Glory and the Lightning

by Taylor Caldwell

  CHAPTER 5

  Though Agariste believed that her son was all perfection, and even Xanthippus had feared that Pericles had too many virtues, Zeno suspected that the youth was more complex and intricate of character than was apparent. He had detected flashes in Pericles’ eyes of impatience, contempt, hostility and intolerance on occasion, and once or twice there had been a gleam of amused brutality. Zeno did not admire perfection in humanity, which would then render it featureless and lifeless and without color, but he did admire Pericles’ ability to control his tongue if not the sudden and unpleasant vivacity of his eyes when stirred to some less than admirable emotion. Then the pallor of his eyes was ignited to the whiteness of a vehement flame, and betrayed a capacity for rage and even fury.

  Pericles was widely admired among the youths of his acquaintance, and by their parents, yet there was a remoteness about him which rejected intimacy while inspiring reverence in others and a desire to approach him nearer, a desire invariably frustrated. There was a Tantalus quality in his nature. When he left his fencing school, which was conducted by the expert freedman, Chilio, he never appeared anxious to have companions on his walk to his father’s house, yet he was always surrounded by eager and fawning companions who often went out of their way to accompany him.

  Finally Zeno came to the dismaying—to him—conclusion that Pericles possessed that mysterious gift of the gods: the power to move men’s hearts as well as their minds, and to fire their imagination and their unpredictable emotions, which could be destructive.

  Alas, Zeno would think, he has the attributes of a politician, and, as it is said, politicians are not born, they are excreted.

  There was, in the fencing school of Chilio, a youth of sixteen who was scorned and ridiculed even by the master, though the youth was of a distinguished house and his father was a great soldier. His name was Ichthus, which meant fish, and this alone would have aroused hilarity among cruel youth. He was ashamed of the name, himself, but his mother, who claimed to be dedicated to Poseidon, and hinted that she had, as a maiden, been seduced by him, had insisted on the name. Moreover his character was gentle and elusive, and his movements flowing, and he lived in an aura of self-deprecation for he was very modest and not athletic of body. He absorbed learning like moss absorbing rain, and appeared to grow greener and fresher with every intellectual dew falling upon him, a faculty which did not endear him to his more robust fellows. Pericles, though he scorned the youth, never engaged in baiting him or laughing at him, but would watch him at a removed distance with an inexplicable expression, at once wondering and dismissing.

  Ichthus was as tall as Pericles, who was taller than his fellows, and very slender and bony, and his skin had a peculiar pallid transparency which seemed to cover a body containing no blood. This gave him the appearance of chronic illness, for even his lips had no warm tint. His nose was overly large and emaciated and had a curious way—to the risibility of his mates—of turning bright pink at the tip when he was excited over a theory or a particularly interesting academic hypothesis. His very light brown eyes were almost completely round, and started hugely when he was confronted by a novel thought or word, and were lashless. His wide flat mouth was tremulous and betrayed too much sensibility. He stammered and would sometimes become speechless with shy fear of those about him. His thin retreating chin was not notable. His tutors and his mother loved him, and his father despised him as a weakling. Besides having tutors, he attended the same academe as Pericles. It was only his skill at fencing, which he detested, that brought him any measure of toleration from his mates. He had a high shaking voice like an adolescent girl’s, which aroused mirth when he spoke quickly, and his light brown hair was straight and dull and blew in the wind, for it was very fine. He loped rather than walked and his garments never fitted him flatteringly.

  He and Pericles were well matched as excellent swordsmen, and often he won a match. He would break into Pericles’ polite congratulations with abject apologies and insistence that he was not the man Pericles was and his winning had only been an accident or an attack of preoccupation on the part of his antagonist. Pericles would leave him impatiently in the midst of his expostulations, Ichthus staring helplessly after him, hardly hearing the laughter of those who had watched the match.

  There were times when Pericles felt a slight pity for Ichthus, and when the latter was beset too hard by his mates Pericles would interfere with a quiet word or a quelling glance. Sometimes the pity rose to the point of anger and protectiveness, which also annoyed Pericles. Ichthus was nothing to him, he would remind himself. He had no admiration for him except for his learning and his intelligence. When occasionally he found himself followed meekly at a distance by Ichthus, Pericles’ vexation would heighten to the point of urging him to a cruel word, which he usually suppressed. Ichthus is a poor thing, the fifteen-year-old Pericles would think. Nevertheless, he has a right to an existence without harassment, as all men have, though his ridiculous name suits him well.

  One day Pericles stayed later at his academe to discuss a point of logic with his teacher, with which he hoped to confound Zeno that night. He wished to prove that validity and truth have not much in common, and that validity could often be a sophistry, while truth was granite and not merely an exercise in syllogisms. His teacher was annoyed, being an academician and a pedagogue, but he had great respect for Pericles and his family. He conceded a point, without conviction, and the suddenly bored Pericles turned away. He then saw Ichthus at his bench writing swiftly on his parchment with a stabbing pen, and for once he was curious about the youth and his air of intense inner excitement. He strolled, in all his marble beauty, to the bench and looked over Ichthus’ shoulder, and the other youth seemed unaware of his presence.

  Ichthus had written in wild rushing words:

  “O You Who are nameless, but gather all Names!

  The morning is Your mantle, the sunset Your heart,

  The winds live in Your garments and fire attends You,

  You possess no thrones but You are King of Thrones.

  The universes are Your habitations though You have no altars,

  You are the life, the sun, the core of flame creating stars.

  The gods adore You, but men are unaware of Your Being.

  Naught endures, not even breath or worlds, without Your knowledge,

  It is You Who alone know that the duration of a day-fly is equal

  To a mountain’s, for time lives not with You, Who are Reality.

  When will You reveal Your Face to all men, and in thunder

  Proclaim, “I am He Who was and is and eternally shall be?

  There was none before Me and none else.”

  It is a poor poem, thought Pericles, but it is written with passion and adoration. What god does he address? Pericles smiled a little. Then Ichthus became aware of his presence and the tip of his nose flushed into scarlet and his eyes fled in confusion.

  “I did not know you were a poet,” said Pericles.

  Ichthus, overcome by the condescension of Pericles, fell to stammering. “It—it is not a poem, Pericles. It is—it is only a—prayer.”

  “To whom?”

  Ichthus’ large brown eyes suddenly became ardent as if he had looked upon a vision. “To the Unknown God,” he murmured.

  “But that embraces them all,” said Pericles, highly diverted.

  Ichthus looked miserable and embarrassed, yet he had a certain tenacity of character. He shook his head. “There is but one God, the Unknown God, Who has a small altar in the temple of Zeus, inscribed to Him. It is waiting.”

  “For what, Ichthus?”

  Ichthus’ head dropped even lower. “I have heard a priest say for the day of revelation, when all men shall know Him, the Unknown God, and know there is none else.”

  “Monotheism is not a new religious concept,” said Pericles, “though not popular with our priests. They call it a foreign aberration, for the Egyptians invented it centuries ago.”

  Ichthus wa
s silent. Pericles waited. Then Ichthus whispered, “I adore Him. He invades my dreams, my thoughts, my life. I see His thumbprint in the sky at sunset. I hear His voice in thunder and wind and the rushing of rivers. I see His face reflected in the sea and carved in the clouds. The mountains tremble at His step, the earth shakes at His passing.” He folded his lean hands together as if praying, and Pericles impatiently suspected he was.

  “The priests would consider that a heresy,” said Pericles.

  “They are blind and evil men,” replied Ichthus, with unusual emphasis.

  Pericles glanced hastily at the teacher behind his desk, then said in a low voice, “I did not know you had such a dangerous tongue, Ichthus, and such dangerous thoughts. Keep them both to yourself.” He hesitated. He did not know what made him touch Ichthus lightly on the shoulder before he walked away.

  On the way to his father’s house he began to muse on what Ichthus had said. He and Zeno had often discussed the injustice and indecency of priests and governments who would endure no opinion but their own, and persecuted the man who differed as a blasphemer or a danger to law and order. Pericles considered his father, and his white forehead tightened with anger. He then considered Ichthus and was astonished at the vehemence the mild and retreating youth had displayed. There is more there, thought Pericles, than we know of, and it is possible he is not a worthless thing after all. For the first time in his short confident life Pericles reflected that many judgments and opinions he, himself, held might well be open to honest scrutiny. Ah, but that would create bewilderment, distraction, and ultimately would paralyse a man! He had to be adamantine about his convictions even if some were manifestly absurd and false, and at this thought Pericles laughed aloud.

  As he had delayed, his usual servile companions had left for their homes. Moreover it was a blustering day full of gray clouds so low they even obscured the top of the acropolis, and rain that resembled, in its stinging, the prickle of little shards of glass. It was near the time of the celebration of Chronos, and flakes of wet snow mingled with the rain. The silvery earth was ashen and ran with tiny black rivulets of water like dark veins. Lanterns were being lighted in the porticoes of houses, and lamps glimmered through windows, though it was still early afternoon. The wind clamored in pine and cypress and there was a thrumming sound in the bitter air. The hills were dim purple and imitated a giant reclining woman.

  Pericles wrapped his warm woollen cloak about him tightly and pulled the cowl of it over his tall head. There were few abroad and those mostly in litters carried by shivering and running slaves or in covered chariots. Pericles began the descent down the hill from the school to begin the ascent to his father’s house. Struggling with the gale he did not see that Ichthus, full of rapture that Pericles had condescended to him, and alight with love, was following him helplessly like a guarding slave. Pericles walked rapidly but Ichthus, with his long legs and light body, had no difficulty in keeping pace with him, though he lingered some distance behind, fearful of Pericles’ displeasure at discovering him and not wishing to intrude on someone he regarded almost as a deity.

  Athens lay below and the Agora also, crowded and beginning to shine with yellow lights as with stars. Pericles began the ascent to his father’s house. He came upon a grove of dark cypresses, towering like spires and clustered together. He was almost past them when a large man, hooded and wrapped in his cloak, fell upon him with upraised dagger which glittered wanly in the dim light.

  “Die, son of Xanthippus, traitor!” he shouted hoarsely. Pericles was athletic and agile, and he dodged the blow, springing to one side, the hood falling from his face and so exposing it to wind and rain. The man was much taller than he, and stronger, and his features were hidden, yet Pericles had the impression of ferocity and hate and swarthiness. In an instant he concluded that his best defense was flight and he was fast of foot. But the man was faster and powerful, and he seized Pericles by the hair and again raised his dagger.

  I am lost, thought the youth, but though he was terror-stricken he began to fight for his life. He seized the upraised wrist with its weapon and clung to it with both hands. The man swung him off his feet like a monkey clinging to a branch and tried to dash him to the ground. Pericles curled up his legs, swinging helplessly but with determination. He tried to shout for help, but the wind bore away his voice. His feet scraped the ground and his knees were abraded by stones, yet all he knew was the screaming of his heart and the necessity to hold the murderous arm. In the meantime the assassin was belaboring him with the fist of his left hand over the head and the back, and blood spurted from Pericles’ nose and from his forehead into his eyes.

  Then suddenly he was dropped and fell heavily to the ground and he heard a cursing and a howling, muffled. Rising to his hands and knees he stared upwards, disbelieving. Ichthus danced near him. He had stripped off his big woollen cloak and had thrown it over the attacker’s head and shoulders and body, and had drawn it tightly, holding it with one hand while with the other he was enthusiastically stabbing the stranger with his own drawn dagger though the folds of the garment. Ichthus’ long tunic fluttered about him like the tunic of a dancer, and his long thin legs were active and swift. He resembled an emaciated Pan. All this Pericles saw in an instant or two. He pushed himself to his feet, drew his dagger and rushed upon his assailant also, stabbing recklessly and with cold rage.

  The man sought to save himself, but the two youths were more than equal even to him, and he was blinded and smothered by the cloak. Frantically he kicked at the two he could not see, and blood ran down his legs. He began to weaken from the many wounds, one near his heart, and he groaned even as he struggled. Finally he reared upwards like a dying horse, and fell heavily to the earth, where he writhed for a few moments then lay still on his back.

  The two youths stood over him, panting, their bloody daggers in their hands. They stared at him. They wiped the sweat from their brows with the back of their left hands. Their breath whistled shrilly. Then Pericles bent and pushed aside Ichthus’ cloak and lifted the cowl of the murderer. The man was a complete stranger, with a black beard.

  “He is dead,” said the gentle Ichthus in a high and exultant voice, and he kicked the fallen man in the side.

  “I do not know him,” said Pericles. He could hardly speak from exhaustion and his breath was still fast. He watched Ichthus pull his stained cloak from under the man and wrap himself in it. Then Ichthus looked at Pericles and said, in a stammer, “You—you—are not injured, Pericles? Perhaps I hesitated a moment too long, and if so, forgive me.”

  Pericles heard this with incredulousness then began to laugh wildly and in short gasps. He flung his arms about Ichthus and staggered against his breast, for he felt weak and his head was whirling. Ichthus held him closely, and Pericles’ head fell on his savior’s shoulder and they stood like this until Pericles’ heart slowed its agonized thumping. He stood in the circle of Ichthus’ arms like a child against the chest of his rescuing father. At moments he was still convulsed with hysterical mirth at what Ichthus had said: “Perhaps I hesitated a moment too long, and if so, forgive me.”

  As for Ichthus, he was filled with delight and contentment and he wished he could remain like this, supporting Pericles, forever.

  Pericles began to weep both with laughter and relief, and he removed himself from Ichthus’ grasp, then embraced him, kissing him on each cheek. “You saved my life,” he said. “For that, I am always, into eternity, grateful, my dear Ichthus.”

  “It was nothing,” said Ichthus, his heart bounding with joy.

  “Then it follows that my life was nothing,” said Pericles with wryness. Seeing then that Ichthus was abashed and uncertain at his words, he embraced him again.

  A city guard appeared out of the swirling storm with drawn sword, shouting. He seized Ichthus by the shoulder roughly, and Pericles said in a weak voice, “He rescued me from this unknown vagabond and thief and murderer, who attacked me, doubtless for my purse. He is my schoolmate, and I
am Pericles, son of Xanthippus.”

  The suddenly craven guard then insisted that he accompany Pericles home. Instinctively, though he did not know Ichthus, he ignored him as always did others, and as if he had assumed the helmet dipped in the waters of Lethe, which makes men invisible. Ichthus stood aside shyly, accustomed to this treatment, and when Pericles looked over his shoulder and begged him to accompany him to his father’s house Ichthus dumbly shook his head, and to save himself from further embarrassment he loped away as lightly as he had approached. Pericles watched him go, with wonder, affection and gratitude, and he said to the guard, “That is the bravest man I ever knew, and I owe him what I am and whatever I shall be.”

  He told his mother Agariste about the episode, and when she had recovered from her fright and indignation and anxiety, she said, “You would not have a slave accompany you, my son, as I wished!”

  “I am no child,” said Pericles with impatience. He was vexed that his mother had not yet expressed gratefulness to Ichthus. He said, “Nor is Ichthus,” with meaning.

  Agariste was in her turn impatient and she waved her long white hand dismissingly. “What else could he do but what he did for the son of Xanthippus and Agariste?”

  Pericles stared at her, his pale eyes shining with hard wonderment in the lamplight. “He could have fled, for he put himself in the grasp of death also. But he did not flee. I know Ichthus. He would have saved anyone unjustly attacked, who was about to be murdered, for never was there a soul so filled with courage and kindness.”

  Agariste shook her wheat-colored locks, denying. “Doubtless he has courage, but you are the son of your parents and your illustrious ancestors, and though Ichthus is of a house not too unknown, he cannot compare with you. He helped to rescue you because you are what you are, my son, and hopes for glory and some future recompense.”