Glory and the Lightning

by Taylor Caldwell

  As the masses do not think, they were easily persuaded that Pericles had a personal treasury of his own, gained by war and investments in war. They lusted for this imaginary treasure. That there were many men in Athens far richer than Pericles they did not consider, for did not several of them agree sadly with Thucydides and also accuse Pericles of the same crimes and were they not always loudly proclaiming their love “for the meek and exploited?” Where was the hero who would rescue them from this cruel and merciless man?

  On the death of his uncle, Daedalus, Pericles had permitted his sons, Xanthippus and Paralus, to attend the funeral of their grandfather. Moreover, he had encouraged them. He had sent the kindest of regards and condolences to Dejanira, which had caused her to weep more copiously than she had over her father’s death. She had then written to Pericles imploring him to have her son, Callias, recalled from exile, unaware that on several occasions he had been so invited through the agents of Pericles on the latter’s orders. Callias, for many years, had revelled in his exile, for he had escaped his reputation in Athens and there were no disapproving faces to annoy him. But he pretended, to his mother, in tearful letters, that he was languishing in exile. In some manner he had come across the information that Pericles, out of pity for Dejanira, had kept her ignorant of her son’s refusal to return to Athens. This had made him gleeful.

  But now he had learned of the more virulent attacks on the hated Pericles, his mistress and his friends, and Callias’ vengefulness increased. He allowed himself to be persuaded to return to Athens. His mother, very fat and gray, and cumbersome in all her movements, greeted him with incoherent joy and embraces. “I have been so lonely, so sorrowful!” she cried, covering his rough face with kisses. “Yes,” he replied, “that I know. I will not tell you of my own sufferings, dearest of mothers, and how I longed to return to this house, and my midnight tears. But behold: I am here, and I will never leave you—unless I am again forced into exile.”

  Within a few days of his return to Athens he went to the house of Thucydides, which was almost as frugal as the house of Daedalus, and he offered his own money, and his talents, in the plot to ruin Pericles or at least drive him into exile “with his harlot.” He was elated that the hatred of Thucydides and the latter’s friends almost surpassed his own. The rich aristocrats in the plot thought him personally loathsome and obnoxious and disreputable, but they pretended to be overjoyed and grateful to him for joining them. He preened over their protestations of admiration for him, and their enthusiastic friendship, and became more conceited than ever, for when he had been young these patricians had avoided him, had publicly shown their contempt for him, and had openly held their noses when they had encountered him. Never had he been admitted to their houses or sat at any table with them. Even his riches had not been enough for any of them to offer him their daughters in marriage.

  “He caused the death of my beloved grandfather,” he said to them, with meretricious tears in his eyes, and they nodded solemnly while they laughed inwardly. “He exiled me, kept me from the affection of my dearest of mothers,” he would continue, and again they would nod with commiseration and sympathy. “I will be avenged for the crimes against my house, and the crimes against my city,” he said, and they were intensely interested. What suggestions had he to offer? One must remember that Pericles had saved Anaxagoras.

  “Who is now dead,” said Callias, “after he was forced to flee Athens.”

  “Pericles is more powerful than ever among his detestable middle class,” said his new friends.

  Callias had a suggestion which at first revolted his friends with its crudity. Then when Callias was absent one observed, “Its very bold uncouthness might make it possible of success. The old King Archon is dead, and the new King Archon hates Pericles as much as we do. Pericles is absent at this time at one of his villas with his concubine, for is it not high summer? Let us give the matter thought and move with circumspection so that he will not suspect us. Callias is stupid as well as cunning. If anything goes wrong we will arrange for him to bear the whole guilt.”

  They chose the most influential of their members to bring charges of peculation against Pheidias, who was now the closest friend of Pericles since the flight and death of his beloved Anaxagoras. Added to this was his blasphemy in depicting himself and Pericles on the shield of the sacred Athene Parthenos. They well knew that Pericles had insisted that the image of Pheidias be carved on the shield, and they knew that the shy sculptor had refused—unless Pericles, “for are you not greater than I?”—also permitted his profile on the shield. So Pericles, with a jest, had allowed it for all his reluctance.

  The matter of the alleged peculations of Pheidias was somewhat more difficult. Then two of the aristocrats went to the head-keeper of the public records of the treasury and under duress and a large bribe—from Callias—he agreed to forge several of the records so that they would reveal that Pheidias had not only received enormous stipends for his work on the acropolis, and the work of his students—stipends that were unbelievable—but had frequently, and arrogantly, demanded even more, saying that the Head of State, himself, had approved of this, and had presented proof in various letters.

  “Can we not also prove that Pericles has enriched himself through similar peculations?” asked Callias.

  Though the aristocrats and Thucydides had more than hinted of this to the rabble they knew that an open accusation of criminality against Pericles would only rebound on themselves and lay themselves open to punishment. They were well acquainted with the cold and relentless wrath of Pericles. They knew he was ruthless in pursuit of those who had unpardonably offended him. So they persuaded Callias that this would be impolitic, at least at this time. Attacks on Pericles’ friends were one thing; attacks on him personally were quite a dangerous other. “As yet,” they told Callias, who was disappointed.

  They consulted among themselves. The stipends paid to Pheidias and his students had been very small, on his own gentle insistence. How, apart from the forged records, could it be proved that he had literally stolen the people’s gold? Where had he hidden it? That was a great problem, for all knew how humbly the sculptor lived.

  Callias had another suggestion, which made them catch their breath. They pondered on it, and finally agreed that it had more than a small merit.

  So, while the weary Pericles rested in the happy company of his Aspasia and their son, and Paralus, on one of his more remote farms, Pheidias was arrested for peculation and thrown into prison, after the forged records had been presented to the King Archon, who was a cousin to Daedalus, and so a relative of Pericles, himself, the nephew of Daedalus. An intelligent if a gloomy and rigid and proud man, he had never forgotten Pericles’ “attack on my house, and even on his own.” Worse still, he had tried to induce Dejanira to marry him, for she was very rich, and she had rejected him through her kyrios, crying that none could replace Pericles in her affections.

  Pheidias had been openly arrested in the very midst of his students and assistants, while he had been planning the marble pediments for the statues he was designing. He had gazed silently and incredulously at the police, and then, still stunned, he gave the architectural plans to one of his students and had gone away with the police without uttering a single word, his bald and rosy head suddenly sallow, his face slack with shock, his broad old shoulders sagging. His sandaled feet had been dusted, as with flour, with the dust of marble, and his rough clothing also, and crowds stood aside, wondering, and staring at each other questioningly. Theft? Peculations? Never had anyone possessed less of the aspect of a thief.

  One of the students, who was a young man with considerable money of his own, selected a horse from his fine stable and rode away at once to Pericles’ farm, though it was sunset and the hot night was approaching without a moon. It was almost the first dawn when he reached the farm, but he awoke the slaves and insisted on seeing Pericles at once, and even the soldiers who guarded the villa were impressed by his despair and his urgent pleas.


  Pericles, awakened and pale, his face lined with chronic worry, threw on a tunic, rose from Aspasia’s bed where she was sleeping peacefully, and went into the small atrium of the house. The student, overcome, fell on his knees before Pericles, whom he adored, and burst into tears and could hardly speak. It was some moments before Pericles could understand, and when he did, he was disbelieving.

  “I was standing beside my master, Pheidias, when they arrested him,” cried the young man, seizing the hem of Pericles’ tunic. “Before God, I tell you the truth!”

  Pericles turned aside, his pallid face twitching. Who could be guilty of this enormity? He rubbed his eyes, still incapable of accepting this dire news. Anaxagoras’ case had been bad enough. This was much worse, for Pheidias had not thrown any doubt privately or publicly on any dogma. In truth, he was the most pious and devoted of men, the least controversial, the least apt to provoke hostility. He was most shy and retiring, and never had been known to utter an impatient word. All his ways were gentle, and compassionate. He could not pass even the most scurvy of beggars without giving him a coin from his little purse. The beggars had known it and he had only to appear to have them crowd about him, whining, thrusting out their hands. That such a man, such a stupendous genius, could be accused of blasphemy and theft was not to be believed. It was accepted widely that he was the glory of Athens, above all others, and multitudes openly reverenced him and foreign and distinguished visitors insisted on meeting him and speaking with him. All had been impressed by his modesty, his tenderness of character, his shining and gleaming eyes in which there was no malevolence but only charity.

  I am a calamity to those I love, thought Pericles. He said to Iphis, who almost always accompanied him these days, “If blasphemy has indeed been committed, it has been committed by those who have accused Pheidias. I will go to him at once, and arrange to defend him.” He added, with a grimness even Iphis had never seen before, “This time the vile accusers will be dealt with, and I swear this, before God, and I will never rest until they are brought to justice.”

  He rode away with Iphis and two of his soldiers and the student, just as the dawn was throwing pale purple shadows on the quiet countryside. He had a premonition of disaster beyond anything he had ever felt before, and so he uttered not a word, not even when the company entered Athens. He went to his house and bathed, for he was silvery with dust, and he was sweating, and dressed himself in his official robes, forced himself to eat a small breakfast and then went at once to his offices.

  There he summoned his cousin, the King Archon, Polybius, to him. His head was throbbing under the heated helmet; it seemed to him that his heart would burst from his chest. He had no doubt that he could save Pheidias and have him exonerated; all but the rabble and a few aristocrats loved him for the virtue not only of his genius but for his kindness and lack of ostentation.

  The crime, to Pericles, was in the accusations and the calumnies and not in the actual imprisonment of his friend. Pheidias was in no danger. Tomorrow his accusers would be the laughter of Athens. They would also suffer the vengeance of the Head of State for the insult to Pheidias.

  The old King Archon had been over ninety-five years old when he had died. The present King Archon, Polybius, was less than sixty, a small slight man with a parched pale face, small dull eyes, a large nose and a tight wide mouth and thin gray hair. His hands were dry and cold, his manner precise and formal and unbending. He shook hands with Pericles who courteously invited him to sit down and asked him if he desired wine and refreshments. “No,” said the King Archon shortly. “You summoned me, Pericles, son of Xanthippus. What is your wish?”

  Pericles recalled him in his own youth; they had never liked each other. Pericles’ handsomeness had offended Polybius. Too, his father had desired to marry Pericles’ mother, Agariste, after the death of Xanthippus, and she had refused firmly. Both he and his father, then, had been repudiated by the women of their family and for some obscure reason, totally irrational, Polybius felt that Pericles was guilty.

  Pericles said, “I have been informed that my friend, the glorious artist, Pheidias, has been arrested on charges so absurd that the very dogs on the streets laugh in wonderment.”

  Polybius drew a rasping breath and he fixed Pericles with a granite stare. “The charges, lord, are not absurd. They are based on evidence.”

  Pericles leaned back in his chair with a negligent smile while he raged inwardly. “What evidence, Polybius?”

  The older man shook his head. “You, of a certainty, know the law, Pericles. Evidence is not shown or revealed until the criminal appears before the judge and jury. So, I cannot tell you. I can tell you this, however, I am convinced of the truth of the charges. I have seen the evidence myself.”

  Polybius might be unlovable as a person, at least to Pericles, but he was known for his integrity, and if his judgment was severe it was at least just. Pericles’ incredulity was not pretended.

  “You truly believe that Pheidias is guilty of peculation and blasphemy?”

  “I do, lord.”

  Pericles said, “I know exactly how ridiculously modest were the fees Pheidias received. He set them, himself, though I urged him to accept more. Many of his students and associates accepted nothing at all. It was enough for them to be helping the master.” He tried to control his wrath.

  “I have seen the evidence, myself,” Polybius insisted.

  “Then it was forged evidence, and the scoundrels who did it will be discovered and punished. I can promise you that.”

  Even the King Archon was intimidated by the daunting blind look directed at him, and he moved uneasily in his chair. “Are you threatening me, Pericles?”

  “No, not you. I know your character too well. But, you have been appallingly deceived by fraudulent evidence, presented by men of no scruples. This, I shall prove, and let them beware for nothing will halt me in bringing them to justice.”

  “If you can prove it I shall give the matter my closest attention.”

  “I have no doubt of that, Polybius. The only amazing thing to me is that you could believe, on forged evidence, that Pheidias is guilty of anything but possessing the sweetest of natures. You are an intelligent and educated man; you are not a fool who can be persuaded by inconceivable lies. Hence my amazement.”

  Polybius carefully examined his gray hands, and did not speak for a moment or two. Then he said, with obvious reluctance, “If I had not seen the evidence for myself, and listened to the oath of the man who best knew that the evidence was true, I should not have believed it myself. I confess I was aghast until finally convinced. I have no love for your Pheidias, I confess, but the evidence is against him and I was forced to order his imprisonment. There is also the matter of his blasphemy.”

  “Of what does that consist?”

  Polybius regarded Pericles with open animosity. “He put his face, and yours, on the shield of Athene Parthenos.”

  Pericles smiled. “At my insistence.” He paused. “Are you accusing me of blasphemy also, Polybius?”

  “I am not sitting in judgment on you, lord.”

  “Ah, you are evasive. Judges are famous for that so I will not reproach you. But does not such an artist as Pheidias deserve to have his face or name in an inconspicuous place on the shield? It is there for future ages to reverence.”

  “Your face is also there.”

  Now, in spite of his emotions, Pericles laughed. “Pheidias insisted. If you think it best I will have it obliterated, for future ages will not remember me but they will remember Pheidias and give him honor.”

  When Polybius did not speak, Pericles continued: “You must admit that the statue is the most exalted and prodigious creation.”

  “It was very expensive.” The older man’s tone was obstinate.

  Pericles remembered that Polybius was as penurious, if not more, than had been his cousin, Daedalus. He said, in a soft voice, “My dear Polybius, is not our patron goddess worthy of any cost?”

 
The desiccated face of Polybius flushed. “She would not wish Athens to bankrupt herself.”

  “The cost of the statue was like a mean copper in comparison with what we have spent, and are spending, on these dreary little wars and skirmishes with Sparta and her allies.”

  The King Archon had heard much of the rumor that Pericles had created diversions with those wars, in order to direct attention of the market rabble and others from his own derelictions. This, the King Archon did not believe, though he would have liked to do so. Moreover, there was the honor of their mutual house to consider. “Still,” he said, “in these dolorous and costly times it was folly to spend so much on the statue—even if it is in honor of our patron goddess. The gods do not like extravagance in men.”

  “If Athene is aware of the statue raised to her, which,” said Pericles very soberly, “no doubt she is, she will be so gratified that we have sacrificed so much for her that she will bring us peace, or at least chastise Sparta.”

  “That is a sophistry to excuse extravagance, of which you, yourself, Pericles, are guilty.” Now the small dull eyes glittered under their lids.

  “Oh, I am a very reckless man!” said Pericles. “I desire only the best and the most beautiful for our goddess! So, indeed, I plead guilty to too much piety.”

  “If so, I have not heard of that piety,” said the King Archon, with a tight little smile, and Pericles smiled also.

  The King Archon said, “There is no love between us, Pericles, but I can assure you that Pheidias will be given a just trial before me.”

  “You need not have said that, Polybius. I know it without any declaration from you. I do not fear the jury. My anger is not based on anxiety or apprehension for Pheidias. It is based on the cruel absurdity of the charges against him, the monstrous calumnies.”

  The King Archon was silent. Pericles refilled his own goblet.

  “You will not tell me who brought the charges?”

  “No. That will be revealed at the trial.”