Glory and the Lightning

  She threw back her haggard and disheveled locks, which resembled gray snakes, and said, “It is not only the acid which you buy, but my silence. That has never been broken, though I have been threatened with torture more than once.” She grinned at him like an evil mask in the theatre, and cracked her gaunt knuckles. Her house smelled of incense, and the walls were covered with ghastly murals of harpies and furies and Gorgons and serpents and dragons, all lit by the light of brass lamps, and all surging with frightening colors. Callias had a thought of murdering her with his dagger after he had received the acid, thus retrieving his purse and leaving no witness behind him, but as if she heard his thought—though she could not see his malevolent face—she loosed two dogs who sat before her and made the most sinister sounds, their red eyes fixed upon him. He shrank, and she cackled, and she knew she had guessed his intentions.

  Her carved brass chest of large proportions stood by her side, as she crouched on her silken chair. Callias, with an oath, flung his purse onto her bony knees, and she opened it and counted the coins. She nodded her head with satisfaction, opened the chest and withdrew from it a glass vial filled with a murky crimson liquid. “Throw this upon your enemy’s face, and never will he see again, and none will dare look upon his countenance for very horror. It will be more dreadful than the face of Medusa. The acid will burn like a fire that never was, and will consume all it touches. Flee from it immediately after it has been flung.”

  Callias, without speaking again, left her with exultation, the vial carefully wrapped in parchment, and then in leather. He now had only to arrange an encounter with Aspasia, to come close enough to her to throw the acid fully into her face. She would not die, but she would pray for death then and later. It was a most fitting revenge on Pericles, who adored her, it was said, as if she were a goddess who had condescended to love and lie with him.

  For a number of days he skulked about her house and her school, wary of guards, clad humbly as if he were a workman or a man from the fields, his face hooded, his gait slouching, his head bent meekly. He saw slaves coming and going, and guests whose famous faces he recognized, and none noticed him, not even the guards. Once he saw Aspasia’s litter, but it was guarded also, and the curtains were closed against the hot sun which could injure her celebrated complexion. It was reported that in the city she showed her bold face at night, without shame, and her eyes stared fearlessly before her and were not averted. But Callias knew that she was always surrounded by admirers who could seize him in a moment, and doubtless slaughter him.

  It was impossible to get into her house, guarded as it was. As Callias was forced to wait his frustration made him frenzied and even inclined him to recklessness. He thought of becoming the hero of Athens, even if he died for it. But always he recoiled from that end, and always he knew he must be anonymous. That infuriated him against Aspasia. He desired glory, but the price was too high, though his act no doubt would be applauded. He lost interest in being a hero, if he would not be here to be acclaimed. He had also learned that Aspasia had many powerful friends who would avenge her, no matter how much the citizens of Athens might approve of his act.

  He told himself that he must be fearless, for the honor of his family. But he was afraid. He forced himself to the first real and concentrated thinking of his life, and he sweated with the monstrous labor of it.

  Eventually, after long days he came on a plan which was all folly, but from its boldness it might succeed. What had he heard Daedalus say sourly one night? “Money is all things, and with it one can even seduce the gods—who created it.” Callias had found this eminently true, and for a unique hour he wildly pledged to himself that he would not be frugal, as was his nature, but throw with golden dice.

  He went to the lowest quarter of the city where lived and prowled the most audacious and venturesome rascals, criminals hiding from the law, willing to face all things for money, and as heedless of mercy as the vultures they resembled—bloody men armed in their spirits with congenital evil. Not only would money lure them, but wickedness itself, for that was their climate.

  Callias knew their taverns and frequented them, but never did they know his name, for he feared his grandfather as he feared no other. He called himself, to them, Hector. He roistered with them, drank with them, and they recognized him as one with their own natures, and so did not rob him or murder him. They guessed that he was not of their birth, and this flattered them, as he sought their company. Moreover, he bought wine for them, out of gratitude that they accepted him. Some considered that in an extremity he might come to their aid through influential friends. He often implied this, boasting. He and they knew that should they be arrested they would be immediately executed, for some of them were escaped murderers as well as thieves.

  He entered the sinister tavern they preferred, lit with sullen candles, and filthy beyond imagination, and reeking with sweat, vice, vermin and crude wine and spirits. The tavern, as usual, was filled with scoundrels with contorted faces, their daggers always loosened, their garments soiled and dusty and torn, their sandaled feet dirty. They hailed him with pleasure and crowded about him, their arms on his shoulders. Their breath was fetid, their yellowed and broken teeth displayed, their features villainous. He responded to them, not with aversion, but almost with affection. They were his own, though they had no money.

  He flung a purse of spilling gold on the table before the wine merchant, and who was as evil as his customers. “Spare no wine tonight!” he shouted. “I have plans of greatness, of fortune, for a number of you!”

  They shouted with joy and delight, and scrambled for the coins and Callias watched, satisfied. Then he asked for Io, a harlot who catered to these men, a very young girl not more than thirteen who had the face of a dryad, as innocent as a lily, and with pure blue eyes. She was a favorite of Callias, who often slept with her on her squalid bed, and she liked him for he gave her a gold coin instead of a copper one. They sent for her at once, dragging her from her bed where she lay with a malefactor. She was in her short shift, which revealed her gleaming white thighs and her child’s arms and part of her budding breast. Her hair was black as a sable wing, her mouth soft and rosy, her countenance virginal. She was also very dull and of little wit, and as obedient as a puppy. No one had ever heard her speak, though she heard, and the only sounds she could make were squeals and gasps and small shrieks. She was most beguiling in appearance. She might have been the daughter of an aristocrat, for she had strangely delicate gestures, for all the grime of her flesh and garments and feet.

  Callias studied her, and knew his judgment and memory had not failed him. She was perfect for his purpose. She would ask no questions, for she possessed neither curiosity nor understanding. She had only a stainless beauty untouched by her propensities, which were as vile as her face was untainted. She exhaled sweetness despite the rankness of her surroundings. She had been found as an infant, wandering the noisome streets, and had been taken as a slave by the wine merchant’s wife.

  “Io, my love,” said Callias, fondling her immature breast, “you are about to attain fine garments, and soap, and fragrances.”

  CHAPTER 2

  In the two years Aspasia had been his mistress—or, as the surlier Athenians called her, “his harlot”—Pericles had never wearied of her for an instant, but was constantly in a state of joyous wonder that she always seemed to possess a new countenance, a new variety of character, a new and startling revelation, for him. He would leave her in a state of gravity, and when he saw her next she was scintillating with mischief and humor, or, if gay, she would show him a temperament of such seriousness the next time that he was reminded, again, that she was not a light woman but a woman of profundity. There were moments, especially when she was wearied, that she presented to him a face almost plain, and pale and thoughtful, even old, and tomorrow she would be a blaze of loveliness, shining with color, and as young as an untouched maiden. She would on one night spend hours discussing the plans of Pheidias with him, and the next ti
me she would throw her round white arms about him and say, “Kiss me. It is a night for love.” It was, Pericles would think, as if he possessed a harem of entirely different women, all of whom worshipped him and were adorably complaisant though in different manners.

  She combined the delicious arts of a courtesan, with all the rapture and ecstasy and beguilements of that condition, with the tenderness and devotion and solicitude of a beloved wife. But careful, as always, having been sedulously taught by Thargelia, never to bore him, never to engage in tedious conversation or complaint, and never give herself totally to any human creature. Between her and Pericles blew a fragrant veil, and when he pursued ardently the veil quivered freshly in his face. He found this both tantalizing and exciting, especially that when he moved the veil briefly aside he found he had been pursuing a stranger, who laughed at him softly. She could be exquisitely playful, like a very young girl, and in a twinkling she was a composed woman who discussed philosophy with him.

  She was indeed, in all aspects, the woman of the figurine, but also of warm flesh, at once yielding and resistant. But no matter her changefulness he knew that she loved him as deeply as he loved her, and often, in the very midst of addressing the Assembly, the Archons or the Ecclesia, he would think of her with an inner trembling, a bliss, a longing, an absolute belief in her integrity and her steadfastness.

  As for Aspasia, she had been taught by Thargelia that to protect herself she must not love utterly, or at all, because men tired of women and looked for novelty, and were as restless as hares in spring, or deer at mating time. Thus, a woman who loved was vulnerable, and when discarded pined to death or into old age, and never knew happiness or joy again. Men, Thargelia would say, despite the poets, loved women but never a woman, whereas women, unfortunate creatures, loved a man but never all men. A woman in passion must love, even if little and briefly—and always personally—before she can surrender herself, but to men any charming woman was desirable and love was not considered during a new encounter. Women, by nature, desired the established, the sure, the secure, but these made men restive.

  It was not for over a year that Aspasia could feel herself safe in Pericles’ love, and could trust him and love him fully, and this was a warm and secret joy and happiness to her. She could speak to him from her heart and her moods, not always mindful that she must invariably please him; she could speak as one human soul to another, confident of protection and sympathy and tenderness and reassurance. She knew that such a love between a man and a woman—never fearful of deceit or betrayal—was the most precious gift of the gods, and must be cherished and kept ablaze like a Vestal fire, for it was holy and blessed. She lay in the haven of Pericles’ love for her, never anxious, never afraid, never moved to silly pretenses, though always careful to let him believe that there was more of her than she had already revealed.

  She saw that his utmost desire was to please her, to hold her closer to him, and that in her presence he was wholly himself and never doubted her, and she pleased him in return, and what he said when he was in bed with her was never confided to another. She knew the burdens of his state, his enemies, his struggles, his frustrations, his desires, his hatreds and his cold furies, and he and she knew that his confessions and his outbursts would never travel beyond this chamber where they lay in each other’s arms, head to breast, hands clasped, or lips together in the hot and scented heat of midnight. Ah, she would think, what it is to trust, and how few can we trust! If we have one, it is enough; it is more than enough; it is the water of life for a whole existence. It is nurture to our spirits, a garrison against vicissitudes of chance, the precariousness of living.

  Once he said to her, “I will repeal the law I have made, that no Athenian citizen can marry a foreign woman.” Above all things, he desired her for his wife, fearing the inconstancy of human beings. But she said, “That would give a mortal lance to your enemies, and especially to those men who love but cannot marry an alien woman.” To herself she said, “Many men are more faithful to their mistresses than to their wives, for whom they invent faults in excuse for their betrayals. But a free woman can leave them at any hour, and this they know, and so must be faithful lest beloved women leave them first for men more tender and considerate and bountiful.” If her reflections seemed cynical to her she also knew that they were relevant and based on reality and human nature. To hold Pericles, who was, after all, only a man, she must withhold also. On further reflection she knew this was true of all human encounters. To give all, except perhaps to God, was to lay one’s self open to disaster.

  So in her beautiful gardens she erected a bare marble altar under a marble roof and surrounded by marble columns in the calm Doric design, and without walls. The altar stood in the center and was inscribed: “To the Unknown God.” It was a small temple but with the purity of snow and silence, and on each side there were iridescent fountains with leaping dolphins within, spouting rainbows so that the columns dripped with shaking light under sun or moon. Surrounding all were beds of lilies and roses and jasmine, and a circular walk of red gravel. She did not know how it was—for it seemed fanciful to her—but the area about the little temple possessed a great and quiet peace, a promise of refuge and eternity, enhanced by a square of dark and pointing cypresses beyond the flowers and the paths. It was like a small grove, sanctified, to be approached only by those who were seeking, and who were filled with awe and reverence. It was a favorite spot for the girls in the school, but rarely did they venture to the steps of the marble floor. They would stand at a distance, in unspeaking motionlessness. They asked no questions. It appeared that in their young hearts they understood. It was Pheidias who had designed this with love and passion, and who had said, “One day He will have thousands of altars and thousands of temples, and all will know who He is.”

  Also, in her garden, in a secluded place, was a plain marble plinth with the words graved on it, “Al Taliph, who taught me, Aspasia, many things of joy and many things of pain. Who can discern the difference?” Pericles had come upon it once and had felt that cold anger of his, and a sharp jealousy, but he had never spoken of it to Aspasia. He had his secrets and she had hers, and both respected them. It was another of those hidden things which bound them together, more than if all had been revealed in the bitter light of day. Bareness could be ennui, and perfect revealment, like nakedness, unenticing. Mystery, like the shadows of the moon, could create visions and awaken Poesy. Above all else, he found Aspasia mysterious and never to be held in entirety.

  They entertained their friends in Aspasia’s house, rather than in his, though Aspasia’s house was smaller even if more beautiful in a very austere and elegant way. She was perpetually in revolt against the opulence and crowded intricacies of the east, and she liked the aspect of unadorned marble walls reflecting the rosy light of sunset or the shards of palm trees, and the gleaming reflections of polished marble floors. But her statues were incomparable and many of them had been created by Pheidias, though he preferred to work in ivory and gold and bronze. They too had the grandeur of heroic simplicity, and were gravely dignified. Over everything lay a numinous peace, a noble quietude.

  The house adjoined the school, a square building surrounded by colonnades where the girls could study and read and converse and walk and look upon the composed beauty of the gardens. The girls lived in the school’s dormitories, under the guidance of their teachers, and guards. At sunset the gardens echoed with their laughter as they played ball or practiced archery or threw the discus or splashed in the pools. To Aspasia, it was a lovely sound and she often joined the maidens in their play, for though now twenty-five years old, she still miraculously possessed the suppleness and swiftness of youth. The maidens reverenced her; it was their ambition to resemble her in all ways. “Excellence,” she would tell them, “cannot be utterly attained, but with diligence and devotion it can be approached. One must never be content with mediocrity, for that is the complacency of low minds. Strive always. Compete always, as in the Great Games of
the Olympiad. Only this pleases God.”

  Zeno of Elea had often told Pericles that happiness was the dream of cattle, and not to be attained by thinking men, for thought bore with it the understanding of the tragic predicament of mankind. “It is said,” he once remarked, “that Prometheus brought down fire from Olympus to mankind, and for that he was direly punished. But it is my belief that was an allegory; he brought thought to men, which most certainly is a fire! In so doing he made them conscious creatures. Perhaps it might have been best had we remained baboons.”

  “The majority of mankind is still baboons,” Pericles had replied. “I am no idiot democrat who believes that men are created equal in any fashion.”

  He found the only real happiness he had ever known with Aspasia, and even that was fitful. For he was filled with the terror all true lovers know: the terror of losing that which was most dear, through death or disaster. Anaxagoras had said, “Enjoy the moment, rejoice in it, for we have lost yesterday and the future is not yet ours. Think not of evil or loss in the coming days. That sours the present hour as rich wine is soured into vinegar.” But still, Pericles was not of the nature to enjoy only the present. The future is formed by the present, he would think, and not to think of it would result in stagnation, and nothing would be built or created and we would live in a wilderness like beasts. Thoughts of the future could bring pain; that was true. However, one was armed in advance. So, he had insisted on more guards over Aspasia’s house and school. She had not wanted walls about her buildings; he demanded them, with locked iron gates beautifully wrought, and guarded day and night by burly men.

  Callias had meticulously surveyed walls and gates. His desire to destroy Aspasia, and thus destroy Pericles, grew daily. His first plan had been to throw the acid into Aspasia’s face, himself. But like all physically powerful, bullying and loud-voiced men, he was a coward. He studied all possibilities and had finally concluded his plans down to the smallest detail, for he had the cunning mind of the stupid and malicious. He had been told that Pericles spent at least three nights a week in Aspasia’s house. When his cutthroat friends informed him that Pericles would not sleep that night with Aspasia, that he had spent the night before with her, and that he was due to address the Assembly this morning, he completed his plans. He did not know that Aspasia and Pericles had entertained guests the last night, that Pericles had been somewhat overcome with wine and conversation, and had remained in her house, from which he would go to the acropolis.