Aristophanes
Aristophanes knew that Philippus wasn’t happy. He was a good actor but he’d never been able to reconcile himself to being successful only in comedies. He could put a funny line over like few others in Athens, but somewhere in his mind there was the thought that, really, he should have been a serious dramatic player, taking the leading role in one of the great tragedies of Sophocles or Aeschylus. Aristophanes found it difficult to sympathise. It wasn’t as if being a successful comic actor hadn’t brought Philippus success. He’d won plaudits on numerous occasions, in his plays, and in others’. People still talked of his hilarious performance in Aristophanes’ production last year, The Wasps. He had plenty of admirers, and a good reputation throughout the city. It should have been enough, in Aristophanes’ opinion.
Actors. They’re never satisfied with what they have.
It was no surprise when Hermogenes told him that Philippus was complaining.
‘He’s always complaining. What’s wrong this time? Not enough olives in his dressing room?’
‘It’s the dung beetle. He doesn’t like it.’
Aristophanes followed Hermogenes across to the rehearsal stage where Philippus, in mask and costume, was sitting astride a giant dung beetle. This beetle was one of their few successful props, constructed to look rather humorous. It was brightly painted, with a smiling expression and a fat, funny body. By means of the stage crane, it could be hoisted into the air and made to fly over the stage. It could even be swung over the front rows of the audience, which was quite a spectacular effect. When Philippus used his giant phallus as a rudder to steer the flying beetle, it was going to get a huge laugh. Even the stagehands found it funny, and they were generally a hard group to please, having already seen most things.
Philippus slipped his mask up over his head. ‘Aristophanes! Are you sure this scene is necessary?’
‘It’s our big opening.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s undignified.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘I’m flying a gigantic dung beetle!’ cried Philippus. ‘How much more undignified could it be?’ He glared down at the playwright. ‘I am a serious actor, you know.’
‘You’re flying up to heaven to ask the gods to end the war. What could be more serious than that?’
The scene was a parody of the well-known story of the hero flying to heaven on the winged horse Pegasus. Aristophanes’ play started off with Philippus feeding the beetle more and more dung, till it was large enough for him to mount. His family questioned his sanity, but Philippus claimed to be the sanest person in Athens. He was sick of the war, and he planned to visit the gods, and ask them to end it.
‘Pegasus flying to heaven was serious,’ said Philippus. ‘This is farcical.’
‘Exactly!’ cried Aristophanes. ‘But I’m not really getting it from your performance. Try pulling on your phallus a little more when you’re steering. Get it waving around so the audience can see it.’
He left Philippus muttering about the time he’d been the lead actor in Oedipus, and what a mistake it had been to ever get involved with the crude comedies of Aristophanes.
‘He’s always the same,’ said Aristophanes to his assistant. ‘Always wants to be taken seriously.’
‘He’ll be fine once the crowd starts applauding. That always works like magic. Did you manage to squeeze any more money out of our choregos?’
‘I’m afraid not. Antimachus won’t cough up.’
Hermogenes shook his head. He was a few years older than Aristophanes, and he’d been in the theatre all his life. ‘It’s unusual for a producer to starve his production of funds. Being chosen as choregos is meant to be an honour.’
‘That’s what I told him, but it was no use. He’s still annoyed because I mildly lampooned him on stage.’
‘You grossly insulted him,’ said Hermogenes.
‘I wasn’t to know he had no sense of humour. I’ve grossly insulted most important men in the city, they don’t normally hold a grudge.
‘Kleon prosecuted you.’
Aristophanes scowled. That had been quite an affair. The leader of the pro-war faction had taken his revenge by prosecuting him for impiety. The playwright had been fined, and it could have been worse.
‘I’m sorry to say this about a fellow Athenian citizen, but I was relieved when he was killed last year.’
‘You weren’t the only one,’ said Hermogenes.
Many people thought that with Kleon gone, it might be easier to bring the war to an end, particularly as Brasidas, the Spartan war-leader, had also died in battle.
‘I really thought we’d make peace when they were both killed,’ said Aristophanes. ‘It was a great opportunity. But there seems to be no limit on how foolish the citizens of Athens can be. Kleon was a warmonger but Hyperbolus is even worse. Why do people listen to these demagogues?’
They paused for a while to watch the chorus go through the dance steps that introduced the last act of the play. Aristophanes had choreographed a very funny sequence involving a lot of phallus twirling, none of which seemed to be working out very well. The chorus was often a problem. They weren’t professionals, just honest citizens recruited for the festival. It often took some time to whip them into shape.
‘I think there’s more to it than just Antimachus hating me. He told me that certain important people don’t want me writing a play that promotes peace.’
‘I can guess who these certain important people are.’ Hermogenes frowned as two members of the chorus got their dance steps wrong and collided with each other. ‘Are you sure you want to insult Hyperbolus in this play? He’ll be in the audience with his supporters. It could lead to trouble.’
‘Hyperbolus is scum. He needs to be insulted.’
‘I wouldn’t exactly say that he was scum,’ said Hermogenes.
‘I can’t believe you’re still defending him!’ cried Aristophanes.
‘I come from a family of sailors. We’ve always supported the democratic faction.’
‘Can’t you see he’s nothing more than a self-serving loudmouth?’
‘I can see that he helped distribute food to the poor when the rich men of Athens weren’t doing much to help.’
Aristophanes and Hermogenes glared at each other. The argument might have gone further had not both realised that the last thing they needed was more friction in the rehearsal room.
‘Just keep me out of the court case. I have four children to support.’
Aristophanes didn’t know Hermogenes had four children. He had a vague memory he might have been at the birth celebrations for some of them.
Metris
Metris had admitted to Bremusa that she didn’t have the ability to locate anyone. That was true, as far as the nymph knew. There was no real reason that she should. Her mother had been a powerful being, but these powers were not always passed down. The world of the semi-divines – the cult heroes, spirits, nymphs, centaurs and all the rest – was not known to run on any logical system. Despite her supposed lack of power, Metris didn’t have any trouble locating Luxos. She could sense his presence. She walked south, down through the long walls, towards the port at Piraeus. Though keen to find him, she paused on her way to admire the Athenian statues, of which there were many. Metris loved the statues. They were vibrant, lifelike, imposing, and brightly coloured. All the best Greek sculptors had worked here.
Near the harbour, the surroundings were less pleasant. There were beggars on the streets and the air smelled of rotting fish. The houses were small and ramshackle, and what temples there were seemed badly in need of repair.
Metris spotted Luxos sitting on a small hillock. She smiled at the sight of his thick, tousled hair. Who had hair like that? No one she’d ever seen. She could sense his sadness. He was playing his lyre, and though his playing didn’t quite compare with the music of the water nymphs, which was so beautiful it could lure a man to his death, i
t was heartfelt and moving. Metris could see the sad aura emanating from Luxos as he sat on his own on the dusty ground. She walked up to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. His tunic was so threadbare she could feel his skin through the fabric.
‘You’re sad.’
He nodded. ‘No one will listen to my poetry.’
She sat down beside him. ‘I’ll listen.’
‘Really?’
Metris had never seen such a dilapidated lyre. It was nothing like the fine instruments of the water nymphs. But the young poet knew how to play it. He recited a rather sad poem about the loss of a parent, accompanying his words with a few gentle notes.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Metris, after he’d finished.
‘Luxos.’
‘I’m Metris.’
Quite abruptly, she kissed him. The air grew warm, and a great carpet of buttercups and daisies blanketed the hillock.
‘I like your poetry.’
‘I like your flowers.’
Metris took a strand of his funny blond hair in her fingers. ‘Who could resist your poetry?’
‘The whole of Athens. Aristophanes says I’m not the right sort of person. I just realised he’s probably correct.’
Luxos had such a pretty face. Metris had never seen such a pretty youth.
‘I wouldn’t mind so much, but I’d like to have been given a chance before I get killed in battle.’
‘Battle?’ Metris was surprised. ‘Surely you don’t go to war?’
‘Everyone in Athens goes to war. Farmers, philosophers, carpenters, poets – everyone. The order comes out, you turn up with three days’ rations, and off you go.’
‘I can’t imagine you in battle. What’s it like?’
Luxos looked very troubled. ‘Terrible,’ he said, and didn’t seem inclined to describe it further.
‘Couldn’t you refuse to fight?’
The young poet was shocked by the suggestion. ‘Athens needs everyone. I might be feeble but I’m not a coward. I do my best, even if I’m not much use at it.’
Metris put her face close to his and looked into his blue eyes. ‘My warrior hero,’ she said, and kissed him again.
After a few moments, she rose daintily to her feet. She knew that Bremusa would be looking for her.
‘I have to go now. But I’ll find you again.’
Aristophanes
Aristophanes sat on a couch with Theodota, in her stately villa in the west side of town, home to all the city’s most successful hetaerae. At twenty-four, Theodota was Athens’ most beautiful and most famous courtesan. Aristophanes lusted after her permanently, and quite painfully. He desperately wished that she liked him more. The playwright had given her a lot of money in the past year. It hadn’t made much difference. They sat next to each other comfortably enough, but no one would have said they were intimate. Finely wrought earrings of delicate gold, imported from Syracuse, hung seductively on the courtesan’s ears, a present from Aristophanes, given to her only the day before. Theodota loved the earrings: she showed no sign of loving Aristophanes.
He watched as her young female servant Mnesarete poured wine for them.
‘To your beauty,’ he said, toasting Theodota.
‘To Athens,’ said Theodota.
Aristophanes had come here for a purpose other than simply lust, but once again, Theodota was not responding as well as he’d hoped.
‘Why won’t you do it?’
‘I’m afraid it’s out of the question, Aristophanes.’
‘Why?’
‘I have my reputation to consider.’
That seemed like an unsatisfactory answer. ‘Reputation? Theodota, you’re Athens’ most famous courtesan.’
‘Exactly. Why would men pay for my services if they could already see me walking around naked for free?’
‘It would really help me out.’
‘I still don’t see why you need a woman to come on stage at the end of your play and walk around naked. Isn’t that a little cheap?’
‘Cheap? You’re as bad as Hermogenes with his artistic principles. I’m not Aeschylus, you know. I’m not writing a great tragedy. I’m writing a comedy and I’m trying to win the prize for it, which means impressing a panel of judges. Five men drawn by lot, who for some reason always turn out to be the five most ignorant men in the city. And nothing would impress these ignorant judges more than Athens’ most beautiful woman walking out naked on stage.’
‘Isn’t female nudity against festival rules?’
‘We’ll give you a few pieces of string.’
Theodota laughed. When she laughed, her features lit up. It was intoxicating, even more intoxicating than her voice, which was already enough to hypnotise most of the men with whom she came into contact.
‘Sorry, Aristophanes, I’m not doing it. The Athenians don’t mind me plying my trade here as long as I’m reasonably discreet, but if I start wandering around naked at the Dionysia I’ll be in trouble.’
‘I think you might be more helpful, Theodota. I’m really struggling.’
‘Everyone’s finding it difficult these days, with the war.’
Aristophanes grunted with annoyance. ‘My rivals don’t seem to be suffering. They’ve got decent producers. Damn Eupolis and Leucon. Neither of them can write to save their lives. All you get from them is one cheap stunt after another. Are you sure you won’t appear naked?’
Theodota sipped her wine. She wore an expression Aristophanes had come to recognise, an expression that meant he wasn’t going to get what he wanted.
‘You could ask someone else. Mnesarete, for instance. She’s pretty. Good figure too.’
‘Your maid? It wouldn’t be the same.’ Aristophanes’ face clouded over. ‘I bet you’d do it for Socrates.’
Theodota rolled her eyes. ‘Not this again.’
He felt a familiar bad temper coming on. ‘Well, you obviously like him better than me.’
‘I’m not having a relationship with Socrates.’
‘You would if he asked. You probably wouldn’t even charge him. Why are all the courtesans in Athens so keen on Socrates?’
‘Why?’ said Theodota. ‘I suppose it’s because he’s intelligent and funny, and he gives good advice. He’s nice to us and treats us with respect. And he doesn’t want anything from us in return.’
‘Yes, fine. I wasn’t really looking for such a detailed answer.’
Aristophanes scowled, angered at the injustice of it. Theodota was capable of freezing out anyone she didn’t like. Her regal disdain could leave a man feeling crushed. There were famous, handsome, wealthy Athenians she’d never accept as clients, because she’d taken a dislike to them for some reason. But whenever shabby, ugly, old Socrates appeared, she just fawned over him like a little girl. It was infuriating. Damn Socrates. Aristophanes felt glad he’d made fun of him in his last play.
Idomeneus
Idomeneus entered the room upstairs in the tavern and placed a heavy bag of silver on the table.
‘I have the money from Euphranor.’
‘Is it all there?’
‘Minus the priestess’s commission.’
‘Ah, the priestess. How is Kleonike?’
‘A lot wealthier since she started accepting bribes. I get the impression some of the group that hired her aren’t too pleased at the amount she charges.’
Laet’s lips twitched in the semblance of a smile. ‘Then they’re fools. Kleonike is worth it to them. She’s worth more. There aren’t that many mortals left who can summon a semi-divine.’
Idomeneus looked at her quizzically. ‘You’ve been summoned by a lot of priestesses in your time.’
‘I have. But mostly in the centuries after Troy. Have you not noticed the amount of human contact lessening, these recent years?’
Idomeneus shrugged. ‘I suppose so. I never gave it much thought.’
‘The days of close connection between Mount Olympus and the cities of Greece are coming to an end, Idomeneus. Heroes no longer walk w
ith men. Centaurs no longer teach the sons of kings. The divines are withdrawing, and the semi-divines are following them. Kleonike is one of the last priestesses capable of making contact with us.’ Laet looked thoughtful. ‘That woman on the beach. It’s a surprise to find an Amazon in Athens. Apparently the Goddess Athena has not yet relinquished direct intervention.’
She took a coin from the bag and examined it. ‘Best quality silver. The mines at Laurium have always been very beneficial for Athens. If not for the slaves who have to dig it out the ground.’
‘What do you care about their slaves?’
‘Nothing at all. Though I’m amused at these philosophers talking about ethics when it’s wealth from their slaves that keeps them prosperous.’
Laet put the coin in her purse, an elegantly embroidered item from Corinth. ‘It’s so gratifying to be paid for spreading destruction. Often I’ve done it for free.’
‘I hear the peace conference almost came to blows.’
‘It’s not hard to spread disorder among people who already hate each other. The Athenians and Spartans are locked into their ways and will never change. It will finish them eventually.’
Laet looked around the small tavern room, which was clean but furnished in very basic fashion.
‘You must rent us a house somewhere. I don’t like this tavern.’
She gazed out of the window, northwards to the fine white buildings and marble columns of Athens. She murmured a line from Euripides’ Medea:
I’ll travel to the land of Erechtheus,
to live with Aegeus, son of Pandion.
‘Which reminds me, Idomeneus, I’d like to go to the theatre.’
‘The theatre? What for?’
‘I’m a cultured woman.’
‘Are you planning on spreading some reckless folly around?’
‘That depends on whether or not I like the plays.’
The Goddess Athena
The Goddess of Buttercups & Daisies Page 6
