by JM Alvey
I sat on the end of that wooden bench, looking at the empty stage and dancing floor. My first play at the Dionysia. It was all over. Nine months of work, endless rehearsing, so much effort and skill put into those costumes, into the masks and that glorious, unexpected and original music. Everything was done with.
I heaved a sigh as I sat there alone amid the festival hubbub.
Chapter Fifteen
We didn’t win. That honour went to Trygaeos and his Philosophers. The sly old comedian astounded us all as he breathed new life into his tale of fatherly wisdom challenged by youthful presumption. Dazzling wordplay impressed the city’s intellectuals while ever-accelerating action entertained the rest.
After scorning their old man’s reliance on the hoary sayings of Hellas’s Seven Sages, the play’s two sons belatedly realised that he still knew a thing or two about the best ways to charm pretty girls. More importantly, he knew the secrets of impressing the watchful mothers and wealthy fathers of potential brides. So the hapless lads came begging for help after their own comically scant success. One had tried showing off the latest mathematical and rhetorical theories, only to discover that bored the girls rigid. His brother fared no better despite flexing well-honed muscles and boasting of his discus and javelin victories. He learned that girls aren’t very interested in a man who’s most interested in himself.
The play’s underlying message was that ancient Hellenic wisdom, hallowed at Delphi and echoed by Athens’ favourite sage, Solon: nothing to excess. The music was solidly traditional and skilfully played so I’ve no doubt that impressed the judges as well.
Trygaeos was ecstatic as his patron Simylos was awarded the winner’s ivy-leaf crown. Even with disappointment gnawing at my guts, I couldn’t help but smile at the old man’s delight. I watched him thanking his actors and the chorus who came crowding around. Meantime Simylos accepted congratulations from his wealthy and well-born friends, along with the ornamental bronze tripod. He’d soon be setting it up as a public monument, to remind everyone that he’d won this honour for eternity. Meantime, Trygaeos’s actors and chorus would dedicate their victorious masks to hang in Dionysos’s shrine.
Besides, The Builders came second, and that was some salve for my wounded pride. Even if second place doesn’t win any prizes, I reckoned that should keep my name in people’s minds when they needed a man skilled at turning a phrase. It should certainly help me compete for a chorus for the next Dionysia.
I got up, dusted off my backside and walked down the slope to offer my own congratulations to the winners. As I caught a glimpse of Aristarchos in the well-born crowd around Simylos, I wondered how my patron was taking this result. His smiling face gave nothing away.
I noticed his son Hipparchos had appeared from somewhere. He stood close by his father, accepting jovial commiserations and compliments on the play which his father’s money had financed and my imagination had created. He clearly had no qualms about taking credit for other men’s hard work.
Mind you, a few paces away, his friend Nikandros looked as sour as an unripe apple. I sincerely hoped the arrogant prick realised how stupid he looked, now that his predictions for my play’s abject failure had come to nothing.
‘Well done, my young hero!’ Pittalos nearly spilled his cup of wine down my tunic. ‘Well done indeed!’
‘You do realise I didn’t win?’ Was he really that drunk? ‘First prize is the one that counts.’
‘True enough, but after that, what matters most is not coming last,’ he said cheerily. ‘As long as a poet avoids that humiliation, we’re all equal before the gods. No one will even remember who came second, third or fourth by the end of the festival.’
He certainly wouldn’t, if he kept on drinking at that rate.
‘True enough.’ I smiled and went on my way.
Truth be told, Pittalos and his Sheep could just as easily have taken second place. The country visitors in the audience had been especially taken with his tale of a humble farmer duped by a quick-talking conman. The crook swore the farmer could breed sheep with blue or scarlet wool if he paid for rare and miraculous herbs. The old fool had only been saved from ruin by the loyal sheep themselves, fearing their flock would be stolen or slaughtered by rival shepherds.
They’d persuaded a mischievous nymph to lead the conman astray, promising him untold erotic delights. The crowd had particularly liked the scene where the nymph duped the conman into eating goat shit, imagining the pellets were grapes. Jokes about dung are nearly as popular as ones about pricks. Then the nymph and the sheep set about convincing the old man that, if something looks too good to be true, that’s what it’ll prove to be.
I headed for the rehearsal ground in search of Apollonides, Menekles and Lysicrates. As I reached our enclosure, Chrysion and every man of our chorus greeted my arrival with heart-warming cheers.
I bowed to them all, smiling. ‘Thank you, thank you all for your hard work and dedication. This is as much your not-quite-victory as it is mine.’ That got a laugh.
The three actors were talking to Sosimenes while the costumes and masks were being packed away.
‘Betting on the outcome?’ I wondered who’d won and who’d lost.
The mask maker chuckled. ‘You think we’ll let all that good cloth go to waste?’
Apollonides grinned. ‘This year’s under-costumes will lay the foundation of the next festival’s masks.’
‘Whichever plays win or lose, Sosimenes always come out on top,’ Lysicrates said wryly.
‘Good to know.’ I nodded at the basket. ‘Is there any money in second-hand wigs?’
‘Oh, I’ll take those off your hands.’ Though Sosimenes raised a cautionary finger. ‘I won’t be in a hurry to get rid of them though, in case you need them for the Country Dionysia season. You’ll be getting an offer from more than one rural theatre, if I’m any judge.’
‘Really?’ I looked at the actors, trying to decide if the mask maker was serious or having one last joke at my expense.
Menekles nodded. ‘I’d wager on it, but it would be unfair to take your money on a sure thing.’
‘Just hope the best offer comes from somewhere closer than Thorikos.’ Apollonides grimaced. ‘I don’t fancy that journey again.’
‘We’ll show you how to shepherd a chorus of country bumpkins around,’ Lysicrates assured me, ‘without them tripping over each other.’
I hadn’t really thought about the possibility of the three actors and me being hired to reprise our play at one of the district festivals out in Attica around the winter solstice. If that happened, I’d be the one leading a chorus of local volunteers. That was a daunting prospect. I’d sung in a few plays in my time, in tragedy choruses for the Lenaia, but taking the lead in a comedy was a very different challenge.
‘Don’t shake hands on any agreement without discussing it with these three first,’ Sosimenes advised. ‘You want the best possible price for your time and trouble.’
On the other hand, being paid a second time for work I’d already done definitely appealed, even if that meant putting on a chorus mask and costume myself.
A moment later, voices passing our enclosure entrance caught everyone’s ear.
‘Some judges can always be swayed by showy tricks over subtle performance. And of course, Trygaeos won sympathy votes because no one expects another play from him. He’ll be dead by next year.’
Euxenos was sneering as he passed by with his patron, Lamachos. The comedy writer looked as cheery as a man with an eagle chewing his liver. The wealthy gentleman was clearly none too pleased that all his coin had seen his play come last.
Lysicrates made a farting noise and our chorus all jeered. Euxenos didn’t betray any obvious reaction but I saw the back of his neck go red.
‘He’s got no time for showy tricks?’ mocked Menekles. ‘I can’t remember when I last saw the stage crane get that much use in a comedy.’
The chorus leader’s butterfly costume had assuredly looked very fine, swo
oping to and fro as the theatre slaves hauled on the ropes that swung the machinery holding him up in his harness. As for the rest down on the dancing floor, only one man had trodden on another’s trailing drapery, as far as I could tell. But their dazzling colours had been the most memorable thing about Euxenos’s play. That and the impatient shouts to get on with it and give everyone a few laughs. Heckling from the upper benches had come thick and fast, whenever the chorus embarked on yet another soulful song extolling the muses’ gifts to humanity.
I was more surprised to get a filthy look from Strato as he stalked past a moment later. His Brigands had been well received and rightly so. That family’s misadventures had been highly entertaining as they followed the road from Athens to a citizens’ settlement up in Macedonia. No matter how bad things got, the deluded hero continually consoled his family with the promise of their handsome allotment of land, so different to their cramped hovel in a burned-out slum. His faith had been rewarded, and if different judges had been selected, there was every chance such a heart-warming play could have come second.
Well, if Strato was going to sulk that was his problem, not mine.
Apollonides clapped his hands. ‘Where are we drinking tonight?’
As the chorus all clamoured for their preferred wine sellers, insistent fingers plucked at my tunic. I turned to see Lydis, Aristarchos’s slave.
‘My master’s compliments, and can you spare him a moment?’
‘Of course. Excuse me.’ I waved a hand at the actors. ‘Our patron wants a word. I should see my family as well before they leave the theatre. Where shall I meet up with you?’
‘Soterides’s place, by the Itonian Gate?’ suggested Menekles.
That won general approval.
‘I’ll see you there,’ I assured them before following Lydis over to join Aristarchos.
* * *
Standing by his marble seat, our patron was deep in conversation with another well-bred Athenian whom I didn’t recognise.
‘You think we should seriously consider looking westwards?’ the other man queried thoughtfully. ‘For corn as well?’
‘We already know that Sicily can rival Egypt as a bread basket,’ Aristarchos pointed out. ‘Surely it’s better to fill our granaries from an island where we can trade in peace and profit instead of risking treading on some Persian satrap’s toes?’
‘Isn’t it wiser for us to buy up the corn which some overly ambitious satrap would need to feed his armies?’ the other man countered.
‘Why not send out our own citizens to plough fertile land we already know lies fallow,’ another man interjected, unasked, ‘to grow our own crops without being beholden to anyone?’
I recognised him. Pheidestratos had been Strato’s patron, and he was looking as disgruntled as the playwright.
‘Another valid strategy,’ Aristarchos agreed, ‘and surely it’s better to look westwards into wilderness lands for such opportunities rather than along the already crowded shores to the east?’
Pheidestratos looked ready to argue that point, but the unknown man had noticed Lydis and me, and politely indicated our arrival to Aristarchos.
‘Ah, excuse me.’ He smiled and ushered me away towards the theatre’s western entrance where we could talk without being overheard.
‘I didn’t mean to intrude. Lydis did say you wanted to see me.’ I may have spoken a little sharply. It had been a long and stress-filled day.
Aristarchos smiled, though I saw that calculating glint in his dark eyes. ‘You think I should have introduced you? Wouldn’t you rather they dismissed you as some scribbler whose face they need not even remember by tomorrow?’
‘Forgive me, but I don’t follow you.’ I was too tired for riddles.
Aristarchos rubbed a thoughtful hand over his beard. ‘Pheidestratos said something curious when we discussed his play. He seems quite certain that, sooner rather than later, Athens will have good cause to send out settlers to start farming good land sequestered from our allies in Ionia.’
‘Sequestrations?’ I didn’t like the sound of that. The Athenian Assembly handing over plots of confiscated land to our own citizens had been one of the grievances prompting rebellion in Euboea.
Aristarchos looked at me. ‘What might persuade the People’s Assembly to take such action, to secure the commerce and resources that our city so assuredly needs? Do you think that our fellow citizens could be convinced by a surge of dissatisfaction from our allies, and ill-tempered disputes over tribute payments?’
‘Surely it would take more than that?’ I fervently hoped so.
‘Probably,’ Aristarchos allowed, ‘but who’s to say this discontent you’ve been hearing about won’t lead to something more, to something worse? How would the Athenian people react to outright defiance in Caria perhaps, or refusals to pay the Delian League tribute owed by towns in the Troad or Crete?’
I recalled Tur’s anger when we’d first met, when I’d told him there was no chance of the tribute being reassessed this year. I remembered the tavern talk that Menkaure and Kadous had related.
‘Do you think Pheidestratos asked Strato to write a play about citizens setting out for a distant land allotment because he’s seen these straws in the wind?’
‘Or because Pheidestratos is friends with men who’d like to set a few stones rolling down that particular hill,’ Aristarchos said crisply. ‘Men who seem very keen to get that particular notion into potential Assemblymen’s heads.’
I stared at him, bemused. ‘You can’t imagine Strato will invite me to go drinking with him and helpfully spill some ripe secrets?’
‘Hardly.’ Aristarchos allowed himself a moment’s sardonic amusement. ‘But it’s plain that something is going on and we have a duty to the city to find out more. I can make discreet enquiries among the great and the good, to learn what’s prompted Pheidestratos’s current thinking. Your talents and contacts are much more suited to discovering who’s goading our visiting allies and seeing where such rabble-rousers might lead you.’ He glanced sideways. ‘It will be interesting to see if they come knocking on Pheidestratos’s gate. Wouldn’t you rather he had no idea who you are, if your enquiries take you to his household?’
‘Trying to provoke an allied city to default on its tribute would be a bold undertaking for one man.’ I’d have to be incredibly careful, as well as certain that I had proof, before I breathed a word of such suspicions. I didn’t have Aristarchos’s resources if I was hauled into court, charged with slander.
‘We must uncover who’s behind this, and quickly, before such contagion spreads.’ Aristarchos looked grim. ‘We’ve barely got used to peace. Do you want to see the hoplites mustered again, sent to enforce Athenian will overseas, while we wait for urns of ash and bones to come home?’
‘Of course not,’ I said fervently.
Aristarchos shook his head. ‘Defence is one thing. Provoking a fight’s quite another. My father taught me that when I was five years old, on the night before he marched to fight at Marathon.’
Aristarchos must have seen my surprise. His noble father would have trained as a horseman. I bit back my question but he answered it anyway.
‘Yes, he marched with the hoplites. Even though the cavalry hadn’t been called up, he was determined to fight for the city. Barely ten years later, I hadn’t even done my military training when he gave me a spear to escort my mother and brothers and sisters to safety in Salamis when the Persians invaded again. Like him, like you, I would give my life to defend Athens and her people, but I won’t see another of my sons, or anyone else’s child, lost to serve some selfish fool’s ambitions.’
‘Master,’ Lydis warned, low-voiced. ‘People are starting to look this way.’
I looked at Aristarchos, troubled. ‘Do you really think there’s some conspiracy to stir up trouble among our allies?’
‘It might all be some misunderstanding.’ He shrugged. ‘But mistakes can be just as lethal as malicious intent. A man carelessly walking into a j
avelin’s path on a gymnasium field is as dead as one run through with a spear in battle.’
Was this the final answer to the puzzle of the dead man being dumped on my doorstep? Xandyberis’s killers could well have hoped to ruin my play’s chances by getting me accused of murder, at the same time as stirring up Carian outrage when they learned their envoy had been killed. If Strato had won the competition, then everyone would be talking about his play while annoyance with ungrateful Ionians swirled around the city. On the other hand, this could all be as far-fetched as any notion a dramatist might concoct.
Aristarchos continued, brisk. ‘Let’s see if we can gather a few more facts. There should be at least one of the tribute commissioners at the banquet I’m attending tonight. Meantime—’ he surprised me by clasping my hands in his own and smiling broadly ‘—let’s pretend we’ve been discussing The Builders. I’m assuring you that I thought your actors and your chorus did superbly well. Second place at your first Dionysia is absolutely no disgrace. Well done, to all of you.’
The warmth in his voice and the strength of his grip convinced me these congratulations were genuine. ‘Thank you.’
‘Better still, I don’t have to pay out yet more money on a plinth for the victor’s tripod. Go and celebrate with your players, and here’s some of the coin you’ve saved me.’
He turned to Lydis and the lithe slave reached inside the low-cut armhole of his sleeveless tunic. He produced a bulging leather pouch that had been concealed by the fullness of the cloth bunched up by his bronze-embossed belt.
Aristarchos dropped the purse into my hands. ‘This should keep the wine flowing.’
‘Thank you.’ Feeling the weight, I reckoned that much silver would quench every thirst in Soterides’s tavern.
