The Athenian Women

by Alessandro Barbero

  “O Zeus, what tremendous cramps!” Cinesias howled. The Old Man hurried over.

  “Look what that miserable wretch, that slut has done to you!”

  Cinesias rebelled.

  “Why, no, she’s so dear and so sweet!”

  The Old Man spat on the ground in disgust.

  “What do you mean sweet! She’s a filthy tart!”

  “A filthy tart,” the chorus solemnly echoed him. Cinesias, who was twisting and writing on the floor, his arms wrapped around his phallus, nobly rose to his feet.

  “Yes, a filthy tart,” he admitted. “O Zeus, Zeus! Let a typhoon, a hurricane smash down on her and carry her up into the air, and then let it drop her and hurl her back to earth, and as she falls let her be impaled on my throbbing dick!”

  The audience had hardly finished laughing before it started in its seats, staring in disbelief. The flute had suddenly resumed the war march, and on the stage a flesh and blood Spartan had strode in: with a blood-red chiton, fantastically unkempt hair and beard, knotted into braids and tiny tresses . . .

  16

  Cratippus had been pounding on the door for a good long while by the time someone finally answered it.

  “O Argyrus, it’s about time,” he said. “Are you drinking?” he added with a smirk, glimpsing his friend’s overwrought appearance.

  “Eh!” confirmed Argyrus, whose head had in fact been spinning for some time.

  “So how’s it going with the young women?”

  Argyrus smiled stupidly.

  “Come and see!” he stuttered.

  They walked into the dark house, forgetting to shoot the bolts behind them.

  Next to the hearth, stretched out on cushions, Cimon was drinking, dipping his goblet into the krater. He waved hello to Cratippus, without getting up. The air was full of the smell of smoke and hot wine. From somewhere inside the house came an irritating creaking sound.

  Cratippus looked around in bafflement. He had expected to find quite a different scene; he’d had it before his eyes the whole time, as he listened impatiently to his father, who on that day of all days had decided to start talking business, telling him all about the factory that he wanted to open. To produce weapons, of course: in times like these, there’s always a market for arms. He’d already identified an ideal site, an empty warehouse in Piraeus. Cratippus pretended to listen closely, he knew he’d better not irritate the old man, but as he did he imagined his friends taking their pleasure with the two peasant girls, and as the day dwindled, all that would be left for him would be leftovers. At last, however, as the gods willed, he was able to leave. But when he got to the house, he saw only his friends, the farm girls were nowhere to be seen.

  “But where are the young women?” he asked, clearly confused.

  Cimon snickered.

  “Go look in there. In the courtyard with the millstone.”

  Cratippus looked around, but in the partial darkness he didn’t know where to go.

  “Go with him,” said Cimon to Argyrus. The young man, who had already flopped down on the cushions, made a face.

  “Go with him yourself, I want to drink.”

  Cimon weighed the possibility of taking offense. It took him a while, because his mental processes, by this point, were considerably delayed; then he decided there was no need, after all, we’re friends! He ponderously got to his feet, and waved at Cratippus.

  “This way. Wait till you see the show.”

  The creaking sound grew louder. Cimon opened a small door and led his friend into a side courtyard. Cratippus’s eyes opened wide, then he bit his lips to keep from laughing, but at the same time could feel the surge of excitement rushing through him. The courtyard was cramped, and the rammed-earth surface was still muddy from the rain of the last few days. At the center was the round grindstone, like a well topped by a long wooden crossbar. Straining with effort, Glycera and Charis were turning the grindstone, their wrists tied to the crossbar. They were both breathing heavily. Their feet had dug a circular rut in the mud.

  “What do you think of my she-donkeys?” laughed Cimon.

  “Well, this is one use to which they can be put, after you’re tired of them,” Cratippus said with nonchalance. “But, if you don’t mind, I still need to take my share. What do you say to untying them, so I can take them to bed?”

  “If you can do it,” said Argyrus, emerging into the courtyard as well. He was chuckling, and it was clear that the wine had gone to his head.

  Cratippus looked at him, perplexed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re worse than a pair of she-cats. They refuse to let us fuck them,” he admitted.

  Cratippus broke out laughing.

  “So you put them to work to help change their minds?”

  Cimon started to lose his temper. Argyrus could have saved himself the trouble of going into the details.

  “We tried everything,” he broke in. “We were starting to get sick of it.” Somehow he sensed that this wasn’t really improving the situation, but he too was starting to feel a little tongue-tied.

  Cratippus was satisfied. The spectacle of the two young women working the grindstone was exciting, but he was irritated to have showed up too late, after they’d already been reduced to that state. But now it had become obvious, he hadn’t showed up too late at all, his two friends hadn’t managed to do much of anything.

  “Come on, let’s get them out of there,” he said. They had some work to do to extricate them, because Cimon had tied their wrists extremely tight. Once freed, Glycera and Charis just sat down on the ground, overwhelmed.

  “Please, let us go home,” Glycera begged.

  “In a little while. I only just got here,” said Cratippus. He bent down next to them and stroked their hair. The young women tried to pull away from him in fright, but Cratippus smiled. In a moment he had already decided how to prolong the game.

  “Come on, now, let’s give them something to drink. Cimon, have you offered our guests a drink?”

  Cimon looked at him in disbelief, but Cratippus winked his eye. Cimon continued not to understand, but resigned himself. They led them over to the hearth; they prepared a goblet of hot wine. Charis and Glycera exchanged a frightened look, but Cratippus was so reassuring that they drank. Chilled to the bone as they were, they felt as if revived by the taste of something hot.

  “You see, my dears,” said Cratippus, in a professorial tone, “you need to treat even animals nicely. We give our horses plenty to eat, and not just hay, but also barley, barley that would make slaves’ mouths water.”

  “Horses,” Cimon insisted, “are worth more than fleabags.”

  Cratippus laughed heartily.

  “Why of course! We all know this. The gods created all living creatures in accordance with a hierarchy. First comes the gentleman, then his horse, then his dog. Then nothing. Then more nothing. Then his slaves. Then his slave girls. Then fleabags. Then ticks. But the gentleman is generous, he feeds them all, as long as they know to stay in their place.”

  Argyrus was laughing so hard that he poured the wine on himself. He was starting to lose his grip. The two young women, sitting in a corner, were watching the shadows of the three men drinking, the flames of the hearth, the statue of Zeus Karios. The warmth of the wine had dissipated immediately, and despite their proximity to the hearth, they were shivering with the cold. Glycera swallowed her saliva, and then she got to her feet.

  “Now please give us back our clothing,” she murmured.

  Cratippus looked her up and down.

  “Later, if you’re obedient. But if you want, you can have some more to drink now.”

  Glycera reached out her hand, grabbed the cup, and drank. Charis stood up and came over.

  “Do you want some too?”

  Charis nodded. Her head was spinning, she didn’t underst
and anything that was happening. As she grabbed the goblet, it slipped out of her hands, and the terra cotta shattered into a thousand pieces. Furiously, Cimon leapt to his feet and slapped her in the face. Charis recoiled in fright, and curled up in the corner. Cratippus bit his lip as he watched. These two aren’t going to be able to take much more, he thought. And then we’re going to have to get rid of them, somehow. But for now, let’s enjoy them. He walked over, unsure which of the two he wanted.

  “Come on, now it’s time to have some fun together. Who wants to be the first to come with me?”

  “Let us go home,” Glycera said automatically again. Cratippus shook his head.

  “Then you haven’t been listening. I said afterward. Let’s see if your little friend has understood. Stand up, come with me,” he said to Charis. The young woman lifted her eyes, which were red from crying, and gazed at him in bewilderment.

  “You, come with me,” Cratippus said again, this time in a harsher tone. “Don’t make me say it again.”

  Charis and Glycera looked at each other, frightened. Glycera hastily shook her head no. Charis opened her mouth as if to speak, then realized that she didn’t know what to say. The young man who’d just arrived seemed nicer than the other two, maybe it would be enough not to try his patience. Then they’ll let us go home, she thought.

  Cratippus extended his hand to her. Charis got up wearily and followed him.

  Cimon and Argyrus stood there looking at each other, in a bad mood. Glycera leapt to her feet.

  “Listen, young men, she’s a virgin, she no longer knows what she’s doing, don’t ruin her. Please, just let us go home now.”

  Cimon slapped her cruelly, hitting her on her already swollen mouth. Glycera screamed and retreated, glaring at him with hatred.

  “Now it’s your girlfriend’s turn, and your turn will come next. And I’d like to see how finicky you’re go-go-going to act when the time comes. You’re going to lick my feet!” Cimon muttered. Then he had to lean against the wall, because his head was still spinning; but it was a matter of an instant, and he mastered his weakness. I need to throw up, he thought confusedly. But not here, later. First let’s take care of this fleabag. For a moment he’d planned to take her and fuck her, but to his rage he’d noticed that his péos wasn’t reacting. Just a short time before, when he’d started to daydream, telling himself that he’d beat the girl again, he thought that it had begun to raise its head, but it shriveled up again the instant that, instead of fantasizing, he was actually face-to-face with the young women in flesh and blood.

  “Come on, let’s lock her in the storeroom,” he ordered. They grabbed her by the wrists and hauled her, screaming, to the storage room, where they locked her in.

  “Let’s go drink,” said Cimon, grimly.

  17

  The Spartan’s mask, like Cinesias’s, expressed pure suffering. Oddly, the phallus could not be seen, but it was flailing about, a pointy presence concealed beneath his tunic.

  “Vere is der Zenate of Athens, ze magistrates? I have here a great piece of news!”

  “Wait, what are you, a man or a satyr?” asked Cinesias, confronting him, somewhat baffled.

  “I am a herald, my dear schmarty-pants,” he replied dismissively. “Yes, by the Dioskuri, I’ve kome from Sparta for the negotiations.”

  “And you come with a spear hidden clamped under your arm?” Cinesias inquired, pointing to that suspect swelling.

  “Me? No!” replied the herald, turning away in embarrassment.

  “Why are you turning around? What’s trying to get out from under your cloak? Have you developed a hernia from running too hard?”

  “But zis man is krazy!” the Spartan observed, agitated and increasingly embarrassed. Without bothering to ask, Cinesias lifted the Spartan’s cloak and looked underneath, then broke out laughing.

  “You’ve got a hard-on, you wretch!”

  “Not I, by the Dioskuri: don’t talk nonzense!”

  “Then what is it you have down there?” Cinesias insisted.

  “Der Spartan scytale!”

  The audience began laughing. It’s a well-known fact that the Spartans, with their mania for secrecy, make it a rule whenever they’re sending orders to an ambassador or a general to roll the strip of parchment around a cane, then they write on it, then they unroll it and send it: it’s impossible to make sense of the message unless you roll it back around an identical cane, and that cane is the scytale.

  “So this, too, is a Spartan scytale!” Cinesias mocked him, pointing to his own péos. “But tell me the truth, because I’ve already figured it out for myself. How are things back in Sparta?”

  The Spartan threw his arms wide.

  “All of Sparta has it hard, and even the allies have it chust as hard. What ve need vould be . . . ” the Spartan hesitated, looking around. Then he saw the young woman sitting in front of Thrasyllus, who had just detached her lips from the young man’s mouth, and he pointed to her in delight. “Zere, vatt ve need is zat one!”

  “There, take that, you!” muttered Thrasyllus under his breath, with grim satisfaction. The audience was laughing. The young woman flushed bright red and said something terse into the young man’s ear. The young fellow shook his head and plunged his fingers into his beard in embarrassment. The young woman shrugged her shoulders and made a great show of examining her enameled fingernails.

  “But who sent this misfortune among you?” Cinesias inquired. “Not the god Pan by any chance?”

  The Spartan shook his head disconsolately.

  “Not a bit, Lampito did it all! And now the women of Sparta have all kome to an agreement, zey are holding ze men far avay from ze honey trap.”

  “And how are you getting by in this situation?” Cinesias asked in astonishment.

  “Zo painful! Everyvon is hobbling around ze city bowed over, like a man karrying a lantern into the vind. And ze women von’t let us touch zeir kitty kat until ve all agree to make peace throughout Greece.”

  Cinesias began to understand.

  “Then it’s a conspiracy, they all worked together. Now I certainly understand! Listen up, why don’t you arrange to send us some plenipotentiaries right away to negotiate the truce. I’ll go to the assembly and arrange to appoint our own ambassadors: they only need to see this péos!”

  “I’ll go: how vell you speak!”

  The two of them left in a hurry, struggling to carry their immense phalluses. At the foot of the stage, the choruses began marching toward each other. People cheered up: there’s still time for one more big old squabble! As if confirming that expectation, the tambourine struck up a bellicose beat, and the Old Man strode forward toward the audience. He loudly declared that he had always hated women! The Old Woman, stamping her foot angrily, interrupted him: explain this to me, why can’t we be friends, instead? While the Old Man muttered that the idea was completely out of the question, something unexpected happened: the Old Woman bent over to pick up his tunic, and handed it to him. Just look at yourself, you’re naked! Don’t you realize that everyone’s laughing at you? Come on, I’ll help you to get dressed. And in truth, the Old Man was so chilled to the bone that he let her help him. All the old women did the same, they each walked up to one of the old men and handed him his tunic. The chief of the chorus was touched: you’ve done something useful! Then he tried to justify himself: you know how it is, when you lose your temper! But the Old Woman wasn’t even listening to him: instead she was scrutinizing him from up close. What is that you have in your eye? Here, let me take a look! The Old Man, completely won over, extended his face: in fact, there is something that hurts me! The woman poked her fingers in and started winkling something out of his eye socket. She pulled and she pulled, and the thing grew and grew, until it was a monstrous mosquito made of red rags, the size of his head, even bigger.

  “By Zeus, what a monster mosquito has come to
pay a call on you!

  “One of those mosquitoes—that have an encampment at Decelea!”

  Once she was done pulling it out, the Old Woman examined it with some curiosity, then tossed it over her shoulder. The audience sighed with envy. If only we could just toss them over our shoulders like that, those Spartans encamped at Decelea! The Old Man, who had groaned a few times while putting up with the operation, broke into a dance: he was weeping for joy. The Old Woman pulled out an enormous handkerchief and dried his tears. The Old Man moaned with pleasure.

  “And I’ll kiss you too!” the Old Woman added without warning; and she kissed him. The Old Man recoiled and spat disgustedly, then he yanked out his handkerchief and rubbed his mouth vigorously.

  “To hell with you, all you can think of is cuddling!” Why, the Old Woman retorted, is there something wrong with that? The Old Man, clearly, was caught between two temptations. Pompously, he trotted out the old proverb: “Women? A disaster to find them, sheer ruin to lose them!” With that, he thought he’d uttered the final word, but the Old Woman was still there waiting, and the Old Man was forced to resign himself: all right, let’s make peace! I promise that from this day forth I will respect you, if you promise to calm down a little. There, let’s embrace! And behold, all the old women doffed their chitons and, miraculously, underneath they were dressed just like the men. The two choruses merged in a dance and a moment later it was impossible to say who had been on one side and who on the other. The City, at last, was once again united.