by Tom Holt
‘What do you mean, a stroke of luck?’
‘Well,’ Aristophanes explained patiently, ‘all we have to do is find where he buried his food, and we’ll have plenty to get us to Catana.’
Just then, I could have killed Aristophanes. ‘Get out of my sight,’ I shouted. He stared at me, and went outside. A moment later he came back in again.
‘What the hell’s happened to the horse?’ he said.
‘You turned him loose,’ I replied, ‘remember?’
‘No. Why should I want to do a thing like that?’ Then he seemed to notice something. ‘Eupolis,’ he said, ‘what’s all this muck all over my face?’
‘You threw up,’ I said. ‘You’d better wash.’
‘Where’s the water, then?’
‘There isn’t any.’ I gathered up the food-sack and went out to see to the mule.
Oh God, that mule. You know what the Pythagoreans say about the souls of the dead returning to this world in the bodies of animals; well, that mule must have housed the spirit of someone who didn’t like Comic dramatists —some Athenian politician, say, or an oversensitive Tragedian — because it took against the two of us from the very first moment. This was very strange, since it was obvious from one look at the animal that we were the first human beings ever to go out of our way to supply it with such commodities as food and water. But perhaps it was a diehard Syracusan patriot; at any rate, we got no cooperation from it whatsoever. In particular I remember its charming habit of stopping dead in its tracks for no discernible reason and making the most extraordinary noise I have ever heard outside a play by Carcinus. It was also lazy, vicious and lecherous, and had it not been a reincarnated politician, I could have sworn it was the embodiment. of one of Aristophanes’ protagonists —Philocleon, maybe, or Strepsiades.
But Aristophanes was blissfully happy just because he was riding and I wasn’t, which at least took one problem off my mind. He was still weak and not much use for anything, but at least he didn’t look as if he would die at any moment (which was how I managed to tell him from the mule). Now that he was riding at leisure, like a gentleman, he started up an unending stream of conversation, which I was unable to take much part in owing to fairly continuous shortness of breath. He told me what was wrong with Athens, the conduct of the War, the Attic Comic drama, my plays, my marriage, the state of the mountain tracks in Sicily, the mule, the weather, my personality, his intestines, the Athenian commanders in Sicily, the Syracusan commanders in Sicily, Sicily itself, the Gods and the food, with frequent cross-references and recapitulations. By the time we reached the river Terias (which was as far as we could go in the mountains before crossing into the plain) I knew his opinion on every conceivable subject as well as or better than he did himself. I can honestly say that, with the exception of the second book of the Odyssey, which they made me learn when I was a boy, I have never learned anything less useful or with more suffering.
We differed in opinion as to how we should tackle the final leg of the journey to Catana. My view was that we should get down to the coast as quickly as we could, then press on and have done with it. There was, I argued, a reasonable chance that anyone we met once we crossed the river Symaethus would be either friendly or indifferent, probably indifferent, and that our one main problem would be to get past Leontini in one piece. Aristophanes, on the other hand, was not worried about Leontini, but doubted very much whether our food and the mule would last us as far as Catana. He therefore wanted to go into Leontini, sell the mule, buy another mule and more food, and stroll onwards to Catana without undue haste. All the Sicilians we had met so far had been helpful and friendly, he said, and since we had money there was no point in starving ourselves and making ourselves ill just for the sake of excessive caution.
I flatly refused to go into Leontini, and Aristophanes refused, equally flatly, to make a dash for the coast. The only possible compromise was to make a stroll for the coast, and that, needless to say, was what we decided to do.
I am not saying that that was the silliest decision ever reached. For example, you may remember that Theseus decided that it would be perfectly feasible to abduct the Queen of Hell, and Icarus saw no reason why he should not fly just that little bit higher and thus enliven his flight to Greece with a better view of northern Crete. I still maintain that it was the silliest decision in living memory, and will need sworn evidence from at least two reputable witnesses before I change my opinion.
We spent our last night on the mountain bickering, and set off early the next day across the plain. It was impossibly hot that day, and the mule had probably remembered something nasty Aristophanes had said about its foreign policy in its previous existence, for it stopped and started as often as a sacred procession in a thunderstorm. We were soon in open country, following what was clearly a main road, and the passers-by (who we met far too frequently for my liking) all seemed to stop and stare at us as we made our irregular way towards the little village on the horizon. I cannot say what most aroused their suspicion, but the fact that we were shouting at our mule in the Ionian dialect must have made them curious, to say the least. Whatever the main reason was, they must have felt sufficiently uneasy to mention us to the cavalry captain at the village, who was out patrolling for stray Athenians making their way to Catana.
We didn’t know that, of course, when we made our way past a little grove of trees, arguing with each other about what to do next. Our minds were taken off the problem by the sudden appearance of three men in armour blocking our way.
My first reaction was to scream with terror and run. But one of the men dashed forward and grabbed the bridle of the mule, and said, ‘Please God, are you Athenians?’ He said it in Ionian.
‘Yes,’ said my moronic comrade, ‘Aristophanes son of Philip at your service. Are you Athenians too?’
I took another look at the three men. They were dirty, ragged and starving. It was a fair bet that they were Athenians. Their spokesman thanked the Gods volubly, and begged us to tell them where Catana was, and whether we had any food.
‘Catana is over there,’ said the son of Philip, ‘and we have plenty of food for all.’
I tried to object to this last statement, but Aristophanes would have none of it, and very shortly we had all retired into the grove and eaten the last few husks out of the grain-bag.
Our three compatriots were Nicias’ men, and they had had a rough time of it. After they had devoured everything there was to eat except the mule (to which, as far as I was concerned, they were welcome) they told us their story. Nicias and his command were either dead or captured; they had been caught by the Syracusans and harried down to a river. Because, by that time, the whole army was out of its mind with thirst, the men had thrown down their weapons and crowded into the river to drink, and the Syracusans had shot them while they drank. But the Athenians went on drinking, although the water by now was fouled with blood, and fought each other for possession of it. When the Syracusans had emptied their quivers they charged, killed as many as their stomachs would allow, and took the few survivors prisoner. But fifteen neighbours from Eleusis had managed to fight their way out. Of that number, these three had made it thus far. The other twelve were giving the crows of south-eastern Sicily a rather inadequate meal — inadequate since ten of them had died of starvation. The remaining five had been on the point of giving up themselves when they found a goat wandering on the hillside. After spending their last reserves of energy cornering this goat, they killed and ate it; but the local goatherds saw them and ran down to the village nearby, where a cavalry patrol was resting after a large meal. The cavalrymen came thundering up the hill and killed two of the Athenians, who had eaten too much on empty stomachs and were unable to move; but the three had fought back and driven the cavalrymen off with rocks and their bare hands, and run for their lives. They now had no idea where they were and were desperately hungry again, and they were sure that the cavalry were after them, and would be upon them in the next few hours. So they than
ked us tearfully for our food and our companionship, but urged us to get away as quickly as we could.
I was all in favour of this; but Aristophanes wouldn’t listen. I think he had decided that it would be a glorious thing to save the lives of his fellow citizens, who had been fortunate enough to step under his shadow in their hour of trial. He was feeling decidedly cocky, as I have told you, and had come to regard this escaping-through-Sicily business as pitifully easy for a man of his intelligence and talents. He declared that he would not abandon them now, and that if they did exactly what he told them, he would bring them safely to Catana. They stared at him for a moment, then clasped him by the knees and called him their saviour; a scene which I found highly distasteful.
Of course the idiot hadn’t the faintest trace of a plan of action, but he wasn’t going to admit this to his worshippers. Instead, he ordered them to take off their armour and bury it, which they did most scrupulously. After all, Aristophanes explained as they were scraping over the hole, the enemy were looking for three armed men; they were not looking for five unarmed men and a mule. This appeared to strike our companions as a piece of tactical brilliance worthy of the celebrated Palamedes.
Well, a little later the sun set, and Aristophanes led out his little army. By then he had thought of a plan, and it could have been marginally worse. Aristophanes knew that in Athens a drunken rout is given a wide berth by all sensible people. What better way out of our difficulties than for us to pretend that we were a bunch of drunken revellers, staggering home from a heavy day’s drinking at some far-flung shrine? All we needed was a few props — a couple of wine-jars, a wreath or two, maybe a pinewood torch to shove under the noses of any passers-by — and these we could pick up and improvise on our way. The true brilliance of the scheme — according to Aristophanes — lay in the fact that although it is hard to speak a foreign dialect convincingly, it is not too difficult to sing it, particularly if you sing it as if you were drunk.
So there we were; five desperate fugitives singing the only Dorian song we all knew (the Hymn to Apollo by the Corinthian poet Eumelus) as we lurched through the Sicilian landscape trying to remember what it feels like to be drunk. Now I am a fair man, and will not deny credit where it is due, even if it is due to an idiot; so I must tell you that we quite obviously convinced the various travellers we met on the way. They took one look at us and bolted, some of them shouting opprobrious names at us as they ran. Perhaps I should not have been as surprised as I was at the time by the success of this ruse; it is a general rule of human nature that people will implicitly believe that you are drunk if you sing and stagger about. They want you to be drunk; it makes it possible for them to despise you on sight.
What Aristophanes hadn’t bargained for (and I suppose there’s no reason why he should have) was the edict recently passed by the people of Leontini, as a result of various disturbances in their city, making public drunkenness a criminal offence punishable by a substantial fine. Accordingly, when we reached the outskirts of the village, we were met by the cavalry patrol and the magistrate, who arrested us. The following dialogue took place between Aristophanes, who was riding the mule at the head of our little procession, and the magistrate.
Magistrate: I arrest you.
Aristophanes: What for? We haven’t done anything.
Magistrate: For being drunk in a public place.
Aristophanes: That’s not a crime, is it, lads? I said, that’s not a crime.
Magistrate: Where are you from?
Aristophanes: Leontini. Best little city in the world. Born an’ bred in—
Magistrate: You don’t sound like a Leontine to me.
Aristophanes: Oh.
Magistrate: You sound like Athenians to me.
That was enough for Aristophanes. He panicked, swiped desperately at the magistrate with his torch, and kicked the mule savagely. Considering his previous experience with the mule, he should have known better; that miserable animal immediately stopped dead in its tracks and let out a succession of roaring noises that must have woken up half of Sicily. This magistrate — a brave but foolish man — grabbed at its bridle and got the torch in his face for his pains. The cavalrymen drew their swords, and the three Athenians drew theirs and wrapped their cloaks round their arms.
Now I had deliberately chosen to stay at the back of the procession, in case sudden flight should be necessary, and I took to my heels at once. A cavalryman started to follow me, but one of the three Athenians lashed out at him and hit him just above the knee. He howled with pain and rode away, and I don’t know what became of him after that. I had turned round, and I saw the cavalryman chopping those three Athenians down, as a forester clears brushwood. I was all set to make a dash for the nearest cover when I remembered that it was my God-given duty to protect Dionysus’ favourite poet. Very, very reluctantly I drew my sword and ran back.
Aristophanes, for once in his life, had done something sensible. He had fallen off the mule. He was thus out of the way of the cavalry when they were busy with the Eleusinians, and by the time I had returned to the battle he had climbed under the mule and was hiding. Now the cavalrymen had not seen me come back, and the magistrate (who was, I suppose, about sixty years old and had just been hit with a burning torch) had stepped out of harm’s way and had his back to me. I grabbed him by his hair and put the sword-blade across his throat, and announced in the loudest voice I could muster that I had a hostage and was a reasonably bloodthirsty person. It was not a heroic act, I’m afraid, but then, I am not a hero.
The cavalry captain was clearly embarrassed by this. He was, I think, a local man, possibly something or other in village politics; anyway, he appeared unwilling to risk the life of the magistrate, and called his men off Aristophanes. The son of Philip scrambled out from under the mule and dashed over to where I was sheltering behind a very frightened magistrate.
‘All right,’ said the captain nervously, ‘let him go.’
‘Why?’ I enquired.
‘Because if you don’t, I’ll cut your head off, that’s why,’ explained the captain.
I pulled the magistrate’s hair sharply, which made him squeak like a mouse. ‘Be fair,’ I said. ‘You’re going to cut my head off if I let him go. I’ve always wanted to kill someone in regional government, now’s my chance.’
‘Let him go and your lives will be spared,’ said the captain. The effect of this offer was spoiled slightly by the fact that his troopers — there were ten of them — were ostentatiously waggling their swords at us, and I shook my head.
‘Well, what do you want, then?’ said the captain, exasperated. ‘I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’
‘Try,’ I replied.
‘If you think you’re going to get away with this—’ said the captain. I gave the magistrate a tiny shove. He obligingly screamed.
‘Go away,’ I shouted. ‘Quickly. Now. Save yourself the trouble of divisive local elections.’
There was a cavalryman who must have been related to the magistrate, or a friend of his, or something like that. Anyway, he pulled up his horse and rode away towards the village. The captain was furious, but he knew he was beaten. ‘Let him go and we’ll pull back,’ he said.
‘Piss off and I’ll let him go,’ I replied. ‘Deal?’
‘You won’t get away with this,’ said the captain.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘Did you ever read The Telephus?’
The captain stared at me. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Telephus. Very bad play by Euripides. Perhaps it’s before your time, I don’t know.’
The captain looked at me, and the magistrate, and my Thracian sabre (which, as I think I mentioned before, is a very businesslike-looking implement), thought carefully, and said, ‘Yes, I’ve read The Telephus. So what?’
‘You will remember,’ I said, ‘that the hero in The Telephus tries this stunt and gets clear away. If some verbose idiot out of Euripides can do it, why can’t I?’
I have no id
ea why, but this exchange seemed to help the captain make up his mind. He got off his horse, signalled to his men to do the same, and started walking backwards towards the village. I started walking backwards in the opposite direction. When I reckoned we had gone far enough, I gave the magistrate a hearty shove and sprinted off as fast as I could go.
It was quite some time before I dared stop running and look round. There was no sign of any cavalrymen; also, no sign of Aristophanes. I threw the sword on the ground and swore. Despite my ludicrous and entirely uncharacteristic bravado, I had failed to save Aristophanes. I sat down on a rock and put my sword away; I no longer cared about the enemy, or anything very much. The recollection of the episode with the magistrate and the absurd threats I had made and the inane things I had said had taken all the spirit out of me and I wanted to go to sleep. I had just made up my mind to go back to the village and give myself up when a very frightened-looking Athenian Comic dramatist came pounding down the road towards me.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ I shouted. ‘God, I was worried about you.’
He didn’t stop running; he just carried straight on past me, and I remember thinking, Oh God, the cavalry, and chased after him. Eventually he slowed down and stopped. I came up beside him.
‘You lunatic,’ he said. ‘You nearly got me killed with all that—’
I was tired, I was scared, and I was past caring; but I was not made of stone. I kicked the son of Philip very hard. He gave me a startled look and whined, ‘What did you do that for?’
The expression on his face was so comical that I couldn’t help laughing. My laughter did not seem to impress Aristophanes very much; he urged me to pull myself together and reminded me that we were quite some way from Catana. That made me laugh even more; I don’t imagine Aristophanes has ever had a more receptive audience. In the end he raised his eyes to heaven with a gesture of despairing incomprehension and asked what he had done to deserve all this. I forced myself to stop laughing, grabbed him by the arm and marched him off down the road. We were lost, without food or transport, going in the wrong direction, and the whole of Sicily would soon be out after our blood, but we were still alive. Not bad going, I reflected, for a pair of comedians in a world that undervalues Comedy.
