Now he rose in the full dignity of his official robes and said to them with bitter sternness: “I am your judge, before the gods. Before me, Polycrates, you would have committed perjury against an innocent man, for his destruction. You are more guilty than your companion, Thucydides, who is very old and considers money sacred, and is of a lowly house through his mother. Therefore, I now put you both under arrest and confine you to prison to await a public trial, where all will be exposed and nothing hidden.”
“A moment,” said Pericles. “I need the names of your fellow conspirators, for they shall not escape my own judgment. Speak, Polycrates. You have nothing to lose now.”
But Polycrates hesitated, for he was of an aristocratic house. It was Thucydides who took a trembling step towards Pericles and cried out, “I will name them, lord, if you will have mercy on me! I am an old man, white of hair and beard, and I would die in prison. Have mercy!”
Pericles said, “I will promise you nothing, but I will take into consideration that you have made a full confession of your guilt, and that you have not withheld the names of your guilty companions.”
He lifted his pen and drew parchment towards him. “Well?” he said. Thucydides glanced swiftly at Polycrates, who could only stand, the blood trickling down his face.
So Thucydides named them. The King Archon listened in silent horror, for several were his friends and one was married to his niece. Once or twice he made a gesture of despair and sickness. Pericles wrote down each name as Thucydides mumbled it, still wringing his hands. When Thucydides stopped speaking, Pericles contemplated the names he had written and his eyes had the blank look of a statue staring at the sun.
He said, most quietly, “Polycrates, I thought that I, and I alone, knew of your illicit marriage. I never told you I knew. I had pity, as you did not have pity, or gratitude for my appointing you keeper of the treasury. If you remain alive and are tried, that marriage will become public knowledge. I assure you of that. If you are not tried, your companions will keep their own silence, for they are of your class. They will also believe that you never betrayed them, and so will not speak.”
He then turned to Thucydides. “I do not wish you tried, either, for you might blurt out the pathetic concealment of Polycrates. Yes, I call it pathetic, for do I not, myself, love a foreign woman? You are not to be trusted in open court, Thucydides. So, you must leave Athens at once, for self-appointed exile, for life. And,” again his voice rose dauntingly, “if you speak of Polycrates, and his family, then even in exile you will be sought out and you will die.”
Thucydides, overcome with feverish joy, clasped his hands and beat them against his bearded chin. “Lord, may the gods bless you for your mercy! I will leave, today, today, with no word to anyone, not even my kindred!” Tears of both exhaustion and relief spurted from his eyes.
Pericles made a mouth of total disgust. He said, “You have not told me which man it was who bribed Polycrates.”
Now Thucydides himself hesitated, for he had withheld the name of Callias out of fear of Pericles, himself, for was not Callias the son of Pericles’ rejected wife? Callias might hate Pericles, and Pericles detest Callias, but he was the brother of Pericles’ sons. He was in a dilemma, and again he darted a glance at Polycrates. But Polycrates had bent his head and appeared to be meditating.
“Was it you, Thucydides?” said Pericles.
Terrified again, fearful that the mercy offered him would be withdrawn if Pericles believed him guilty, the old man exclaimed, “Lord, you must not be angry, for have I not confessed and given you the names of the others? Lord, the man who bribed Polycrates and threatened him was—was—Callias, brother to your sons.”
There was a prolonged silence in the room, while all stood as statues, even Iphis and the soldiers. Then Pericles said, without any emotion apparent at all, “I should have guessed it. Yes, I should have known.”
He laid the pen down on the table with a steady hand. He began to roll the parchment as if he was not aware of those about him.
Finally he looked at Polycrates and now Polycrates looked at him steadfastly. The blood was clotting on his forehead.
“You are a brave man, for all your venality, Polycrates, and all your crimes against a good and innocent and illustrious man. Yes, you might have resisted bribery, but not the shame of your family. You see that I am merciful, after all.”
Polycrates bowed in silence, and his face was the face of a dead man.
“You understand entirely, Polycrates?”
“Yes, lord,” Polycrates replied. His smile was heart-broken but unshaken. Thucydides stared. Polycrates was more guilty than himself, yet Pericles had spared him and he gaped and frowned. Polycrates was not even condemned to exile!
“You may both leave now,” said Pericles and turned in his chair away from them. Then he said to Polycrates, “Go in peace. Embrace your family.”
When they had left the King Archon said in a wondering and tremulous voice, “I have deeply wronged you, myself, Pericles, and I beg your forgiveness, for you are a noble man.” He stopped and smiled a little. “For all you are also recklessly extravagant!”
But Pericles said nothing, and after a compassionate glance at him the King Archon departed also.
Polycrates did indeed embrace his beloved family that night, then retired to his chamber, alone. Then with a firm hand he plunged his dagger into his heart and quietly died. His suicide was never explained.
Callias was followed a few nights later when he went to one of his disreputable haunts near the sea, wrapped as always in a cloak and hood. He was murdered in an alley. His murderers were never found, but it was said that he had been slain by robbers, who had taken his purse.
The other conspirators were deluded that Polycrates had died rather than implicate them, so in gratitude they did not betray him in his death. As for Thucydides—where was that old vulgarian? No one ever saw him again. He had fled, they concluded, when he had heard of Polycrates’ suicide. Therefore, the only two witnesses who could have brought them to trial had vanished. But when Callias was murdered, ostensibly by thieves, they guessed a little of the truth, if only a little. As for the stranger who had poisoned Pheidias, he was to remain undiscovered.
One by one they silently left Athens for prolonged absences, and a number of them did not return. But the rumor they had begun, that Pericles had had Pheidias poisoned, was believed by the market rabble.
CHAPTER 16
Paralus requested permission, through a slave, to speak to his father in Pericles’ library. When the permission was given Paralus entered the library where Pericles, his face like gray marble, was studying some war maps and plans of strategy. His heavy and white-streaked mane gave him an implacable look as it fell over his brow and ears, and he was no longer Head of State in his appearance but again an indomitable soldier, for the war with Sparta and her sister city-states had suddenly broken out in tragic thunder and fire. Athens had never been so ominously threatened since the Persian wars. He looked up at Paralus almost as if he did not see him, then motioned to a chair. He returned to his maps. He wore a thick robe of crimson wool and a brazier burned warmly near him, for it was winter, and snow already lay heavily on the far Macedonian mountains and the air in Athens was as sharp as a sword to the flesh and a dull sky overlay her blasted hills. Pericles’ feet were encased in fur-lined high boots, and his hands were chill and he rubbed them for a moment, absently, not taking his pale eyes from the maps.
Paralus did not sit down. He merely waited, gazing at his father, his face strangely resembling Pericles’ own, for all his dark remaining eye. Pericles continued to study the maps, frowning. However, he was well aware that his son stood near him in silence. He was thinking. He heard the clang of iron-shod shoes outside on stone, as his soldiers guarded the house. The lamplight flickered in a draft; the woollen curtains were not quite drawn over the windows and the moon stared in, pure white ice drifting on a black sea.
Since last summer, when Pheidi
as and Callias had both been murdered, something had changed in Paralus. He had never been garrulous like his antic brother, now in command of a huge garrison of soldiers guarding the approach to Athens. Paralus was not subject to abrupt changes of moods, as was Xanthippus, and his humor was more ponderous, for all it was telling. He was steadfast and somewhat slow, in comparison with Xanthippus’ volatile and witty nature. He was never noisy and he spoke only when he had something to say. Still, he had become more and more quiet since last summer, and his natural gravity had increased and often he appeared abstracted. Pericles, despite his awful problems, had finally become aware of this, though he had not remarked on it. Like Paralus, he never invaded the secret thoughts of others, except Aspasia’s, for to him she was a second heart, a second mind, a second spirit. Even his loved sons never approached him as closely as she did; she was, to him, his own flesh.
Now he looked up at Paralus and said, “You asked to see me, my son. I must beg of you that what you have to say will be short, for it is very late and I have more maps to study.”
Paralus said in the voice of Pericles’ youth, firm and resonant, “I should like your permission to visit my mother for a time, until her grief subsides. She is all alone, except for her very aged mother, who cannot leave her bed any longer.”
Pericles looked at him intently. Then he said, “You are not a child, or even a youth, Paralus. You are a young man. It is for you to decide.”
Paralus bowed a little. Then their eyes fused together for several long moments. Finally Pericles sighed, and said, “I know there is something troubling you. I do not ask you to tell me, for you are a man and have the problems of a man, and it would be wrong for me to intrude on your thoughts. I have the fate of Athens in my hands; even my family must not supersede my duty there, or my strength.”
“I understand,” said Paralus. “I am not a petulant woman, demanding attention when weightier matters must be considered. I am the son of a soldier, the brother of a soldier. I would I were a soldier, myself. No matter. I thought, in all courtesy, that I should ask your permission to visit my lonely mother for a time, for I am still under your roof.”
Pericles regarded him even more intently. He leaned back in his chair, and his light eyes were curiously shadowed though they glistened in the lamplight. It was as if he gazed through clear ice at his son, and not membrane. His hand tapped the maps slowly. Still holding Paralus’ eye he said, and his voice had changed and become hard and slow:
“My son, Athens will never recover the glory she had in my dear friend, Pheidias, so heinously murdered. Part of the soul of Athens died when he died. He was of a stature of a god. When men die their families and friends mourn them. When a god dies the very heavens are shattered.”
A small spasm passed over the face of Paralus, but he remained silent. For a moment his eye shifted; then it returned to the countenance of his father.
“Pheidias,” said Pericles, “was, as you know, murdered not because he was hated—for who could have hated such a soul as was Pheidias? He was murdered in order to render me desolate. There was also a plot against me, your father, to depose or exile me.”
Paralus said very quietly, “Yes. I know. I have heard rumors in the city. Athens is the very well of gossip.”
Suddenly Pericles became almost wildly impatient. “Enough! I am glad that you have shown filial devotion to your mother, who indeed is alone. Return if and when you wish.” He thought to himself, What father ever knows his son, or can break through the barrier of selfsame flesh to the profound spirit of complete understanding? We do not give our children their souls; we give them only their material bodies. We are not one with our children, as we are one with a beloved woman, and there is something mysterious in that, something arcanely ordained. The fruit of our loins are strangers, after all, and can sometimes be our deadliest enemies.
Then he softened somewhat towards Paralus, and held out his hand to him. “Is it farewell, my son?”
Paralus took his father’s hand; his own fingers were very cold. He said, “No, it is not farewell, my father, but it may be for a long time.”
Pericles tried to smile. He held his son’s hand and said, “There are many things you do not understand, Paralus, which must remain a secret to me. There are others who need my silence, and their needs are greater than your own, or even mine. Go, then. Console your mother, who grieves for her dead son. She has, in you and Xanthippus, deeper consolations than she knows, unfortunate woman.”
Paralus bowed again to his father, then left the room with Pericles’ own stateliness, and Pericles watched him go and his heart was heavy. He returned to his maps and scrolls and pen. Suddenly he felt exhausted and sorrowful. Pheidias’ death never left his mind; all at once his pain was as acute and as unbearable as if Pheidias had just been murdered, and his old incredulity returned that Pheidias was dead. Savagely, he flung a scroll from him and it dropped to the marble floor, which was so cold that even the thick Persian rug and his boots could feel the penetration of it. He shivered. He blinked his tired eyes, for a film had formed over them, which dimmed his vision. For the first time he felt a bitter anger against Paralus, who was obdurate and who had, in spite of his admirable self-control, a streak of softness in him and emotion. He would never have made an excellent soldier, thought Pericles. There is little ruthlessness in him, and not enough iron, and I am disappointed as well as saddened that his youth prevents him from understanding that what a man must do he must do. He does not think things through to their conclusion and accept them. Strange that I never knew that before, and I am chagrined.
Xanthippus, for all his seeming frivolity at times, and despite his easy laughter and mercurial temperament and gleefully ascerbic jests, and all his high grace and extreme elegance, was a stronger man than his brother, and, above all, a soldier. He had written of Callias, “I rejoice that such a monster has met his just fate, for he strewed disaster as careless children strew crumbs, or birds their droppings. The world is a cleaner place in that some unknown assassins sent him to Hades. I would that Chiton had drowned him in the Styx! Or Cerberus devoured him. If I knew his assassins I would send them my greetings and my congratulations.”
Pericles’ embittered heart warmed. He forgot that Xanthippus had disagreed with his father’s latest strategy and had written him very recently to that effect, in colorful and eloquent protest. Xanthippus could not be outwardly calm, as could Paralus. He was either joyous or furious, depressed or elated. But always he was a soldier. When his wife had given birth to his son he had expressed his pleasure and gratification to her in vehement language in a letter which she cherished. Yet under his vivid froth there was the essential iron of a soldier and a man dedicated to his country, though often he had laughed at too-fervent patriotism. Despite his surface appearance of animated lightheadedness, and his mockery of those who were too serious and pompous, he was, in his inmost being, as inexorable as his father when it came to truly trenchant matters, and as immovable. Pericles considered his elder son with something like gratitude.
He blew out the lamp and went to his large chamber. Aspasia was not yet asleep, though it was very late. She seemed to know when he was disturbed and ill at ease, even if she never spoke of it. She held out her arms to him and he dropped on his knees beside the bed and rested his head on her breast, and she held him close to her. Her flesh was warm and sweet and fragrant; her hair fell over her shoulders and far down her back. Her touch was one of comfort and tenderness. Her eyes quivered with many sparkling lights, like brown wine in the sun.
He said, revelling in the clasp of her arms, “Paralus asked me for permission to leave my house and visit his mother—for a long time.”
“I thought he would do that. I have thought he would for several months.”
Pericles was astonished. “But you never told me.”
“No. Were you not anxious enough, and distressed enough, at the outbreak of this great war which has been smoldering for many years? Until the hour ca
me when Paralus had finally come to a decision was time, alas, for you to know. Before that, the added burden would have been too much.”
He clung to her. He said, “Did I ever tell you that I love you, my darling?”
She rested her cheek on the top of his head, and laughed so that she would not weep. “No! Never did you tell me!”
His body was cold, and he shivered again, and he threw aside his robe and went under the blankets to her, and they made love as if this were their wedding night and they were young and ardent lovers, exultant and cleaving together, one flesh, one soul, consumed with passion and rejoicing in it, and it was a reprieve.
Among the associates of Xanthippus was a dissolute and very rich young man of considerable brilliance of mind, and a general in the army. He was also a relative of the family of Pericles, for he was of the house of the Alcmaeonidae. He was notable for his extreme handsomeness and his love for fine horses, and was infamous for his dissipation. His name was Alcibiades, and he was considerably younger than Xanthippus. When he chose to display it—which was not very often—his intelligence was extraordinary. He was somewhat of the character of Xanthippus and a great favorite among his men and the populace, for unlike Xanthippus in this regard he had a suave tongue and rarely offended anyone by a joke touched with the urbane cruelty Xanthippus could smilingly display. His men jested with him, but they knew they could not go too far in this respect, and loved him as they did not love Xanthippus, who, on occasion, could reveal a sudden flash of his father’s cold hauteur and ruthless command. Alcibiades and Xanthippus were not friends, even if courteous to each other as fellow officers, for they were too close in character to be congenial.