Stealing Athena

by Karen Essex

  With this, he commanded their silent focus. I had to stop myself from smirking as I thought about how Athenians were always ready to hear a list of their own virtues.

  “These other cities do not contribute soldiers, horses, or ships to any war efforts,” Perikles continued. “All they give is money, which we use to defend not only ourselves but all of our allies. We carry the burden of war for them. We have kept the Persians off our shores, evicting them from all of Greece and Asia Minor and containing them in Egypt and the east, where they still threaten to exercise their expansionist desires. We do not spare a cent in defense of those who depend upon us for their freedom and safety. Therefore, after all the funds needed to carry on the wars are dispersed, do we not deserve to apply the surplus to public works, which once complete, will bring Athens her glory for all time?

  “Athenians! Think on how these projects have provided inspiration for every art, and employment for every hand. Why, we have transformed our entire population into wage earners. Everyone should benefit from the national income, yet no one should be paid for sitting about and doing nothing, and these projects have put to work men in every craft and industry. The materials are stone, bronze, ivory, and gold, along with ebony, cypress, and other woods. Those who secure and mine the materials, as well as those who ship them to us by boat or by cart, have profited. We have employed carpenters, model makers, sculptors, painters, coppersmiths, stonemasons, dyers, ivory and metal workers, embroiderers, engravers, and the like. The carriers and suppliers of all these materials—merchants, sailors, pilots for the sea traffic, wagon makers, animal trainers, drivers, rope makers, weavers, leatherworkers, road builders, and all of those who work for them on every level, and who possess every level of skill from laborers to the most gifted of artists—have prospered. We have employed those who work with the body and those who work with the soul.

  “What you are about to see is imposing in size but inimitable in grace. Every artist and laborer has striven to excel in the beauty of workmanship. Yet they worked with astonishing speed and frugality so that no money or time was wasted in the construction. Those who opposed us thought it would take generations to complete what we proposed. But see, citizens, with your own eyes, that a few short years of labor and patience have given us monuments that have put wealth in every Athenian pocket and that will bespeak our glory for generations to come.”

  Perikles turned around, looking toward the Akropolis. The sun had risen higher, its pale morning rays beginning to gleam on the marble roof of the Parthenon, which seemed to rise as if from the center of the hill. The crowd began to applaud Perikles’ words, shouting his name. As usual, he showed no emotion, but left the podium, taking his place with the magistrates in the procession.

  I had been invited to lead a group of young girls, daughters of other resident aliens, sent by their parents to bear gifts to the goddess. All wore red dresses, though none as ornate as mine. They carried trays of oils, perfumes, and spices, all to be laid at the feet of the ancient sacred statue of Athena as she received her new robe.

  The procession commenced, led by the representatives of the Ten Tribes, some who marched on foot carrying their standards while others showed off their finest horses. Foot soldiers in full armor marched behind, and following them were representatives from each of Athens’s allied city-states carrying their armor—breastplate and helmet—on poles. So began the long walk up the Panathenaic Way. We paused to make way for a group of youths who had fetched the sacred fire from the altar of Eros and were running a foot race with it to the altar of Athena on the Akropolis. They passed us with their lit torches, and then we commenced, stopping in front of the Temple of Hephaestus to make a small sacrifice to the god of metals and swords. Across the way, the city’s potters flanked the huge studio where they worked and lived. The twenty-room brothel behind it was closed for the day, and its inhabitants stood on the porch reverentially like all other suppliants of the gods. A small delegation of potters carrying vases for the goddess fell into line behind us. Later, oil from the Sacred Grove of Athena would be placed in the vases and given as prizes in some of the competitions.

  At the Royal Stoa, the Royal Archon, the city’s leading religious official, joined the procession. We walked slowly and solemnly, and I was more grateful than ever to have worn my comfortable shoes. Though it was not yet as hot as it would be at midday, I could feel the air begin to warm as the sun rose higher in the sky. We crossed the way, stopping in front of the Altar to the Original Heroes, where young men who had earlier won a beauty contest laid gifts at the feet of each of the ten bronze statues. Women from the Ten Tribes had woven banners with the heroes’ symbols, draped ceremoniously on the statues. Some small girls were lifted up to place garlands about the statues’ necks. But the most dramatic moment came when a priest of Ares and the boys who serve him stepped forward and poured bowls of animal blood into ceramic pipes that ran deep into the ground. Believing that the spirits of the dead heroes fed on sacrificial blood, the Athenians always honored them with this ritual to appease their appetites.

  Opposite the Heroes lay the Altar of the Olympian Gods, the point from which all distances in Athens were measured. A small ceremony was held and all the proper offerings were left for the great gods and goddesses; this was followed by the traditional war dance performed to drums by a group of soldiers with spears and shields.

  The drummers and dancers joined the procession, and we entered that part of the agora that marked the beginning of the Dromos, where the foot and chariot races would later take place. Here the chariots left the procession, along with the cavalry riders and the cart carrying the peplos. The rest of the climb up the hill was too steep for the vehicles. After displaying the bright blue peplos—woven with scenes of the Battle of the Gods and the Giants—to the onlookers, the maidens and the priestess folded it and delivered it to the Royal Archon, who would carry it up to the goddess on the hill.

  I tried to share in the excitement of the day, but I was tense to the point of nausea, afraid to see the statue of Athena. The higher we climbed along the Panathenaic Way and the more visible the Parthenon became, the more difficulty I had breathing. I wondered what would happen if I slipped out of the procession and remained with the spectators, but considering the flamboyant color of my garment and the fact that many Athenians recognized me as Perikles’ woman, this would have caused much commotion. I was already criticized for so many reasons; disrupting a great religious festival would be like throwing manure on the fire.

  I walked along, putting one foot in front of the other, taking shallow breaths to calm myself, until we entered the Great Gateway, manned by soldiers wearing shiny greaves and armed with gleaming swords. They did not permit even the smallest crack in their solemn expressions, which informed the passing populace of the seriousness with which they must take this rare and unique opportunity to visit the goddess inside her shrine. The grim demeanor of the guards also let the people know that insolence of any kind would not be tolerated today.

  Once inside the gates, we fell under Pheidias’ magic. Darkness fell upon us as we left the sunlight. The roof of the Great Gateway was painted a deep blue, like a midnight sky, against which golden stars were twinkling. It was as if a spell was cast by the gods over everyone who entered, preparing us for the sacred monuments and shrines we were about to see.

  Out in the sunlight once more, I noticed that everything had been scrubbed clean for the event. Flowers and plants sat in large urns on both sides of the path. On the terrace of the Parthenon, flowering shrubs in huge pots now sat between the lovely bronze statue that Pheidias had sculpted of the god Apollo, and the rows of busts of honored men of the city, including both Perikles and his father, Xanthippus.

  Beneath the Parthenon’s triangular pediments, the statues that would sit inside them were on display on the ground, completed and painted, waiting to be hoisted into place. I had tried to look at them last night, but the torchlight was too weak to reveal the details that w
ere now fully illuminated by the morning sun.

  Truly I had never seen such beauty. One of the scenarios was the birth of Athena on Mount Olympus in the presence of all the gods. The chariot of the sun god, Helios, arose from the sea, signaling that the goddess was born at dawn. Dionysus, youthful and naked, celebrated her appearance, as did Demeter and Persephone, all sensuously displayed, watching in approval as this feral deity was born. Athena appeared to be letting out a roar as she leapt from Zeus’ head. She was in full armor, flashing her sword high above her head, as if her first act was to let out a battle cry. Her father held his thunderbolt, ready to let it loose, perhaps at his new creation. Indeed, she looked fierce, as if turning against her father, the god of gods, was within her power. A little girl, the drapes of her clothes showing her motion and excitement, recoiled in shock at the appearance of the ferocious goddess. At the close of the scene, the moon goddess, Selene, descended with her horse into night.

  “It is theater in stone,” said a spectator.

  We were allowed to walk before and behind the second sculptural scene, which depicted the contest between Athena and Poseidon, each racing in a chariot to the Akropolis to perform a miracle that would establish who would be dominant. Poseidon struck a rock with his great trident, causing a salt spring to gush forth, thus gifting Athens with a supply of water. But Athena won the day, not with her battle strategies, but by making the first olive tree sprout. Again, the goddess was fierce and splendid in her snake-fringed vest, a gift from her father. On her left lay a languid, naked youth rising from water. To the right of Poseidon was Iris, goddess of the rainbow, heralding the arrival of his chariot, her garment fluttering in the air as she races through it.

  I noticed that all of the figures were complete, gorgeously and painstakingly sculpted and painted behind as in front, though once they were in place in the pediments, no one would ever again see the back.

  “Perfection does not take into account the viewer,” Pheidias had once said to me. “It exists on its own, independent of and unconcerned with opinion or utility. Once you see the tableau finished and nestled inside the pediment, you will know the power of Divine Proportion. It is a mathematical equation I have invented that makes things appear as aesthetically pleasing as is possible to the human eye.”

  He had seemed very pleased with himself, and now I understood why. What I had seen thus far of his creations must have exceeded the achievements of any artist or architect who had lived before him.

  AFTER VIEWING THE PEDIMENT statues, we were soon climbing the steps of the Parthenon and entering the expansive open doors of the temple. I started to feel sick again, wondering if I was going to walk in, see my face, be identified, and be chased down by the crowd. I was dizzy, falling into the man behind me, who caught me so that I did not fall down the steps. He steadied me, asking me if I was ill.

  “Just the heat,” I said, smiling.

  I continued slowly, entering through the great wooden doors, where I was struck with the towering and divine image that presided over the room.

  Pheidias stood grandly next to his statue as the Athenians slowly walked by, necks craning, to admire it. Because of its size alone, it was impossible to gaze upon the colossal work without a feeling of awe. I heard gasps of wonder as people entered the space and encountered the holy figure. A shallow pond of water surrounding the statue cast ethereal, shimmering reflections upon the great masses of gold and ivory hammered onto it.

  The image of the goddess was almost blinding in its beauty. As I searched Athena’s face, I did not see any of the features that I could observe when I examined myself in the looking glass. She projected wisdom and surety, but within that, her gray-eyed gaze seemed pitiless. She was a deity, deserving of worship, whereas I was merely a mortal woman, eager to please and anxious, at least at times, for love. She looked neither soft nor maternal nor compassionate. She was the antithesis of the comely Aphrodite or the Mother Goddess, Hera. She had none of a woman’s vulnerability. Perhaps Zeus had created her this way, as the son he always wanted bound in the body of a daughter who would not challenge his supremacy but allow him to maintain his dominance over all the gods. I realized that I, too, had this androgynous quality. While some praised me for being both a female and a philosopher, there were others who believed that my logical mind wiped all feminine charm from my visage. None of it made sense to my rational, inquiring mind that sought the logic in all things.

  But my greatest anxiety was alleviated. Adorned with jewels and inlays of all kinds, the remote goddess looked no more like me than she looked like any other earthborn female. None of the observers seemed in the least motivated to declare a likeness between the statue and me. I bowed my head to Pheidias as I walked past him, and he smiled at me as if I were just another woman gazing upon his creation.

  Relieved to have passed this moment without incident, I followed the procession to its destination, the sanctuary of Athena Polias, where the primeval wooden goddess-of-the-city had resided since she fell from the sky. The ancientness of the statue evoked an automatic reverence. With songs of prayer, the priestess, the Royal Archon, and the arrephoroi unfolded the peplos and wrapped it around the small figure of the goddess.

  As I watched the ceremony and listened to the hymns, I thought about how sharply this older, more humble-looking icon contrasted with Pheidias’ colossal one. The wood was so worn that it was difficult to imagine her original form, but she looked as if she had been rounder in body than the war goddess. Far from being a sinewy figure, she appeared matronly, her pendulous breasts and protruding stomach visible beneath a sheath of fabric. She looked as if she were truly the Mother of Athens—as if her womb were not made of stone but had actually given birth to someone or something. In my opinion, the new colossal figure should be deemed Athena of the Mind, whereas this icon represented Athena of the Body. The goddess was both female and male, but we mortals could think only in terms of one sex in one body, and required different icons to represent the various aspects of the gods.

  AS THE GUARDS ESCORTED the procession out of the Great Gateway, I caught up with Perikles, and we walked to the Odeion to watch the choral competitions. This was my favorite building in all Athens. Perikles had built it to accommodate the Athenians’ ever-increasing appetite for the musical competitions that took place during the festivals. Flute, pipe, and kithara players competed, as did the men’s choruses that had grown so popular in recent times. Also, playwrights previewed their new works here before moving to the larger stage of the Theater of Dionysus. Athenians were mad for theatrical productions and welcomed the opportunity to see plays as they evolved; the critical comments that they gave to the playwrights and performers were crucial to the development of their works. The Odeion, like all the other buildings in Perikles’ project, was also intended to serve as a war monument. It was modeled after Xerxes’ great pavilion in Persia, and, for the sake of irony and insult, it was constructed of the lumber from the Persian ships wrecked by the Athenian navy.

  A mild breeze swept through the audience as we watched the men’s choruses deliver impassioned hymns to Athena. When the judges announced the winner, Perikles awarded the choir leader a tripod and a vase filled with olive oil, and he garlanded the members of the group. We exited the building to applause, greeted as we walked away by a group of ladies who were waiting for Perikles. When he appeared, they rushed to him and began to put garlands of flowers around his neck.

  “For the victory at Samos!” one of the women cried.

  “In gratitude for keeping us safe!”

  “For keeping Athens supreme on land and by sea!”

  There was no end to this fawning as they put their garlands on his neck and head. He did not seem flattered, as any other man would in this situation, but rather received his glory with restraint. I had to giggle because, to my eye, he looked less like a great victor than like a prisoner receiving his punishment.

  “These islanders must realize that they will never be allowed to c
hallenge the Masters of the Sea,” cried a male spectator.

  “Hear, hear!” A man’s voice, drunken, sarcastic, sang loudly from behind the group. “Let no one challenge the tyrant Perikles or he will find himself out of Athens on his ass, wasting away on one of those very same weak islands, drinking his wine with the weak islanders, screwing miserably weak island women, and consoling them for all the blood money they have to pay every year to the Masters of the Sea. Or is that ‘Master,’ in the singular? For it seems that one man’s will has replaced democratic vote.”

  It was Stephanus, one of the sons of a conservative Athenian politician who had been the greatest of enemies to Perikles and his building project, and who had been ostracized for ten years after the other Athenians got sick of him.

  “Democratic vote ostracized your father, not me,” Perikles answered.

  “But you persuaded them with your fancy words and your promises of grandeur. And you made good on it, didn’t you?” He gestured toward the Parthenon. “As my father predicted, you used good money—our money—to decorate your city like some vain woman.”

  Suddenly, an old woman named Elpinike, wearing pale colors, appeared from the center of the group. It was generally acknowledged that she had had a very public affair with the painter Polygnotos some years ago; at the same time she was also reputed to have had sexual relations with several other men, including her much older brother, Kimon, a general and hero during the Persian Wars. She was aged, but still grand, bedecked in fine fabrics and jewels, undoubtedly purchased with the money of her dead lovers. Her skin hung in tiny folds from the bridge of her nose all the way to the end of her cheekbones. She had emphasized her still-bright almond eyes by drawing dark rings around the rims, which did in fact take one’s gaze away from her crinkled lips.

  “Just say it, Stephanus. You’re drunk enough. Perikles decorated the city as he’s decorated his whore. Your father knew what would happen. He warned the people, and for his truth-telling, he, like Kimon, my brother, was ostracized.”