Gary Corby: The Pericles Commission

Lysimachus often dined with us, so he knew me. However, since he was here it meant my mother Phaenarete and my little brother would be eating in her rooms, since no proper Athenian household would allow its women and children to dine with visitors. I sighed inwardly. What was to come would have been easier if my mother were present.

“I’m sorry, Father. I was-”

“Your brother and Manes returned with some ridiculous story about Ephialtes being murdered and you doing something about it.”

“It’s true, Father.” I related the day’s doings as best I could. My tongue became twisted in his presence because I feared how he would respond. I had spoken easily with Pericles and Xanthippus, great players in the political game of Athens, but I stumbled speaking to this respectable sculptor who was my father. When I drifted to a confused finish he asked sharply, “Have you joined the democrats?”

“No! I’m only doing work for Pericles.”

“That sounds like the same thing to me!”

“Would it be so bad if I had, Father?”

“Wait on there, Sophroniscus,” Lysimachus interrupted, holding up his hand. “The Gods know your son is your own concern, and may the Friendly Ones visit me before I get between a man and his son having an argument, but I know this Pericles, and he’s not such a bad chap.”

I blinked. Was Lysimachus taking my side?

Sophroniscus looked at his friend in surprise. “Comes from a good family, does he?”

“His tribe is Acamantis from the deme Cholargos. His father is Xanthippus, you know, the strategos who commanded the army at Mycale and won, and on his mother’s side he’s descended from the Alcmaeonid family.”

I could see Sophroniscus was impressed. The Alcmaeonids are an ancient aristocratic family who have held great power in generations past. But still there was the inevitable question whenever a member of that family is mentioned. Sophroniscus asked it. “But what of the curse?”

The Alcmaeonids incurred a curse more than a hundred years ago when they slaughtered a band of revolutionaries on sacred ground. It wasn’t the slaughter that offended the Gods, it was doing it on temple territory that really rankled. The family had been accursed in all its subsequent generations.

Lysimachus waved his hand airily and said, “If it lingers on, it doesn’t appear to have settled on Pericles. He’s a talented man and he’s enjoyed great fortune. But then again, he’s only just started in politics, so there’s plenty of time for him to be ostracized, executed for treason, bankrupted, or any combination of the above. You know how it goes.”

Father nodded. “I do indeed, and that’s why I don’t want Nicolaos involved.”

“That of course is your decision to make, my friend.”

Sophroniscus considered, drumming his fingers, then asked me, “I suppose this democratic movement is popular with the young men? It’s the latest fashion, is it?”

“I don’t know, Father. Uh, I suppose so.” In fact I knew many young men were vociferous about the democracy, even those from the better families. However, none of them moved in the circles I had frequented this morning. The young men were the supporters of Pericles, not his colleagues. I thought with great satisfaction that the young men who had run in the streets with me when we were youths would be watching with jealousy when they saw me consulting with important politicians.

Sophroniscus picked figs from a bowl and said, “I see. In my day, son, it was tragedy. All we young men were going to turn our backs on society and become tragedians, actors, or both. We did it to annoy our fathers. No doubt this is the same thing again, the mere trend of the moment and the revenge of the Fates for the anguish I caused my own sire. It’ll all blow over when the next fad comes along. As long as it doesn’t affect your work, I suppose it can’t do any harm yet.”

“My work…” I didn’t quite know how to say what I knew I must. I breathed deep and took the plunge. “Father, this political work…I think that’s what I want to do.”

Even Lysimachus laughed at that one. Sophroniscus said, “Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody gets paid for doing politics, son. That’s what the rich do because they don’t have to earn a living. You need substantial wealth even to begin, and I don’t have that sort of money, and even if I did I wouldn’t spend it on helping you become yet another opinionated orator.” I had expected anger, I was prepared for that, but his scorn was more devastating.

“They are more than mere orators, Father. Among them are men who make real decisions, important decisions.”

“Listen, son, politics in this city is not for the faint of heart. The lower men work themselves hard, sacrifice their own time and wealth, and get nothing for it. The leaders, the few who make it to the top after years of effort, they’re mostly corrupted by the experience. Let me tell you how badly wrong this could go. Have you ever heard of Themistocles?”

“I don’t remember much about him.”

Lysimachus put in, “His fall was more spectacular than most. Themistocles led Athens in his day, much as Ephialtes does-did, rather, until today.”

“He led the democratic movement?”

Lysimachus shook his head. “Themistocles was no democrat. He was a brilliant strategist. It was Themistocles who saved us all when the Persians invaded.”

Sophroniscus added, “But as soon as the people no longer needed him, they got rid of him. First, they ostracized him. Then the Council of the Areopagus saw their chance and found him guilty of treason, guilty of colluding with the Persians, would you believe, when it was he who had defeated them. Then he was condemned to death, and all his property was forfeited to the state.”

Sophroniscus stopped to take a handful of olives. I’m sure he did it to leave me plenty of time to contemplate the fate of Themistocles.

One of the oddities of Athenian politics-odd, at least, to the states which don’t practice it-is that once a year in winter, the Athenians vote, not for who should be in power, but for who should be out of it.

If the Ecclesia decides an ostracism should be held, then the people vote, and whoever gets the most votes is exiled for a period of ten years. This is the sort of vote a politician wants to lose! The “winner” is required to depart within ten days, and not return until his ten years have expired. He must leave not only Athens, but all of Athenian-controlled Attica, and if he steps within Attica during his exile then the penalty is death. This was the fate that had befallen Themistocles and, while he couldn’t be there to defend himself, the Areopagus had declared him a traitor, effectively making his exile permanent.

Sophroniscus said, “So there you have it. Exiled, criminalized, condemned, and bankrupted. And, son, Themistocles was a successful politician. You don’t want that to be you, do you? So let’s say no more about it. You have enough to learn the art of marble.”

“But Father, I’m only doing a job for Pericles. None of that’s going to happen to me.”

Sophroniscus threw up his arms in despair.

“So Themistocles died?” I asked, desperate to change the subject away from me.

“No, he wasn’t stupid enough to hang around waiting to be condemned. He ran to the Persians! If you’re going to be damned for something, you may as well get the advantage of it. The Great King set him up as Governor of Magnesia.”

“You mean he was guilty after all?”

“The treason charge was rubbish,” Sophroniscus declared, pushing away the last bowl and reaching for his wine. “But it served to keep the man away from Athens permanently. The rest of us who aren’t as smart as he is are safer that way.”