Glory and the Lightning (45 page)

CHAPTER 8

Among the wedding guests was the shy and emotional Ichthus, who was, from a calm and philosophic view, deplorable in his lack of self-restraint. His feelings were ever visible, in the constant slight trembling of his face and in his ardent and fervid eyes. He seemed always on the verge of flight; his sensitivity was that of a man who has been flayed. A felicitous word or a kind smile could provoke him to tears. He haunted the colonnades, following the philosophers and listening, and sometimes he would cry out as if unbearably moved. The philosophers found this gratifying, if amusing. Their students did not. They did not know that here was an undefiled soul who yearned for beauty and justice and truth and could not understand a world in which these were so terribly lacking. (Worse, he could not express in eloquent speech the majesty he perceived, and so could only mumble though his spirit vibrated. His tongue was as if paralysed.)

However, he could write. He wrote anonymously, and broadcast his writing throughout Athens, employing young lads to toss pieces of parchment in public places, and against the doors of houses. His poems were poor if touching. But his polemics were potent and galvanic. They rang with passion and eloquence and fire. He questioned everything, but with humility, if it pertained to the Godhead. However, when he questioned government it was as if a volcano had broken its stony fastnesses and was pouring lava and flame over the city, full of wrath.

His particular hatred was for the hypocritical democracy of Athens, which pretended to serve the people but only served politicians. “The Founding Father of our once-beneficent laws, Solon of holy memory, sought to establish a just republic, wherein there would be no slaves and all men would be equal under the law, and all would have recourse to government if offended or deprived of their rights. No privileged man would be above the law nor too humble to evoke it. The Tyrants proclaimed that they followed the laws of Solon; they perverted them for their own advantage and almost destroyed Athens with their venality, their craftiness and exigency. Virtue’s own spotless raiment was assumed, and is still assumed, in which to envelop demons and give them an air of authority and sanctity. Harpies swooping with the white wings of justice! Where is the man in Athens today, no matter his station, who can declare in all honesty, ‘I am a free man?’ Onerous taxes destroy ambition and create listlessness in the strong and mendicancy in the weak. No man knows this very hour whether his land belongs to him or if the government will seize it tomorrow for evil purposes. The Ecclesia is a den of thieves; it is a congregation of liars and oppressors! It deprives honorable men of their goods or their lives. It elevates Cerberuses to be the guardians of the people! The River Styx flows through Athens and her dominions. Who will build a bridge upon it over which free men can flee and be safe?”

The Ecclesia affected to be ignorant of these writings, or if someone brought them to their attention they laughed indulgently. “A hot-head, a fool, a disgruntled idiot,” they said. “Who but slaves would read such nonsense—if slaves can read? Is not Athens rich and strong and proud, filled with artists and philosophers, the wonder of the modern world? Such could not flourish if Athens were oppressed by its government or restricted or muted. There will always be dissenters. If their cause is just we will listen. But when their cause is stupid or mad we must ignore them.”

But the Ecclesia did not ignore the writings of Ichthus. They set their spies searching for him. Only one person was convinced that he knew the author of these fiery writings which were disturbing the minds of the people and forcing them to think of their government even above their petty daily affairs. That man was Pericles. He was determined that he must speak to Ichthus for the latter’s own sake. Prudence, prudence, he said to himself, as if addressing his shy friend. Then he would add with bitterness, “Dear Ichthus, the truth is a deadly spice and can poison the administrator. I agree with you, but the time is not yet. Prudence, no. Patience, yes.” Then he would ridicule himself for his own discretion. More nations, he thought, were destroyed by indifferent patience on the part of the people than by perhaps any other destroyer. A people which had too much tolerance for evil deserved to die in its own leniency. There was a difference between indulgence for natural faultiness and indulgence for wickedness. The first was civilized, the second perfidious.

Then Pericles reflected that there was nothing more invincible than a just and uncorrupted man who set out to right wrongs. Gentle and timid though Ichthus was he had the soul of a Hercules bent on cleaning out the Augean Stables though he died for it. Rightful anger was a frightful weapon, stronger than Damascene steel, and he who used it must beware that it did not turn in his hand and slay him. Pericles decided that at some time during the wedding festivities he would speak quietly to Ichthus and urge—what? Self-preservation? Such was the cave in which shivering cowards died of their own inertia. If men had any reason for living at all it was for truth and honor and justice. For anything less, for compromise, a man was only a devouring beast intent on his miserable security and appetites.

Pericles thought of his father, Xanthippus, and his heart burned. What should he say to Ichthus which would not be a soothing lie?

Pericles, with his best man and his other friends, went to the house of Daedalus to the wedding ceremonies. He was so preoccupied with his dream of the beautiful mythical woman and the problem of Ichthus that any thought of his own state was numbed. Seeing his abstraction his friends became silent.

The house of Daedalus was already seething with gay guests, and was wreathed in laurel and olive leaves and somewhat dejected flowers wilting in the cold air. The Ecclesia, many of them, wore the bland and smiling faces of politicians and greeted everyone as if they were the honored. At last a signal was given and all repaired to the banqueting hall, where tables were set aside for the men, including the bridegroom and his attendants, and others in the rear for the women. Daedalus, though very rich, was frugal and so the cloths on the table were of the coarsest linen and the spoons and knives thinly plated with silver. Here were no rugs or precious murals but only small statues of the household gods on wall pedestals. The bare stone floor was icy. There were no silken curtains at the windows; heavy dull wool hung there instead. No braziers warmed the air except for a thrifty one in the center of the hall. The Archon boasted of his austerity; Pericles decided he was less austere than mean. The vases in the corners of the hall were slightly filled with drooping branches, unflowered.

Pericles saw his bride at a distance, clad in a demure tunic of blue linen with a toga over it of a darker blue. She was veiled and had a wreath on her overly large round head which appeared to be set solidly on her shoulders with no neck intervening. Her friends sat about her, chattering happily, but she was stolidly silent as always except that occasionally her thin voice, laden with complaint on this, her wedding night, could be heard over the voices of the other women. As she was the most important person among the women today some gave her complaints attention, for all they were meaningless and irrelevant and did not express true dissatisfaction with anything. Her mother, as stoutly shapeless as herself, and with the same hard round head and heavy stupid features, sat sullenly at her side. Semele was very pleased by this marriage of her daughter to the handsome and distinguished Pericles. But if one were to judge by her wary and sulky expression one would have guessed that she was in ill-temper and morose. Her graying hair was lank by nature, though for these festivities it had been painfully curled and waved and bound in red ribbons. Her clothing was brown; she wore no jewelry. Like her daughter, she had a truly snout-like nose, with large gross nostrils, a low sallow forehead and sallower fat cheeks, a thick mouth sharply downturned, and very small sunken black eyes constantly darting with suspicion of all things. Her chin was greasy.

Agariste looked upon Semele and Dejanira and sighed. She glanced across the hall at her son, and felt a sick compunction. She prayed to her patroness, Athene, that Pericles would beget children, if not beautiful, at least with some of his intelligence.

As for Pericles he sat among the men, at Daedalus’ right hand, and he was filled with dark gloom. He looked at his veiled bride and at her mother, whom she incredibly resembled, and shuddered inwardly. He usually drank with care and moderation but now he resolutely strove for drunkenness. The wine was execrable if strong. Fortunately Daedalus had thought to provide Syrian whiskey and Pericles, wincing, drank it down, then hastily ate a piece of brown rough bread. He had become accustomed to army food during his campaigns, otherwise the dinner would have revolted him. There were suckling pigs prepared carelessly and without flavor, and game and fowl and fish—without a sauce, and a mound of mashed beans and lentils cooked with no felicity and tasting of rancid pork. There were wilted onions indifferently roasted, and olives both green and ripe, and they tasted of too much brine. The cheeses were dry and hard and cracked, with thick rinds. The pastries had no delicacy. The fruit was wizened and had spots of decay upon them. Even in the country the peasants fared better than this. The wedding feast would have been despised by slaves in the house of Xanthippus. Pericles drank more whiskey. Finally a warm haze enveloped him from the potions and a dreamlike apathy flowed over him. Voices seemed louder and incoherent. The forced laughter of the men became jovial to his ears. He thought to himself, Nothing lasts forever. He could forget this nightmare tomorrow, this visitation of harpies, this presence of Medusas.

Daedalus, who prided himself on his controlled appetite, ate sparingly, and when guests were served more wine he watched closely, calculating the cost. He saw the two leather bottles of whiskey being emptied, and frowned. He detested immoderation. He also disliked frivolity but Semele had insisted on music, so a male slave—no pretty dancing girls!—played alternately on flute and lyre with a pathetic lack of talent. Pericles, subsiding more and more into drunkenness, believed that he was listening to the wailings in Hades. He no longer cared. His handsome face flushed. His helmet tilted over one ear. His wedding garments of silk became stained with wine and grease, he who was so fastidious. He looked across at Anaxagoras who was, with his exquisite politeness and unshaken courtesy, eating a little. Pericles winked openly at him, and at Pheidias. They began to avoid his eyes. Ichthus, who cared nothing for flavors or culinary delights, looked about to burst into a polemic, and Pericles kicked him deftly under the table. His friend glared at him, confused and bewildered. But something in those pale eyes directed at him kept him silent. He hated the Archon who to him embodied all the crimes of the Ecclesia. His overly sensitive mouth quivered; yet he obeyed Pericles, his idol, who, to him, possessed all the heroic virtues. The hanging lamps looked down at the wedding party unshaded, and without fragrance. A cold wind swept through the hall at intervals and the one brazier in the center of the room spluttered and gave out little warmth. The few slaves scurried, sweating, overwhelmed by the presence of too many guests for their services.

A young male slave listlessly moved among the guests carrying a basket of sesame cakes and intoning, as was traditional, “I have eschewed the worse; I have found the better.” Ho, thought Pericles, and felt a wild impulse to roar with laughter. He looked at the table where his bride sat. Dejanira still wore her veil, but she was avidly stuffing her mouth under it, greedily, as if starving. Her whining voice drifted to him occasionally and he thought, I hope I am not moved to strangle her tonight. Would that not be rude of me? Tut, tut, I am a gentleman. The whiskey permeated his mind mercifully at last and he wanted to sleep. There was an acrid odor in the air which he disliked. He did not know that it came from the whiskey in his goblet and on his clothes. Daedalus scowled. His son-in-law was certainly behaving strangely. The Archon did not delude himself—for he had eyes—that his daughter was desirable except for her money and position. However, he resented this open display of intoxication on the part of Pericles. If he continued to drink that abominable whiskey he would become unconscious and that would be a scandal. The whiskey was also costly and was being wasted. He motioned away a slave who would have filled Pericles’ goblet again but Pericles seized the bottle himself and poured the contents into the receptacle and drank it down in one gulp as if it were army wine. He began to shake with laughter, and his friends were alarmed. Open public laughter was foreign to Pericles who had a stately decorum at all times.

Then came the presentation of gifts to the bride. She and her mother eagerly inspected all, cleverly guessing at their price. Then they were satisfied, looking at each other with satisfaction. The guests had not forgotten that the bride was the daughter of an Archon, who could be a malevolent and dangerous enemy. Pheidias had presented a figurine of Hera so charmingly cast in shining bronze, and with details that were so incredibly living, that the guests exclaimed in sincere admiration. Pish, thought the Archon. It is a nothing. It is worth but a few drachmas. The sculptor had fame; he ought to have presented a figurine of ivory and gold at the very least. Daedalus was insulted. He looked at Pheidias surlily under his tight eyelids. Fame! For such cheap trivia? Bah. He, Daedalus, would remember this offense.

It was now the time for the procession to take the bride to her new home. The marriage wagon was prepared; two white horses were attached to it. Anaxagoras, as the best man of the bridegroom, was, by tradition, obliged to drive it. He had forgotten this contingency, and was much alarmed until Pheidias offered his services also. Pericles never remembered how he, staggering and laughing, was got into the vehicle beside his still-veiled bride, but it vaguely seemed to him that something of sturdy bulk was his support and against which he helplessly sagged as the wagon proceeded over the cobblestones of the city, swaying and lurching. It was early night, and the stones glistened whitely with frost and a full moon was a cold and blazing ball skipping through thin black clouds. People rushed to their doors to see the procession, which was very large and noisy as it followed the wagon. The whole wedding party was on foot, carrying flaring red torches; flutes and lyres could hardly be heard over the roaring of the marriage hymn. Little boys began to follow the procession, capering like fauns, and the guests threw coins at them and sweetmeats.