Stealing Athena
Page 24
The leader of the group was a former slave captured in some far-off Median land. A superb acrobat, he had earned his freedom by entertaining his Greek master, and had started a troupe made up of musicians, storytellers, dancers, and contortionists, as well as two flute girls, whom the men called the Anchovies, because they were slim and pale and had wide eyes, and because of the crass practice of associating women, particularly loose women, with fish. The Anchovies and the other flute girls and female acrobats often took home an extra five or six drachmas from servicing the men after their performances.
But this evening brought a new breed of guests, the conservatively dressed wives of Athens. Out of deference to these women, I had told the prostitutes and the performers to conceal their fornication and other acts of pleasure behind locked doors. I had instructed the slave girls to dilute the wine in the women’s bowls, as I knew that most were not accustomed to drinking, and I did not want rumors of my corruption of fine ladies to fill the ears at the marketplace in the morning.
The ladies—draped with garlands and scented with the heady fragrances of wisteria and narcissus—were most anxious to speak with me. In doing so they covered their mouths with fans, as they were wont to do in public, unlike the prostitutes who talked with mouths wide open, laughing at times so that one could see the very last teeth in their gums. But they did not introduce any topics of conversation beyond their names and who they were married to and how many children they had. I listened politely, but beyond welcoming them to my home and offering them refreshments, I was at a loss as to what to do with them. The men did not want them in the banquet rooms, where they were lying about eating food and discussing their favorite topics.
“We do not wish to censor our dialogue, or be asked inane questions, while we are trying to achieve some advancement of the mind,” one of the husbands said.
Unlike their husbands, or myself, or the courtesans, these women lived very secluded lives, speaking only to one another or their children or the household slaves. In Athens it was said that only a woman of ill repute would show a man her tongue—a convenient way of keeping a woman’s mouth shut. I always thought it strange that the men who wanted their mistresses educated also insisted that their wives be kept ignorant of the arts of reading and writing, and certainly of dialogues that could challenge the mind. Of science, astronomy, medicine, mathematics, and rhetoric they knew nothing. It occurred to me that I might provide a service to both sexes if I could establish a philosophy for marriage that would bring fulfillment to both parties. I would speak to Perikles about it when I had the opportunity. Why should I dole out advice only to the men when I might speak to both members of the couple, helping each arrive at a more satisfactory state in their marriage?
In defense of the women, however, I had to admit that I was too distracted watching Perikles be accosted by some of the prostitutes to adequately focus on my conversation. Two whores had each taken one of his hands while another was running her index finger up and down his chest slowly and seductively. They seemed to be united in an effort to convince him to do one thing or another. He listened to them in his usual impassive manner, turning his head to look at whichever one was speaking. I wondered if this would be the night that I would realize one of my fears and he would disappear into a dark corner with those three witches. It was his privilege, after all. I could be angry or hurt, but I had no grounds upon which to stop him. I did not even try to catch his eye in admonition. I decided that the best thing I could do was turn away and pretend that I did not notice.
As I was about to walk away from the gaggle of wives, one blurted out the question I hoped I would never need to answer.
“Is it true, Aspasia, that you were the model for the face of Athena?”
The gossip had spread. I suppose it was inevitable. Enough people had heard Elpinike’s accusations. A simple mathematical equation would demonstrate that it would take but a few hours for every pair of ears in Athens to have heard it, especially when the entire city had congregated for the biggest feast day in four years. I decided to adopt a feminine tactic and hide behind Perikles’ orders.
“Perikles has decided that the charge is too ridiculous to address. I apologize. I can speak no further upon it.” I said it with a serene smile, though inside, I had started to quiver.
I was relieved, and very surprised, when Sokrates entered the courtyard with Diotima. I was under the impression that a priestess spent days in meditation before and after a sacrifice. When he said he would consult Diotima and arrange a meeting between us, I had no idea that he meant this very evening.
“Forgive me,” I said quickly to the wives. “I must receive the priestess.”
I turned away from them and headed straight for Sokrates and his illustrious companion.
Far from the blood-soaked diviner I had seen earlier in the day, Diotima looked much like any other woman present. She had bathed, and was wearing a fresh pale blue dress with wide folds, cinched at the waist with a braided gold belt. She had crimped her hair and adorned herself with gold earrings. But still, her face shone with the radiance of one who has touched the divine. She seemed as ethereal as the statue of the goddess, though she was neither ivory nor gold but human flesh and blood. She held herself completely erect, like one who has never doubted the correctness of being in her body. I could see why even the xenophobic Athenians accepted her, a Greek from Mantinea, as their connection to Athena. She had been married to an Athenian, but when he died, she’d devoted her life to the goddess.
I approached them rehearsing my greeting in my mind, but Diotima spoke first. “I shan’t stay long. May we speak privately?”
“Of course,” I said.
I hurried her and Sokrates into the private dining room, one of the rooms I had closed off to guests. It was a special sanctuary for Perikles and me, and I did not want it sullied with spilt wine and the semen of strangers. A slave rushed in and lit the lamps. I sat on one of the four couches and invited Diotima and Sokrates to sit too.
“I have long wanted to unite the two great female logicians—one, master of the Philosophy of Love, and the other, master of the Philosophy of Domestic Relations,” Sokrates said.
“My dear, I am told that you are very brilliant, but you are also very young,” Diotima said to me. I was not prepared to be condescended to; however, her age and rank gave her permission. I smiled, and sat quietly.
“I am a diviner,” she continued, not with the grandiosity one associates with clergy, but as if stating a known fact. “I see the future, and sometimes, even when I do not care to, I see deep into men’s souls.”
“Did Sokrates relate to you the strange vision I had?”
“Yes. The figure you saw was Nemesis, the goddess of vengeance, the one who executes the will of Athena.”
“Vengeance?”
“As her chariot turns, she sets the wheel of fortune in motion. Destiny is in her hands. She’s been known to crush the enemies of Athena beneath those wheels. That, or toss them to the griffins.”
“Oh, help me, Diotima!” I cried. My worst fears were being realized. “I’ve insulted the goddess and now must pay the price.”
“Aspasia, are you also a diviner? If not, then I will ask you to leave the interpretation of visions to me. How have you insulted the goddess?”
“Have you not heard the accusation against me?” I asked.
“I have heard many accusations against you, my child, but I have always assumed that they were rumors wickedly spread by the enemies of Perikles.”
“But there is one that is true,” I said. I explained everything to her and Sokrates—that I sat for Pheidias at his request, that no one was supposed to know, and that Perikles had been ignorant of what I had done.
“I have insulted Athena, and she has sent Vengeance to punish me,” I said. “Isn’t that what the vision meant? Isn’t that what you came here to tell me?”
“Not at all,” she said. “I came here to tell you that you are pregnant.”
“That is why you passed out,” Sokrates said. “Diotima saw it immediately and insisted on coming here tonight to tell you.”
In the priestess’s presence, he was quieter than I’d ever thought to find him. He never suppressed himself, not even with so luminous a figure as Pheidias, but he deferred to Diotima like a lamb to a lion.
“You are very early in the pregnancy,” Diotima said. “If you want this baby, you must take more rest and more food. Perikles is the father?”
“Of course he is! I thought you said that you did not believe the rumors spread about me.”
“I do not. But one must always inquire if one is to know the truth. Women’s morals are not what they used to be. I am sure that you’ve noticed.”
“This should be joyous news. But how can I have any happiness when Athena has set Vengeance against me? Will she take the baby from me?”
The priestess shrugged. Why wouldn’t the goddess punish me for what I had done by taking my baby? Any good tragedian would have written his play thus.
Diotima took a drink of wine. She lowered the bowl and looked into the bottom as if she were reading the entrails of a slaughtered beast for omens. I awaited her answer, but she merely smiled broadly.
“Have you had a revelation?” I asked.
Now she laughed, draining the last drops of wine from the bowl and showing me the figure painted at the bottom. It was a caricature of a naked, muscled athlete, a discus in one hand and his gargantuan erection in the other.
How could she be amused when she was delivering a two-pronged message to me—one that filled my heart with joy and another that punctured it?
“My dear, I am the final authority on the word of the goddess, so you needn’t question what I tell you. Athena is the goddess of wisdom, and therefore she loves all philosophers and all seekers of truth and knowledge. You can count upon her blessings.”
“Do you not think she is angry with me for my audacity?”
“Oh, probably. But your intentions were innocent enough. And Pheidias only meant to honor her with a fitting representation.”
“May I ask what Nemesis’ mission might be?”
“That will require quite a bit of meditation and perhaps more than one sacrifice. It will cost you,” she said.
“Of course,” I replied. I would tell Perikles that I needed a new dress and he would give me the money.
“Even then, the goddess will reveal it to me in her own time, not yours. You will have to be patient.”
Suddenly my thoughts shifted to Perikles. Had he already gone off with the prostitutes? I wanted to rush out of the room. Perhaps I could corner him and tell him about the baby, in which case, he might not slink off into the darkness with them.
“A dark cloud has passed over your face, Aspasia,” Sokrates said.
“I must find Perikles and tell him about the baby,” I said. I stood up, hoping that they would stand up with me.
“Sit down,” Diotima said. I obeyed. I was in no position to argue with Athena’s priestess. Sokrates raised his bowl for more wine.
“When we came inside, I was watching you watch Perikles with those women,” Diotima said. “You needn’t worry over them.”
“I suppose that he is like all men, willing to please himself with whoever is available for his pleasure.” I felt exposed, knowing that they had seen my distress. Was it so obvious?
“That is not my point,” she said, sighing. “I am going to enlighten the two of you, but you are going to have to strain every muscle and nerve in your bodies to try to understand what I am saying.”
Sokrates nodded his head like an eager student, and I felt that I had no choice but to follow.
“You might think Perikles is driven by lust, but I assure you that lust is actually the soul’s longing for immortality.”
“How so?” I asked. I was anxious to go to Perikles and reveal the news, but her conjecture immediately engaged my philosopher’s mind. “Lust seems quite firmly rooted in the body.”
“The memory of immortality haunts the souls of mortals. We are never satisfied with our mortal state,” she said.
“Yes, I agree. That is why we seek immortality in procreation,” I said. Would this great Philosopher of Love teach me nothing new? I wondered. “That is why I am anxious for Perikles to know that I am with child.”
“Oh, he will be pleased,” Diotima said. “But a man like him has a greater incentive in life.”
“And what is that?” I asked. I must say that I was annoyed that she talked about him as if she knew him better than I.
“The love of glory,” she replied. “He seeks an eternal place in the deathless roll of fame.” She said it with such finality that I wondered if she would be open to questioning.
“I do not see why you are telling me this,” I said.
“Aspasia, are you a philosopher or not? Think about it. For the sake of fame, men will risk great dangers. They will put themselves in the jaws of death more than for their children. For fame, they will spend their money like water and work their fingers to the bone. Have you not observed this in your own home?”
I had to admit that she was right. Perikles had two grown sons whom he loved dearly, but it was for his building project that he risked his standing in Athens. Now she had me in the grasp of her reasoning. “Yes, you are right,” I said, “especially in the case of Perikles.”
“Of course I am. Do you think that Achilles would have died for the love he bore Patroklus if it had not been foretold that it would bring him immortal fame? Every man is longing for that endless fame. The nobler the man, the greater his ambition.”
“Because he is in love with glory,” I said.
“No!” she cried. I was afraid that she had given up all hope that I would demonstrate the intelligence for which I had a reputation. “Because he is in love with the eternal!”
Her eyes lit up, though she spoke in a lower, but firmer, register, changing the texture of her voice, as if that might help me to understand. “Erotic love and procreation are bids for immortality. But Perikles’ sons and their sons, like all progeny, will die within a few generations. His building projects, however, are a more perfect bid for eternal fame than his children because they will last through the centuries if not the millennia, and they will always carry the name of Perikles.”
“I see,” I replied. I did see. But I was still at a loss as to why she felt the need to grace me with her philosophy. Perhaps Sokrates insisted upon it so that he and I might debate it on our own, as we were wont to do with many subjects. Perhaps she had a darker purpose. “Are you telling me that he will not care about our child, only about his buildings?”
“No, Aspasia, I am telling you that the child will not outlive the buildings. Do you understand that whereas women may touch the immortal by giving birth, men—great men—must build monuments and seek fame?”
“Yes,” I said sheepishly.
“Then do you follow that Perikles has no need for prostitutes because his quest for the immortal is embodied in those monuments atop the Akropolis? Make no mistake. This is not hubris. This is a man trying to appease the cries of his immortal soul.”
Her words rang with such truth that I could not utter a word in response.
“Therefore, Aspasia, you may go to your lover, and you will find out that he is not taken with the whores. At least not at this time, for he is nourishing the desires of his soul in another way.”
“So you see how the argument is complete?” Sokrates asked, a look of satisfaction on his face. Wine seemed not to affect him at all. He turned to Diotima. “Good lady, there is no worthier occupation than listening to your philosophy.”
She did not respond to his fervor, but turned to me. “Go to Perikles,” she said. “Tell him you are expecting his child. He will be pleased, of course.” It was not a reque
st but an order. “My guards will see me home.”
Sokrates opened his mouth to protest, but she said, “Stay here and drink wine until dawn so that you will be good and drunk for the games tomorrow.”
“I have visited you in your home, Philosopher,” she said to me. “If you wish to know more, you must visit me in mine. And you must bring gifts.”
“GOOD LADY, BESEECH your husband to take pity on a poor whore!”
I had not imagined that the prostitutes hanging on Perikles would be delighted to welcome me, but their faces lit up as I approached. Pheidias had joined them. He, of course, was hopeless as a customer. He had come to the party with his lover, Agoracritus, a talented young sculptor and one of his pupils, whom he always suspected of not being in love with him at all, but rather gleaning as many of his techniques as possible before starting his own studio. The younger man was flirting with some of the wives across the courtyard, and Pheidias was watching while pretending to be jocular with the whores.
“You have received an excessive amount of money for your services this evening,” I said to them. I knew, for I had gone over all the expenses with Perikles’ steward myself. “I do not see that you require pity.”
I was eager to be rid of them so that I could tell Perikles the good news.
“But the hand of Perikles takes away even as it gives,” said one of the others.
“How is that so? I see you all siphoning off wine and food for yourselves. What more do you require here?” I asked.
“They are petitioning for a reduction in the taxes they pay on their income,” Perikles said.
“That’s right,” said the prostitute who was older than the other two. “We were present today at the unveiling of the statue of our lady. We heard a gentleman say that Perikles and Pheidias were costuming the Akropolis with these expensive monuments the way men decorate their whores. And I turned around and said to him that it was only fitting, since the taxes from whores are paying for all the fancy things that Perikles is doing up on the hill.”