by Tom Holt
‘If you swept the place occasionally,’ I said, ‘we wouldn’t have to get expensive new carpets every five minutes.’
‘I bet Nicomedes isn’t so petty about money,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps you’d better go back and get killed.’
‘If you spent Nicomedes’ money like you spend mine, he’d break both your arms.’
‘Just shows what a low-class family I married into,’ said Phaedra, triumphantly. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are.’
‘True,’ I said. ‘If I hadn’t a wife who makes life unbearable at home, I’d never have taken up writing plays.’
‘And that’s another thing wrong with you,’ said Phaedra. ‘You steal my jokes for your plays.’
‘Rubbish. You’ve never made a joke in your life.’
‘Are you saying I’ve got no sense of humour?’ she said angrily. ‘Just because I don’t laugh at your puerile efforts at Comedy?’
‘You wouldn’t recognise a joke if it bit you.’
‘I’m unlikely to come across one in this house.’ She giggled. ‘Except in there,’ she said, pointing to the inner room. ‘Now that’s quite comical sometimes. Most of the time, in fact. And before you say anything,’ she added quickly, ‘that’s not an invitation.’
‘Good,’ I said, ‘I’m far too tired.’
‘You usually are, thank God.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘usually it’s just an excuse. But today I mean it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please yourself.’
I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes, stretching my feet out until I could feel the leg of the cauldron with my toes. But it was not as if I had never been away. It could never be that. Still, tomorrow I would go to Pallene, and after that to Phylae, and then I would come back to the City again, and take up some new occupation, such as composing Comedies. Something quiet and safe, where I wouldn’t have to hide from the cavalry any more. I looked across at Phaedra just as she retreated into the inner room and slammed the door. She wasn’t perfect, not by a long way, but she wasn’t a Sicilian cavalryman, and that was the main thing.
CHAPTER TEN
‘And now, Eupolis,’ you are saying, ‘will you please get on with the story, and stop bothering us with all this nonsense about your wife and your complicated mental state? We get enough of that sort of thing at home, thank you very much; what we want from you is entertainment. What happened next in the War?’ Be patient. I’ve had enough of the War for the time being, and I want to put in something now that will impress my grandchildren. Yes, little ones, the silly old fool actually knew the celebrated Tragedian Euripides, whose plays you have to learn when you really want to go catching grasshoppers. The longest sustained conversation I ever had with Euripides … Well. First I must tell you what happened when I next met the celebrated Tragedian Euripides.
The news of the disaster had broken, and the City was in a state of complete panic. Scarcely a day passed without a rumour starting that the Syracusan fleet, crammed to bursting-point with bloodthirsty Sicilians, was only one day away from Piraeus in search of vengeance, and it was the general consensus of opinion that if the City walls were still standing in a month’s time, it would only be because the Spartans wanted them as a defence against the Persians. You could get any money you asked for food, particularly grain, as people started hoarding, and quite a few families sold up their land and sailed off to the Black Sea, where they reckoned they would be safe. As for me, I took no part in the general panic. I had used up all my fear for the season, and had none left to fritter away on mere rumours. It would, of course, be a suitably ironic ending to be killed by the enemy here in Athens, after flogging all the way across Sicily to get home, but I felt that it would be too great an expense of energy even for the Gods to destroy Athens completely just to round off my personal story.
When I saw how buoyant the market for grain and other foodstuffs was, I set off for Pallene to find out how much I could spare for sale, and to see to the ploughing and manuring, since it was already the beginning of October. My vintage had taken place without me, and perhaps as a result we had made a larger than average amount of wine, and the harvest had been no worse than we had all expected at the start of the season. Now I always like to start ploughing early, since that way you can plough more often, and if possible I like to get the fodder vetch in before the end of September. This year, however, there had understandably been a shortage of seasonal workers and my steward had decided to leave the vetch and start the main ploughing. That was sensible, but since I had nothing better to do I decided to get on and see to the vetch myself; for it pains me to run short of fodder and have to feed good barley to mules and donkeys. So as soon as I had taken stock of what we had in and what we would need for ourselves, and sent off the surplus to the City, I put on my short cloak, got out a rusty and broken old plough which wouldn’t be needed for the main work, harnessed up a mule, and set off for the low terraces. It was pleasant to be working again, and I was making a better job than usual of keeping my rows straight, and in addition some promising verses were starting to come together in my head, so I was annoyed to be interrupted by a pair of travellers who called out to me from the road.
‘I thought it was you,’ said the elder of the two. ‘I had forgotten you had land out here.’
I recognised who it was: Euripides, and his cousin Cephisophon. I knew them both only slightly, and it was some time since we had last met. But these were guests worth stopping work for.
‘Come down to the house,’ I said, ‘if you’re not in a hurry. We’re drinking up the year before last’s vintage to make room, and we could do with some help.’
Euripides smiled and agreed. It turned out that he had been visiting relations half a day to the north and was quite tired after his journey. Of course as a Comic poet it is my duty to make nasty remarks about our leading Tragic authors, and so I had frequently insinuated that Euripides was no enemy to a cup or two of wine; but I was surprised to find out that I hadn’t actually been slandering him at all. I made a mental note and asked him how he had been getting on. Was he writing something at the moment?
He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not just now.’ He sounded rather bored with the subject, and it occurred to me that he probably didn’t enjoy writing any more. I always find that hard to understand, but apparently it is an occupational hazard with Tragedians. ‘Your olives are shaping up well,’ he said.
‘They won’t get much bigger now,’ I replied. ‘Too dry. So you aren’t planning to present anything this year?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I saw your people were manuring quite thickly down on the levels. That is yours down there?’
‘Yes.’
‘We always save the best of our manure for the higher ground,’ said Euripides, ‘and you’re much higher up here than us. How much do you give it per acre?’
‘What?’
‘Manure.
‘Oh.’ I thought hard. ‘I can’t remember offhand,’ I replied, rather ashamed of myself. Euripides looked down his nose at me. Just as I was about to die of shame, I remembered. ‘At a rough estimate,’ I said, ‘we reckon that what we get each year from one ox will do two and a half acres or thereabouts. But we aren’t very scientific about it; it’s more a sort of instinct.’
‘Instinct,’ he said. ‘I see. And do you rot it or use it neat?’
‘Oh, neat, of course,’ I said.
‘Really?’ He seemed surprised. ‘So what are you getting back, per acre, in an average year?’
‘What?’
‘Barley.’
‘Oh.’ I had thought we were still on about manure. ‘Fourteen medimni, fourteen and a quarter if we’re lucky. Depends a lot on the rain, of course. This year we didn’t get twelve.’
‘Fourteen?’ said Euripides, clearly shaken. ‘As much as that?’
‘What are you getting?’ I asked.
‘Eleven,’ he snarled, ‘and that’s if we’re luc
ky. What about your vines? What does that come to, per acre?’
‘Around thirty metretes, sometimes more.’
‘Olives?’
‘We do quite well with olives,’ I said. ‘We usually make four per acre, and more if it rains.’
He stared. ‘You can’t be serious,’ he said. ‘Four metretes the acre, in this god-awful country?’
I didn’t like to ask him how much he was getting. He looked quite upset. To calm him down, I said how much I had liked his last play.
‘Never mind all that,’ he said, ‘what are you doing that I’m not? Thirty met to the acre in wine; it must be as weak as water.’
‘You’re drinking it,’ I said, affronted, ‘you tell me.’
He apologised, and I accepted his apology. ‘How often do you plough?’ I asked.
‘Three times, maybe four if there’s heavy dew,’ he said. ‘More than that and we’d have to take on casual workers.’
‘We plough fives times, and six does no harm,’ I replied, for this was my pet topic. ‘It works the moisture down into the soil, you see.’
‘You probably have more men than me,’ he muttered. ‘And like I said, I don’t take on casuals.’
‘Neither do I,’ I replied. ‘You ought to try a fifth ploughing. The fifth ploughing only takes a tenth of the time of the first, and it really does make a difference.’
‘Writing anything this year?’ he asked, slightly defensively I thought.
‘Don’t think I’ll have time,’ I replied, ‘what with the vetch and the fenugreek to get in.’
‘Fenugreek?’ He stared at me as if I was mad. ‘What earthly good is that stuff?’
I told him about fenugreek, and lupins too, and to give him his due he listened. But when I started up on my favourite theme of all, beans, he seemed to lose patience and said it was time he was on his way.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘any time you’re passing. And I hope you do try a fifth ploughing this year. Let me know how you get on.’
He assured me that he would, picked up his hat, collected Cephisophon (who had been helping shift my wine-surplus all this time) and started to leave.
‘By the way,’ I called after him. He turned. ‘I thought you’d like to know, your stuff is really popular in Sicily.’
‘What?’ He seemed puzzled.
‘Your plays,’ I explained.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘that.’
‘Yes indeed,’ I assured him, and I briefly told him about the village where we had given our extempore recital. It didn’t seem to please him in the least, and he was quite short with me as he left. But a year or so later he sent me a charming little bronze bowl with Triptolemus on it, as a thank-you present, and said that I had been quite right about a fifth ploughing and using less manure; he was now clearing twelve and a half medimni to the acre, and had high hopes of seeing thirteen in a couple of years’ time. But I don’t think he ever made a serious effort to grow beans.
While I was busy with my vetch, I started work on a new Comedy. It virtually crept up on me when I wasn’t looking, for I had not intended to enter anything for a while; but before I knew where I was I had thought of a splendid entry for a chorus of sheep, and after that there was no stopping me. Of course I needed a Message, and I couldn’t really think of one. The City was a very different place now, after the disaster, and the old themes no longer seemed appropriate.
It was a difficult time. As soon as the news about Sicily broke, our enemies became extremely animated and talked very loudly about finishing us off once and for all. Our so-called allies, which means our subjects, were all on the point of rebellion, and as winter came on King Agis of Sparta set out with his army. But for some reason he didn’t attack the City; instead he went around trying to collect money to build a fleet. We were building a fleet of our own, of course, and we cut out all useless expenditure so as to be able to afford it. Luckily, the Festivals. were spared, and I pressed on with my play. I was back in the City now, and I saw quite a lot of Philonides and his friends, since I wanted him to present the play when the time came. The Chorus of sheep had been scrapped in favour of a Chorus of shipwrights, and I had high hopes for the piece come the spring.
I was so wrapped up in this work that I didn’t take any notice of what was happening in the City. Now, quite naturally, the Athenians wanted to punish someone for what had happened in Sicily, but they were unable to do this since Nicias and Demosthenes were both dead and Alcibiades was in exile. They tried and executed a taxiarch who had escaped and made his way home, on some charge of general cowardice, but that wasn’t really enough to make them happy, and so they looked round for a worthier scapegoat. Such a person was difficult to find, since the fault lay with the voters in Assembly; but then some ingenious person hit on the idea of blaming the whole thing on the people who had damaged the statues, the night before the fleet sailed.
Don’t laugh, it’s true. The movement gathered an incredible amount of momentum, and was soon completely out of control. There was a spate of accusations, and the men who had fostered the crisis in the hope of getting rid of various political opponents began to worry in case they got caught up in the general frenzy.
Now I knew the truth behind the whole thing, of course; I had been a witness, if you remember, and had barely escaped alive. I certainly knew who at least some of the perpetrators were; Aristophanes son of Philip, for example. I had no intention whatsoever of turning informer myself, as informing is a very dangerous business and only to be resorted to if you are desperately short of money. But Aristophanes and a few others knew that I had seen them at their work that night, and this cannot have been any comfort to them. As soon as she realised what was happening, Phaedra urged me to get out of the City until things had settled down. But I was still preoccupied with my play and wanted to stay in town so as to be able to talk things over with Philonides. I had abandoned the shipwrights now; I had struck on a truly brilliant idea.
My Chorus was to be made up of all the various regions of Attica, with each region unmistakably dressed in an appropriate costume. The Chorus-leader would be my own deme of Pallene, in a costume made up of mountains and goats, and the plot would be that all the great statesmen of the past return to earth to advise us in our hour of greatest need — the whole lot of them, from Solon to Pericles. I toyed with making that Solon to Cleon, but I rejected it, which was cowardly of me. If only I could get it right, it would be my best play by far; it would deal with not just one theme but every theme. Of course with so much meat in it, the funny bits would have to be just right, but I felt that I could deal with that, if I tried my best.
It was about this time — please don’t expect me to be more precise than that — that Aristophanes son of Philip came back into my life. He was, as I have told you, horribly implicated in this business with the statues, and to be fair to him he was in danger of being put to death or exiled for something so completely trivial that it must have been hard for him to take his problems seriously. The strange thing was that, apart from the participants themselves and a few eye-witnesses like myself, nobody actually did know who had smashed up those confounded statues. As you no doubt remember, it was the night before the fleet sailed; so everyone was either asleep or drunk. We Athenians are privileged to live in a city where the sound of nocturnal breakages is so commonplace as to be unworthy of attention, and I imagine that most people took no notice. This mystery, however, added the little spark to the affair that turned it into a raging fire. The average voter took it to be the symptom of some all-embracing conspiracy; and we Athenians love a conspiracy. Of course the absence of anything remotely resembling an established fact in connection with the business allowed the creative imagination of my fellow countrymen to run away with itself; there was simply no limit to what they could convince themselves of, given time and the encouragement of like-minded people. I honestly believe that if I had had the wit to start a rumour that the frogs from the marshes did it, under orders from their paymasters, the frogs
from the swamps round Syracuse, in order to prevent our ships from coming into Syracuse harbour and so getting in the way of their annual mating, then everyone would have believed it and a great deal of trouble would have been saved; except of course for the frogs in the marshes, who would have been massacred to a frog.
There were debates about it in Assembly, of course. Now one of the great things about a democracy, which anyone considering setting one up in their native city should bear in mind, is that the voters really do believe that anything is possible. If there is a food shortage, for example, it’s no use explaining to them that there is no food to be had; that the Spartan fleet is blockading Byzantium and we can’t get so much as a grain of wheat past them, or that the Public Treasury is so empty that you can see more floor than coins. They won’t believe you. What you must do is blame somebody. You must get up on your feet and say, ‘Antimachus is responsible for the corn shortage; he’s done a deal with the corn factors to create an artificial shortage, and he’s lining his own pockets while your wives and babies starve. I propose that Antimachus be prosecuted.’ Then, when all the voters have gone rushing off like happy children to lynch Antimachus, and only a few of the old and confused are left, you propose the motions necessary to do what can be done in the circumstances, bribe the few remaining voters present to vote in favour, and then get on with the job. This is rough on Antimachus, of course, but it’s a fair proposition that if he’s a politician in the public eye then he’s had it coming to him for a long time, so in the end the system works.
After the news of the Sicilian disaster, of course, the Athenians’ belief in their own omnipotence was badly shaken. At first they were rather too preoccupied with panicking to reason the thing out, but when whole weeks had passed and still the Spartans weren’t sacking the Ceramicus they stopped feeling subdued and argued thus. We ordered Sicily to be conquered (said the Athenians). It wasn’t. Now anything we order done is as good as done unless some one of us deliberately sabotages it, and since we are omnipotent, only we ourselves can stop ourselves doing something. We must therefore punish the saboteurs. Now the Generals, Nicias and Demosthenes, cannot be punished, since they are dead already. But we can do anything, including punishing the guilty. It therefore stands to reason that they can’t really have been to blame, especially since they died like heroes, and heroes don’t go around sabotaging things and bringing about their own deaths. The only possible saboteurs were the young men who damaged the statues. They must therefore be killed. Before they are killed, it is desirable that they be found. Therefore we must find them. The fact that we cannot presently find them can only be explained by a conspiracy. Therefore we will kill the conspirators.
