The youths conversed with their mother in an atmosphere of ease and love. She stroked their arms and fixed her eyes on their countenances, seeking for signs of Pericles. She asked about their academe. She had heard that Xanthippus was almost espoused to the daughter of a great house. Xanthippus shrugged. “I have met the maiden in the school of Aspasia, and she is sweet and kind. Why is it necessary for a man to marry? Is marriage all?”
To which his teased mother replied earnestly, “Yes, it is all.”
Xanthippus was about to enter on his military service and he affected to find it onerous, but he was the son of Pericles and the grandson of Xanthippus, and he always thought of this with a pride he was careful to conceal. He talked with his mother, but he was easily bored with those whose minds were lesser than his, and he was soon yawning despite the stern glances Paralus gave him. At last, in spite of Dejanira’s entreaties, both youths protested that they must return to their father’s house, as the hour was late and they had a military guard waiting in the courtyard. The poor woman clung to them, kissing them and leaving her tears on their cheeks, and imploring them to visit her as soon as possible.
They mounted their horses. An abnormally large orange moon stood in the dark sky and gave the earth a curious illumination, so that every pillar and wall shone with a saffron light and every shadow was sharp and black. The hills were bathed in a wash of lemon yellow and the crowded and rising columns of the acropolis temples appeared to be made of gold. Athens, below, glittered with red torches and lanterns and lamps, restless and unsleeping. The autumn air was pungent and the wind cool. Fallen leaves rattled on the road and scurried before the horses like brittle small animals. Xanthippus began to sing the newest ribald ditty of the streets, to the amusement of the guard, and he added a few more stanzas of his own which were even more lewd. The horses pranced a little; hoofs clattered on stone. Xanthippus was in high spirits, as usual, while his brother merely smiled and made reproving sounds which were not entirely sincere.
The military guard carried torches and rode close to the brothers, watching every door and alley. They glanced at rooftops, for the light of the moon was very vivid. But they did not see the archer who was awaiting them, crouched on a roof and hidden by shadows. He did not rise until the company was directly below him, and he stood for an instant or two like a black faceless demon from Hades against the orange moon. A guard uttered a loud cry. But the archer was swift and skilled and he had chosen his target.
There was a whirring sound in the air, as deadly as that of a hawk, and the arrow found its lethal way into the right eye of Paralus, and he fell into the path of the horseman behind him.
Instantly, all was uproar and shoutings and the screaming of horses, and the hissing of fallen torches, which spewed off showers of red sparks on the stone. Horses wheeled frantically and reared. Xanthippus, careless of danger, swung down from his horse and threw himself on tire body of his brother, and felt the blow of a horse’s hoof on his left arm.
Everything became confusion and oaths; men and horses crashed into each other. One horseman veered about and raced towards the house, dark and closed, on which the archer had stood. But he had disappeared, vanished like a phantom.
CHAPTER 6
Helena would not permit visitors to her patients in the infirmia, in order to limit meddling and noise. “The patient’s welfare is more important than your curiosity, or even your love,” she would tell anxious relatives. “He must rest if he is to recover. Who knows what diseases you may bring to him unwittingly? I have studied with Hippocrates, who says that the well may carry with them infections which will overcome the sick or the feeble.”
She had a pleasant room for relatives and friends outside the infirmia itself, scented with flowers and a fragrant fountain, and with comfortable chairs. There she would converse with the visitors and tell them evil news or good. Her physicians would sometimes accompany her, with an air of deference when she spoke. In this room her voice was firm and strong. When visitors lamented the fate of the sick she would say, “Sophocles has said that it is better never to have been born at all in this world. Why do we grieve if one dies? Socrates says that a good man has nothing to fear in this world or the next—if it exists, and that death is only sleep, and who does not desire sleep? Death is our portion; it comes to us late or soon and none can escape it. We must accept it, as we accept life. The wise lawgiver of Athens, Solon, has advised us never to call a man’s life happy until it is over. Think on these things, and you may envy the dying.”
For these remarks, delivered to the relatives of an expiring patient, she was considered heartless and without sympathy. She told her friends, sighing, that if a physician became one with his patients he would not be able to practice his art and would spend his days in fruitless tears. At all times, he must be as remote as Olympus, if his mind and intellect were not to be clouded by emotion, and yet must understand human suffering and grief. But they must be objective, not subjective, lest the patient himself suffer.
She would not permit alleged sorcerers or miracle-workers into her infirmia, nor would she allow a patient’s neck to be garlanded with amulets. “It is true,” she would say, “that the mind rules the body more than the body rules the mind, and sometimes superstition is as strong as a draught of medicine. But let me and my other physicians decide whether a man or woman is ill of the soul or of the flesh. If of the soul, you may bring amulets—for the soul is easily persuaded and is subjective. But if he has an illness of the body an amulet will not cure cancer or cut for the stone or deliver a child in difficulties. The body is objective, and does not believe in amulets.”
Still she was beginning, more and more, to believe that a man’s will to survive was most potent. She said to Pericles, “Your son will live, but he has lost the sight of his eye and nothing can restore it, not even the gods. It is miraculous that he is not dead or paralysed, for the point of the arrow pierced his brain. He is a valorous youth. He is determined to live and does not spend his painful hours bewailing that his sight will now be only partial. He is glad that he is not blind. As for Xanthippus, you may take him to your house, for he had but a broken arm and shoulder. He will not be comfortable for some time. However, he is more disturbed about his brother than is Paralus, himself, and vows vengeance.” Helena’s high color faded and her face, usually robustly cheerful, darkened.
“It is being sought,” said Pericles, and his voice, though quiet, had a terribleness in it. “This was not a private vengeance or a sudden impulse, the attack on my son. The attack was directed at me. I have no foes but political ones. Even if the King Archon himself is responsible for this, he will suffer.”
Paralus was the first person of high family to be a patient in the infirmia, for all households had their own physicians. But Pericles believed Helena to be the most learned of them all. Paralus had been brought here at Pericles’ request, almost in a state of extremis, and he was in one of Helena’s handsome private quarters, guarded at all times, both within the chamber and outside the infirmia, and in every corridor by armed men with drawn swords. Not a morsel of food or a goblet of wine or water was permitted to enter his mouth without its first being tested for poison. His favorite dog slept at his side, as alert as the guards at any sound it did not recognize. In the next chamber Xanthippus had been housed. The brothers had been here a week.
Pericles said to Helena, “Aspasia pleads to be allowed to visit Paralus.”
“Of a certainty my dear friend may visit one she loves so dearly, who is like a son to her.”
“I am fearful her grief may affect her in her pregnancy.”
Helena laughed shortly. “A pregnant woman is doubly protected, and she is as strong as a span of horses. Nature protects burgeoning life more than she protects those already born. Let Aspasia come, to relieve her anxiety. Her very countenance will soothe and delight Paralus.” She hesitated. “Aspasia is well guarded, also?”
“I have doubled the guard—in my house. I have tak
en her from her own. She does not breathe without being heard. I lie beside her with my drawn sword in my hand.”
Helena said, “The attack upon Aspasia was a private malice, though directed at you. The attack on your son was doubtless political, as you have said. Therefore, it is more dangerous, and more formidable. I doubt that your political enemies will attempt to injure you through Aspasia, for they regard women as trivial and insignificant, no matter who loves them. Guard your son, Xanthippus, as closely as Paralus is guarded. Guard yourself above all.”
“Base dogs!” Pericles exclaimed. “They dared not attack me, myself! They knew it would arouse the rage of those who trust me. They therefore struck at me through my son, in order to frighten and intimidate me, and cause me distraction, and give me a warning. They wish me to withdraw in fear for my family, because though they whisper of impeachment and my ouster from office they know the people are with me. I will not withdraw! But I will find the perpetrators of this mischief and will ruin them.”
“They may be too many,” said Helena, thinking that a civil war could well be precipitated. She said, “Let me advise you, my dearest Pericles. Do not cry out publicly that this is a political matter, lest you open the gates of hell, to the injury of Athens. Say always it was some dastardly criminal, who wished to rob or who had a private spite against you. Demand openly that Athens employ more street guards in order that blameless citizens might be safe from murder and theft.”
“What pusillanimous advice!” said Pericles.
She smiled. “Perhaps. But think on it for a moment or two. My advice is wise. You will lull your enemies into complacence, while you search them out. An open attack on them will invite an open attack on you, whatever the consequences to themselves, for they are desperate.”
Pericles considered. As he was rarely if ever moved by emotion he began to see the wisdom of Helena’s advice, though it galled him and angered him.
“I suggest,” said Helena, watching his white face closely, “that you proclaim a high reward for the discovery of the ‘single criminal.’ Make the reward so high that the hired assassin will be more than tempted to betray those who employed him. Offer him sanctuary, if he comes to you, which he possibly will. Money, with death, is no temptation. In the meantime, breathe no word of your true suspicions. Accept the condolences and the sympathy which the government is offering you, and do not search each face fiercely with your eyes. They must suspect nothing, though it is most possible that the greater the vehemence of indignation expressed the greater the probability of guilt.”
Frowning, and running his fingers through his hair, Pericles said, “Some of my horsemen have sworn that they saw not a single archer, but others on other rooftops, waiting to see if the first succeeded. I do know that arrows were found in the shoulder of Xanthippus’ horse. Had he not flung himself instantly on the body of Paralus he would have been murdered. Only the second arrows convinced me that my men were not hysterical.”
“Then, above all, say publicly that it was but a single criminal who had attacked your company, and your enemies will be deceived. But I will wager that after you offer your reward there will be an unusual number of dead criminals found in alleys. Your enemies dare not let them live.”
“What it is to be a politician!” said Pericles, with bitterness. “If a man seeks to help and glorify his country and make her strong before her enemies his own people will leap at his throat and call him malefactor, a thief, a mountebank, a liar! Better it is to smile and smile and smile upon the people and show a shining countenance than to raise them above the ruck.”
“But, is that not an ancient story of heroes?” said Helena, and refilled his goblet. They sat in the blue twilight in the outdoor portico for, though it was autumn, it had been a warm and golden day. “My dear Pericles, you will remember the ancient proverb concerning powerful men: ‘Walk softly among your enemies—with a sleeping sword.’ Do you desire the fate of noble men? Exile or death or maledictions or contempt or hatred? Heroism is splendid, and candor, but there is also judiciousness in all things—if a man would serve his country as well as possible.”
When he did not reply she laughed and put her warm hand on his knee. “This you have told me always. Am I not a good pupil? I repeat to you your own words. Reveal yourself as a just and angry man before your people and they will laugh at you.”
Pericles had difficulty in removing Xanthippus from the infirmia, for the youth did not trust even Pericles’ most trusted guards. Pericles was forced to exert all his parental authority to take his son to his house.
Helena, despite her convictions, had permitted the weeping Dejanira to visit her stricken sons. Dejanira volubly and tearfully questioned Helena about the identity of the assassin. Who would wish to injure her children? What was the power of Pericles if such could attack her sons amidst their guards? Athens had become a den of thieves who flaunted the law, and murderers who could kill at will. Where had been the city guards, that none were present? Helena, restraining her impatience, replied, “These are evil days, as always the world has evil days. We must acknowledge this. Mankind is a race of barbarians, of primeval animals.”
“My father,” Dejanira replied, her face red and swollen with weeping, “declares that it is Pericles who has been too tender towards criminals and the judges too merciful, and that we need a stronger man as Head of State. He is distraught. He has taken to his bed, my poor father.”
Helena was too kind to explain to this unfortunate and stupid woman that her father’s incessant ravings and denunciations had assisted and encouraged the attack on Paralus. She could only shrug and repeat that these were evil days. “No one is ever safe in this world,” she said. “Those who seek safety and security are deluded, just as those who fight for peace inevitably must face war.”
Friends and enemies in the government all extended words of wrath and condolence to Pericles, and he watched their faces, friend and foe alike, seeking for those who had plotted his son’s death. “It is outrageous,” said the Archons, and Pericles smiled cynically but accepted their remarks with grace and apparent gratitude. They congratulated him on offering the huge reward for the apprehension of the assassin. Many offered a purse of their own also. It was a paradox which only Zeno appreciated, that Pericles’ worst enemies were the most lavish in their offerings, and the loudest in their expressions of ire. But he knew that among themselves they were pleased, and sniggered, and that they whispered against him.
He said to Aspasia, “My dear one, I am going to remove you, before the birth of our child, to one of my most secluded farms near Athens, with guards.”
Aspasia said, “No. I must remain with you, lest fear destroy me. I am guarded here.” She gazed at him desperately. “I have my part in your present persecution. Would it not be well if you did not see me again?”
He was both touched and irritated and said, “Shall the lions flee before the jackals? Shall they whimper at shadows? You must obey me, for my peace of mind. You will leave for my farm tomorrow, at dawn, and none must know where you are save Helena and myself.”
He dared not accompany her to the remote and peaceful farm lest it be noted, so she left in the morning before the sun came up and few were on the roads. She was accompanied by strong and trusted slaves and soldiers, who were to remain with her. “If the Lady Aspasia comes to harm,” he said to them, “I will exact the utmost penalty not on one of you, but all. Therefore, you must watch each other sleeplessly, and report the smallest dereliction to me.”
Helena promised him that when the hour of the child’s birth was imminent she would go to Aspasia, though ostensibly she was going to Epidaurus to pray in the temple of Asclepius, son of Apollo, who had been educated by Chiron, the centaur. There she would also attend a meeting of the new followers of Hippocrates, and study his methods and his teachings. “He has removed medicine from the realm of magic and thaumaturgy,” she said to Pericles. “He is loftier than any Egyptian teacher. Have you ever wondered, my dear Peric
les, why so much genius has been born and has arisen in this brief time in Greece? If I were a devout woman and believed in the gods I would say that they have looked down upon us from Parnassus and have blessed us. For truly this is a miracle.”
Zeno, too, believed in the miracle. “God has chosen Greece for a great and majestic destiny,” he said to Pericles. “What other race in our history and memory has been so deluged with glory and ferment and genius?”
Even Pericles, worn and coldly enraged and embittered now, conceded that something mysterious had occurred to cause the lightning to strike this little land with such brilliance and concentrated gifts. He said, “Anaxagoras has declared that the Universal Mind is not remote and indifferent, but chooses, not at random, to open His hands in blessing upon a nation or a race, for His own purposes, and Pheidias asserts that this is the hour of Greece and when even Athens is in ruins her spirit will dominate the world.”
“In spite of our deplorable government,” said Anaxagoras. “But what have governments to do with a nation? They are catastrophes rather than patrons of that which has splendor.”
Pericles, on Aspasia’s departure, was bereft. He visited Helena for comfort and encouragement, and inevitably, to soothe him, she took him to her bed. She was a sensible woman; she knew she was not violating his love for Aspasia, and that men needed the consolations and the soft words and hands of a woman in their extremity. Moreover, she was not afraid for him, as Aspasia was afraid. “Love makes cowards of the most valiant,” she told him. “Aspasia is a woman of valor and never knew true fear before, but now she is as weak as the daisy of the field for dread for you. I write her constantly that you are flourishing, though,” she added with a smile, “I do not inform her that you find surcease in my arms. You and I are old friends, Pericles, but Aspasia, being a woman abjectly in love with you, would not understand for all her intelligence. We could not explain to her that we do not love each other, except as friends, and that our festivals in bed have no true meaning.”