by Karen Essex
“I appreciate the compliment coming from one so illustrious,” I said. “Before I came to Athens, I was studying rhetoric and philosophy.”
“Were you? A woman and a philosopher?”
“Yes, two entities that mingle uneasily in the same body,” I replied, which made him smile.
“I imagine so,” he said. “But perhaps your skills will serve you at these interminable dinner parties—not that these boors will ever let you get a word in.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“As you are so well spoken, tell me, do you approve of our plans to transform the Akropolis?”
I could not tell whether he was challenging me or mocking me, but I answered as if I assumed that he was asking me a question to which he expected a serious answer. “As a philosopher, I form an opinion only after serious inquiry into a subject. I have not made a serious inquiry into the building project.”
Pheidias threw his head back and laughed. He called out to Perikles, who was draining the last of his bowl of wine. “Perikles, are you training this young lady to be a politician?”
Whereupon Perikles burst into laughter, not because of what Pheidias had said but because when he looked into the empty wine bowl, he saw attached to the bottom the little ceramic fly that I’d been waiting all night for him to see. I had found it in the marketplace among other novelties and hoped to entertain him with the surprise of it.
It was the first time I had made him laugh. For all the extraordinary things for which Perikles was known, laughter was the least among them, and I felt joyous that I was able to accomplish this simple thing. He had a reputation for never allowing cracks in the surface of his public face. It seemed to me that he had constructed a self that lived to serve the state, and he believed that any fissures in that veneer could harm not just him, but the state as a whole.
“Perikles, our young philosopher here wishes to make an inquiry into the merits of our building project.”
Perikles looked at me, surprised.
“I never said such a thing!” I protested.
“As a philosopher, she cannot dispute the charges of our critics nor answer the question of whether we are just in our desire to carry out our plans without an inquiry. Why have you not told her of our reasoning?”
Was the sculptor mocking me after all? Still carrying the bowl and still smiling, Perikles left his inebriated merchant and came to sit with us. “You see, Aspasia, our critics do not understand. The temple to Athena Parthenos and the surrounding buildings will be the ultimate expression of all that is great in the city of Athens.”
“It will demonstrate to the world the artistic potential of mankind,” Pheidias added.
“And the collective will of the Greek people in conquering our enemies and in advancing our superior ideals and way of life,” Perikles said. “It will be an expression of Greek values.”
“And of what a human being can achieve if he strives for greatness in all aspects of his life,” Pheidias added.
“And of what things are possible when one honors the gods,” Perikles said.
“Or at least negotiates well with them,” countered Pheidias, who was not a politician but an artist and could therefore say—and believe—irreverent things with impunity.
“Shall I call for more wine?” I asked. Their bowls were empty, and I wanted to keep both of them talking to me in this way. I had not had a decent conversation since I left Miletus, and I felt myself come alive.
“No, don’t,” Perikles said. “If you do, these people will never leave, and I am exhausted with them. Aspasia, tell the slaves to pass the word that we’re out of wine. They’ll be gone within minutes.”
“Yes, thanks be to the gods, get rid of them,” Pheidias said. “And when they are gone, we shall take this pretty girl with us and go to look at our creations.”
IT WAS A STARLESS night, and the air was cool and damp. I was not accustomed to being out of doors at this hour, and I drew my shawl tight around me. Even in the darkness, we could see the bronze helmet of Pheidias’ sculptural masterpiece, the statue of Athena Promachos—a celebration of the goddess in all her magnificence as a fighter and champion. In the gleaming light of day, sunshine reflected off the goddess’s bronze helmet. It could be seen all the way out to sea, heralding sailors as they approached the harbor of Athens at Piraeus. The goddess was sheltered from behind by a wall that was said to be a thousand years old, constructed by the mythical creatures of Homer’s tales.
A north wind blew across the plateau as we climbed to the top of the steps to enter the citadel. Guards were stationed at the entrance, but when they saw Perikles and Pheidias, they promptly stood aside, allowing us to enter. The men walked briskly ahead, but I stopped to look around me. Deep into the darkness the pillars of the white marble buildings under construction seemed to be springing up like some miraculous and immense stone garden. The old gates to the Akropolis still stood, though I had heard that a newer, grander entrance would soon be constructed. Everywhere, dozens of carts filled with rubble sat incongruously beside fluted white columns and stacks of tiles and other new materials.
Perikles turned to see that I had lagged behind. He noticed that I was shivering. “What is the matter? You are cold?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, though it was the eerie feeling of being atop the Akropolis, where the great gods were worshipped, in the silent stillness of the night. “I feel as if the gods are here, watching us, as if we might be disturbing their peace.”
Perikles held out his arms for me, and I went to him. He put his arm around me, and I was grateful for the warmth and the protection. Surely the formidable Athena would not harm me if I was in the company of one who was building these mighty structures to honor her.
Pheidias took a torch from one of the slaves. “I shall show you what we intend, Aspasia, and you will decide for yourself if our endeavor is worthy.” He pointed out the locations of the four great structures around which the new Akropolis was designed: the Propylaea, or Great Gateway, which he was designing with the architect Mnesikles; the temple to Athena Parthenos, which was under way but far from completion; the temple to Erechtheus and Pandrosos, which would encompass and replace many of the old temples and sanctuaries on the Akropolis; and the temple to Athena Nike, which was still in the planning stage.
Pheidias explained his governing theory for the buildings. “Cities are always developments in progress. We build the new atop the old, but here I have integrated the ruins of the Akropolis into the new construction as much as possible so that our history—and the sacredness that lives in the very stones of the old temples—will be preserved.” Some of the old shrines that were still standing would not be toppled, he explained, but rather encased in new surroundings. “We have already used many of the stones of the old in the foundations of the new,” he said. Long remnants of the old citadel wall were to be preserved and integrated into the more fortified encasement. Pheidias had instructed Mnesikles not to destroy the walls adjacent to the Propylaea, but to bevel them so that they would fit seamlessly against the corners of the gleaming new building.
“Some say that the old walls date from the time of the Trojan War,” he said. “It seems a paradox to create something bold and new by incorporating ancient ruins. But you shall see by my results that I know what I am doing.”
We walked down the footpath toward the Parthenon, with great piles of stone flanking us all the way. The framework of Athena’s temple shone through the black night. The columns and colonnades were constructed, but the rooftop was still open and the walls had not yet been enclosed.
“The temple will be the most majestic ever built to the goddess and will commemorate her assistance in Athens’s ultimate victory over the wretched Persians,” Perikles said.
“Yes, those bastards who menaced Greek shores for so many generations, trying to sabotage our advanced way of life and suppress us back into the same dark past in which they live. If Athena had not fought with us at the Battle of Mar
athon, we would not be standing here today,” Pheidias said.
“It was there, almost fifty years ago, that we demonstrated our superiority over the Persians once and for all,” Perikles said. “At the end of that long and grim day of fighting, six thousand four hundred Persians lay dead, while we had lost only one hundred ninety-two warriors.”
“It seems inconceivable,” I said. I wondered if the numbers of the Persian dead had been inflated to make the Athenian victory more glorious.
“It is inconceivable,” Pheidias said. “Only through the goddess’s intervention could it have been done.”
“I know what you are thinking, Aspasia,” Perikles said. “But if you visit the site of the battle, as I and other patriotic Athenians often do, you will see that the great mounds of mass graves can prove the outrageous numbers. Our fathers and grandfathers fought the battle, and were witness to the deaths.
“Ten years after the Battle of Marathon, the Persians returned to Greece and made their way to Athens,” he continued, staring first at Pheidias and then at me, his two captive listeners, making sure that he had our full attention. “Everyone had evacuated the city save the priests, priestesses, and those patriots guarding the sacred monuments on the Akropolis and what was left of the treasury. It was right here, Aspasia, that those noble Athenians made their stand.”
A cold night wind blew across my face, making me shudder, as if we were suddenly in the presence of the ghosts of those last Athenian heroes.
“The Persians camped out on the Hill of Ares and shot flaming arrows into the temples. Though the Athenians were but a few—and none of them warriors by trade—they put up a valiant defense. They held them off long enough, but they had left the eastern ascent to the citadel unguarded, thinking that it was too steep to climb. When they saw that some Persians had made their way up the sheer cliff and were coming toward them with swords, they threw themselves off the Akropolis and died. The barbarians murdered the other suppliants and then plundered and destroyed every building, temple, sacred object, and work of art.”
“They even wrecked the sacred temple to Athena and every holy statue and relic within it,” Pheidias said. “Can you imagine the outrage? The bastards massacred the people, then they massacred the art.”
It was hard to tell which sin Pheidias considered more grievous. Nothing was more precious to an Athenian than the sacred images of the goddess who presided over the city that bore her name.
“But the goddess cursed them,” Perikles said. “Anyone who destroys a holy image of Athena or dares to plunder her temples will come to a very bad end. That is her promise. The Persians believed that they had destroyed us, but in fact, in destroying our monuments, they were merely laying the foundation for their own destruction.”
I wished that the Athenians could see him in his present state, full of wine and patriotism, drunk on his love of the city more than on Dionysus’ grape, for then they would know that his ambitions sprang from these sentiments rather than from self-interest.
“After the sacking of the Akropolis, Themistocles crushed the Persian fleet at Salamis, and then later, in the battle at Plataia, we drove the menace from Greece once and for all,” Pheidias said.
“The new temples will honor the memory of all the heroes of Marathon and the other battles against the Persians,” Perikles said.
“Let us toast to that,” Pheidias said. The Syrian slave boy who had carried the last of the wine on our journey gave the goatskin flask to Perikles, who took a long drink from it and then passed it to Pheidias, who passed it to me. Was I now one of them?
“At the time of the victory at Plataea, the Athenian leaders vowed to leave the Akropolis in ruins as a reminder, a memorial of ruination for men hereafter to witness,” Pheidias said. “But after twenty years of looking at the devastation, our friend here made the observation that colossal monuments of grandeur and beauty would do more to remind our people of their greatness than a mountaintop of rubble.”
“And so it shall be,” Perikles said. “It will also be a reminder to the rest of the world.”
“Still they doubt us, Perikles,” Pheidias said. “After all we have shown them, and in a few short years, they still want to cut off our funding. Typical Greeks. They want all of the glory at no cost.”
“Do not say that, my friend,” Perikles said, suddenly sober. “The price was already paid in blood at Marathon, at Thermopylae, and at Plataea. There has never been a lack of willingness among Greeks to shed our own blood for gods, state, and freedom.”
“Only a lack of willingness to shed coins,” Pheidias said.
The sky was slowly lightening to a dark gray. Soon the city would come to life again, breaking the spell of night.
“It doesn’t matter what they think,” Perikles said. “We are the victors, and victors must live in glory, not in rubble.”
SEVERAL DAYS LATER, PERIKLES came home at twilight, overwrought with either anger or anxiety, I could not tell which. The slaves alerted me to his arrival as usual, and I rushed down the stairs to greet him, only to see him knock a vase off its pedestal as he tore through the reception hall, and curse it as it crashed to the ground and shattered into little pieces. I had never seen such a display from him.
I called for wine, taking his hand and leading him into the courtyard, where we often enjoyed the evening breezes. I already knew from marketplace gossip that he had been in a severe struggle all day with Athens’s conservative faction over money for the building project. We sat down on our usual chairs, and after a short silence, he began to talk to me.
“I grow weary of their hand-wringing and woe over how much money the project is costing the Athenian Alliance and how long it will take to complete.”
I never would suggest it to Perikles, but I often wondered at his lack of doubt over the costs. “Do you never worry on these matters?” I asked cautiously.
“No,” he said with finality. Truly, he did not seem like a man who was ever aware that he was taking a risk, but rather like a mystic who has heard the word of the gods and will suffer no opposition.
“The leader of the conservatives has accused me of misappropriating public funds in an attempt to ‘deck out the great city of Athens like some vain woman.’”
“That seems a foolish accusation. Do they not know how you abhor ostentation?” I asked, understating the matter. Perikles spent very little money on himself or his pleasure. Why would the Assembly doubt such a frugal man, who demonstrated no need for extravagance in his own life?
“Why is Athens great?” he asked, not waiting for me to answer. “It is great because it is protected by Athena. Why does she offer us protection?”
Again, my response was not called for.
“Because Athena and Athens are one,” he continued. “This is what I said today in my speech: ‘The goddess chose this spot on earth to found her city because she saw that the happy temperament of the seasons might produce a race of men of supreme wisdom. She taught us to develop a system of law out of divine elements, showing us every sort of knowledge essential for human life. She instructed us to model ourselves from her very qualities—valor, boldness, love of beauty, respect for the arts and crafts, moderation, and wisdom.’”
He paused to look at me, an assembly of one. I was rapt. He continued, “‘The Persians came at us, slinging their arrows by the millions, but with Athena’s help, we vanquished them. Two generations ago, they sacked Athena’s temple and every other sacred structure on the Akropolis. It is imperative that it be rebuilt more grandly than men’s imaginations allow. The new Temple of Athena Parthenos commemorates the victory at Marathon, where Greek blood runs deep into the soil. Have you given your imagination over to scenes of Greek life if our warriors had not been victorious? All of history would have changed its course. Today, we would be enslaved by a decadent and tyrannical despot, rather than thriving as the greatest and most freedom-seeking civilization upon the earth.’”
“I cannot believe that the Assembly coul
d question you after that speech,” I said. It sounded blithe as it came out of my mouth, but Perikles had enchanted me with his passionate words as much as he enchanted me with his skills in the bedroom or with his power in the public arena.
“Oh, they have heard this same speech many times,” he answered. “Why do they not realize that if Athens is to remain what she is, we must continue, man for man, to emulate the qualities of the goddess? The monuments honor her, as well as remind us to hold to our standards. We are not just building temples, Aspasia, we are sending a message to the world. If we wish to remain supreme, we must make visible our superiority. That is not my unique idea, but the way of the world.”
“And if your enemies manage to cut the funds for your projects before completion, what will you do?” I asked.
“I suppose I will pay for it myself,” he said in his matter-of-fact way, astonishing me. Did the man actually possess such wealth? Since he was not prone to exaggeration, I assumed that he spoke the truth.
“Why don’t you offer to do so?” I suggested.
“Because I do not wish to do so, but desire the Assembly to arrive at the wisdom of my point of view.”
“It seems to me that it is you, and not this city, who have the greatest passion for achievement,” I said, not unaware that I was appealing to his vanity. Yet I meant what I was saying. “Why share the glory with those who do not share your vision? Build it in your own name. Immortalize yourself, and not this civilization, which does not share in your ambitions or your virtue.”
“The monuments need to belong to the citizenry if they are to be effective. They are symbols of our achievements as a people, not of one man’s efforts. That is antithetical to our way of life. However, you have given me a splendid idea.”
