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ATHENS
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All of Athens seems to be ending the day early. The agora, not far from the base of the Acropolis, is almost empty by the time Socrates and Euripides arrive. Most vendors have already packed up their wares and wait to join a long procession of merchants pulling carts in opposite directions down the Panathenian Way, the main road bisecting both the city and the market.
Only a few stragglers intent on unloading the last of their goods stubbornly remain, announcing discounts to anyone in earshot. Euripides watches with a smile as an older merchant, clearly the victim of a rudimentary extortion scheme, gives one date each to a gang of five small children as a reward for not stealing any of his stock during the day. The playwright’s eager to point the scene out to Socrates by tugging at his friend’s tunic, only to discover the mason has disappeared.
Euripides scans the shrinking market and finds Socrates discretely picking up several fruits and a few tomatoes that have fallen to the ground over the course of the day. He shakes his head just as Socrates takes a large bite out of a plump nectarine. “What?” the mason asks defensively, juice dripping down his chin.
“Shall we stay a little longer or have you had enough to eat?” Euripides asks.
Socrates takes another bite from the nectarine and throws the core over his shoulder. He rubs his belly and flashes Euripides a sated smile. “That’ll do quite nicely, thank you very much,” he says, watching the last of the vendors push a cart down a side street, leaving the agora a quiet and almost desolate place. Suddenly, Socrates stops walking. “Do you hear that?” he asks Euripides.
“Hear what?” the playwright replies.
“It’s coming from the Strategeion. The war council must be meeting today,” Socrates surmises.
“They’ve been doing that a lot lately,” Euripides observes. “Come on: I’ve had quite enough sobriety for one day.”
The two friends continue their stroll along the Panathenian Way as the shadows in the agora begin to lean to the east and a heavy rumble from the Strategeion causes the shutters in neighboring buildings to tremble faintly.
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Tucked away along a side street perpendicular to the market, the Strategeion is a large and forbidding building that serves as the headquarters of the Athenian military command. It houses the offices of the Strategos, a group of ten officials elected by the people of the city to serve as generals. In recent weeks the building has become a hive of activity, bustling with a discomforting urgency that leaves even messenger boys with an impending sense of dread.
Today is no different. Inside the building, a large meeting room is filled with young soldiers, aides-de-camp from wealthy and noble families attending to their much older superiors. The Strategos sit around an impressively large rectangular wooden table littered with maps and charts and numerical tables. Nine of them shout at the tops of their lungs in a vain attempt to attract the valuable attention of the most powerful man in Greece: Pericles, the archon of Athens.
Pericles is a tall man with a full shock of curling hair and a doughy face. Were it not for his white beard he would seem decades younger than his seventy years. He sits in his chair trying to separate each speaker’s words from the others, but all meaning is squeezed from the words under the crushing weight of the generals’ volume. He shakes his head, massages his temples, and then sighs.
“Gentlemen, Gentlemen!” Pericles says, rising from his seat and leaning over the table to inspect a map of Greece. The room falls silent. “Now, someone please explain to me the current situation as if I were a child. Tolmides, you’ve been quiet this evening. Why don’t you do the honors?”
The room shakes softly with the sound of laughter. Tolmides, a gray-haired nobleman well-known among his colleagues for his loquaciousness, smiles and rises from his chair to address Pericles. “Our informants have told us that the Spartans have made entreaties to no less than a dozen of our allies trying to entice them to break their respective alliances with us,” the general says. He begins shuffling through a stack of papers scattered on the table in front of him. “These cities include—”
“There’s no need to list them, Tolmides, I already know of whom you speak,” Pericles informs him. “But tell me this: who do you think is most likely to take Sparta up on her offer?”
“Potidaea, sir,” the general answers without hesitation.
“Potidaea?” Pericles repeats, slowly nodding. “That’s in Thrace. How do the Spartans plan on defending their new ally when they first have to march through Attica?”
“They don’t plan on defending Potidaea at all,” Lacedaemonius answers, speaking out of turn. Suddenly the room fills with knowing glances covertly exchanged between neighbors as a slender, middle-aged general seated on the table’s side stands to speak. The comment isn’t just a breach of Strategeion etiquette, but it’s also a brazen attempt to curry favor with Pericles and undermine Tolmides—and every last soldier in the room is acutely aware of this subtext. “Sparta will rely on her ally Corinth to do so,” the younger general continues.
“And how do you know this, Lacedaemonius?” Pericles asked.
“Because I received word today that Corinth has asked for volunteers for an expedition to Potidaea within the month.”
The room erupts into a minor frenzy. Suddenly the internal politics of the Athenian high command is overshadowed by a legitimate foreign threat. The Strategos turn around in their chairs and huddle with their entourages, breaking away only to shout questions or recriminations at colleagues across the table. Pericles sighs again and involuntarily glances at the ceiling. He gives his commanders a moment to digest the news, during which only shattered sentence fragments seem audible:
—been unhappy for years!
—told you the tax levy was too high!
—city in Thrace will revolt!
—end of the empire!
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Pericles yells, slightly louder than before, but in a tone that continues to demonstrate a supernatural patience with his generals. “We’ve maintained a peace with Sparta for the last fifteen years and I have no plans to end the prosperity that has accompanied that peace. How many triremes are currently being built?” he asks.
“Thirteen, sir,” replies Callias, a handsome commander who steps out from the crowd of attaches standing against the walls of the room. He’s also the son of Hipponicus, the general seated to the immediate right of Pericles, and whom can’t help but smile at the sight of his son.
“Double it,” Pericles demands, as if any further explanation would be a waste of time. “I want you to take care of it personally, Callias. Be sure to see Bias at your next convenience.”
Callias nods before quietly disappearing back into the horde of attending soldiers.
“Sir, if I may,” begins Cleomedes, the oldest general at the table. “Such an order may cause the gossips in the agora to start rumors that war with Sparta is imminent.”
“I should hope so!” booms Pericles, wresting any weary heads in the chamber from the temptation to sleep. “May the gods themselves carry the news throughout all of Greece! If our enemies know we are prepared for war, they might think twice about waging one.”
The generals laugh heartily and are soon joined by their subordinates. In no time the Strategeion is filled with a deep basso rumble of mirth.
The last two young men to join the merriment sit directly behind Pericles. They are his oldest sons, Xanthippus and Paralus. Both are handsome young men in their mid-20s and have recently become fixtures at every important meeting the archon conducts. Behind them sits Aspasia, Pericles’ long-time courtesan and mother to Pericles’ youngest son. She watches the boys’ reactions and notes their delay intently.
“Besides,” Pericles continues once the chamber has quieted, “rumors of war couldn’t possibly become any more prevalent. Thank you, gentlemen. I will see you all tomorrow.”
The chamber clears quickly. Afte
r a long day in the musty air of the Strategeion, most of the generals are eager to conduct their private conversations with colleagues outside in the agora. A few simply elect to go straight home.
As the men depart, Pericles pulls aside Lacedaemonius and whispers quietly into his ear. “You did well today, young man,” he sys. “Your ears in Corinth clearly hear better than mine.”
“I doubt so, sir,” the general replies in the same hushed tone, “but their feet might be faster.”
Pericles smiles. “Go home to your wife and family. We will speak more on these things soon.”
Hipponicus rises from the table and extends a hand to Paralus. “My daughter sends her regards,” the general says to Pericles’ son.
Paralus rises politely, accepts the old man’s hand with both of his own and shakes it with gratitude. “And I gratefully return them, sir,” he beams.
“My wife and I couldn’t happier for the engagement. The two of you will make each other very happy,” Hipponicus replies.
“I have no more ambition in life than making Hipparete as happy as she makes me, sir.”
“It’s no harder than keeping a father-in-law happy, Paralus,” Hipponicus asserts, “and, clearly, you’ve already mastered that skill.”
Xanthippus rolls his eyes. He watches the conversation unfold before him with an unhidden expression of boredom, the left side of his face crushed into folds against a fist that seems solely responsible for keeping his head upright.
The marriage between Paralus and Hipparete is treated as a happy accident by the couple’s fathers. The pair had grown up close, but more friends than lovers. They seemed compatible and raised no objections when the arrangement was suggested to each of them a month earlier. Few in Athens could recall an engagement brokered so smoothly and quickly, so neither father dared tamper with the nuptials by asking frivolous questions about romance. Hipponicus is the wealthiest man in Athens and Pericles is the most powerful: the union of their families will establish the most powerful house in Greece.
This fact is not lost on Xanthippus, who was Pericles’ eldest son and, according to custom and law, stands to inherit most of the archon’s wealth and power upon his death. Though the position of archon is subject to election, Athenians have a tendency to install the heirs of popular leaders to their father’s offices. His brother’s marriage, however, puts Xanthippus’ inheritance in jeopardy. He treats the union as a direct challenge to his status as firstborn and has grown quietly bitter since first learning the news.
Hipponicus slaps his future son-in-law on the shoulder and looks at Pericles, with a smile that can barely conceal the old general’s happiness. The two men briefly embrace and Hipponicus walks Pericles over to a secluded corner to speak with him privately. As he speaks, Hipponicus holds a scroll up to his mouth to conceal his lips.
“You trust Cimon’s son, Lacedaemonius?” Hipponicus asks.
“Not especially,” Pericles replies, “but I want him to think that I trust him.”
“How will you know if he’s working against you?” Hipponicus asks.
“I won’t,” Pericles answers curtly, “I have more pressing concerns to tend to.”
“Then who will hold Lacedaemonius in check?”
Pericles smiles and nods in the direction of Tolmides, still sitting at the table leering at Lacedaemonius with a silent rage as his rival exits the chamber. “I believe Tolmides will be keeping a sharp eye on Lacedaemonius for the foreseeable future.”
Hipponicus grins. “I see,” he says with a reverential nod. “Then what will be done about Potidaea?”
“For the moment, nothing,” Pericles says, “but when the time comes we will know what to do.”
“And when will the time come,” Hipponicus asks.
“Soon, old friend. Very soon,” says the archon.
Hipponicus nods and exits the chamber. Pericles returns to his seat at the head of the table. Only a handful of petitioners and servants remain. Unlike the Strategos, whose faint laughter can still be heard echoing from the agora outside, they keep deathly quiet and wait patiently for permission to speak.
“Is there any more business to attend to today, Heron?” Pericles asks his chief aide once the commotion ends.
“Just a small matter concerning Megara, sir,” Heron responds.
Pericles closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “Would that all matters regarding Megara were small ones,” he says to himself. It’s the only time that day the archon looks tired. He takes a deep breath and sighs, making a gesture for Heron to continue.
Heron nods in the direction of a priest standing quietly along the back wall of the chambers for most of the day. The priest and a pair of associates come forward and bow before Pericles. “Your highness,” the priest begins, “we have recently learned that the Megarians are cultivating land consecrated to the goddess Demeter outside their city walls. Naturally, we would prefer the goddess provide us a bountiful harvest, so we have come to ask—”
“That we kindly ask them to desist, correct?” interrupts Pericles.
“Yes, sire,” the priest confirms.
“Very well,” Pericles continues, “I wi—”
But here he stops and looks over his shoulder at his sons, both of whose minds appear occupied with other matters. Pericles instantly recognizes the opportunity to educate his boys on matters of state. With his generals now gone, there will be no pressure to perform and, more importantly, no witnesses to failure. He turns to his boys and inquires:
“Xanthippus, tell me: what should I do in this situation?”
Xanthippus’ head nearly rolls off his fist at the question. Pericles has never asked him for his opinion in public before. “Excuse me, father?” he says, unsure if he had heard his father correctly.
“If you were me, how would you respond to the good priest’s request?”
Xanthippus rises excitedly. “I would send cavalry to Megara, burn the crops and kill the farmers. They have sinned against the gods, after all.”
Pericles and Heron exchange awkward glances. “And you, Paralus?” he asks, his back now turned to the boys.
“I, I don’t know what I would do, father,” Paralus manages to finally say. “Megara is an ally of Sparta, is it not?”
Pericles turns his head, hopeful that his son’s thoughts will evolve in the right direction. Paralus’ question is in many respects silly, but it is at least a sign of intellectual engagement. “Not by treaty, but they certainly are in practice. Go on,” the archon urges.
But Paralus becomes discouraged and devolves into a fit of nervous laughter, as if the sum of his knowledge of Athens’ allies and enemies has passed by him like gossip about a long since forgotten acquaintance. “Well, if they’re not really Spartan allies, then I guess that’s all I can say at the moment,” he says meekly.
The answers are crushing disappointments to Pericles. He could justify such responses from any other young men in Athens, perhaps, but not from his own sons. The expression of failure on his face is damning and painful to the few souls left in the Strategeion chambers to witness it. Pericles himself shields his face from his boys and looks to Aspasia to rescue him.
Aspasia needs nothing more than a glance. “I heard your brother Alcibiades has recently returned from his travels abroad,” she says.
But Xanthippus is quick to cut her off with a bitter rebuke: “He’s no more a brother of mine than you are my mother and there remain important matters for the men to—”
“Enough!” Pericles demands, looking Xanthippus directly in the eyes. The archon sighs and turns away before continuing: “Your cousin Alcibiades is as a son to me, no less so than Aspasia is as my wife. You may not honor those bonds, but you will respect your father’s decision to do so, is that understood?”
Even Xanthippus knows the answer to this question. “Yes, father,” he manages to say contritely.
Like all leaders who put state before family, Pericles’
home suffers from years of neglect. He divorced Xanthippus and Paralus’ mother ages ago, when his sons were still young boys, and took up with Aspasia not long after. Pericles and Aspasia have remained together ever since. Though they were never formally married, she bore him a son, Pericles the Younger, who is still too young to do more than climb fig trees and horseplay with friends.
Alcibiades, on the other hand, is another story entirely.
Undaunted by her step-son’s perpetual discontent, Aspasia continues speaking to Xanthippus. “Why don’t you and Paralus go find Alcibiades and invite him to dinner one of these nights?” she recommends. “I’m sure he’ll have many wonderful stories to tell us of his journeys.”
Pericles nods to both of his sons to approve the request. The young men rise, bow to their father and exit the chamber. Xanthippus walks with a quicker gait than his brother, who, trying to catch up to his brother asks, “Where will we find Alcibiades?”
“We’ll start in the brothels, of course,” Xanthippus replies, unwilling to slow down for Paralus. “Then move on to the chamber maids’ quarters, if necessary.”
When the doors to the Strategeion close behind the brothers, Pericles returns his attention to the priests, who continue to wait patiently as if the whole episode had never even happened.
“I will consider the matter and send you word when I have reached a decision,” Pericles informs the priest.
“Thank you, sir,” the priest says with a bow and leaves the chamber with his colleagues.
“That will be all for the evening, gentlemen,” Pericles says to the handful of aides who remain. He collapses in his chair and massages his forehead. It’s a rare public display of exhaustion from a man who prides himself on his boundless stamina. The sight sends his servants scurrying quickly for the door. Even Heron, sensing the archon’s mood, seems anxious to leave, doing so without barraging Pericles with any of the numerous further matters that urgently require his attention.
When she is confident that they are alone, Aspasia quietly creeps up behind Pericles and wraps her arms around his neck, gently letting her check fall on the top of his head.
“I’ve heard them called ‘cabbage-eaters’ in the streets,” Pericles confesses. “My own sons, considered no smarter than livestock!”
“It’s merely satire from your enemies, dear,” Aspasia says.
“It is kindness from my allies.”
“The boys will learn to rise above the taunts.”
“But their father never will,” Pericles admits, turning his head to Aspasia. He sighs then once more buries his head in his hand. “And largely because the taunts are true.”
“Pericles, please—”
“I have given them the finest tutors in Greece and they have learned nothing! Xanthippus is quick to start wars, but has no desire to fight them.”
“But Paralus—”
“His mind is sharper, but he lacks the courage to reach conclusions, to say nothing of fighting for them.”
“Perhaps Hipparete will help him discover his courage when they marry,” Aspasia suggests, tilting Pericles’ head back to kiss him on his forehead. “Women have been known to have that effect on men,” she says with a guilty smile.
“One can only hope,” Pericles concedes.
Aspasia walks around the chair and surrenders both of her hands to Pericles. He takes them and is instantly pulled from his seat. The two walk arm-in-arm out of the Strategeion.
“What about Alcibiades?” Aspasia asks.
Pericles laughs. “Alcibiades! He’s a very worthy cause that will require a great deal of patience.”
School of Athens Page 3