There was a long silence in the office. The King Archon spread his hands, palm down, on the table in a gesture of misery. Then he said, “Pericles, you are not without guilt. These men should have been brought to justice. You did not speak.”
Pericles leaned back in his chair. “I am a politician. Moreover, these men did not commit further crimes. To expose them would have destroyed the trust, more or less, our citizens have for politicians—and I am a politician.”
“They did not commit further crimes because they feared that someone knew the truth about them.”
Pericles lifted his eyebrows. “True. But they did not know that I was the one. You asked me why I did not speak. Again, I must repeat I am a politician, and I have kept these dossiers for the day when I might need them. The day has come.”
The King Archon lifted his spotted hands and covered his face with them, leaning his elbows on the table, and Pericles felt compassion for him, for the old man was honorable. The King Archon said, “I, too, am a politician, but I would have spoken.”
“I do not doubt it,” said Pericles. “Perhaps you love Athens less than I do. It is also true that politicians keep their fellows in order, under threat of exposure. We scratch each other’s backs.”
The King Archon dropped his hands and his bright and youthful eyes were lucent. He said, “You scratch no one’s back, Pericles, and no one scratches yours. I have watched you for many years. I knew your father well. He was a hero.”
Pericles looked aside. “I am no hero, and have no pretensions to be one. My public life has been as clean as possible. I am guilty of no crimes against my country. Still, I am a politician.”
The King Archon rose and walked slowly and heavily up and down the room. Then he came to a halt before Pericles and said in a sick voice, “What would you have me do?”
“Summon these men, tell them that you are aware of their capital crimes, and that they must go into exile at once, for life.”
“You wish me to tell them of your dossiers?”
Pericles bent his head. “Yes, if you will. Tell them that if they depart without incident, without speaking, the dossiers will not be made public. Tell them I showed you the dossiers out of a spirit of public service, only.”
‘They will know it is revenge.”
“They have no way of knowing how I came by this information, nor that I suspect them of bribing murderers to attack my son. How could they know? Let them suspect, in their exile. They have no proof.”
“Why do you not confront them yourself, Pericles?”
Pericles’ smile was bitter and arrogant. “I am Head of State. I would not demean myself to accuse my fellow politicians, of inferior station. That is your function, not mine. Again, I was moved to inform you only because my conscience began to annoy me—though I came on this information only recently.”
“That is not the truth, Pericles.”
“No, it is not. But you will not be lying to them. You do not know how long I have had this information.” He paused. “I implore you to space the sentences of voluntary exile. I say, voluntary. Thirty days, at least, must expire between each rascal’s invitation to leave Athens forever.”
He pushed the papers towards the King Archon. “These are copies. I will retain the others.”
The King Archon looked at the papers as a man looks at vipers. “Would it not be better if I did not reveal the source of them?”
Pericles shrugged. “Perhaps. But I am only human. I should like them to ponder the rest of their lives and wonder if the information was given to you because I knew of their bribery to murderers, or,” and he smiled coldly, “that I was moved by civic virtue. It will make their years of exile interesting.”
“Knowing you, Pericles, I fear they will think it is civic virtue.”
“Perhaps. After all, they were my companions in arms. Let them believe that Nemesis overtook them. I will not know their thoughts, and that, to me, is regrettable.”
The King Archon took up the papers. “I am an old man,” he said. “I love my country. I have done no wrong to her, or her laws. This is very grievous to me. Had I had this information the malefactors would have been driven into exile long ago.”
“You arc no politician, then.”
The King Archon bent his head and shook it slowly and heavily. “I have heard that before, from my beloved hetaira. She has assured me that no honest man enters politics.”
“Let us encourage the honest men, then. Let us make it possible for honorable men, though poor, to enter politics. But that is only a dream of the perfect state, and no state is perfect.”
The King Archon sighed deeply. “I often think of Solon,” he said.
“So do I,” Pericles replied. “As much as the people allow me I attempt to enforce his laws. But, we must deal with the people and they are capricious!”
“And we fear them. Pericles, I will move as swiftly and as discreetly as possible. These men will be exiled—for their crime against your son—though they will believe it is for another reason.” He paused. “Why is it not possible to accuse them openly of the attempt on the life of Paralus?”
“On the unsigned word of an informer? Sire, who would believe it of such notable and ostensibly good public servants?”
“And you desire not to increase the mistrust of the citizenry for their government.”
“True. Not all politicians are venal. Incredibly, some of them are honorable men, and it is very hard for a man to remain honorable before a treacherous citizenry, who are, themselves, as fraudulent as their leaders.”
He added, when the King Archon was silent, “I could have had these men murdered, and they deserve death. You will observe that I am merciful.”
The King Archon smiled strangely. “No. I observe only that you love your country and would not have her plunged into chaos because of evil men.” He looked long at Pericles. “I, too, look at the acropolis in the moonlight. For the sake of Athens and her glory and beauty you would do anything, except the dishonorable.”
He took his departure, walking as weightily as a very old sick man and Pericles watched him go and his face was somber. He thought: The King Archon is wrong. I would do anything for my country, honorable or dishonorable.
CHAPTER 8
Pericles had believed the King Archon to be neither friend nor foe, but only a just man. His coldness and formality were even more notable than his, though he was never pompous. Therefore, he had few acquaintances and fewer friends. What he thought in private was never revealed, not even to his hetaira. When alone in his office with the damning papers before him the King Archon thought long and intensely. Pericles would have been amazed had he known of the respect and admiration the King Archon had for him, and how often he had rebuked his fellow Archons who had expressed rage or hate for or envy of the Head of State. The King Archon did not consider it wise to make personal friends of fellow politicians. That way led to subornation and the mutual “scratching of backs,” and was a betrayal of justice and of the people who trusted them. Justice and friendship, he would often think, are what Socrates would call a contradiction in terms. They who would serve justice publicly should keep aloof from human entanglements. So, he was a lonely old man, distant and cool even to his sons and daughters. If one of his sons had committed a crime he would have punished him as severely as any other criminal, with no outward aspect of distress.
He thought, as he sat alone in his private chambers: Pericles, after all, is only human. He would like these men, who are to be exiled, to know he was the avenger and the instigator, or, rather, suspect it for the rest of their lives. But that is most perilous for Athens, Pericles, and his family. These men have many powerful friends, and many male relatives of valor, and they would avenge the four, and they would eventually find means of destroying Athens through the destruction of Pericles. No, this must not happen.
He summoned Polites, Polites who had had his gentle young wife murdered—he, a member of the Supreme Court. The King Archon
did not believe in lengthy explanations and accusations. Moreover, he must be sure that what had been revealed in the letter was true. So when Polites arrived, a man of fifty with a fine and aristocratic face, perfect manners and a candid expression, the King Archon, in silence, laid his dossier before him, and acutely watched his face. It turned a mortal white; his eyelids quivered; he seemed to grow old rapidly. So, it is true, thought the King Archon in despair. Polites finally looked up at him and said, “Lord, do you believe this libel?”
“Yes,” said the King Archon, at once. “But, I am merciful. Rather than give this information to the proper authorities I will keep my silence, provided you leave Athens forever, within two weeks.”
Polites cried out in anguish. The King Archon lifted his hand. “Your trial could be prolonged, in the way of the law, but the people would believe it, as they are inclined to believe anything of public officials. Truth will out, though many do not believe this. Long investigation would bring your case to the light of day. I have said: I am merciful. If you challenge this dossier you will be ruined. You are accused of a capital crime. You would be put to death, and your estates confiscated. Be silent, then. Tell your friends that you are leaving our city for a considerable period—for the sake of your health. You may then keep your estates and your family can abide with you.”
Polites said, “Who made this dossier?”
“It is not pertinent. In mercy, I do not advise you to challenge it. If you do, other accusations will be brought against you—I promise—and this time you would not escape justice as you escaped it before.”
Almost beside himself, Polites quickly named several men who were his enemies, execrating them, but the name of Pericles was not among them, a fact which made the old face of the King Archon ironic. He merely kept shaking his head, and repeating, “I shall not tell you.” He dismissed Polites, who left him with an almost staggering gait, and he then summoned each of the other three in turn.
In every case guilt appeared on their countenances though they protested their innocence, even vowing the most sacred of oaths, that of Castor and Pollux. The King Archon closed his eyes in weariness and lifted his hand. “Let that oath not condemn you before the gods,” he said. “If you wish to withdraw it, do so now.”
After some hesitation the oath was withdrawn and the King Archon, who had prayed that at least one of the men had been falsely accused, was sickened. They had always declared their deep love for Pericles; they were his comrades in arms. They had voted with him almost invariably. Men of family, and proud of their city, they had approved of the Parthenon and other costly temples on the acropolis. They had frequently dined, and with pleasure and accord, with Pericles, and he had visited their own houses often. Two were of his own tribe. Why, then, had they attempted to kill his son and cast him into sorrow and misery? Malice and envy, the ancient human crimes, the old Archon thought. A man, even the best of friends, will forgive anything but that a friend rise above him and attain fame. Pericles had understood that, and the King Archon reflected on Pericles’ own sorrow that his friends had betrayed him, had tried to plunge his heart into grief, and by no justification except that he had proved himself their natural superior. We are a wicked and incorrigible race, thought the old Archon, and why the gods endure us is a great mystery.
He contemplated the paradox of love and hatred lodging simultaneously in the minds of these men. They loved Pericles; they also hated him. Had he fought on the battlefield with them they would have given their lives for him, as heroes. But when it was a matter of public acclaim and power, they would destroy him, not as their friend, Pericles, but as the symbol of their jealousy. Their love for him had kept them from murdering him, themselves. Their hatred had chosen a lesser object but whose loss would devastate Pericles. Over and over the King Archon shook his head, sad but with wonder. As their friend, with whom they were in entire agreement in matters of policy, they would preserve Pericles’ life with diligence. As his enemies, they would rejoice in his suffering. They would even regard it as retribution. The manifold intricacies of the human soul! the old Archon thought. Not even Penelope could unravel the threads and the designs of a single human mind. The pattern of that most diligent weaver could never encompass the spirit of a man, and portray it.
The King Archon, even more discreet than Pericles himself, did not send word of the results of his accusations to the Head of State. The news would reach Pericles soon enough. One man had said he would leave Athens soon to manage his estates in Cyprus; another claimed the air of Athens had injured his lungs—he must flee for his health’s sake; another had said he was weary of public office, and would retire to the country; still another said his beloved wife wished to be with her family in Cos. Not one hinted that his absence was exile, forced upon him under threat. The King Archon, hearing all this, was deeply depressed, knowing now, beyond all doubt, that they were guilty.
Each of the four men went, weeping, to Pericles, to announce his imminent departure from Athens. They confided to him that they had been forced into exile because of false accusations, “which would endanger the State, if I challenged them.” Pericles, who had trained himself, as a politician, to be somewhat of an actor, against all his principles, said in apparent wonder and concern, “But, if you are innocent, why not seek to prove it?” Their silence, their dolorous sighs, filled him with hate and he could scarce restrain himself. “Let me help you,” he said, and none heard the iron under his words. They replied, “It would imperil you, yourself, dearest of friends.” He heard sincerity in their voices, and marvelled. They truly meant it. Pericles, and now with sour humor, suspected that the King Archon had never mentioned his name.
He almost pitied them, and he especially pitied Polites who had been a valiant lieutenant under Pericles’ command, and who had proved his loyalty and love under dire circumstances. But Pericles had only to look at the sunken right eye of his handsome son, Paralus, to feel the return of his furious hatred. Paralus said to him, “I live. I can see, if only in a flattened state. I am fortunate to be alive, and to have some sight. For a time my other eye was threatened, but Helena saved both my life and my vision. Alas, though, I shall never be a soldier as you were, my father.”
“Nor will you have comrades-in-arms,” said Pericles, and Paralus, who thought he knew his father better than did even Aspasia, was puzzled at the profound bitterness in his father’s voice, and the look of terrible anger. When he said those words he would turn away from his son and stare blindly into space.
Xanthippus, the acute, said to his brother, “Our father knows something we do not know, and never will he tell us.” But Paralus shook his head. “There is nothing to know. My attackers will never be found.”
Xanthippus, now healed, proclaimed his discontent that he would have to serve his two years in the army. He did this to spare Paralus, who longed to be a soldier, and Paralus said, soothingly, “The time will pass soon, and I will think of you as taking my place, for you must have the strength of two men.” His brother was now espoused to the young girl whom he had met in Aspasia’s house, and the marriage would take place soon. Xanthippus was very happy. He sighed, and said, “I would prefer not to marry, but it is my duty. I am like a virgin heifer led to sacrifice.” His dark face beamed.
Helena informed Pericles that the time for the birth of his child had arrived. He insisted, against her advice, in being in that remote farmhouse with Aspasia, and so she left one morning alone, except for two young physicians who would aid her, and he, Pericles, left the next day. He took with him only Iphis and a subaltern who was devoted to Iphis, for it was not his wish that he attract attention. The farm, though secluded, was but a four-hour journey on horseback. The roads were very poor, the Athenians declaring that good roads were not necessary outside the city. “We do not travel,” they said, grandly, “for where is there a spot more beautiful and important or renowned than Athens? If we wish to see the world and engage in commerce with other nations, the sea is our road.” So
a land journey that should, on horseback, have taken but an hour or so took far more than that, over cattle paths, and over deer trails climbing hills and sometimes wandering into thickets of thistles and choked forests. The spring sun was hot and burning, ablaze with incandescent blue skies and clouds of silver dust catching the light. The little poppy grew on field and hill, a thrown carpet of vivid scarlet, moving gently with the wind. The brown and withered shards of the palm trees were falling, and new fronds were appearing, brilliantly green, and flowering, and the sycamores stood in a haze of emerald and the blossoms of the myrtle were a shower of soft purple and the fruit trees had burst into fountains of pink and white in the orchards. Little goats and new lambs romped innocently and unafraid in the brightening meadows, and young colts ran to the sides of the deplorable roads and raced with the horsemen, tossing their delicate manes and neighing. The olive trees were burnished with a fresh silver, and corn was thrusting moist green tips out of the earth and into the sun. Children played outside of the small square and white cubes of their houses, and the grapevines which grew up the sides of the houses were exploding with new tendrils, the garlands of Dionysius. The red mud ran with mercurial brooks, reflecting the sky. The ponds teemed with fish, and so did the rivers.
It is a goodly season in which to be born, thought Pericles, whose fair skin had begun to smart with the heat and the sun. It is a promise. He hoped for another son, but even a daughter would be welcome, a daughter who resembled Aspasia. Now he had reached his own fields and meadows and he knew the pride of owning land and thought that every man should possess a little measure of it for the sake of his nature. No man should be landless, as so many of the urban Athenians were. As Socrates had said, small villages and the land bred noble men, but cities bred effete creatures, criminals and merchants, and, alas, necessary commerce. But a man should have a retreat from that which was artificial and fevered and vehement so that he could contemplate his soul in silence and sunlight and moonlight and not be distracted by the claims and uproar of the cities. “Who looks at the stars in the city?” Socrates had asked Pericles. “In the country, at night, there is nowhere else to look, and awe comes to man and he knows his littleness and feels an inclination to worship that which is greater than he. In the understanding of his smallness and insignificance comes wisdom and clarity of thought.”
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