"Those are fine words,” I retorted, “but Athens, what's left of it, is a heap of ashes ruled by the Great King of Persia, and we're nothing but homeless exiles on Gelon's doorstep."
Pericles set his jaw in a way that was to become familiar to every citizen in the years to come. “We'll build a new Athens, bigger and stronger than the old one. Gelon will be lucky if we let him keep his bath-boys and dancing girls."
I said nothing in reply, for I could see the taxiarch of the guard coming purposefully in our direction. But of course I knew what my father would have said, for this, too, was a heated issue among the exiled Athenians. The conservatives insisted that there was one and only one Athens, the ancient city of Athena, and it would be sacrilege to bestow that sacred name on any other place. A colony, yes, we would have to found a colony here in Sicily, a colony of exiles, but it would never be another Athens! We might have had our victory, for what it was worth, we might have defeated a Carthaginian fleet, but we had fled from the Persians, fled our ancient home, and we could never go home again as free men.
Yet I could find consolation even in this, for surely it was the ideal matter for a tragic poet!
* * * *
I am becoming an old man now, so I trust I will not offend the gods by my pride when I say that as a youth I was renowned for both my good looks and the clear purity of my voice. By the age of sixteen I had often seen my name written on the gymnasium walls in charcoal: Sophocles is beautiful. But there was more involved than my personal charms when I was chosen to lead the boys’ chorus at the dedication of the new Sicilian Athens.
Xanthippos the general had observed the friendship growing between his son Pericles and the son of Sophilos the armorer, and he invited my father to be his guest at dinner. Within a very short time, my father had ceased to defend his most conservative views and was cultivating a new acquaintance among the powerful men of the democratic faction. When the oracle approved of Athens as the name of the new city, he no longer insisted that the goddess would curse us for it.
Before our arrival, the place had been called Panormos—All-Harbor. For any other people, such a name might have been considered well-omened, but we were Athenians and most of us wanted to remain so. Like Pericles, they argued, “If we call our city Panormos, in another generation we will have forgotten who we were. There will only be Panormans living here, and no Athenians!"
Of course such a matter is properly left to the gods, but there was a difficulty for a time in obtaining a reliable oracle. The priests of Apollo at Delphi had gone over to the Persians at the invasion, and it was not likely they would issue a ruling favorable to Athenian interests. So the question remained unresolved until we learned there was an ancient oracle sacred to the god at Cuma in Italy. We duly sent envoys to Cuma, where they received the reply:
Burned black the olive tree Erechtheus planted,
Fallen the tower where the owl had her nest.
Her flight will end where Etna's peak is crowned with snow,
And fruitful groves beneath its slopes will welcome her.
The owl being the symbol of Athena and Etna the most prominent landmark in Sicily, the oracle's message was remarkably clear. So with the god's approval, we prepared to dedicate the new Sicilian Athens.
I was particularly proud to be leading the chorus on that occasion, since the ode we were singing was composed by the great poet Aeschylos. Pericles, who had been chosen for the chorus on the basis of his family, not his beauty or his voice, insisted that the ode gave too much importance to Gelon of Syracuse.
The tyrant of Syracuse had of course been grateful to the Athenian exiles for defeating his enemies, and in thanks he had given us a hundred bulls for the sacrifice dedicating our new city. But he had also hinted strongly that it would be fitting to declare him the new city's Founder—a hint the Athenians ignored. Imagine having to worship Gelon of Syracuse once a year! It was bad enough when he appeared at the festival wearing a robe of deep Tyrian purple embroidered with gold, and a gold victor's crown.
"Like he thinks he's the Great King,” Pericles whispered under the sound of the processional flutes. “As if he were the one who saved us from the Carthaginans!"
"Quiet!” I insisted. This was no occasion for sacrilege, when we were invoking the protection of the gods on our new Athens. Yet it was hard to keep a straight face at the sight of Gelon in his purple robe, beaming with satisfaction when we came to the verses describing Odysseus finally coming to land after the ordeal of his long voyage:
As noble Alcinoös welcomed the storm-tossed voyager
Into the gleaming grandeur of his royal hall
Where a seat of silver fit for royal guests
Awaited him, the shipwrecked stranger,
So noble Gelon welcomes Athens to his shores
And this well-harbored refuge from her enemies.
But the rest of the ode was quite fine, particularly the verses in honor of Poseidon, who presided over our victory at sea. After the dedication, everyone was full of acclaim for Aeschylos, calling him the foremost poet in Athens—in all Hellas. However, this praise was cut short a few weeks later, when we learned that Aeschylos was moving to Syracuse to take a place at Gelon's court.
His desertion stung civic pride, and suddenly Athenians were denouncing the poet for taking Gelon's gold in exchange for those verses. In the Assembly, there was talk of ostracism and revoking Aeschylos’ citizenship, but that came to nothing, as most idle notions in the Assembly do when the people have no leader to tell them what they want. The fact is, for years, long before the Persian invasion, the wealth of Syracuse had been drawing the best poets, musicians, sculptors, and other fine artists from all over Hellas to the tyrant's court. Gelon was generous with commissions, since he wished to be known throughout the world as a patron of arts and learning.
When Pericles learned of Aeschylos’ desertion, as he called it, he took me aside and said gravely, “Sophocles, if you swear to me now that you will remain here in Athens, I promise that when you complete your first tragedy, I will undertake myself to produce it.” So solemn he was, so confident, that I did swear what he asked, although I admit I was tempted once or twice by the reputed glories of Syracuse, with all the teachers of music and poetry gathered there—and now Aeschylos!
But Pericles kept his word. He has always said it was his own idea to re-establish the Panathenaen Festival in Sicily, and I believe there is truth in his claim, for I remember him insisting to his father and anyone else who would listen, “We need a popular event to restore the glory of Athens, with every kind of competition—poetry, songs, and games. It needs to be the best in everything, so the best competitors will come here, instead of to Syracuse or the old festivals in Hellas."
So persuasive he was, even as a boy, that Xanthippos carried the proposal to the Assembly. When he demanded, “Should we let Athens take second place to Syracuse?” there was a great roar of denial from the people, and the Festival was established, disregarding the expense.
As everyone knows, Pericles was right. Under Persian rule, the old Panhellenic festivals declined, even the games at Olympia, while the Panathenaea gained every year in renown. Before long, we had the best artists and athletes coming to Sicilian Athens to vie for the sacred olive crown, while the Festival grounds became more magnificent every year with statues and shrines and dedications to the winners.
Even more, the athletes and artists did not come just to compete, but to settle in a place free from Persian rule, and it was always Athens who gave them the best welcome. Indeed, this was another suggestion of Pericles, to offer Athenian citizenship to all the winners of a crown at the Festival, without even payment of a fee.
Aeschylos returned to compete at the first Festival, of course, with his Death of Achilles. And though he was only eighteen years old, Pericles fulfilled his promise to produce my first tragedy, The Women of Carthage, which I based on our victory at Panormos Harbor. It was Pericles who had convinced me that all tragedy did no
t have to be set in the ancient past, or at Troy. I even used the scene with the Carthaginian general Hamilcar throwing himself into the fire.
But it was Phrynichos, the old master, who won the crown with his magnificent Spartans, about the doomed stand of the Spartans against the Persian host at Amyclai, where the Spartans died to the last man. Against such a work, the last he ever composed, I could not even wish to win, but I cherished the fact that I defeated the great Aeschylos with my first produced tragedy, coming in third out of six dramas entered. I was young then and more full of hybris than the sense to realize the Athenians were punishing their greatest poet for deserting them for the court of the Syracusan tyrant.
Not many years later, Gelon died under unclear circumstances, and the democratic faction in Syracuse, supported of course by Athens, took control there after a brief uprising. But without a wealthy tyrant to sponsor artists and athletes, to commission statues and paintings and heroic victory odes, the influence of Syracuse in such matters faded rapidly, while the best gathered in Athens, where the people ruled.
* * * *
From ancient times, even before the Trojan War, our forefathers feared the bands of armed pirates raiding cities up and down the coasts, so they thought it wise to settle at a distance from the sea and fortify the heights. The acropolis of Athens in Hellas held off our enemies until it was finally sacked and burned by the Persians, who threw its defenders, living and dead, from the top of the rock. Thus perished most of the conservative faction who refused to trust their fates to Athens’ naval strength rather than its ancient walls.
So when the Athenians came to Sicily, it was the places with good harbors where we settled, driving out the Carthaginians who had long held the western end of the island, for it was now undeniable that the real power of Athens lay in our fleet. But those triremes had been built with the revenues of the Laurion silver mines in Attica. In Sicily we had no silver mines. We had left most of our wealth behind in Athens, to burn.
Therefore the first concern of the Council of generals was to find money to pay the rowers, so our triremes would not be sitting helpless in the harbor if another Carthaginian fleet appeared. If a city has a war fleet and a pressing need for money, the obvious answer is piracy. Athens was particularly well placed for this enterprise, because we now occupied all the harbors that Carthage had established to protect their trade routes. Merchant ships from Africa sailed regularly to the wealthy cities along the western coast of Italy and back again with silver from their mines on the island of Sardinia.
The Athenian generals’ plan was to lease the city's triremes to any citizen who could raise a crew. This would not only enrich Athens from the city's share of the proceeds, it would encourage the practice of seamanship. But while promoting piracy against the Carthaginians and other barbarians, they decreed that any ship from a Hellene port would find a safe harbor in Athens, for they also wanted to establish the city as a center for legitimate trade.
It was impossible, of course, that the Carthaginians would not retaliate. A war was inevitable. At first, it was limited to conflicts with the Carthaginian colonies on Sicily. Then came an unexpected opportunity to expand Athenian influence beyond the island, when the Cumaeans appealed to us for aid. Cuma had a claim of guest-friendship on Sicilian Athens, since their shrine of Apollo had given us such a favorable oracle. It is a Hellene city, established in ancient times, but it was isolated on the western coast of Italy, so the Cumaeans were surrounded by barbarians with whom they were often at war. The strongest of these Italians were the Etruscans, longtime allies and wealthy trade partners of Carthage, who had sent a fleet to assist the Etruscan attack on Cuma.
We were of military age by that time, Pericles and I, and eager to play our part in the fighting. Syracuse and Athens sent a joint naval force under the command of both Gelon and Xanthippos, since neither city would yield precedence to the other.
When the battle was over, the Etruscan war fleet lay at the bottom of the sea. Some men have claimed that the sea battle at Cuma was the greatest ever in history, with the fleets of four great states engaged. It was certainly a notable victory, and we dedicated rich trophies at the shrine of Apollo at Cuma in thanks to the gods for it.
It also opened the prospect of new conquests, the islands of Sardinia and Corsica, which a treaty between Carthage and the Etruscans had long ago divided between them. There would be no better opportunity to take the Carthaginian mining colonies on Sardinia for ourselves.
The Cumaeans, unaware of these Athenian ambitions, gave a splendid feast to send us off after the battle. I think it must have taken every dining couch, every vat of wine, every gold dish, and certainly every flute-girl in the city. It was afterward, in the best room of the best brothel in Cuma, that Pericles explained his vision of Athens’ future to me, beginning with the question: “Tell me, why couldn't we defeat the Persians?"
"They were stronger than us, they had more ships, more soldiers."
"They were stronger than us because each city in Hellas would only look out for its own interests, but the Persians were united under one man."
"So you're going to put Athens under a tyrant, after all? Will you nominate Gelon?"
He glared at me for not taking him seriously. Everyone else took him seriously. “A tyrant takes power by defeating all his enemies, then he serves only himself. In Athens, the people hold the power, they elect the generals. But look at Cuma, look at all the Hellene cities in Italy. They're always at war with Etruscans and the Latins—or each other. Think of how Croton sacked Sybaris! And none of them would help the Cumaeans—they had to come to Athens for aid. So what will happen after we sail away? When the Carthaginians come back or the Etruscans build themselves another fleet?
"What the Hellenes need—what they've always needed—is a leader. Not a tyrant, someone with the vision of a common good. Wouldn't all of us be even stronger, with all our forces committed to the same ends?” He was practicing his speech, of course. “The Hellenes in the west would be united in a league of free cities, and no empire would ever dare try to make us slaves."
In Athens it had always been the custom that only citizens over the age of thirty could speak in the Assembly. But because Xanthippos was ill with a festering wound, it was Pericles who stood up to argue the case for the new alliance, though he was not then over twenty-three years old. The Assembly was so taken with the prospect of new conquests in Sardinia and Corsica that they overlooked the age of the speaker.
Within ten years, there was not a city in Sicily or Hellene Italy that did not acknowledge Athens as the leader of the Free Hellene League.
* * * *
Fortunately for me, there was no law restricting the age of poets. With The Tyrannicides, I first won the sacred olive crown at the Panathenaean Festival. By the time I was thirty, I had won more prizes with Betrayal at Salamis, Theseus the Tyrant, The Chaining of Typhon, and Charybdis. More than one of my dramas, I admit, was composed at the suggestion of Pericles, to support his political causes—particularly the expansion of our naval power.
In his second term as a member of the Council of generals, Pericles suggested that I write a tragedy for the Festival attacking the Carthaginians for their practice of human sacrifice. He was trying to gain popular support for an invasion of Africa, which came to nothing later that year when the Carthaginians proposed a peace treaty.
But by then I had already written The Mothers of Carthage.
Nothing like it had been seen before on the stage. The scene was dominated by a monstrous bronze image of the Carthaginian god with a fire pit blazing at its feet. The chorus of Carthaginian mothers each carried a child in procession across the stage, begging in vain for its life to be spared.
O cruel, devouring god!
O savage sacrifice!
See! A mother's child
Torn from loving hands,
From weeping breasts!
But at the implacable order of the Carthaginian priest, one by one, keening piteousl
y, they threw their own children into the flames.
That year, Aeschylos had entered Prometheus in the competition, a magnificent tragedy in the old form, heartbreakingly intense, with verses that sang even on the written page:
The waves lament as they break upon the shore,
The ocean moans in pity for your suffering.
But the Athenians had grown used to tragedies that sang of living men and cities, not ancient heroes and gods. They voted overwhelmingly to give the olive crown to my work. I have never been so reluctant to accept a prize, knowing that another man deserved it more.
Aeschylos never wrote another tragedy after Prometheus and became a rather bitter old man. I tried to convince him to compose again, but he refused. “The people have chosen what kind of dramas they want. In my day, tragedy was meant to honor the gods, but now you pander to politicians and promote their wars on the stage."
"You wrote dramas and odes at Syracuse to honor the tyrant,” I reminded him.
"So I did, but the gods got no honor from it, nor did I. I came back to Athens to find the true spirit of the god, but this is not the Athens I knew, where the stage was made of plain wood and the best men judged who won the prize."
So it had once been in that other Athens, when the best men ruled, as they called themselves—the well-born men from the great aristocratic families like the Alcmeonids. Those were the days Aeschylos looked back to, when the city's strength was in the hands of its bronze-armored spearmen, and only the poorest class of men, despised by the rich, pulled an oar on the rowing bench. Now there were no “best men,” and the law made no divisions into property classes—all citizens had an equal vote in the theater as well as the Assembly. Not a man was forced to beg or labor for wages, not if he could row in the fleet.
Asimov's SF, Oct/Nov 2005 Page 16
