by Peter Green
Aspasia was always at these talks, too. That was a strange thing, because his mother had always stayed away when men were talking or drinking. But Aspasia talked and drank as well as any of them. This made him feel obscurely proud. When he asked Amycla about it, she had first beaten him soundly for having been up at all, and then shaken her head and said that in the old days such Milesian ways would never have been allowed in the city. And when he had asked Aspasia—how he blushed when he thought of it now—what Milesian ways were, she had looked surprised and a little sad. Then she had laughed and told him that he would know all about it soon enough; and because he loved her he had never asked her again.
It was about this time that she had borne Pericles a son, and when he had asked her why she looked as she did, she had smiled and told him to lean his ear close. Amazed, he had felt a commotion, as if someone were trying to kick their way out. Then Aspasia had told him, and he had been happy and sad at once. The young Pericles was six now, and the image of his mother. It’s odd, thought Alcibiades to himself: he’s stamped himself over the whole City, but he can’t make any impression on his own children. And he remembered, not for the first time, the way in which Aspasia had accepted Pericles’ children by his patrician wife, whom he had divorced for Aspasia’s sake. Amycla had once pointed her out to him, passing in a litter. He had had a glimpse of a cold expressionless face very like his mother’s. Soon after leaving Pericles she had married the rich Hipponicus.
During these early years he had come to think of Pericles as a god who could do no wrong, who was somehow immortal and omniscient, who would always be and had always been at the head of the Athenian state. He knew that Pericles was called the Olympian because of his lofty and detached bearing, but thought this was a compliment, almost a reverential tribute. He knew that he never went out to parties, except once for the wedding of a kinsman of his, and then he had left before the drinking began. He knew that people thought it odd that Aspasia should live with him, and even odder that he should kiss her every day when he left for the Council Chamber in the morning and again on returning at nightfall; but he could not see why.
It was about the time he had first gone to school that he had had his first inkling of the political rivalries and hatreds in which his guardian was entangled. One evening an unheard-of thing happened: he found Aspasia in tears. He asked her what the matter was. ‘He may be exiled,’ she said. There was no need to ask who ‘he’ was. But he could get nothing more out of her. Next morning at school one of the other boys—a strong, bandy-legged, cruel little creature he had always loathed—came up to him and said: ‘Well, you won’t have a guardian much longer. My father says so.’ Angry yet curious, he had asked what the boy meant. ‘You wait and see,’ came the reply. ‘My father says that Athens got rid of her kings years ago, and we’re not having another one now, He says your guardian’s making us and our allies pay tribute so that he can indulge himself building temples and drag us into war.’ ‘And who is your father?’ Alcibiades had asked, trying to fight back tears of rage, trembling and stammering. ‘Thucydides son of Melesias,’ said the boy proudly. ‘And another thing,’ he added. ‘He says it’s a disgrace for decent Athenians to have a general who lives publicly with a Milesian whore.’
At that Alcibiades had flung himself on the boy, hitting and kicking, and they had rolled together on the floor. He remembered the boy’s heavy weight gradually pinning him down, and his head being cracked against the stones. Then he had twisted sideways and bitten hard into the boy’s hand. It was against all rules of fighting, but he had known he must not lose this fight. A shout went up from the spectators. ‘Alcibiades,’ cried one, ‘you fight like a woman.’ He had staggered to his feet, panting, leaving his adversary on the ground. ‘No,’ he said: ‘like a lion.’ From that day he had been known as the Little Lion, and had imperceptibly gathered into his hands the reins of leadership among his companions.
He had gone home and told Aspasia the whole story; all except the remark about the Milesian whore. She had said:
‘Alcibiades, do you know what ostracism is?’
‘No. Tell me.’
‘You ought to. Both your great-great-grandfathers were ostracised. When there are two leading citizens who want different things, everyone casts their vote on potsherds as to which of them they think ought to go into honourable exile for ten years. Their lands and property are kept for them, and afterwards they can come back again without dishonour.’
‘And that’s what’s going to happen with Pericles and Thucydides?’
She had said: ‘Yes. Tomorrow,’ and abruptly gone to her room.
The next day he had met Thucydides’ son at school and neither of them had looked at each other. When school was over he had said to Zopyrus, ‘Have they decided yet?’ and the old slave, with a troubled face, had replied: ‘They’re voting now.’ He had said, ‘Take me there, please. I must go.’ The old man had shaken his head. ‘There’ll be nasty crowds, master. There may be rioting, too. It won’t be a popular decision, whichever way it goes.’ But Alcibiades had persuaded him in the end, as he always did, and they had gone down by the Hill of the Nymphs to the Assembly on the Pnyx. There was a huge crowd there, indeed, but it was quiet and silent; almost too quiet. The officials were counting the votes. They waited five minutes, ten, fifteen. Then the President of the Council rose on the platform and a ripple ran across the sea of faces. ‘Against Thucydides son of Melesias,’ he called without preamble, his voice sharp in the still assembly, ‘six thousand five hundred and fifty votes cast. Against Pericles, four thousand three hundred—’ but the final figure was lost in the enormous mingled roar of triumph and disappointment that went up from the crowd. It had suddenly become hideously alive. Faces twisted into masks of exultation or fury. There was a swirl, a confusion of voices. Fighting broke out somewhere near the base of the platform. Then Alcibiades saw Pericles, on the platform with the President, who was grasping him by the hand. The cheers and boos redoubled in violence. Pericles was trying to speak, but it was impossible for him to make himself heard. Then he took a step forward and raised both his hands: and suddenly the shouting died away as quickly as it had arisen.
‘Friends and fellow-citizens,’ came the clear and familiar voice, ‘you have shown beyond any doubt the trust you have put in me as leader of your affairs.’ A vast cheer arose, broken now only here and there by a dissident murmuring. ‘I know only too well that that trust I only hold by your permission, to do the work on your behalf which I know to be my duty. It is my hope that in the years to come I shall be able, with the Gods’ help, to aid you in making our great City the Queen of Greece, a shining example to all other cities and countries. I must return you my thanks for making it possible for me to continue to serve you.’
Alcibiades had never heard Pericles talk in this way before, and it troubled him. There seemed to be a kind of insincerity in his words, gracious though they were: the boy realised with sudden perception that his guardian was playing expertly on these emotions with which he himself had, for the first time, so rudely and suddenly been confronted. He said to Zopyrus, gripping his hand, ‘Take me home. Take me home quickly.’ But the old man was shouting and cheering with the rest of them; and Alcibiades could stand it no longer, but broke away from Zopyrus and fought his way through the crowd to the deserted market-place.
From that time onwards he began to take a precocious interest in politics. Though his attendance at school was erratic, his interests in the house were now temporarily diverted from Aspasia to his guardian. He pestered Pericles with endless questions. Who were the leading speakers of the day? How was the election in the Assembly controlled? What was the chance of a citizen-member ever becoming President? How much income came from tribute? What was being spent on building up the navy? Who were Athens’ chief allies? Pericles, despite his heavy duties, had answered all these inquiries patiently, glad to see his ward so concerned with serious matters; but when he in turn asked the boy why he wanted to kn
ow about such things, he met with obstinate silence.
A practical instance of the responsibilities of empire had been forced upon him only a year before. Rumours of a revolt on the great island of Samos in the eastern Aegean came in to Athens. Sailors spread them in the taverns of the Piraeus; traders and shopkeepers brought them to the City; and Alcibiades heard the tale on one of his secret wanderings in the Potters’ Quarter from an old soldier who had served at Coronea with his father. But the trouble had started some months earlier. He had come in one evening and found Pericles and Aspasia talking earnestly: sensing something important afoot, he had slipped behind a curtain and listened. Pericles was saying
‘I can see all that. Of course it’s the most profitable course. But I find it very hard to justify.’ His voice was surprisingly uncertain; and—odd reversal—when Aspasia answered, the listening boy hardly recognised her tones in the quick remarks she rapped out as if she were General and not he:
‘Will you listen to common sense? Samos is an independent ally. She has her own fleet. Do you want to lose the best harbour on the Ionian coast? If you’re not careful, you’ll have an oligarchic revolt on your hands. And it won’t lack for support. There’s that damned Persian satrap Pissuthnes in Sardes with Croesus’ own mint of gold behind him and enough mercenaries to hire and to spare. Do you think they haven’t got that in mind? Do you think they feel they owe us allegiance?’
Pericles had said, slowly, ‘Then what shall I say to the Milesians tomorrow?’
When Aspasia spoke again it was the lazy affectionate voice Alcibiades knew. She said: ‘Tell them Athens promises her help to the people of Miletus against their oligarchic enemies. Tell them that we shall establish a true democracy on Samos and relieve them from danger. That would be a good move in any case. It won’t need a full fleet.’
Pericles said: ‘You’re not entirely without prejudice in this affair, are you?’
Aspasia smiled. ‘I don’t forget old friends,’ she said. And then Alcibiades, watching from behind the curtain, had seen a very curious thing. They were both sitting on a long couch while they talked; and now Aspasia rested her head against Pericles’ shoulder. The boy saw her press herself against Pericles; and then, incapable of movement, saw what Pericles could not see as he swiftly extricated himself from her embrace and paced nervously up and down the room: the extraordinary expression that for one brief instant made Aspasia’s face unrecognisable. But it was wiped away in a flash; and it was an outwardly composed woman, her dress rearranged, who said:
‘If the fleet’s to go, why not go yourself? A little easily-won military glory never did anyone any harm.’ Pericles had flushed, and walked out, almost brushing against his ward as he did so. Next day he took Aspasia at her word; and within a week the fleet had put to sea.
A couple of months later Pericles sailed back in triumph to the Piraeus, with the news that there had been no resistance, and that he had established a democracy without trouble. But the Samians soon attacked Pericles’ democrats, rescued the hostages he had taken, and handed over his garrison to the Persian satrap. Somewhat out of countenance, Pericles had put to sea again; and for some while there was silence, till a ship arrived from the fleet demanding reinforcements, with a confused tale of an indecisive sea-fight and a loosely-held blockade of the island. Since then there had been no news.
Pericles had been away for long periods before, and hitherto Alcibiades had taken little notice of the fact. But now he had become aware of Aspasia as a woman; and through her of every woman he saw. He haunted her wherever she went in the house, took every opportunity to be close to her or touch her. Sometimes he watched her in secret; and once he saw her naked. Then the new passion came on him again and he could not sleep. His truancy had increased; he spent hours down at the Piraeus, not now listening to sailors’ stories but watching the foreign prostitutes as they flitted through the stinking cobbled alleys of the old port, where the new building, with its broad lattice of well-laid streets, had not penetrated. Then he would catch a whiff of sweet grass, and pull himself to his feet, and walk aimlessly through the fish-market and up on to the road below the North Wall that led back to the City.
• • • • •
Pheidias said, smiling, ‘It really is bad manners to go to sleep in the middle of an interesting conversation.’
Alcibiades sat up, yawning and blushing. He stammered an apology.
‘No, no, boy, it doesn’t matter. Now you’re awake again, though, you might tell me what’s been happening. You get down to the port often enough, don’t you? Is there any news of the expedition?’
‘I don’t know.’ Dream and reality blended confusingly. ’I haven’t heard anything.’ He stood up, flexing his arms. ‘Go down now, if you like,’ he said, not meeting the old man’s eye, trying to get away.
‘Not on my account, please. But if you do happen to hear anything . . . not only about that, I mean. Anything amusing. I can’t get around as much as I’d like. Come and see me whenever you want to.’
Alcibiades thanked him hastily and hurried away. Pheidias watched the slim figure pass through bars of light and shadow and vanish. He shook his head. It may be a girl, he thought. Or just living in that house. No place for impressionable young people. Still pondering, he picked up his chisel again.
• • • • •
Alcibiades took the short cut to the old Piraeus road, dropping down by the Pnyx and the Water Conduit. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the, road was deserted except for a few carts going empty to the docks. He hailed the driver of one of these, and swung himself lightly in over the tailboard. Five miles away the bay of Phalerum curved sparkling in the sun, faintly hazed by the smoke drifting up from the houses and taverns of the Port. Then he saw something else. About ten miles out to sea a line of square white sails was visible. He screwed up his eyes. There was a strong landward breeze, and the fleet was making good sailing. He could just make out the familiar flagship of Pericles at the head of the column. He called to the driver, who laid the whip over his horses. They swayed and rattled over the cobbles.
Past the tombs of long-dead heroes, encrusted now with moss and ivy, sleeping peacefully in the sun. Past the brown flocks of sheep, crowded under the plane trees, using every scrap of shade; past groves of silvery olives, their leaves rustling in the breeze, their fruit not yet formed. There’s no point in hurrying really, thought the boy: they’ll be doing well if they reach harbour in an hour. But there was something exhilarating in the swift lumbering movement, the feeling of impending triumph. Far away to the left, the neglected ruins of the old Phalerum wall, crumbling now in decay, curved away through the marshes. Half an hour later they rattled on to the quayside.
An excited crowd had already begun to gather. A batch of eighteen-year-olds doing their military training dropped their accoutrement and gathered at the waterfront, watching the approaching fleet eagerly. The sound of hammering in the ships died away as the dockyard labourers joined the sightseers.
It was nearer two hours before the leading vessels docked. The wind veered about, and those watching from the shore saw the oars put out, and heard the faint shouting commands of the boatswains. The crowd was excited, talkative, in holiday mood. When the Generals’ flagship was warped into the slips, and Pericles stepped ashore, with Hagnon and Phormio behind him, a vast cheering arose. As the procession formed up and made its way through the spectators, Alcibiades lost sight of his guardian behind a forest of waving arms.
‘Here, lad,’ a rough voice said, ‘up with you’; and he was swung on to the shoulders of a burly farmer, and sat swaying, his eyes fixed on the lonely figure who walked slowly forward, unconscious of the shouting, with pale lined face, leaning on Hagnon’s arm, staring in front of him, saying nothing. He heard the farmer say: ‘I ought to hate the Olympian, but I don’t. I’m sorry for him. He’ll have us at war in ten years; and then where’ll our lands be? But he can’t help it. When you’ve got an empire you’ve got to hold on to
it, lad. Look at him. He hasn’t enjoyed this business. For all his free-ideas, he’s been playing the tyrant these last months, and he knows it. Poor devil, what else could he do? It’s always the same, boy: talk, talk, talk, fine schemes and new ideas; but he’ll have to pay for them in the end, and so shall we.’
Alcibiades said, furiously, ‘Let me down! Let me go!’ He twisted away from the farmer, pushed through the crowd, and made his way slowly back to the Long Walls and the road to the City.
• • • • •
It was a long time before the crowd of friends and officials left. Pericles had gone straight to the Assembly to make his report, and half the Council had returned with him to his house. Now he took off his General’s helmet and gave it to a slave, and ran a hand through his crisp, thinning hair, his fingers pausing, as they always did, over the heavy bump where the skull swelled at the back of his head. He said, slowly, ‘It was an expensive business.’
Aspasia was studying her reflection in a hand-mirror. She said: ‘It took you nine months. Did you have to starve them into surrender?’
‘It was impossible any other way.’ There was a sound outside the door. Pericles strode over to it, and found Alcibiades sitting there whittling a bird-trap. Pericles ignored him, and went back to Aspasia. Greatly daring, the boy followed, and squatted crosslegged in a corner of the room. Neither Aspasia nor Pericles looked at him. The former said:
‘I suppose you’ve got some idea of what this has cost us in money and prestige? Fourteen hundred talents to keep a small ally in order. And all our best commanders called out.’ She began to pace about the room, twisting her fingers. ‘Well, they did capitulate in the end. And we’ve made a pretty good demonstration of force. Persia didn’t move. But there’s a lot of unrest in the City. We shall have to do something . . . I have it. There must be a funeral speech for the fallen. As soon as possible. Let’s think. Yes, of course. Agamemnon took ten years to reduce Troy. You destroyed the greatest power in Ionia—’ she grimaced, and repeated the phrase—‘in nine months. A suitable period,’ she added, with contempt. She stood still, tapping her fingers on the table. Then she went on: ‘But that’s not enough. Far too many men have been killed. There’s resentment on that count too. You must give them a phrase—something to hold on to, something to express their grief—’ She broke off; and it was with real feeling that she said, softly: ‘It is as if the spring had gone out of the year.’
