It is not, unfortunately, the attributes of the dead which we remember, thought Pericles, but their easy smiles, their words of love however false, their amiability or lack of it. Trivialities engross us; the noblest man is not recalled with affection and reverence if he had possessed a shrewd cynicism concerning his fellow man or had had a brusque manner and an undeviating honesty. A man who spoke the truth was hated in his lifetime and forgotten after his death. We prefer affable liars, even if they had wounded us and deceived us.
He was filled with hatred of the faceless man who had betrayed Ichthus. Ichthus had written his broadcasts anonymously. Therefore, only one he had loved and trusted could have delivered him to his enemies. But, was that not always so? Who was it who had said that a malicious enemy was less to be feared than an avowed friend, full of protestations of loyalty? He, Pericles, had few friends, not only because he was a politician but because he repudiated all fawnings, all declarations of dedication to him, all vows of eternal faithfulness. He was especially suspicious of the latter. Yes, friends were to be feared.
He was determined to discover the dear friend, the trusted and loyal friend, who had been the cause of Ichthus’ arrest and death. No doubt, if apprehended, he would virtuously protest that what he had done was in the interest of his country, which came above friendship. Of such stuff were liars made. Malice was the one dread and terrible trait which all human beings possessed, though they differed in other traits. It was inspired by envy, private cruel ridicule of the victim, greed, or some petty imagined offense the victim had inflicted on his destroyer. Often it was only the result of the heroic character of the victim; men can endure anything but profound virtue in another. For some reason virtue inflamed hate among mankind, just as vice receives its secret admiration. We are an evil species, thought Pericles, and why the gods do not eliminate us must be due either to their indifference to our fate, or their benignity.
Now he sought the beloved and trusted friend of Ichthus. He could not be denounced publicly, for the government would praise his loyalty to it. He must be murdered and before his murder he must be told why he was being done to death.
Anaxagoras said, “Will that return Ichthus to life? Let God judge the betrayer.”
“God,” said Pericles, “is forgetful. Who knows if we live after death? But a man who knows he is facing it suffers enormously and even goes mad. Let that be his fate.”
Men, Pericles had noticed, are not to be bought by friendship but only by money, and sometimes by fear. Fear, perhaps, was best, for there was always someone else who could raise the higher bribe of money. So, night and day he pondered on the identity of the avowed friend of Ichthus. Then he would exert fear on one he would employ to kill that friend. He went to the mother of Ichthus, who was ill with grief. She was a woman of a large-hearted countenance, and a dignified demeanor. She joined Pericles in the atrium of her house and though her face was ghastly with sorrow she was calm. She was clothed in black and her eyes were afire in the apparent tranquility of her features.
“Who was my son’s best friend, lord? You were, though you saw him seldom. He would have died for you. His closest associate? An old schoolmate, Turnus, whom my son pathetically loved. He has been with me often, consoling me, offering me his selfless services—”
“Ah,” said Pericles. He remembered the ancient myth of another Turnus, who, on defeating Pallas, had acquired his gold girdle, inlaid with gems, and other valuables. Pericles said, “Did Ichthus leave, in his will, any treasure to Turnus, son of Patroclus, who is one of the Archons?”
“Yes,” said the bereaved mother. Despite her composure her face twitched. “He left him one-third of his patrimony.”
Money is always an inducement to betrayal, thought Pericles with intense hate and bitterness. He remembered Turnus in his youth; he was of a most earnest countenance, a serious youth who always proclaimed his virtue and his steadfastness and his loyalty to his friends, a youth with big serious eyes which he would fix on others, testifying to his sincerity. Sincerity! The cloak of scoundrels. Honest men frequently had the aspect of rogues. Turnus, son of Patroclus, the Archon, was a very grave man now indeed, filled with ostensible charity and always active in behalf of his friends—as he declared, himself. Pericles questioned the mother further. Yes, Turnus had been the only one who had encouraged Ichthus in his attacks on the venal government. He had even helped Ichthus with the preparation of his broadcasts. He had been like a son to her, the mother of Ichthus.
Pericles recalled that Patroclus was as miserly as Daedalus, and very severe with his only son, who was rumored profligate and who had disposed of his wife’s dowry with alacrity. She had appealed for a divorce, on which Turnus would have had to return her dowry with interest. But—he had no money and his father would give him none, disapproving of his son’s conduct. Turnus was a very busy man, according to Pericles’ remembrance of him. All his ventures came to nothing. He was also a gambler and could always be found in the Agora shaking the dice or playing backgammon and chess and draughts with others of his kind. His sincere voice echoed everywhere. He advised friends on investments which later proved disastrous, but not to Turnus who had lured them into the investments. Huge and veracious of eye, animated in his dealings, enthusiastic in his persuasions, he had convinced many, and even those he had deceived still were certain that he was an honorable man and that it was only bad luck when the ventures failed, and certainly not the fault of Turnus, who condoled and wept with them.
Pericles left the unhappy mother, saddened by her distress; he was burning with renewed anger and determination. He made some inquiries concerning Turnus and discovered something secret which enraged him further.
He then explored the backgrounds of his friends. Who was the one who feared him most? Pericles thought, ruthlessly.
He sent for Jason, son of an illustrious father, who was not only a bureaucrat of formidable power but was tied to Pericles’ service by the most potent respect. He was a tall quiet man of middle age and of a gentle manner and scrupulous in his duties, not, in this case by fear, but because of his character. He was famous for his natural magnanimity, which was not a pretense, and his sympathetic attitude, again not a pretense. He had never been known to do a cruel or unjust act; his probity was beyond any doubt. He and Pericles had been schoolmates together, and both the youths had protected Ichthus. He was also a patriot and loved Athens little less than did Pericles. Pericles had considerable fondness for him and often consulted him on difficult matters. However, without any hesitation Pericles chose him as the destroyer of Turnus, whom Jason despised.
Jason not only respected Pericles, but returned his affection. Pericles counted him as one of his few friends. He greeted Jason with his usual restraint, but smiled at him and gave him his hand in the privacy of his house. Pericles ordered wine and pastries for his friend, and while they drank and ate together they discussed affairs of state. Jason was somewhat puzzled. They had discussed these affairs only yesterday. Jason fixed his gray eyes on Pericles with curiosity, but being a courteous man he did not ask why he had been summoned almost at sunset from his office.
Pericles’ manner abruptly changed and his eyes took on that blind look which was so daunting to others. He said in a low voice, “I have thought, today, of your murder of your wife, Calypso, two years ago.”
Jason turned very pale and his refined features tightened. He stared, without speaking, at Pericles.
“It is true that she deserved to be murdered,” said Pericles, in a soothing tone, and nodded. “She was notable for her evil temper and viciousness. Did she not abuse you and your children by your dead first wife? Did she not lie to you so that they would not inherit your estate? Did she not attempt to degrade your daughter in your esteem? Did she not, at the last, betray you, for she was a woman of considerable beauty? But, you loved her, and trusted her despite her enormous defects of character. So do our hearts betray us, and we are helpless when we are pierced by the arrows of Eros, even when
evidence proves that the one we love has deceived and reviled and injured us.”
Jason’s mouth and throat became so dry that he made a retching sound. After an attempt or two he found his voice. “Why do you recall this to me, Pericles?”
Pericles said as if Jason had not spoken, “Love and trust—and perish. That is always inevitable, as I have observed. We become absurd in the regard of those we love and trust, for we are pitiable objects and enslaved by unmanly passions. Who does not scorn such?”
Again those blind eyes turned themselves on Jason, who had begun to tremble. “Yes,” said Pericles, “your wife deserved to die. Yet, you could not kill her, yourself. You hired an assassin, and paid him well. Then he began to torment you, demanding more than his fee on the threat of betrayal. He would write a confession, he said to you, and then would flee back to his native Arabia to escape punishment himself.
“You came to me, your friend, in despair, for you knew I was discreet and remembered friendship. You laid your case before me. You thought of hiring another assassin to dispose of the Arabian. However, you feared that he would also betray you. Murder is an endless chain. The assassin did not know that I was your friend. I had him investigated. He was a thief, though he had concealed the fact well, and he had murdered others. Yet, there was no valid evidence against him, for he was clever and adroit. Now, I had the evidence. He was duly executed.”
“Yes,” whispered Jason. For the first time he saw a baleful glow in the depths of those unreadable eyes.
Pericles sighed and leaned back in his chair as if wearied. “There is one dread thing I have learned in this world of men, which I did not make. I keep full dossiers on friend or foe, sworn to most solemnly by myself. It is known that I am not malicious—but I trust few if any men, even yourself, Jason. Do not be offended. I consider that friendship is a very frail thing, and friends unpredictable. The brother today can become your most mortal enemy, with or without provocation, tomorrow. It is human nature.”
Again Jason whispered; he felt that he was dying. “Are you my enemy, Pericles?”
Pericles smiled slightly, though his conscience was troubling him. “Not yet, Jason,” he said frankly. “But I have a dossier on you which I hoped I would never need to use. I must protect myself. I trust I will never need to use it and deliver you to executioners. But, as the Egyptians say, who knows what tomorrow will bring?”
“You are going to use that dossier against me, Pericles?”
“Not unless you force me to do so, either by becoming my enemy or by any violation of your duties. You can trust me a little better than you can trust others. Tell me. You have the name and know the whereabouts of the second professional assassin whom you considered employing against the first?”
Jason swallowed. “I do,” he said.
Pericles nodded. Jason said, “You wish someone murdered, Pericles?”
“Yes. Turnus, the son of Patroclus. I have discovered that it was he who betrayed our poor friend, Ichthus, to the authorities. Love and trust! What enormities follow such! Perhaps they are justified. No matter. I want Turnus dead, as quickly and as secretly as possible. It might be that your assassin can contrive an accident for him, as the first contrived it for your wife.”
“Turnus, the son of Patroclus, the Archon!” Jason’s face almost disintegrated with his shock. “He betrayed Ichthus? That is indeed a crime of calamitous proportions. His father is very powerful. He will not lightly accept an accident to his son. He will investigate. Woe is me!”
“Do not be distressed. He will be disposed of swiftly, the assassin. I have another thought. He will be caught in the act of murder, and will be dispatched at once before he can speak. I promise you that. I will order this. The details will be arranged most meticulously.”
Trembling more than ever, Jason bent his head and pondered. After a while he looked at Pericles straightly. “Why can I not give you his name and you arrange the—murder—yourself, my friend?”
Again Pericles smiled. “I am the Head of State.”
Jason clasped his hands together convulsively. “I detest murder.”
“So do I. But sometimes it is—effective—and necessary. Was it not so in the case of your deplorable wife?”
Jason winced. “I was driven almost to madness. But murder leads to murder—”
“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 Peri
cles 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.