The Goddess of Buttercups & Daisies

by Martin Millar

  ‘I’d stop Laet myself if Zeus didn’t prevent Olympians entering the cities during festivals. There’s nothing else for it, Bremusa – you’ll have to stop her for me.’

  That was a suggestion the Amazon liked. She drew her sword. ‘I’ll make short work of her.’

  ‘Put your sword away. Laet can’t die in Athens. Her malevolent spirit would curse the city. I need you to stop her tactfully.’

  Bremusa didn’t like that so much. ‘Tactfully? How?’

  ‘Outwit her.’

  ‘That’s never been my strongest point.’

  ‘I have faith in you,’ said Athena.

  ‘Can’t I just chop her head off? I’m good at that.’

  The goddess pursed her lips. ‘I’ll find someone to help you with the outwitting.’

  Luxos

  Luxos hadn’t really expected that Aristophanes would let him write lyrics for his plays, though he did hold out some hope that he might allow him the valuable position of reciting to the audience before the plays were staged. While Aristophanes had dismissed the suggestion out of hand, Luxos didn’t give up hope. He had a naturally optimistic spirit. Besides, he had other avenues to explore, and wasn’t finished with Aristophanes yet.

  ‘I hear you’re going to a drinking party at Callias’s house.’

  ‘We call them symposiums. What of it?’

  ‘It will be full of literary people. Take me with you.’

  Aristophanes seemed surprised. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Why not? Callias is the richest man in Athens. It will be full of influential people. You could invite me to recite my poetry.’

  ‘The evenings are meant to be enjoyable.’

  ‘My poetry is enjoyable! I’m sweeping away the old conventions! If these smart people heard me they’d be impressed, I know it.’

  Aristophanes sighed. He did that a lot when he was talking to Luxos. ‘And give you a spot at the festival, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Luxos, we’ve been over this already. The Dionysia festival is for established names only. They don’t have a beginner’s section.’

  ‘I’m not a beginner! I’ve been writing and singing and playing for years!’

  ‘Busking at the harbour doesn’t count. Athens invites all the best poets from all over Greece, Luxos. They’re not going to let you on the same stage as them. I’m not giving you the lyric poetry spot before my play, it’s for established names only.’

  ‘How will I ever get established if no one will give me a chance?’

  Aristophanes looked momentarily sympathetic, but behind him his assistant was talking loudly to someone, distracting him.

  ‘Really, Luxos, I don’t have time for this. If you’re so keen to perform at the theatre, shouldn’t you be talking to the festival curators? They decide who’s allowed to enter.’

  ‘I tried. They won’t talk to me. Nor will the paredroi.’

  There were ten curators taking charge of the festival. Above them were two important officials, the paredroi. Luxos had attempted to see them all. Most times he didn’t make it past their assistants, and when he did, he was met with indifference and annoyance.

  ‘How come Athens is meant to be so democratic about everything, but when it comes to poetry you don’t have a chance unless you’re rich? It’s not fair. Let me come to the symposium.’

  ‘No. It’s invitation only. For superior artistic intellects.’

  ‘And flute girls.’ The symposiums held by the upper classes tended not to be entirely intellectual affairs.

  ‘A few flute girls may be in attendance,’ admitted Aristophanes.

  When Hermogenes rushed up with a report, the playwright turned to him with the sort of urgency commonly seen on the battlefield when a messenger arrived with news of enemy positions.

  ‘The prop-maker says he can get them up to fourteen inches. Any longer, they’ll go floppy.’

  Aristophanes threw up his hands in frustration. ‘Fourteen inches? That’s nowhere near long enough! What’s the point of me writing the funniest dialogue if Eupolis has bigger penises? You know what the Athenian audience is like. They’re all morons.’

  ‘Even Socrates?’

  ‘He’s the worst of the lot. As for Euripides…’

  Hermogenes looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps we’re worrying unnecessarily. Everyone in Athens is short of materials. Eupolis and Leucon’s choruses might not have such big stage-penises either.’

  ‘That’s possible.’ Aristophanes frowned. He looked a little older than his years. When some of the people he’d attacked in his plays hadn’t taken it well, and prosecuted him in court, it had aged him.

  ‘Luxos, when did you last eat properly?’

  The young poet was surprised at the question. He was always hungry, but he’d grown used to it.

  ‘Eh… I can’t remember…’

  ‘Do you want to earn some money?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Then listen. I have a mission for you.’

  Idomeneus of Crete

  Idomeneus of Crete never thought he’d end up as nursemaid to a semi-divine figure like Laet. There again, he never thought he’d live for eight hundred years. ‘Nursemaid’ wasn’t quite accurate. It wasn’t as if Laet didn’t have a lot of power. She had, but she wasn’t very practical. She didn’t know how to rent a room, or book passage at sea, or light a campfire, or anything like that.

  Sitting in the Trident tavern, waiting for her to arrive, Idomeneus was listening to the conversations going on around him. It was a habit he’d picked up from his time with Laet. It amused him, because he knew what was going to happen if she decided to exert her powers. Everyone in the vicinity would do precisely the wrong thing. Anyone making a decision would make the wrong choice. He’d seen it happen hundreds of times, and it still amused him. At the next table, for instance, a solid-looking citizen was trying to persuade another, rather shabbier, citizen, to invest money in a merchant voyage to Libya. Though he was describing the potential profits in glowing terms, the shabby citizen was having none of it.

  ‘A trading voyage to Libya? With enemy warships everywhere? Forget it, it’s too risky.’

  ‘The Athenian navy will protect my ship.’

  ‘The Athenian navy will be busy ravaging Spartan lands. Your ship will go down to pirates, if it doesn’t sink in a storm.’

  Idomeneus knew that the shabby citizen spoke wisely. A merchant voyage to Libya was a risk.

  ‘You’d better get out of here before she arrives,’ he muttered to himself.

  The tavern was quiet, far quieter than Idomeneus had expected.

  ‘It must be true what people are saying,’ he mused. Athens is on its knees. Only a severe shortage of money could keep these degenerate Athenians out of their taverns.

  The landlord had a hangdog expression, the sort a man wore when business was bad, with no prospect of things improving. When Idomeneus noticed his expression change abruptly to one of puzzlement and wonder, he knew Laet had arrived. She generally affected people like that. Laet was the sort of exotic beauty you didn’t see every day. The contrast between the paleness of her skin and the deep black of her hair and eyes was startling. Her features were perfect. Not only that, she projected the sort of aura that could render a man speechless. She wasn’t the sort of woman low-lives called out after in the street. When she swept by, they went quiet.

  Idomeneus rose to greet her. Laet looked around at the plain tavern walls and the bare floorboards. ‘Is this the best you could find?’

  ‘It’s all we can afford till we get paid.’

  Laet shrugged her shoulders, quite elegantly. She felt it was better for her image to be seen in wealthier surroundings, but she didn’t really care. She’d slept rough in the country plenty of times. Laet was tougher than she looked.

  Conversation started up again at the next table.

  ‘Now I think about it, a voyage to Libya does sound like a good business opportunity. I’d be silly not to inve
st. I’ll go and dig up my savings from the garden.’

  Idomeneus smiled. Poor shabby citizen. He should have left before Laet arrived.

  The spirit of bad decisions had arrived in Athens. That did not bode well for anyone.

  Aristophanes

  In desperation, Aristophanes hunted down his producer Antimachus. He knew he’d find him at the Lyceum gymnasium, where he was friends with Gelus, one of the gymnastae responsible for training the athletes. It meant a long walk, and he couldn’t really spare the time, but his play was now so short of funds that something had to be done.

  The Lyceum was east of the city walls, north of the River Ilissus. As Aristophanes approached he caught sight of a group of naked teenage boys practising their discus-throwing, just beyond the grove of olive trees that marked the outskirts of the Lyceum. It struck him that he hadn’t been here in over a year, though he used to visit often; exercising, meeting with friends, listening to the occasional philosopher discourse. The three gymnasia outside the walls were popular meeting places, but with writing and rehearsals he just hadn’t had the time. As Aristophanes passed the lithe, athletic, naked youths, he suddenly felt much older than a man of thirty should. He used to be active like them, but now… He sighed and shook his head. Being a playwright in Athens was a stressful business. When Kleon had prosecuted him, his health had suffered. At least Kleon was gone now. Killed in battle. Best thing the Spartans ever did, in Aristophanes’ opinion.

  He found Antimachus sitting in the shade of an olive tree, watching his friend Gelus teach wrestling moves to a group of eighteen-year-olds. The young wrestlers, also naked, looked even more athletic than the discus-throwers. Again Aristophanes felt out of condition. That wasn’t something Antimachus worried about; he was one of Athens’ larger citizens. He saw Aristophanes coming and didn’t bother to pretend to be pleased.

  Aristophanes knew there was no point in making a tactful approach. ‘Antimachus, I’ve got no scenery, no props and I can’t afford to hire a decent choreographer. You have to give me more funds.’

  Antimachus shrugged. Though he was sitting in the shade, he was sweating as profusely as the athletes. He dabbed his face with a fancy piece of cloth.

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘My rivals both have bigger budgets! Eupolis and Leucon are recruiting all the best talent!’

  ‘Maybe they’re just better playwrights than you?’

  Aristophanes glared at him, and once again cursed the day he’d been assigned as his producer. It was all meant to be done randomly, by drawing lots, but he had his suspicions.

  ‘Antimachus, ever since you were selected as my choregos, you’ve put obstacles in my way. I don’t understand why. Wealthy citizens are usually proud to produce a comedy. The post of choregos is meant to be an honour.’

  ‘Then I’m honoured,’ said Antimachus. ‘But you can’t have any more money. I can’t afford it.’

  ‘You were pleased enough to put on your best clothes and take part in the opening procession! You didn’t mind the applause then, did you?’

  ‘I was simply doing my duty after being selected,’ said Antimachus. ‘That doesn’t mean I can provide you with endless funds.’

  ‘Is this all because I once mildly criticised you in a play?’

  Antimachus growled. The languid expression he’d been attempting to maintain vanished. ‘Mildly criticised? You ridiculed me in the vilest of terms. Your actors pointed at me from the stage and threatened to throw dung at me! I was a laughing stock. Too bad for you I ended up as your producer this year.’

  There was a cry from one of the wrestlers as he was thrown heavily to the ground, followed by a sharp reprimand from Gelus the gymnastis, telling him to get up and stop complaining.

  ‘If my play looks cheap on stage it will reflect badly on you.’

  ‘Really?’ A cunning look spread over Antimachus’s florid features. ‘I think a lot of people might be pleased that I didn’t support your play. It’s called Peace, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. What of it?’

  ‘There are important citizens in Athens who won’t look kindly on a playwright asking the city to make peace.’

  ‘Important citizens? Like your friend Euphranor with his weapons factory?’

  ‘Him, and plenty of others. You should stay out of politics, Aristophanes. If you get too involved, you never know what harm you might come to.’

  Aristophanes left the Lyceum seething with the injustice of it all. He scowled at the discus-throwers on his way out. Citizens generally appreciated the strength and beauty of the naked, oiled athletes, but by now he was finding them depressing. He managed a respectful nod towards the shrine of the Muses as he left, but other than that he walked home depressed, completely absorbed by thoughts of failure.

  Bremusa

  Bremusa and the Goddess Athena walked unseen down the slopes of Mount Olympus. It was some time since Bremusa had left Olympus on a mission. It felt good to be back in her leather armour. Athena had expressed some doubts about her wearing armour to Athens, fearing it would make her conspicuous, but on consideration she gave her consent.

  ‘You’re going to look conspicuous whatever you wear, but the city will be full of visitors for the Dionysia, so it shouldn’t matter that much. Try not to draw your sword, the Athenians won’t like any trouble at their festival.’

  ‘Will there be other warriors in the city?’

  ‘All the Athenians are warriors, in a way.’

  ‘You mean they’re shopkeepers who pick up a spear when they have to.’

  ‘Don’t disparage them. They’ve fought valiantly when it was necessary. If it wasn’t for Athens, Greece would be a Persian colony by now. But there won’t be anyone looking for a fight at the moment, I shouldn’t think. Everyone will be too busy enjoying the festival.’

  ‘What’s the Dionysia like?’

  The goddess looked surprised. ‘Haven’t you ever been?’

  Bremusa shook her head.

  ‘Bremusa, you’ve been with me on Mount Olympus for more than seven hundred years. How can it be that you’ve never taken a trip to the great Dionysia?’

  ‘I suppose I never had any reason.’

  Athena smiled. ‘The Spring Festival in Athens is marvellous. Tragedies, comedies, music, song, dancing – you’ll like it.’

  ‘No I won’t.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’

  ‘I really think I won’t.’

  ‘Didn’t Amazons ever have any fun?’

  ‘We liked killing people.’

  They walked on downhill in silence, passing through the region where only the divines could go, and out into the world of mortal men. It was sunny and pleasant, more pleasant than Bremusa had expected.

  ‘I still don’t see why we need to recruit some river goddess,’ she said.

  ‘Metricia’s not a goddess, she’s just a river spirit. I told you Zeus will no longer allow gods or goddesses to enter Athens for the Dionysia. But Metricia will be a useful companion for you. She has a lot of power. She’ll locate Laet, and I expect her capacity for spiritual healing will dispel her bad energy.’

  Bremusa nodded. She wasn’t that keen on travelling with a companion she’d never met, but she supposed it made sense. Once they reached Athens, they’d need to find Laet quickly, before she did too much damage.

  The aura of the Divine Mount Olympus stretched out for some way beyond its confines. They passed a centaur as they entered the woods, and Bremusa thought she heard some giggling in the undergrowth, from nymphs perhaps.

  ‘The temple isn’t far,’ said the goddess.

  They passed over a small hillock, entered another wooded grove, then halted in surprise. There in front of them was the temple and shrine of the river spirit Metricia, but it was in ruins. Slates had fallen from the roof and the walls were crumbling. Vines grew around the marble pillars. Athena frowned, quite deeply. She walked towards the entrance but Bremusa quickly stepped in front of her. She intended to go in fir
st, in case there was anything dangerous inside.

  The temple had only two rooms, and the wall between them was damaged. Bremusa thought it was unoccupied till she saw a young woman asleep on a couch. She had a blanket draped half on, half off, and her long, black, wavy hair was splayed over the cushion she used as a pillow. Beside the couch were several empty amphoras of wine. The sight of a young woman, apparently inebriated in a holy shrine, irritated her.

  ‘On your feet for the Goddess Athena!’ she cried.

  The young woman opened her eyes. She looked at them, without rising.

  ‘What happened to this temple?’ asked the goddess.

  ‘The war,’ replied the young woman. She yawned, then smiled as she rose from the couch. ‘Have you come to repair it?’

  ‘The Goddess Athena does not go around repairing buildings like a common workman!’ cried Bremusa.

  ‘It’s cold in winter,’ mumbled the girl.

  Athena looked around in displeasure. ‘Where is the great river spirit Metricia?’

  ‘She was depressed by all the fighting so she changed back into a river and moved away.’

  Athena scowled. ‘I hate it when you need someone and then you find out they’ve changed into a river and gone away.’

  Nicias

  Nicias had been a senior statesman in Athens for too long to take anything for granted, but as the delegates at the peace conference rose for lunch, he felt more than a twinge of optimism. In the past week there had been a great deal of anger, many harsh words, bitter accusations and counter accusations, threats of walkouts and boycotts. Now coming to the fore was the recognition that the war between Athens and Sparta was simply not sustainable. Neither city could go on much longer. For all the intransigence of the Spartan General Acanthus, the belligerence of Athenian General Lamachus, and the rabble-rousing of Hyperbolus, the delegates at the conference were gradually coming round to the view that a treaty had to be agreed. After ten years of fighting, Greece needed a rest.