by JM Alvey
‘Where have we washed up now? Can we at least stay here until the blisters on my backside have healed? Rowing’s harder work than you think,’ he confided to the audience.
That won the play’s first cheer from the upper benches and I breathed a little easier. Hopefully acknowledging the city’s lowest ranks this early on should save our chorus from being showered with nuts and insults by those assuming a play about heroes had nothing to say about their humble lives.
Though I was still apprehensive about the ten men in those marble seats, five of whose votes would decide my fate. Would the well-born of Athens think I was mocking them? Add to that the fact that Homeric heroes like Meriones and Thersites are the stock-in-trade of tragedy. Would the judges look askance at me meddling with tradition?
As the two of them came to the end of their bickering, I held my breath as I waited for Chrysion’s cue. The chorus appeared on the dancing floor accompanied by Hyanthidas playing a bold new tune.
The Corinthian’s appearance prompted a surge of murmurs from the audience for several reasons. Firstly, the talented musician was playing two interlacing melodies, with a different dance of his fingers on each of the twin reed-tipped pipes in his mouth. That’s not something you see every day. I’d never seen Euxenos’s tootler try it, however skilled he might be at swift and swooping dances.
Secondly, Hyanthidas wasn’t wearing a pipe halter and that was taking quite a risk. As anyone who’s ever played a pipe will tell you, using two instruments together is a very different challenge to only playing one. Keeping your lips tight around two reeds as well as sustaining taut, puffed cheeks quickly makes your face ache. If your cheeks and lips cramp or quiver, you’ll shred your tune with sudden squeaks and silences.
Sustaining a single song or dance tune on twin pipes is one thing, but accompanying an entire play is a real challenge. No wonder some long-forgotten musician devised a solution, more interested in getting paid than worrying about looking a fool. All the other plays’ pipers would wear leather halters with straps running across their mouths, pierced for their twin pipes’ reeds. But Hyanthidas had sworn he didn’t need such assistance.
Thirdly, he was playing Etruscan music, and there were plenty of citizens and visitors in this audience who’d travelled westwards to Italy’s Hellenic cities. They recognised those characteristic lilts and rhythms, and eagerly nudged their neighbours. As Chrysion led the chorus in extolling the virtues of this unknown land, I watched the whole crowd sitting up straighter as whispers spread. Soon everyone was wondering where the jokes might be in stranding Homeric heroes in that wolf-ridden wilderness.
Keen interest wasn’t only kindled on the wooden benches. Down below on the marble seats, I noticed several of the great and the good sneak sideways glances at Aristarchos. All they saw was polite interest on his face. None of them would be able to guess that he’d been the one to insist my play should look westwards.
I’d originally set this story in the Chersonese, far away on the Black Sea’s northern shore. I’d written a particularly fine speech for Apollonides’s character, Thersites, speculating with calculated obscenity on the unlikelihood of Meriones ever fathering sons, if he couldn’t even guide his trireme’s jutting prow into the Hellespont’s moist and inviting opening.
But Aristarchos was adamant and, since he was paying the piper, the actors, the chorus and the writer, he got his way. Apart from losing that particular joke for Thersites, I hadn’t been overly bothered. My characters could say what I wanted when they were standing on an Etruscan shore as easily as they could on some Euxine beach.
Though after seeing Strata’s Thracians yesterday, I’d been wondering if Aristarchos had picked up some hint from their play’s patron. Had Lamachos said something indiscreet over a fourth or fifth serving of some choice vintage at an aristocratic banquet? If so, I was grateful Aristarchos had been there to hear it.
Even before a few cups of wine, a festival audience wouldn’t have seen much difference between a chorus of red-headed barbarians from Thrace and my Achaeans meeting copper-topped characters in Taurica. When a play offers the upper benches something they’ve already seen, a shower of nuts, or worse, is pretty much guaranteed. The competition’s judges aren’t overly impressed either, to many a hapless playwright’s discredit.
As the chorus’s first song drew to a close, with everyone note-perfect and precisely in step, I knotted my hands together. Now for Lysicrates’s entrance.
Here she came. Egeria, sensuous, seductive and, as far as Thersites was concerned, completely terrifying. He stood there quaking as she greeted the astonished Achaeans in the name of all Etruscans. Then she explained, in precise and provocative detail, exactly what bedroom talents the local women expected from these prospective husbands who had just washed up on their shore.
Not that I believe for a moment the overblown tales you hear about the western barbarians. Their women train in gymnasiums alongside their men, all of them unashamedly naked? Husbands and wives alike see nothing wrong in taking lovers to their beds in full view of anyone passing by?
But such nonsense makes for a good bawdy story and that’s what a Dionysia audience likes. Even the ones who pretend to prefer Pindar and mourn the loss of his high-flown odes. Everyone was laughing now, from highest seats to lowest, and even though I knew every punchline, I found myself grinning.
As Egeria chased Thersites off stage, Meriones turned to his loyal crew, aghast. ‘We had better decide for ourselves how our new city is to be ruled, and quickly, if we don’t want to find ourselves under the thumb of a woman like that!’
‘They sound as scary as the Spartans,’ Chrysion said with a shudder.
‘Perhaps we should fall into step with the Spartans!’ Inspired, Meriones brandished his spear. ‘Let’s conquer these tribes and make serfs of them all! What do you say to that, lads?’
But the chorus was all standing still with their arms folded, emphatically shaking their heads.
‘Lads?’ he pleaded.
‘You want to start more fighting? When we’ve finally arrived in a place where we can enjoy some peace and quiet?’
Chrysion led the chorus in loud disapproval of all Meriones’s arguments in favour of returning to war, not to mention scorning the Spartans’ unrelenting regime of discipline and drill with precious little sex.
‘Then I must rule you myself.’ Admitting defeat for his initial proposal, Meriones struck a heroic pose that could have come off any pot in Menkaure’s workshop. He stood with his spear drawn back for throwing and his other arm outstretched. ‘Thereafter my sons will rule over your sons, and their sons will govern after them, down through the endless generations!’
Thersites scurried back on stage. ‘What about my sons?’
‘What about them?’ Meriones demanded, affronted.
‘Who’s to say they won’t be brighter than yours?’ Thersites challenged him.
‘I don’t think there’s much danger of that.’ Meriones looked in the direction Egeria had gone. ‘Not if I find them a mother like that one.’
‘Oh, you think you could handle a wife like that?’ Thersites mocked.
‘After ten years sitting in a tent outside Troy with Achilles sulking because he didn’t get all the pretty girls for himself? I’d like to handle her often as possible.’ Meriones cupped his hands lewdly in front of his chest. ‘I like a strong-willed woman.’
‘So did Agamemnon,’ Thersites pointed out. ‘That didn’t turn out so well for him. I hear Clytemnestra cut him down to size with an axe.’
The audience laughed as the actors bickered for a while about the merits and drawbacks of hereditary leadership. I hadn’t intended to make this a particular theme, but Aristarchos had encouraged me to draw out this scene for longer and longer until, once again, Meriones found all his arguments had been undermined.
‘Never mind that,’ he said testily. ‘If we’re debating who’s best suited to rule here, then who’s led this expedition from the very fir
st? Who slew Phereclos, son of Tecton, with this very spear on the plains of Troy?’
‘Not with that very spear,’ Thersites countered. ‘You left your first one sticking in Deiphobus’s shield and had to go back to your tent for another one.’
‘Never mind that,’ Meriones said testily. ‘I still killed Phereclos.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And Adamas, son of Asios.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And Harpalion, son of Pylaemenes.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And Laogonos, son of Onetor.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Who won the archery competition at Patroclos’s funeral games?’ Meriones preened.
‘Yes, but how good are you at keeping men alive?’ Thersites squared up to him, truculent.
‘A very good question while we’re stranded here on this barren shore,’ Chrysion confided to the audience before turning to his fellow Achaeans. ‘Here’s another one for you. How soon will we see these noble heroes come to blows if one or both of them assume some divine right to lead us? No city can stand, divided against itself. We need unity, not tyranny!’
Now Hyanthidas’s glorious music drew on the marching songs that every hoplite knows, while the chorus remembered how fighting in a phalanx had saved them in the battles for Troy.
They decided to stick with that winning strategy now that they had found peace. They all wanted votes in a People’s Assembly and equality for all men under the law. As their song concluded with a triumphant shout, the chorus all wheeled round to look up at Meriones and Thersites, every stance expectant.
Those heroes looked at each other and made a show of counting up the heads of the chorus men, before adding the audience beyond. Turn by turn, they picked well-known faces out of the throng, or at least they pretended to, since I’d had no way of knowing who would actually be in the audience when I wrote this particular satire.
Claiming to recognise their shipmates in the audience, they praised these men for their supposed gallantry outside Troy, all the while slyly alluding to recent scandals and humiliations that had been the talk of Athens’ taverns through this winter just past. The crowd loved it.
Then our heroes counted themselves, to discover with comic dismay that their side amounted to the two of them up on there on the stage. The audience chuckled as the actors ran to and fro, looking in vain for someone, anyone else to add to their number.
Eventually, grudgingly accepting democracy soon provoked a lively squabble over which of them would do better in a popular vote. Finally the two men shrugged and nobly wished each other good luck, before walking to opposite ends of the stage and each confiding in the audience exactly how they intended to court popular goodwill with bribes and gifts.
Chrysion promptly led the chorus in mocking them both. The gods themselves would appoint this new city’s leaders in a properly conducted ballot for magistrates and council members. The only time these heroes would see a popular vote was if the people chose to expel one or other of them, for the sake of peace and quiet hereabouts.
Thersites grovelled, swearing he hadn’t intended to cause any strife.
Meriones agreed with fulsome apologies. Then he clapped his hands.
‘If we’re to build a new city, we’d better start building. If you want an assembly and the rule of law, we’ll need a council chamber and courts.’
Apollonides interrupted. ‘First and foremost, we should build a temple, high and bright on that sacred hill. After all, the gods help those who help themselves.’
When I’d written those words, I’d been confident that everyone agreed on the merits of Pericles’s building plans. I thought I was happily reflecting Athenian pleasure in the rewards of the peace we now enjoyed for the first time since our grandfathers’ day. This morning I couldn’t help wondering what the Pargasarenes and the other Ionians made of this notion. I looked down but all I could see was the backs of the allied delegates’ heads.
‘Who should we dedicate this new temple to?’ wondered Thersites.
‘Athena! Who else?’ Meriones indicated the imaginary landscape with that same sweeping gesture. ‘We’re surrounded by olive trees! How can we doubt her blessing in sending us here?’
‘What tools do we have for building this city you’ve got planned?’ Thersites looked around.
Meriones heaved an exaggerated sigh and offered his spear. ‘It’s a bit narrow for a shovel, but I suppose it’s the best we’ve got.’
Thersites went to retrieve his shield. ‘We can use this for carrying things.’
Meriones considered his helmet. ‘A bucket?’
Thersites nodded before suddenly clapping a hand to his head in a florid gesture of despair. ‘But how can we build if we can’t measure anything?’
‘Oh, that’s no problem,’ Meriones laughed, confident. He reached under the front of his tunic. ‘There you are. That’s a foot long.’
It worked, thanks to Nymenios’s expert knowledge of how to cut and sew leather. As Menekles tugged on what I sincerely hoped everyone in the audience had just assumed was the usual comedy phallus, the jaunty red cock tripled in length.
Judging by the roar of astonished hilarity from the entire theatre, we’d successfully kept this trick up our sleeves. Well, not our sleeves exactly.
Apollonides had to wait for the noise to die down to have any hope of his next line being heard. ‘A foot? I don’t think so. I think you’ll find this is a foot!’
With a jerk and a suggestive thrust of his hips, he produced a cock twice the length. That got an even louder and longer reception. People probably heard the laughter in Sparta.
Apollonides and Menekles had to stand there waiting for the roars to subside, waving those ludicrous phalluses around before they could appeal to their loyal Achaeans to decide which standard measure they were going to adopt.
Naturally the chorus responded by displaying their own suddenly impressive appendages. I saw the riotous mirth sweep all around the theatre with private satisfaction. Follow that with your pretty Butterflies, Euxenos. Whatever else they might think of my play, those judges in the front row would have no trouble remembering it, no matter what the Brigands, the Sheep or the Philosophers might get up to.
Best of all, the audience loved it. I’d promised Aristarchos they would, because he’d looked extremely dubious when I outlined this particular part of my plan. As I’d explained, it’s all well and good having comedies that promote civic virtues and honour the city’s democracy by means of elegant satire, but when an Attic farmer comes to the city after a year of seeing the same faces, the same houses and trees, and the same mule’s arse day in and day out, what he really wants is a play with plenty of belly laughs and lots of cock jokes.
Lysicrates timed his entrance superbly, ostentatiously creeping along the stage just in front of the scenery with a finger held to his mask’s lips to hush the audience.
‘Well, that’s an interesting tool!’ He stepped up close, so the rapacious Egeria could peer over Thersites’s shoulder. ‘This new city of yours will be full of marvellous erections!’
Thersites shrieked and ran off the stage, high-stepping like a startled satyr. Egeria scampered after him, hitching handfuls of skirts indecently high.
Once the laughter had died down, the audience got a chance to catch their breath as the chorus sang in a more reflective mood. They painted a lyrical picture of the fine buildings that would adorn their new city. This would be the Builders’ legacy for their sons.
With my words and Hyanthidas’s music, it was a very fine song. But was it long enough? I knew what was coming next and wiped apprehensively sweating hands on my second-best tunic. Lysicrates and Apollonides had rehearsed this next series of swift-moving scenes time and again, but there were so many ways that things could go horribly wrong.
‘Nice new city you’ve got here. Wanna buy some amber?’ Lysicrates was unrecognisable, dressed as a northern barbarian from the snowy slopes of the Alps
as he sidled up to Menekles. Even his voice was completely different as he extolled the mysterious virtues of electrum.
‘How about some nuts?’ Apollonides was a hoarse-voiced Sardinian approaching from the opposite direction. ‘Got to have nuts in a marketplace.’
‘I’ve never known a market that wasn’t full of nutters,’ Menekles agreed.
The jokes came as thick and as fast as the costume changes as Apollonides and Lysicrates dashed on and off the stage only to reappear as different merchants with something new to offer each time.
Menekles did a splendid job of portraying Meriones’s heroic disdain for bartering like a common trader, before he realised the fun and profit to be had by playing these merchants against each other.
I think the audience was as breathless as the actors by the time our erstwhile hero was left alone on the stage once more, contemplating all the goods he’d amassed.
‘Mine. All mine,’ he gloated, hugging himself.
‘Really?’ Chrysion stepped forward from the chorus to challenge him. ‘When we’re the ones building the city that these merchants are flocking to? You don’t think you should show a little gratitude by sharing some of that out?’
‘What? Oh, oh, yes, of course,’ Meriones said unconvincingly.
The chorus began planning the fine meals they would cook, congratulating each other on the comforts that would furnish their homes.
‘Oh! Meriones! You shouldn’t have!’ As the music wound down, Thersites returned to the stage with Egeria on his arm. ‘A wedding feast for us? How generous. Truly, a noble gesture!’ he told the audience.
‘What? Wait! No—’ But Meriones’s protests were drowned out as Hyanthidas’s music led the chorus in a triumphal marriage hymn. Chrysion predicted great things for the sons of Thersites as the music changed to a traditional wedding-night ballad and the happy couple were escorted off to bed.
The nuptial song ended with an intricate flourish as the last man in the chorus passed by the end of the stage, leaving the theatre. Applause for the actors and singers swiftly changed into loud conversation and people hurried to and fro along the benches. A festival audience knows when to seize their chance to change places or find refreshments or to head for a public latrine before the next performance.
