“Alas,” said Zeno.
Xanthippus was astonished and leaned back on his bench. “Alas?”
“Such men are dangerous,” said Zeno. “They know from the womb what it is they desire and none can turn them from it. They are embued with destiny, and that is disastrous for other and lesser men.”
Xanthippus was inordinately flattered and pleased. “It is possible,” he said, “that I have exaggerated my son’s qualities, as a father.”
“I hope so, and yet I hope not,” said Zeno, and he who was abstemious refilled his own goblet for the third time and drank hurriedly from it. He folded his large white hands, the hands of a sage, on the table and contemplated them. “I will see your son,” he said.
“I will send a litter for you tomorrow,” said the soldier. He rose and Zeno rose with him and accompanied him to the gate where the slaves awaited. When Xanthippus had left him Zeno leaned on the gate and stared into the distance and brooded and once or twice he shook his head as if both excited and despondent. The sun was now but a bloody thumbprint in the sky and the sea wind was cold.
He returned to his goats and said to a young male who butted him playfully, “Dear child, you are not in the least human, and for that give homage to the gods.”
CHAPTER 2
Zeno looked between the embroidered curtains of the litter and at the hills of Athens already trembling with heat and radiance though it was Still early morning, at the clustering white houses with their red tiled roofs and the lifting clouds of shining silver dust that wavered over everything, and at the passionate blue of the Grecian sky. Athens was so small a city. Hardly two years before she had been burned to the ground by Xerxes, except for a few suburban sections where Zeno and Xanthippus lived, yet, like the Phoenix, she had risen from her ashes with characteristic zeal and energy and had rebuilt herself. Her intellectual turbulence had been no greater than her inner strength and fiery determination and soon her blackened walls had been plastered, her temples renovated and refurbished and her orchards replanted. Still, she was not a pretty little city. The blazing countryside intruded once more into her narrow streets and was never far from even the most illustrious houses. It was quite usual to see herds of goats and sheep and geese and swine being driven below the very walls of the new houses and new government buildings and temples. They grazed and climbed and cried on the slopes of the still almost bare acropolis, while their herdsmen, forgetting the Persian and his torches, squatted in the shade of the crackling laurels and ate their bread and cheese and drank their repulsive resinous wine. The heart of the town, as before the fire, stank of latrines and the offal of animals.
It was the Spartans and the barefoot Thebans, with a few Athenians, men of no importance, who had defeated the mighty Xerxes at Mycale, and, greatest of all, at Salamis and later at Plataea. Why had Greece been saved only by an apparent miracle? At the last they had had, these Greeks, only their naked hands and bleeding feet and teeth and nails, when their thin spears and iron swords and weak little ships had splintered and had fallen and disintegrated. What great secret heart had moved them to fight thus, and had made them larger than other men, if only for a short time? What had inspired envious little souls and quarrelsome minds and had given them incredible courage?
The lust for liberty. Ah, thought Zeno, it is that lust which is greater in the souls of men than the lust for women or for gold and silver or for conquest. Yet, thought Zeno, as the litter began an ascent on another hill into a slight coolness and freshness, there was something else which had saved Greece when it seemed impossible that she could be saved. The priests spoke of the gods. Zeno reflected, though he believed in the Fates and only occasionally speculated on the hypothesis of the Godhead. Was it possible that Greece had been saved by design, and, if so, for what destiny? He smiled at this patriotic fancy, but his smile was not derisive and only slightly amused. If he could, simply, believe utterly in the gods! Then something profound moved in his heart, as if a golden serpent had stirred on a brassy rock, and Zeno felt a sweetness and a powerful emotion he had never known before.
The house of Xanthippus, spared from the fire, glittered white in the sun and the roof was like sparkling rubies. It was surrounded by a low white wall over which spilled a tide of red, purple, rose and white flowers and, beyond them, a barrier of pointed cypresses. But as the house was on a rise of land it was not entirely obscured. There was a slave at the gates attired as a soldier and he opened them and assumed a military posture. Now Zeno could see the grounds, all red graveled paths and flower beds and exotic shrubbery in bloom and enormous Chinese vases filled with blossoms and polished green branches. The house was tall, of two storeys, with Ionian pillars which gleamed in the sunlight, and the atrium was cool with fountains and the scent of fern. It was among the more fastidious of the houses of little Athens, and all its appointments were elegant, and the artistic soul of Zeno approved.
He entered the coolness of the atrium and was greeted formally by Xanthippus who was dressed in a long blue tunic and an elaborate silver belt of Oriental origin, which held an Alexandrine dagger of ornate workmanship. His countenance seemed somewhat out of place in this noble example of Greek restrained architecture and appeared more fitting for the palace of a sultan. Xanthippus immediately suggested refreshments and the two men seated themselves in the shade of a wall of the outdoor portico and a slave brought a fine wine chilled in the waters of a spring, soft pale bread, fruit, excellent cheese, a plate of goose meat and one of cold pork in its own jelly, artichokes in olive oil and garlic, and new berries still wet with dew. Zeno saw that the plates were both of silver and of the best ceramic design and the goblets were Egyptian glass wreathed with silver vine leaves and grapes.
A slave stood behind him with a long fan of palm leaves which, as it waved, not only brought a cool breeze but kept off flies. Xanthippus poured a libation to the gods, and smiled at Zeno, who followed his example. A flock of doves, their wings catching golden fire in the sun, flew over their heads. Now, as the heat increased, there was the pervading dry yet aromatic odor of stone, dust and spice and warm earth. Zeno ate heartily. A babble of high female voices and laughter came from the rear of the house and the women’s quarters, and the thrilling sound of a lyre. Xanthippus said, “My wife, Agariste, is not stupid and ignorant as are most of the Athenian wives, for she was tutored in her father’s house and has,” he paused and smiled, “an elevated opinion of herself and her intellect. Nevertheless, I have found her counsel felicitous on a number of occasions, and she has flashes of wisdom which can be daunting to a man. She has desired to see you after you see our son. I trust this will not offend you.”
Zeno hesitated, then inclined his head. “I have visited the School of the Courtesans and have met there women of extraordinary intellect as well as beauty, and have conversed with them to my edification. Thargelia, who conducts such a school in Miletus at this time, is a woman of magnificent gifts of the mind and spirit, and it is a delight to visit her.”
“Ah, yes,” said Xanthippus, who possessed a mistress who had been a protégé of the School, “she is a paragon of what women should be but are not. Perhaps it is fortunate for our nation, for, it is written by the Sibyls, when women dominate a nation and their men and intrude their voices into politics and the arts of war and intellect that nation will decay and fall.”
Zeno still hesitated. “However, it is a stupid waste of what is presented to man to ignore those few women whose minds are like ours or could even surpass them. When also,” and he returned the smile of his host, “they possess beauty and charm and talent, they are formidable, and who can resist them?”
“Women need but one man, but men need many women. Nothing is so deadly to the mind as monotony.”
“I find it stimulating,” said Zeno, then seeing his host’s surprise he added, “When the outward environment and life are not in turmoil and change, they do not distract the mind. But if a man must attend to a thousand restless trivialities of existence—wh
ich pass as the shadow of clouds but seem at the moment to be imperative—it is impossible for him to meditate upon a hypothesis, a scientific theory, or an intricate elaboration of philosophy, or an idea of startling uniqueness. He must attend the little events as a peasant attends his cows, and after such attendance he is exhausted.” He smiled deprecatingly at Xanthippus, who was looking amused.
A jeweled lizard ran along the stones of the portico and a slave would have struck the small creature with a stave, but Zeno said in a voice unusually sharp, “Let the beautiful thing live, for there is very little living beauty in this world. Besides, has he offended you? Has he bitten your toe or poisoned you? Has he not as godly a reason to live as you, and who are you to terminate his life?”
Then he flushed, for he had addressed a slave rebukingly in the presence of his master. But Xanthippus said in his very musical voice, “You have spoken truly. Who is man that he should decide what is baser than he? But the beasts surpass us in one thing: They have the virtue of their being and adhere to the laws given to them. We do not.”
Zeno said, “‘Adhere to the laws of their being.’ But could it not be that men are more intelligent than beasts because we constantly rebel against the laws of our own being?”
“We bring down Promethean fire,” said Xanthippus. His sallow and narrow cheeks were bright with the stirrings of his mind and his eyes sparkled happily at Zeno. “However, is it not better that we possess dangerous fire as our servant than not to know fire at all? It is in man’s rebelliousness that he can contemplate something greater than himself and know the gods, though they destroy him. Beasts do not rebel.” He turned the goblet in his nervous hands and looked more and more excited. “There is no positive virtue in adhering to the laws of one’s being.”
Zeno smiled. “I will write a treatise on it, though the priests will not approve.” Xanthippus nodded and said, “We speak as violent men and rebellion is deplored.”
“There is much to be said for intelligent violence,” said Zeno. “It is out of the furious vortex that the gods ascended, and out of holocaust that the worlds leapt.”
Xanthippus clapped his hands for the overseer of the atrium. “So, we return to the ancient questions: As man is a disturbing and alien presence in this world, revolting against natural laws and one who invites endless chaos in consequence, would it not be better that he be eliminated?”
“The gods are violent,” said Zeno, laughing. “Out of the fierce blaze of His Hands does God strike the universes, and out of the igniting rocks does He form continents. The seas convulse and throw up islands and rivers and lakes. Nature is turbulent and ever-changing, and perhaps in that we could learn a most momentous lesson.”
“Most true,” said Xanthippus, and frowned, leaning his elbow on the table and placing his bearded chin within his palm. “Yet, there are some politicians who say that if we had priest-kings and could command obedience of men and docile behavior, we would enter an immortal land of joy and fulfillment.”
“In that event,” said Zeno, “it would be the politicians who would rule and not their priest-kings. Priests are obsequious before the power of others, and are obedient to it.”
The sly slaves were listening, and so even the brave and powerful soldier, Xanthippus, who despised the priests, said with haste, “Who has access to the gods but the priests?” He winked covertly at Zeno whose face became as quiet as marble, not with fear but with disgust at the world.
The overseer of the hall came and Xanthippus commanded the presence of his son, Pericles.
The young Pericles entered the portico with his attendant slave, an elderly man with a beard. Zeno looked at the child who was twelve years old, Pericles, son of Xanthippus, of the deme Cholargus of the tribe Acamantis, and Xanthippus looked at his son with smiling pride and said, “His mother, as you may know, Zeno of Elea, is the grandchild of Clisthenes, who drove out the sons of Pisistratas, and thus put an end to the Tyrants and attempted to return to the laws and principles of Solon. But that, as we know, was an impractical dream. My wife said to her slaves, being near her time of delivery of my son, that she was brought to bed of a lion.” Xanthippus put his dexterous tongue into his cheek and winked at Zeno.
The sun in the portico was blinding and vivid even at this hour and the shadows were pointed and dark blue and very sharp and the sky was a resonant color as if formed of turquoise flame. Pericles stood in the reflected brilliance quietly and with containment, almost as if indifferent to the scrutiny of a stranger, and as if his thoughts were fixed on some distance. He was tall for one so young and slender but muscular. He seemed much older than his years. He was clad in the short green tunic of preadolescence with the Greek key as its border on the bottom and about the sleeves, and his legs were slight but firm and his feet, in their sandals, long and narrow. His body and stillness had that elegance and grace much admired by the Athenians, and his skin was as fair as milk. His face showed the thinness but strength of his patrician bones, so subtly formed that they appeared to lie close to the flesh and to dominate it. His nose was slightly aquiline and his pink mouth was full and faintly sensual but finely carved and controlled. His eyes were of so pale a blue between pale lashes that it was almost as if they had no hue but were the eyes of a statue. His hair was the color of bright flax and curled at his nape and about his cheeks, and his white neck was long and thin and upright and flexible.
All this made for a certain exquisite and masculine beauty except for his brow, which, though the color and rigidity of marble, rose to an unusual height as did the crown of his head, and gave an elongation out of proportion to the face, thus diminishing and dwarfing it. Such a grotesque height would have attracted the attention of the priests and authorities as being abnormal, and Pericles, had he been born of less illustrious parents, would have been allowed to die entombed in a large vase. For the authorities did not permit deviations in body or distortions of countenance or other grotesqueries to survive.
Zeno, in deference to the boy—for were not children susceptible to adult stares?—did not direct the full power of his eyes on Pericles, but fixed them at a point near the child’s cheek.
“Greetings, Pericles, son of Xanthippus,” said Zeno in his high kind voice.
The boy responded, “Greetings, Zeno of Elea.” Zeno was surprised at the depth of Pericles’ voice, for it was not the piping of children.
“I have told my son of you, Zeno,” said Xanthippus, “and that I am attempting to persuade you to be his tutor.”
For the first time Pericles looked fully at Zeno, and again Zeno was surprised, for it was not the wary and suspicious stare of a young boy but the calculation and weighing of a man, fearless yet cautious.
Zeno, gazing at the youth, knew with all his intuition that he had no need to question Pericles to discover his intelligence. Those pale eyes were implicit with cold inner fire and intellect, with judiciousness and latent power, and glowed with that radiance which can come but from an unusually intelligent mind. Pericles had brought his attention to Zeno from a far place where his thoughts were engaged, yet when he had done so it was with a certain piercing and cogent vigor which was totally aware and focused, and not diffused or vague.
Truly, thought Zeno, a most remarkable child—if one can call him a child—and one with potential terribleness.
Zeno had never said this to another prospective student, but he said it now: “Do you accept me as your tutor, Pericles, son of Xanthippus?”
At this the youth smiled urbanely, and flashed a glance at his father. “I do,” he said, and Zeno, laughing a little inwardly at himself, thought: I have been given an accolade!
“He reads and writes adequately,” said the subtle Xanthippus, who had understood the exchange and was gratified. He fingered his black and pointed beard and struck an attitude in his chair. “Then, it is settled,” he said. “You will not find my son stupid, Zeno of Elea, but possessed of a mind of curiosity and eagerness to be enlightened and guided.”
 
; I doubt if he can ever be guided, except by a woman and then only on occasion, thought the wry Zeno.
“His mother has been educated by tutors in her father’s house,” said Xanthippus, “her father being deluded that women possess intellects.” He smiled. He held out his hand negligently to his son, and Pericles went to him and took that hand and leaned against his father’s shoulder.
Zeno could not restrain himself and he said, “Pericles, it is not in your nature to accept anyone immediately. Why have you accepted me?”
“I have read some of your writings,” said the youth.
Zeno raised his eyebrows. “And what did you think of them, my child?”
“They are lucid,” said Pericles. He smiled at Zeno and it was as if he were a man, cognizant and a little amused.
Zeno became grave. “That is a compliment,” he said. “If the young can understand a sage then he has succeeded in being intelligible.”
He saw that Pericles was regarding him with that disturbing convergence of his which permitted no intruding thought at the moment.
Xanthippus dismissed his son with a kiss on his lips, and Pericles bowed formally to Zeno and took his departure with his slave. He did not run, flailing his limbs aimlessly, as did other children. He walked with the firmness and quiet of a man. Zeno said to Xanthippus, “Your son is not a child. He is a man, and I am honored to teach him.” His eyes ached from the light and from his thoughts.
“Perhaps it is true that my wife was brought to bed by a lion,” said Xanthippus, and laughed. “A white lion with a golden mane. Does not my son resemble such?”
Zeno did not answer frivolously as Xanthippus expected. He considered, and then he said, “Yes.” He clasped his hands between his knees and gazed at the stones of the portico and absently took a sip of wine. Xanthippus looked at him dubiously, then he shrugged. He struck his hands for the overseer and when the slave entered the portico Xanthippus said, “Summon the Lady Agariste from the gynaikeion (women’s quarters) to attend her husband immediately.”