Glory and the Lightning (74 page)

Late storms of censure hardly left a tile.”

Not only then did he mockingly liken Pericles to Zeus, as did other poets and playwrights. In his
Chiron
he derided:

“Strife and old father Chronus went together to bed

And gave birth to the mightiest tyrant,

Whom the gods call Head-gatherer.”

(This, referring to Pericles’ towering brow and helmet.)

Pericles, however much he despised his fellow aristocrats and the market rabble (who appeared to have too many things in common), had no desire to be a tyrant, not even over his mockers and foes. He might, in his secret anger, wish to bang their heads together and to order them to refrain from their iniquities, and command them, but his emotions were never translated into action. He only watched them assiduously. If others found it strange that the aristocratic nobles of Athens, fastidious and discriminatory, and the odoriferous rabble had a deep accord, Pericles did not. The aristocrats (though they figuratively and sometimes literally held their noses) consorted in private with the rabble. They pretended to deplore the “tyranny” of Pericles, who opposed all laws giving the rabble free bread and meat and cheese and housing and demanded that they work for a living. “He has no compassion on the unfortunate,” the aristocrats would say to leaders of the rabble. “He has no mercy on the deprived and the humble. He despises those in want, and would have them starve. What is the treasury and gold of a people compared with a single human life? Should not taxes be used to alleviate distress and illness and starvation among our people? Are we not equal in our humanity? What pains Pericles in his flesh and belly pains the people of Athens also. He has physicians and medicine and fine food and shelter. You, our poor friends, have none of these. He builds grandiloquent temples and wastes your substance. While a gold and ivory statue is being raised in the Parthenon your children cry for bread, and you desire the barest amenities of living and have them not. Who can compare the house of Pericles with your huts? Our hearts bleed for you.”

None of the rabble appeared to notice that their friends, the aristocrats, parted not with a single drachma to relieve their alleged miserable state. When Hippocrates’ influence persuaded physicians that infirmias for the destitute should be built, the very “friends of the humble” opposed them, for such infirmias would cost them money in increased taxes. When Pericles insisted that the noisome hovels of the poor should be destroyed and more agreeable housing be built, his fellow aristocrats raised an outcry over his “extravagance, and his hypocritical desire to be known, unrighteously, as a humanitarian.”

Pericles, bitterly, understood the motives of the wealthy aristocrats. They were using the rabble against him, to impeach him. If, he would say, these gilded traitors attained their object and became omnipotent, they would at once enslave and subjugate the poor whom they pretended to respect and pity. They, the lovers of the poor, the champions of the afflicted, lusted for power above all things. They, in their souls, hated the populace, and despised them.

Daily the rage of the rabble increased and became more vociferous and audible against Pericles. The aristocrats smiled happily under their noses. The middle class was alarmed at the growing hostility against the man they so deeply admired and trusted. They knew that he stood between them and exploitation by the lazy and worthless, and between them and their natural enemies—the rich patricians. They sent him delegates to extend their love to him, their trust, their faith. Though these were not scholars their deep instincts warned them that their destruction was being plotted by the aristocrats through their minions, the rabble. If they did not know that the aristocrats called them “upstarts, who are inimical to the glory of Greece and would subdue her to the rule of dull merchants and shopkeepers,” they dimly suspected the truth. But they sensed, in their strong spirits, that if they disappeared and the aristocrats were solely in authority and the rabble were slaves, Greece would become a despotism.

Sometimes Pericles pondered: “Who had said that a despotism meant wolves on the top and jackals on the bottom?” Aspasia said, “I think you did, beloved,” to which he responded with gloom, “It does sound like me.”

His endless troubles with Sparta and other city-states were increasing, but he was now so obsessed with the saving of Athens and the buildings on the acropolis and the dilemma of his intellectual friends that he had little time to think of them. His government seemed to be apathetic and offered no suggestions and no assistance—and this made him suspicious. Sparta, believing he had become weak, daily became more aggressive, and incited other sister cities against him. Aspasia, who was not tormented daily as was her lover by the hostile government and the aristocrats, heard of Sparta and her determination to take over trade and commerce from Athens, and subjugate her. Because Pericles came to her and their son with smiles and embraces and jests, she tried to believe that he had complete control over all things. Thargelia would have smiled at this, saying, “Women attribute prescience to the men they love, which can be a mortal error.”

In the midst of all his worries the young city-state of Italy, Rome, sent a commission to him, through her Senate, of three earnest Romans, “in order that you, lord, can instruct them in the creation of a perfect and just Republic, as established by your great lawgiver, Solon, and which has made Greece the wonder of the world.” Pericles, on receiving the message announcing the imminent arrival of the Romans, laughed with mirthless and cynical hilarity. But Aspasia said, “Why disillusion these honest men with the truth? Let them establish their republic, according to Solon, and perhaps they will realize the dream which Athens never attained, a dream which other nations may make into a glorious reality.”

“But these barbarian Romans are also men, and inevitably, despite their labors, they will become corrupt and establish a democracy and hence a despotism.” Yet secretly he felt a deep pity for the Romans and a sadness for their hopes. He prepared to receive them with solemn respect, and ceremony. This made the aristocrats restive and contemptuous. “He will honor barbarians,” they said, “barbarians without an aristocratic tradition, and entertain them lavishly at governmental expense, which will come out of the pockets of the working poor.”

Pericles addressed the Assembly: “We have been laughing at this small and virtuously ambitious city-state in Italy, but who knows what the future will bring? They may be only farmers and little winemakers and shopkeepers; it is possible that tomorrow, if they remain industrious and pious and honor God and humanity and patriotism and justice, they may become, too, of a grand stature.” This highly amused many of the Assembly and the Archons and the Eleven and the Ecclesia. “He is growing senile,” they said among themselves. “The values he extols are the petty follies of the middle class. He apparently does not know that the world is now sophisticated and that most of us have discarded those so-called virtues as the prejudices of our humble fathers who had no advantages and no wide learning.” With superb tolerance they consented to give the Roman barbarians some deference, for were they, themselves, not educated and indulgent gentlemen? As cultivated men they would not insult even foreign savages, who yearned to imitate them.

“We have heard they are a village of grocers,” one man said to Pericles, who replied, “Grocers are estimable. Let us not despise men who work.” He added, “We of Athens have come to belittle labor as fit only for slaves, but I tell you that white hands never built a nation or maintained it. Labor is the cornerstone of grandeur, and he who denies that is not worthy of his bread.”

He personally met and greeted the Romans at the port, clad in ceremonial attire, with an honor guard headed by his trusted lieutenant, Iphis. When the three Romans left the ship drums were sounded, trumpets flared and colors were dipped. Pericles advanced, bowing, then extended his hand solemnly to each Roman in turn. His perceptive eye swept them, and he felt a warm impulse of approval. They were short but bulky men, not fat though muscular, and about forty years old. They had strong and serious faces with large noses, dark eyes and firm full lips, and their hands were calloused and familiar with work. Their hair was severely cropped, their dress sober, and they wore no jewelry. They looked like farmers, for their faces were browned by sun, and their shoulders were massive. They wore plain leather shoes, crudely but sturdily made. Pericles saw clear intelligence in their eyes, though he detected from their sincere expressions that they lacked the urbane humor of Athenians. Each carried one small chest, and none had attendants. They walked weightily as men walk who have trudged the earth and have sweated, and have guided plows and have builded houses. They were men with a purpose, and Pericles trusted them immediately. It was obvious they were peasants.

He took them to his house in his large awninged car, which was drawn by four magnificent white Arabian horses bright with silver harness. They watched everything with grave and alert eyes, and did not pretend that they were not impressed as the car passed grand houses and elaborate government buildings. When they glimpsed the acropolis and the now-completed Parthenon—shining like silver gilt in the morning sun—they audibly drew deep breaths of awe and admiration. Their knowledge of Greek was poor, and their voices were hoarse and loud, as are the voices who call to cattle and swine. They had the genuine dignity of simple men who esteem themselves without vanity, and who honor themselves and their country. Pericles loved them more and more. He pointed out spots of historic interest. They had, at first, been somewhat taciturn with him, as a superior man, but his manners, his kindness, his obvious respect for them as the men they were, reassured them and they spoke to him in the spirit of equality as members of government. They were not ignorant. In slow sentences they mentioned the history of Athens; they were conversant with the civilizations of Egypt also, and other eastern nations.

In short, they were such men as once lived in Greece, proud and steadfast. Alas, thought Pericles, their tribe will disappear as our tribe of husbandmen disappeared, and their children’s children will dishonor their memory and call them simpletons.

They knew much of Sparta, and questioned Pericles. He smiled. “This is a most auspicious and pleasant occasion for me,” he said. “I pray that you will not darken it.” They laughed loudly, an honest and knowing laughter. “We Romans, too, have trouble with little city-states in Italy,” they said. “We wish to live and flourish in peace and in trade, but others challenge us.”

“It is the way of all men,” said Pericles, without originality.

They told him of Cincinnatus, the Father of his Country, who had left his flocks and his fields to defend Rome, and to give it a government which all could revere and respect. “Dusty he came from the meadows, walking barefooted through our streets, his noble head high, his beard flecked with straw, his stride the stride of a man who cannot be turned from principle. When he spoke it was as though a trumpet sounded, for he was a man of truth. Even evil men were silenced by the sound of that voice, the voice of patriotic fervor and conviction. He honored the gods with devotion, as a man of integrity must. For what can destroy a nation if God is with her?”

Pericles had a pungent reply to that, which, out of mercy, he refrained from voicing.

“We are a tribal people,” one said with pride.

“So once were we,” replied Pericles. “Now we are complicated and urban. Every man is his own philosopher in Athens.”

They detected cynicism in his voice and were concerned. But again his smile reassured them. They thought him beautiful and godlike, and his graciousness evoked a response of fraternity in their countrymen’s hearts. They felt sympathy for him but why they did not know. They began to speak of their sons, of their parents, whom they reverenced, and even of their wives, whom Pericles suspected were as frugal, simple and sturdy as themselves. He thought of his father, Xanthippus, and his elegance, and of his mother, Agariste, who would have disdained these men, at least when she had been younger.

They inquired with true interest of Pericles’ family, and he told them of his sons. “My youngest is named for me, and he is an infant still,” he said. Now he became thoughtful. He could not speak of Aspasia as his mistress, and his son as illegitimate, for they would have been shocked to the very heart. He cursed himself for not earlier thinking of this emergency, for he already knew that though Romans respected and loved their wives they kept them secluded, and mistresses secret. How would he explain Aspasia to them, for it was not possible to keep them in ignorance long; they would meet others in government besides himself. So he said, “I have a lovely wife of much intelligence, but Athenians do not regard her as my wife for she is a foreigner born in Miletus.”

He was both pleased and surprised when they laughed in comradeship, and spoke of the Sabine women whom their fathers had abducted and brought to Rome and made wives of them. “To this day,” they said, “many Romans do not acknowledge that those of Sabine ancestry are their equals. Are not men foolish?”

“Of a certainty,” said Pericles.

He was relieved. But what would these Romans think of Aspasia when she joined them at his dinners? Like Athenian wives, Roman wives could dine with their husbands only when they were alone. How could he explain the hetairai to them, for surely they would hear of the ornamental and learned courtesans. They would also learn that Aspasia had been one of that adorable company. He said, “My beloved wife has been gifted with intelligence, and so she was educated highly. In consequence, she has come under suspicion as a woman of immoral character.”

One Roman hesitated, then said with candor, “I have four sons, in whom my heart rejoices, but I have a daughter who is the sweet core of my heart. My sons are valorous and are soldiers, but their minds are not of great consequence. My daughter has the wit of a man, and I have a tutor for her, though my wife disapproves, being an ‘old’ Roman. My daughter, Calabria, swears she will not marry a man except of her choosing, and though this is reprehensible in a mere chit,” and he bridled with pride, “I agree with her, for I saw her mother in the market and loved her at once and asked her consent after her parents had given me their heartiest approval. Had my wife refused me I would have withdrawn, in spite of my love for her, for she had a beauteous face. But Venus was kind and her son, Cupid, had pierced my wife’s soul with his arrow.”