Glory and the Lightning (58 page)

He went, hooded and alone, to the dark abode of an old woman notable for her brews and her potions. Many called her Hecate, and she had even preened herself on the name, and had cackled. Her house was avoided, not only at night but by day also, for it was rumored that she could cast evil spells. Nevertheless, she had her customers who went to her for love philters and amulets and curses upon their enemies. Barren women visited her, and became fertile. She told fortunes, and multitudes whispered that she was a seeress. Officials considered her mad and so did not apprehend her, for they had heard that she was lavish with gifts to the temples. She was rich, if not honored. There were those who said she was one of the Sibyls in disguise. Her house was set in a grove of heavy sycamores and guarded by fierce dogs on chains, which she could loose in an instant—it was said—by uttering a single guttural word. The house, though small, was luxurious and filled with treasures given to her by grateful patrons. Daedalus, who proclaimed himself above superstition, had execrated her, calling her the scandal of Athens.

Callias trusted no one, so he did not send a slave to acquaint Hecate that she was about to be visited by a noble lord. Slaves babbled. If his grandfather heard that his grandson had visited such an ominous woman he would be wrathful, even with him, and declare him a disgrace. Besides, Daedalus was an Archon, who had public responsibilities, and was a cautious man. Callias knew that Daedalus had tried to injure Pericles through Aspasia, but only by way of legal channels, and that furtively.

It must be done by the utmost stealth, so that none would suspect the son of an aristocratic house.

Callias, though rich, was frugal. He thought of intimidating Hecate with threats, when he found himself, still hooded, in her house, his features hidden, and so to force her to accept only a gold coin or two. But she insisted on fifty gold crowns, and when he complained that he was a poor man, she laughed at him and offered to set one of her snarling wolflike dogs on him and drive him off. He had worn humble clothing, but she saw that his large hands had never labored, but were soft and fat, and she heard his voice, which, though coarse, was not the voice of a peasant or small shopkeeper.

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 time 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.