was already white and thin. Her wonderful hair was now more deeply mixed with silver so that light alternately picked out golden gleams or pallid ones. “I have, here, my favorite cosmetic,” said Helena, “a mixture of pounded almonds and honey, which you must use several times a day around those despicable wrinkles which you have insisted on acquiring. There is also here a jar of milk of almonds and lemons, perfumed with oils, which you must daily rub on your arms and body and hands. There is, too, a pot of attar of roses, Pericles’ favorite scent. How dared you neglect yourself, you darling fool? Do you think a man loves a woman only for her mind and her solicitude for him? No, being a man, he desires physical assets also. Have you forgotten?”

“Alas,” said Aspasia, “I have ruined him.”

Helena was disgusted. “So, then, did Pheidias and Anaxagoras and Socrates and a multitude other of his friends. So did I. So did the old King Archon; so did the middle class Pericles is desperately trying to save. So did Zeno of Elea. Shall we, still on earth, and the others in the Blessed Isles—I hope—then cover our heads with ashes and moan our guilt?”

Aspasia, despite her terror and despair and anguish over Pericles, laughed involuntarily. She said, with pretended meekness, “Physician, I shall obey your orders.” She forced herself to eat of the repast. She said, “How is my son, Pericles?”

“As you know, he is in my house, and has an imperative disposition like his father. He commands my slaves, in a regal manner, for which I must occasionally slap him. I must remind him, ever, that he is a guest in my house, and a youth, and that he must defer to me. He has taken, mockingly, to calling me ‘Mama.’ I, who never bore a child, thank the gods. Children are no blessing, as the farmers once believed. They can become your most mortal enemies, worse than any other foe.”

Aspasia, eating of the repast Helena had brought, considered. “I have heard, from eastern philosophers, that when the Unknown God is born to us His most terrible enemies will be of His own house.”

“Of a certainty,” said Helena, chewing on a citron. “Who else can be so malign as a brother or a child or even a parent, if a man attains eminence? ‘Who is he?’ they will say, ‘who dares to be above us, our kinsman? Is he not of my blood? Therefore, he is not superior to me.’”

Aspasia said, “The gods choose among men, for their holy purposes, and their kindred have no part in it.”

Helena said, with cynicism, “That is a matter which should be brought to the attention of envious relatives.”

“Helena, dearest friend, I do not wish Pericles to jeopardize his position in defending me.”

Helena threw up her hands. “Dear fool! I must say again that you are but one little shaft in the hands of his enemies! Why do you persist in your belief that if you die they will stop their attacks on him? Their goal is despotism. They use the mindless rabble to that end. In defending you, sweet idiot, he will be defending the dignity of men, the workers, the middle class, the artists and scientists, freedom of speech, the laws of Solon, civilization itself, the glory of Greece, law and order, national security—all of which the rich and powerful and lusters for authority hate. They are, in their souls, tyrants, and have nothing but loathing for those who toil and love their country.”

Aspasia never forgot the words of her friend. She was never to see Helena again. For, on the way to her house in her litter, the ebullient physician was killed by an unknown congregation of the whimpering rabble and those overpowered by opium, which had been distributed to them by the plotting aristocrats, who knew that drugs were the best way of controlling potential rebels and rendering them impotent among impossible dreams. Her litter was attacked, her slave women slaughtered. Helena, who had loved life, for all the monsters who claimed to be men, was done to death because she was a compassionate woman who regarded humanity, despite its terrible errors, worthy of living. She, who had cherished the world, and who had believed in the dignity of men, was disproved at last, at least to the satisfaction of those who craved despotism, and had ordered her murder.