Glory and the Lightning

by Taylor Caldwell

  Pericles motioned to the guard not to open the barred door as yet, and he stood there and looked through the iron bars at his friend. Like many men of strong and ardent passions Ichthus had not aged much, and appeared almost as the youth Pericles remembered, who had saved his life. However, the years had appeared to enlarge those huge brown eyes, to have increased his transparency of flesh, to have elongated that tremulous nose, to have made firmer that emotional mouth. The fine brown hair had retreated on his delicate skull so that his brow, always high and wide, seemed to dominate his whole face. Many of his old schoolmates jeered, and still jeered, at what they described as his “weak, vacillating chin,” which receded below his lower lip. But Pericles knew, with fresh despair, that here indeed was a valorous man who would never be turned from what he believed his duty.

  Pericles studied him for long moments, his fair brows drawn together in pain, his helmet faintly illuminated by the lanterns which hung from the walls of the corridors. Then he motioned to the guard to open the door, and he said with stern authority, “I will call you when I wish to depart.” The guard saluted, Pericles entered the cell, and waited impatiently for the sound of the guard’s retreating footsteps.

  Ichthus had started at the sound of Pericles’ voice, and then had slowly risen to his long and emaciated height, uttering a faint sound deep in his thin throat, but whether of protest or welcome it was impossible to know. A lamp burned on the table beside which he had been sitting, and there were numerous books on the table also.

  Then Ichthus exclaimed, “Pericles! Oh, never should you have come to this place!” His high voice was still almost feminine in its intonations.

  Pericles hesitated, then held out his hand and Ichthus took it. Tears shimmered in his eyes, and Pericles looked away. “Why should I not have come?” he asked. “Am I not your friend?”

  Ichthus glanced at the barred door with a sort of terror and he raised his voice and said with loud emphasis, “No, never were you my friend, Pericles, son of Xanthippus! We knew each other slightly, but that only.” He drew a trembling breath. “If you have kindness, lord, please leave me at once and forget”—he could not speak for a second or two—“forget you ever saw me.”

  Pericles understood at once. His enemies were always accusing him of possessing a heart of marble, for he was almost invariably cold and distant in his manner, unlike the majority of his clamorous fellow Athenians. But now his strongly disciplined face softened and he felt a plunge of pain. He put his hand on Ichthus’ shivering shoulder, pressed it firmly, and Ichthus sat down on the bed again in a posture of anguish. Pericles drew up another chair and sat near him and once again studied him, and now with gentleness.

  “Ichthus, my friend,” he said, in that sonorous voice which could always move the emotions of others, “you have come to a sad pass, against which I warned you years ago.”

  “Yes,” said Ichthus, who could not move his eyes from the face he loved so much and adored almost slavishly, “you have warned me.”

  “You did not listen,” said Pericles.

  Ichthus made a desperate motion with his long and sensitive hands. “I obeyed One I loved much dearer.”

  “The Unknown God,” said Pericles.

  Ichthus nodded. “What is my life?” he said. “It is nothing besides that obedience.”

  Pericles made a wry mouth. “Have the gods communicated to you their desires, Ichthus? Have they spoken to you in the night, and especially Pallas Athene? Is that not presumptuous? How do you know their commands, their wishes?”

  Ichthus put his hand on his slight breast. “I hear the voice of God in my heart. God is the enemy of tyranny, of all that oppresses man, and to obey God is better than to obey an unconscionable government.”

  Pericles frowned. It might be possible to save this pathetic and innocent man, this fervent and honest man, but he would always be in danger of retribution. At the end, he would be murdered. Pericles rubbed his chin, and the rings on his fingers twinkled in the rising and falling light of the lamp. He moved nearer to Ichthus and lowered his voice.

  “You have a mother,” he said. “You have sisters, and cousins, all who love you. Do you know their fate if you are found guilty by the Ecclesia of heresy and treason?”

  Ichthus briefly closed his eyes on a spasm and the lids wrinkled. Then he opened his eyes and regarded Pericles straightly, and Pericles saw the valor in them, the steadfast light shining like a star.

  “They know what I must do,” he said. ‘They know I can but obey, and fight for my country, that she might be free once again, and a sun to the world of men.”

  “Do you understand that it is very probable that all your goods and lands and money will be seized, your family dispersed or ostracized, if you pursue your course?”

  “I know,” said Ichthus, and Pericles could hardly hear him.

  Pericles said, and with some painful exasperation, “It is very heroic, and very honorable, Ichthus, but it is a sacrifice no man should ask of his family I”

  He stood up and began to pace the cell with rapid and clanging footsteps, and Ichthus watched him mournfully. Ichthus said, “I have talked of all this to my family, and they know I must do as I must do.” When Pericles did not reply but only increased the rapidity of his pacing, Ichthus said, “What would you do, my dearest of friends?”

  Pericles abruptly paused. He faced the little high window of the cell, his back to Ichthus. He was silent for a long time. He had clasped the elbows of his arms in his favorite gesture, and his fingers tightened on them until they were as white as stone. Then he slowly turned to Ichthus, and said with that cold and brutal candor so well known to the citizens of Athens: “I do not know, Ichthus, by Castor and Pollux, I do not know.”

  He resumed his seat and rested his hands on his bare knees. He gazed at Ichthus and the other man could not read his face, for it was impassive.

  “I often think that nations are ungrateful,” he said. “Brave men have died for their country, and were joyous so to die. They have fought for their people—and their people have forgotten. Perhaps it is better to be a living weasel than a dead lion. The gratitude and the memory of nations are all too brief. Should a man die for such ephemeral things?”

  Ichthus made a sad gesture of resignation. He repeated, “I can only do what I must do.” When Pericles did not speak, he said, “What would you have me do?”

  This time Pericles hesitated for so long that it might have been that he had not heard. But Ichthus saw his eyes, the tightening of his face.

  Pericles hated the ugly words he felt he must say, “You can recant.”

  Ichthus started to his feet. He looked down at Pericles, who averted his head. “Recant?” cried Ichthus. “You would urge me to such a base thing, to the denial of all I love and honor, to the repudiation of my whole convictions and my life, itself?”

  “Let me say this,” said Pericles, not looking at him, “is any cause worth your life, your family, your peace, Ichthus?”

  Ichthus sat down as if his knees had failed him. He leaned towards Pericles and said imploringly, “I have known you long, my friend, and have bowed before your wisdom and your integrity and your love for your country, for they are greater than mine. This I know in my heart,” and he struck his breast with his fragile fist. “In my place you would not recant—”

  But Pericles said, as if speaking to himself, “I do not know. No man can trust himself utterly, or guess what he would do under danger of death or dishonor. To proclaim he can is to be a liar, full of self-delusion.”

  Ichthus put his hands over his face as if to shut out some terrible sight, and Pericles saw the gesture. Then Ichthus said in a low voice, “I have faced all that can be faced, except the ultimate end, and I have not turned away from it. Better it is to die than to betray one’s self, and all that is a man.”

  Pericles hated his next words even more, “Better it is to buy a breathing space, then fight again more adroitly, more subtly, and with a keener weapon, under
standing the enemy fully.”

  Ichthus dropped his hands. “You would do this, Pericles?”

  “I have said, I do not know. That is the only answer I can give you in the deepest honesty.”

  He could not bear Ichthus’ face which had taken on the aspect of death, and had become dull and expressionless. Ichthus slowly averted his head. It was as if all that he loved, all that on which he had anchored his life, had disintegrated and had been swallowed by soundless waves.

  “I would not have you die,” said Pericles. “You are one of the few men of probity I know, one of the few I can trust. You saved my life. For that alone I shall always be grateful. But more than that you taught me a tremendous lesson. You are my friend, and I can say that of only a small number.”

  The fervent light slowly began to return to Ichthus’ face and he turned eagerly towards Pericles. “Then, you would despise me if I betrayed all that for which I have lived! And all that is mighty to you, yourself, Pericles I”

  Pericles was silent. He felt old and heavy and very tired and sick. He thought of Anaxagoras and what the latter would have felt at this conversation. Pericles could see those piercing and noble eyes. They seemed to have fixed themselves on him, in this cell, glowing and unwavering.

  Once more he stood up and began to pace the cell, his head bent, and Ichthus watched him, following his course back and forth with his enormous eyes. The lamplight fluttered in a hot breeze which came through the windows. The scrolls on the table stirred restlessly.

  Ichthus spoke again and again imploringly. “What would my life be worth to me if I lied to myself, if I ignobly recanted and if I were permitted to slink away like a beaten dog? How could I live with myself? How could you live with yourself, Pericles, if you followed your own advice?”

  Pericles sighed. He did not stop his pacing. He fingered the sharp Damascene steel dagger at his girdle, and felt the faceted gems in the hilt.

  He stopped before Ichthus. “I fear I could not live with myself,” he said. Ichthus clasped his hands together and his eyes were radiant and full of reverence.

  “So,” said Pericles, “I have but one recourse. I will defend you before the Ecclesia.”

  The radiance died instantly from Ichthus’ eyes. Terror and alarm suffused his face, which had become deathly yellow. His mouth opened on a great cry.

  “No! That you must not do, Pericles! You have formidable enemies. They would use your defense of me to your destruction, your ruin, and even your life!” Horror gripped him, and confused agony.

  “All through the night,” said Pericles in so stern a voice that even the distraught Ichthus caught his breath, “I have pondered this and have come to the conclusion that I must defend you, if you refused to be discreet. Let us speak no more of this. I, too, Ichthus, must do as I must do.”

  Ichthus fell on his knees before his friend and raised his clasped hands to him. He almost grovelled.

  “No! I will not accept this monstrous sacrifice! I will not permit it! Who am I, compared with you, Pericles, son of Xanthippus, the glory of our country?”

  “You are my friend,” said Pericles. “You are even more: You are a brave man.”

  He reached down to lift Ichthus to his feet. Ichthus’ eyes stared wildly in his extremity of dread and suffering, then roamed about the cell, then returned to Pericles. He swallowed visibly. Tears began to flood from his eyes. He flung aside Pericles’ hands and moaned over and over, “No, no, no. This you must not do! Athens needs you. You must not die for me, an insignificant man!”

  Then, before Pericles could move, Ichthus’ hand darted out and seized the hilt of Pericles’ dagger. He leapt to his feet and sprang back from the other man, and he smiled deeply, a heartbreaking smile, the dagger high in his uplifted hand.

  “Farewell, dearest of friends! Live for Athens!”

  Before the startled Pericles could move one foot Ichthus had plunged the dagger into his breast. The blood spurted forth, and Ichthus staggered. Pericles caught him in his arms and swayed with the weight that had become heavy and flaccid.

  Pericles lowered him on his bed, and his hoarse panting filled the cell. “Gods,” he muttered. He leaned over Ichthus, who lay on his bed with a beatific smile on his face, a smile of love and triumph. Pericles looked at the dagger which stood upright from Ichthus’ chest. Blood flowed all about it. Pericles began to tremble. The jewels on the hilt glittered in the lamplight.

  Ichthus tried to speak, but he died, still smiling that ecstatic smile of loving triumph. At the very last he had touched Pericles’ hand consolingly.

  Pericles, never looking away from that piteous countenance, so gently victorious, so dauntless, forced himself to stand upright, though all his flesh was shaken.

  Again, Ichthus had saved his life. He covered his eyes with his hand and began to weep.

  CHAPTER 12

  The King Archon looked at Daedalus with an inscrutable expression. Pie said, “You have brought grave charges against the Head of State, Pericles, son of Xanthippus. It is true that the Head of State must be beyond reproach, even if he is just a man as are the rest of us. In his official position he must not be guilty of malfeasance, however he may be only a human being in his private life. You are enraged, my friend, that when your daughter refused to divorce him he brought suit for annulment.” The King Archon raised his hand. “Let us not be emotional. Your cries have been hysterical. Bear with me. The affairs of your daughter, Dejanira, have no bearing on the conduct of Pericles. Many men divorce their wives or seek annulment. The government is not concerned with the domestic problems of their members.

  “You wish to have your grandsons, Xanthippus and Paralus, returned to the custody of their mother, under your guardianship. Pericles is their father. Men have full disposal of their children, and this must not be denied Pericles. The children are content with their father, and adore him. Let us not be concerned with children, who are insignificant. It is womanish to consider children; they are nothing until they are men. Before that they are unripe, and disorderly. There is no room in our national life for such. Their future belongs to their fathers and not their raging mothers, who think with their wombs and not with their minds—if they have any.

  “What are your other impetuous charges? Ichthus died in his cell by his own hand, with the dagger of Pericles. You deny this. You have said that Pericles, the notable Head of State, deliberately murdered Ichthus to prevent that unhappy man from ‘betraying’ his connections with Pericles! Had Pericles wished the death of Ichthus he could have had him quietly poisoned with the hemlock cup. Or, he could have repudiated him with contempt. Why, then, murder? It is ridiculous to believe for an instant that Pericles, the Head of State, reduced himself to the status of a common alley murderer!”

  “I hate him!” cried Daedalus.

  The King Archon frowned. “Government has no room for personal sentiments. Government is orderly—or should be—and detached from the aberrations of female instability. As Solon said, women should not be permitted to interfere with affairs of State. Go to. If you would not be prosecuted for libel, my Daedalus, you will control your tongue and your twitters. It was you who arranged the marriage between your daughter and the noble Pericles. Now, for some reason known only to you, you wish to destroy him, he, the Head of State. I do not admire Pericles, but I know what is ridiculous. Let us be done with this nonsense.”

  Daedalus rose in all his skeleton height, his teeth clenched.

  “I will have vengeance!” he said.

  The King Archon shrugged. “If Pericles is mysteriously assassinated I will remember your words.” He added, “I am not in agreement with the design of Pericles to waste the public money on the raising of monuments and temples to the glory of Athens. I am not in agreement with his policies. I do not admire his defense of what he calls ‘the middle’ between the aristocrats and the rabble. The rabble is only the offal of a society. It needs to be controlled at all times. I do not distinguish between the market rabble and Pericl
es’ advancement of merchants and shopkeepers and artisans and skilled labor, and the mean professions of physicians and lawyers. What are the people? Dogs. Nevertheless, he has been a prudent and determined administrator. His opinions are his own. Only time will tell whether he has been right. The sober people of Athens love him, and the sober are not to be despised. Let us wait. In the meantime, my friend, control yourself.”

  “May Hecate and the Furies devour him!”

  Again the King Archon shrugged. “The gods have their ways, and they are not known to us. If Pericles flourish or die, that is their judgment. Please leave me. I am wearied with your outbursts and denunciations, none of which are relevant.”

  When Daedalus had departed the King Archon reflected on the confusion which results from confusing politics with emotions. Men should refrain from introducing their penises into affairs of State, and their violent emotions with the conduct of orderly government. Perhaps it was too much to expect. It was no mystery, then, that governments were vehement and shouting. Even the gods were not immune from passions.

  Pericles did not know for whom he mourned most deeply—his mother or Ichthus. Agariste, despite her preening and pretensions, had been an excellent and devoted mother, a woman of realism even if she had long asserted that she had been brought to bed by a white lion with a golden mane—ostensibly the father of her son. It was her small conceit and no one had taken it seriously. She had had much intelligence which she had flaunted; she had also been kind, a trait she had hidden as a mark of weakness but which often burst forth spontaneously, much to her later chagrin. She had been a stern mistress of her household, but her slaves had respected both her justice and her authority. She had been a chaste wife, and had loved her husband and had mourned him sincerely and had been proud of him, for all her sharp tongue and insistence on the honor of her family. Alas, she had had no sense of humor, which had made Xanthippus avoid her and had often irritated Pericles.