John P. Nordin

jpn@jpnordin.com

THE BRIGHT FOUNDATION OF LIBERTY

by John P. Nordin

“But it was all about the Persians!”

“Our greatness is shown by the greatness of those we defeated.”

“Yes, but it was entirely about the Persians!”

“The playwright will suffer for that – unfortunately.”

The two of us were walking west below the south slope of the Acropolis, returning to our homes after having attended the drama authored by Aeschylus.  It was the spring of the year; a year just a few after the endless winter of the wars with Persia.  Around us was the drama of the city, surging with all manner of people who had come in from the countryside for the annual festival to Dionysus.  Each was playing their role, be it citizen or slave; city dweller, resident of the hills or the shore; young and assertive, middle-aged and calculating, old and careful.  More than a few women, respectable and not, were out as well, acting with care their subtle roles.  There were a few pairs of men and women, a drama that is comedy when acted by your neighbor, but tragedy when you are forced to enter the stage.

An older man approached us.  His tunic was stained and worn, his hands callused, his beard uneven.  He had recognized my companion, judging by how his rough, weather-beaten face lit up with a large smile as he rushed forward.

“Themistocles! It is you.  Oh, thank you, I pulled oars on a ship next to yours.  We are all so grateful for all you’ve done.  Thank you.  It’s just…. Thank you.  It’s a great honor to be able to talk to you.”  He had grabbed Themistocles by the hand and was not letting go.  Themistocles looked intently into the man’s eyes as he acknowledged the words of praise.

The man was giving praise to one he freely regarded as his better and as a leader of the city.  But the wealthy passing by would have only seen that Themistocles was the shortest of the three of us, that his wide flat face could not be regarded as beautiful and that his cloak, while of the finest cloth, was worn in an untidy manner.  What they would have made of the tall, thin young man standing silently in threadbare clothes to one side, I have no idea.

He and I were forced to play this scene on almost every one of the occasions when I was able to accompany Themistocles and so I knew the lines before they were spoken.  Themistocles would ask about the man’s family, where he came from and so on. 

“Now, so you are of the deme of Ancyle.  Do you know ….”

I sighed inwardly. This could go on for some time.  And I knew what would come after this.

The man noticed me.  “And you, are you the son of this great man?”

“No,” I said through clenched teeth, “I am not.”

Unlike the actors in the theater, I did not wear a mask, yet one was always placed on me.

Themistocles eventually extracted himself and we went on walking.  The Acropolis rising above our right shoulder held only fire-blackened ruins and would not be crowned with the glory of the Parthenon for some years.  The shrine to the healing power of Asklepios that you now encounter next to the theater was only built years after the horrible plague and also was not there to meet our gaze.  For that matter, the Odeon of Parikcleas that is now to the east of the theater had not been built at this time either. The whole area was unformed and empty.  And at this time my life was also unformed and I had no desire as yet to write this narrative.

“He didn’t mention you.  In the play, I mean.”

Themistocles smiled and put his arm on my shoulder. Inclining his head toward mine and speaking quietly, he said, “but he mentioned what I did.”  He straightened up, laughed and threw his arms wide.  “All this evil, some avenger or bad god made appear from some unknown place.”  It was a line from the play, the Persians, of course, regarding our unexpected victory at Salamis as a great evil.

“Many of my opponents have called me evil before, why not the Persians?  At least they compared me to a god.”  His smile was wide.

“But it is not the real story of what happened!  The whole drama was about the Persians!  Their grief, their loss!  What about us?  Our struggle? What about you?”  I had raised my voice, but Themistocles remained in control of his passions.

“You underestimate Aeschylus’ accomplishment of presenting our enemies in a sympathetic manner.  And, isn’t it praise of Athens to show how we caused such grief for such a larger enemy? Clever, very clever.  And consider this – what we saw today was only the second drama ever about our lives rather then the lives of gods and heroes.”

 “So you think it was just fine?”

Themistocles again put his arm on my shoulder.  “No, he left something out, something more important than which ship went where and who died and who did not.  Do you know what it was?”

I didn’t.  I’d mentioned Artemisium already, a battle everyone overlooked but whose significance to the city and to me was beyond measure.  I suppose it could be Marathon that Themistocles was referring to but he’d implied it was not a battle.  “I don’t know.”

“How did all those ships at that battle come to work so effectively?”

“You taught them how to maneuver.”

“No, no,” he waived his hand and shook his head.

“My father taught them.”  That is what I should have said.

His voice grew soft.  “No, my young friend.  No, not even that.”  His grip on my shoulder became hard and painful for a second.  Releasing me he balled his fist and tapped it lightly on me.  “What are we going to pass by just ahead here?”

I looked up at the hill in front and to our left.  “The Assembly.”

“Ah yes, the Assembly.”  He stopped and looked towards the place where citizens gathered and issues were debated.  “This is where I did my teaching, all the citizens were my charges.  I was a teacher even to those who did not know they were attending school.”  He said nothing more for a second, continuing to gaze at the site.

“Who is their shepherd, the commander of them all?”  I quoted from the drama, a line given to the Persian king, asking about our city.

He recited the next line, “No man calls them his slave, they are not subjects.”

He looked again at the hill of the Assembly.  I suddenly remembered the next line, but changed it to the past tense.

“How then did they resist the invading foe?”

“How indeed.  How indeed.  It was not because of some farmers at Marathon.  Perhaps someone will write the story of what happened.”  He turned to me and a smile came across his face.  “Perhaps it will be you. You are always so concerned with what is true and what is false, a dangerous and rare affliction.  You can tell how we really obtained our freedom.”

I was embarrassed that I had not immediately known of what he spoke.  We had talked about this more than once.  I knew he was proud of what he had done and angry at his lack of honor from those of power in the city.  I didn’t believe for an instant that he had no care for his omission from the play.

That time was near to being the very last I ever saw Themistocles, as my fate was to have  his friendship ripped away from me.  Perhaps his words were one of the many reasons I did come, so many years later, to write a narrative of these years.  But, it would be best that I not offend against tradition and the gods, and so I will start my history in a formal way, so that you will know why I wrote and what I intend to prove.