Stealing Athena

by Karen Essex

  Mr. Nisbet tried to shield his daughter under his arm as he escorted her out of the courthouse. No one spoke to them. They walked toward their carriage in muffled silence. Mary knew that around her, people were talking. Newsmen who had attended the trial hurried away to file their lurid stories. She heard footsteps, and the slight patter of rain, as her father hurried her away from the building. Suddenly she threw his arm off her shoulder and stood erect. She stopped walking and turned her face up toward the sky. Her father had walked ahead of her, but he turned when he realized that Mary had stopped. He waved his hand to hurry her, rush her along so that she would not have to speak to anyone who dared utter a word in her direction.

  She stood still, looking around. Everyone stood back from her, watching in astonishment as the shamed woman remained, against all reason, in the light of day, refusing to hide herself away as she should. Elgin walked out of the courtyard, talking to his lawyer and someone who looked like a journalist, some scruffy man with stained fingers and old spectacles. Elgin stopped when he saw Mary, and she looked at him and refused to turn away. She would let him gaze upon her for the last time, knowing that he had done the very worst to her now, and she would never have to look at him again, especially not on top of her, where he’d had the most power to do her harm. With that thought, she actually smiled at him.

  Elgin made a move toward her. He looked as if he were having an automatic reaction to her smile; as if all the events of the past two years had dropped away, and he was responding to the pleasant look that he had seen so many times on his wife’s face. But before he could advance, his lawyer hooked his arm through Elgin’s to stop him. Mary continued to stare until it dawned on Elgin that her smile was one of triumph over his domination. He had tried to vanquish her, but the worst had happened and here she was, still standing, with a gentle spring rain falling on her face. When he realized that she was not going to stop smiling, he turned away.

  Though her heart was broken, a small voice inside of her spoke, urging her to taste that part of the ordeal from which she had emerged victorious. Elgin had wounded her to the core by taking away her children. He had won that battle, but surely that arrangement could not last. She would continue to besiege him with requests to restore them to her. He had tried to deliver a mortal wound, but though he almost succeeded, he did not take away the one thing that she had left, which was almost as precious as her children, and that was her ultimate authority over her own body. Of that vessel, which enclosed the heart that she would now give to Robert, and of the fortune she would inherit that Elgin wanted so desperately, she would remain in control.

  In the city of Athens, in the first year of the war with Sparta

  WHEN OUR BOY WAS born, Perikles insisted upon having the traditional ceremony to celebrate his birth. In the agora, in front of a goodly number of the influential citizens of Athens, Perikles held the child up, high above his head, for all to see—the acknowledgment that he accepted him as his son. It was a stunning gesture for the father of a bastard to make. The boy was irresistible, with his big hazel eyes and full head of curly hair, head coming to a point just like his father’s to emphasize paternity. He looked more like Perikles than did his two legitimate sons, so the father had an automatic and instantaneous affection for the infant. At the ceremony, much to my surprise, he announced that he was naming the child after himself.

  “His name shall be Perikles. He is the son of a general, and a grandson of Xanthippus, hero of the Battle of Mykale against the Persians.”

  Giving the boy his own name was more than a signal to Athens that Perikles acknowledged the child; it was a challenge to the Athenians to accept the boy too.

  We had had no time to celebrate my acquittal. Soon after the trial, the Spartans started to express displeasure over an alliance that Perikles had made with Korkyra, that island on the eastern side of Greece named after a beautiful sea nymph. Korkyra was a colony belonging to Korinth, a longtime ally of Sparta. The Spartans found the alliance unacceptable and sent a delegation to tell the Athenians to leave Korkyra. But Perikles would not back down, and eventually Sparta launched a military incursion, breaking the so-called Thirty-Year Truce long before its term expired.

  On our son’s first birthday, the first of the heroes who had perished in the war were brought back to the city. Instead of rejoicing over the fact that our son had survived the year free of the feared diseases of infancy, we were spending our days working on the oration that Perikles would deliver at the funeral for the war dead, a speech that would have to both properly commemorate the fallen men and garner support for the undoubtedly long war ahead. Athens and Sparta each considered itself, its military capacities, and its way of life supreme, and neither showed a sign of backing down.

  The speech for the war dead was actually required by law. A vote was taken as to who would deliver it, and this time Perikles won unanimously. Over time, the speech had become a conventional litany of praise. But Perikles was determined that this speech would not be another predictable review of the valorous Athenians of the past, followed by praise for recent casualties of war.

  “Their glory should not be dependent on my eloquence,” Perikles had said to me as he was composing it. “Instead of employing the usual eulogistic conventions, I want this speech to reflect Athenian values, the highest of which is moderation. I will not succumb to the temptation to give excessive praise, yet heroes cannot be shortchanged.”

  “Then you must have a specific strategy,” I said. “What is it that you wish the speech to convey, besides honoring the dead?”

  He thought about this for a long time, retreating into his private room and not coming out for hours. Finally, he surfaced. “I want the people of Athens to look upon the city we have built, and know what these men have died for.”

  With that in mind, he easily composed his address, reading it aloud to me, while I made suggestions for its improvement. When he had a final version, he read it to me, with a look of complete self-satisfaction. I shrugged.

  “Does it not please you, Aspasia?” he asked incredulously.

  “Oh, it pleases me,” I replied. He could tell that I was taunting him.

  “Do you find it just another oration in praise of a city that is bloated with praise? Is that how it hits the ear of the resident alien?”

  “I have lived here long enough to call it my home, Perikles. No, I do not feel that you have overpraised your city. I wonder, though, if the audience will include the widows and mothers of the dead. Do you not want to say anything to them? You end your speech by advising the men to continue on and seek glory. What would you say to the women of the fallen heroes?”

  “The women?” He paced about, thinking, swatting a fly away from his head. “Why must I address the women?”

  “If I had lost my husband or son in battle, I would like to hear words of advice and consolation too,” I answered. Our baby was asleep in a basket in the corner of the room. “Do we not deserve a kind word?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he said hastily, though I could tell that he wished I had not brought up this bothersome subject. He had finished with his speech and was pleased.

  “I have it,” he said. “I shall say the following: And now, if I must speak of female excellence to those of you who are widows, great will be your glory in living up to your natural character, and greatest of all shall be she who is least talked of among men, whether for good or for bad.”

  I frowned. “So that is it? You are exhorting the men to seek honor and the women to seek anonymity? That is hardly inspiring, Perikles. Do the women not deserve something more to guide them through the years of suffering ahead?”

  “Have not your own experiences made you long for anonymity?” he replied. “I might have lost my mind thinking that I could not protect you from the harm that was coming your way, Aspasia. Do you not see? Women must be protected. You are the vessels of the future.”

  “But must we also be silent?”

  “I am not arguing
for silence. I am merely asking the women of Athens, in these troubling times, to refrain from behavior that might earn them infamy.”

  “Why is infamy ruinous to a woman, whereas it seems to enhance the reputation of a man?”

  “Why did I have to fall in love with a philosopher?” he retorted. “There is no answer to your question, Aspasia. It’s the way things are. Perhaps you could take up a deeper inquiry with your friend Sokrates. He seems overly eager to spill words on matters of this sort.”

  THE ATHENIANS BUILT A grand tent, a pavilion to compete with the Odeion, on the hillside beneath the Akropolis for the funeral ceremony. For three days, the bones of the dead had been laid out in cypress coffins—one for each tribe—so that friends and relatives could bring offerings. After so many days, the tent was piled with donations, which the families of the fallen could either bury with them or keep in homage to their memories. After the eulogy, a military escort would lead the procession to the cemetery. This torch-lit pageant would take place at sunset, a sacred time for returning a body to rest in the earth.

  Perikles stepped up to a podium built high above the crowd so that the thousands of Athenians who had gathered to honor the slain soldiers might hear him. Women wearing long veils—undoubtedly the widows, mothers, and sisters of the dead—held hands, softly wailing against the louder caterwauling of the professional mourners. Men beat drums, and military pipers played their mournful songs. A long phalanx of foot soldiers stood guard around the tent, their bright shields resting at their sides. The scene felt like something from the ancient days, the Age of the Heroes, as if the gods were still walking the earth, mingling with men, and at any moment Athena would appear on the hillside in her armor and bellow her stunning war cry.

  As soon as Perikles raised his hands, all were brought to silence.

  Out of respect and as a concession to tradition, he began his speech with a tribute to the ancestors. “For it was they who handed from generation to generation this society, kept free for us by their valor. I am speaking of our remote ancestors as much as of our own fathers, who spared no pains to be able to leave it to the present generation. But, Athenians, that part of our history that dwells on our military achievements is too familiar for me to elaborate on here today, and I shall therefore pass over it. Our form of government and the national habits and national character out of which it sprang are the subject I wish to dwell upon, so that you citizens, or any foreigners, may listen and learn.

  “Athenians! Our constitution does not copy laws of other states. We are the innovators, not imitators. Our administration favors the many, not the privileged few, and that is why it is called a democracy. Unlike in other societies, in Athens no one is held back from government for lack of wealth. The poorest and most humble citizen is free to speak his mind at the Assembly, or to hold office, or to vote. Athenians are free and generous and live in an open society, where class does not interfere with merit, and where a man may do what he likes and not fear the anger of his neighbor, because he is free. And yet we are not lawless. We are safeguarded by the laws—written and unwritten—and the magistrates who protect the injured.”

  I remembered our discussion when he wrote these words. “How do you feel about Athenian law, having been prosecuted before the entire city?” he had asked.

  “Another society might have murdered a woman who aroused suspicions or who others had deemed to have insulted the gods. It is commonly heard of in other places,” I’d said. “I spoke in my defense, as did you, and I was acquitted. I could have suffered a worse fate.”

  But here I was, a free woman, the mother of a beautiful boy and the lover of the leader of this civilization whose virtues were being extolled. As I looked at Perikles standing in the shadows of the great monuments that he and Pheidias had dreamed up and convinced the citizens to allow them to build, I was struck with awe for all that had been accomplished in the years since I had landed on these shores.

  “Athenians,” Perikles was saying now, “think on our uniqueness among men. We have created thriving businesses, but we provide plenty of means to refresh ourselves from our labors. We have recreation and games and contests for all to enjoy. We live great and harmonious lives of pleasure in private splendor. We cultivate refinement and knowledge. The magnitude of our city draws the luxuries of the world into our harbor. We throw our city open to the world, and never do we exclude foreigners from learning or observing here. Contrast this with Sparta, which drives foreigners out, values only military prowess, and lives in suspicion of others. Athens is a lesson for all of Greece, indeed all the world, both today and in the future. As a city, we are a school for others.

  “This is what these brave men have died for. Those of you who are still among the living must go on to seek honor, for it is honor rather than gain that gives one comfort in old age. Only love of honor never grows old.”

  Perikles was now reaching the crescendo of his speech. “Look upon your city, Athenians, and become lovers of Athens.”

  He raised his right arm to the sky and then dramatically flung it in the direction of the Parthenon, whose growing shadow seemed to creep toward him. “The admiration of the present and succeeding ages will be ours because we have not left our power without witness. Here are the mighty proofs. Far from needing a Homer or others whose verses might charm for the moment, we have left behind us these imperishable monuments, purchased for us with these very lives.

  “Such is the Athens for which these men, in their resolve not to lose her and all that she stands for, nobly fought and died. May their survivors too be ready in her cause.”

  As he finished his speech, I remembered what Diotima had said to me the night of our party, words that I had not apprehended until this moment. A man’s greatest incentive is the love of glory. For that he will risk all. In the monuments, Perikles had earned the eternal glory that his soul had longed for. Sokrates had said that Diotima was the master of the Philosophy of Love, which, as she dissected it, was vastly different from the Philosophy of Domestic Relations, which I had been developing. The former appeared to be rooted in earthly life, but was a mere gesture toward what men were truly seeking: immortality. The latter was firmly fixed in daily life, which seemed to be women’s domain. Should women also seek the sort of glory that men pursue? I desired to live free of restrictions, but I did not concern myself with whoever would remember me after my life was over. What did it matter to me who would evoke the name of Aspasia once I was mingling with the shades? I did not fathom how the echo of my name upon the earth would improve the quality of the life I was in the throes of leading.

  Yet it seemed a pity that my name would die with me, unattached as it was to glorious monuments, but only to the man who built them. I looked up. The fading sun cast a reddish glow over the white marble of the Parthenon, momentarily breaking its aura of Olympian calm. It was true, what Diotima had said. The monument would long outlast us, our son, and everyone else who at this moment stood in its shadow. The Parthenon belonged to eternity, much like the souls of the men who had died to save her and all that she represented.

  Perikles had finished his speech and was bowing his head in appreciation of the crowd’s applause. The soldiers were lighting the torches to escort their fallen comrades to their final resting place. Families of the dead surrounded the tent, pouring libations into the earth. It seemed that the very skies were now ignited and the encroaching night air carried with it the smell of death. Rather than rejoin his people, Perikles turned away from ceremony and walked up the pathway to the Parthenon, where he alone would pray to Athena to guide his hand as we faced the troubled times ahead.

  In the city of London, in the year 1816

  SHE TOOK A HACKNEY into Bloomsbury rather than rely on her private carriage. She wore plain clothes and went alone, during regular museum hours, hoping that no one would recognize her. Whom she might run into on Great Russell Street, she could not imagine, but London society was small indeed, and one had to be careful. Ironically,
she had not visited the museum since she’d gone there with Elgin in the first days of their marriage—those few days together in London as happy newlyweds before they departed for Constantinople—to see the exotic objects collected by Captain James Cook in the South Sea Islands. Cook had explored the islands with Sir Joseph Banks, who many years later would help free Elgin from French captivity. The only indulgence she had allowed herself while dressing today was that she had dabbed some of the rose cologne the Capitan Pasha had given her so many years before on her wrists. She inhaled the sweet smell now, remembering how delighted she had been to receive his gifts.

  The driver stopped in front of the museum, and she asked him wait for her. “I shan’t be long, I assure you,” she said.

  The museum had been expanded since she’d last seen it, to accommodate the many treasures that had come pouring in from the corners of the earth. She had made it a point to discover in advance where the marbles were located. She did not want to attract any attention to herself during the visit.

  Elgin, crushed by his ever-mounting debts, had sold them, finally, for a pittance. She still despised him, certainly, for keeping her beloved children away from her all these years, but each time she remembered his original sentiments, she felt a tinge of—what was it? Irony?—considering what had been his fate. Rather than being the hero of British arts, he was a man reviled. Lord Byron, the lame poet who wandered through Greece using, of all people, an unsuspecting Lusieri as his guide, had excoriated Elgin in his recently published epic poem Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage as the bandit who delivered the final insult to an already enslaved Greek population by his rape of Athena and her temple.

  Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld

  In other lands, where he was doom’d to go: