The Goddess of Buttercups & Daisies

by Martin Millar

  Luxos smiled at the familiar children’s game. He’d played torti-tortoise when he was an infant. He’d sung the song, too. No one knew what the words meant any more. Who had been weaving a web of Milesian wool, and whose son had jumped in a pool, was lost in history, or myth, but the rhyme could still be heard all over Athens, when children played their jumping and chasing game.

  Luxos felt a little heartened. He walked home, humming ‘Torti-tortoise’.

  Good poetry is inspiring and it makes people happy, he thought, remembering the children’s smiling faces. I’m not giving up. Athens needs me.

  Aristophanes

  Theodota’s taste was widely admired. She was so wealthy that she could have built the largest house in Athens if she’d wanted. Rejecting such ostentation, she lived in the third largest. It was a notable dwelling. Her private courtyard contained a statue of Apollo that would not have looked out of place in one of the city’s better temples. There were frescos on the walls painted by some of Greece’s finest artists, and her collection of pottery was staggering, second only to her collection of clothes. For a twenty-four-year-old woman who was born poor, and had moved at a young age to a city that didn’t grant that many rights to women, it was all quite an achievement.

  ‘Theodota’s worked for her success,’ acknowledged Aristophanes, as he approached her house. ‘She’s used her beauty, discretion and intelligence to build up a client list of the wealthiest men in the city.’

  Her clients weren’t just Athenians. Theodota had received visits from famous figures from other cities too. Other countries, even.

  As a hetaera, Theodota would not have been welcomed in the house of any respectable Athenian. No well-born Athenian woman would even talk to her. Her profession had put her far beyond the bounds of polite society. Aristophanes wasn’t certain how she felt about that. If she took note of the poor Athenian women in the agora, working long hours for little pay, he doubted it bothered her that much.

  He announced himself at the door, having sent word that he was on his way. He hoped that no one was visiting. Even when Theodota wasn’t working, she did receive many callers. A surprising collection of artists, poets, philosophers, statesmen and writers could often be found there. The servant at the door welcomed him in, not that respectfully. Theodota’s servants, having such a rich mistress, tended to be sniffy about her guests. Even her slaves were known to be arrogant.

  ‘Is Theodota on her own?’

  ‘No. The mistress is being painted by Zeuxis.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Aristophanes hadn’t known that Zeuxis was painting Theodota. It wasn’t really a surprise. He was one of the most famous painters in Greece. He came from the Greek colony in Heraclea, and had studied under Apollodorus.

  ‘I’ll ask her if you can observe, if you wish.’

  He followed the servant through several long corridors towards one of the numerous reception rooms. Inside, Theodota was reclining naked on a couch. The afternoon light streamed in through the open window, illuminating her. Zeuxis stood at an easel, brush in hand. He was quite an unconventional character. Mid-forties, but with longer hair than you’d expect, and a very unusual silver necklace. Artists could get away with that sort of thing, if they were famous.

  Aristophanes wasn’t pleased to find Socrates reclining on another couch, observing. He greeted the philosopher stiffly, Zeuxis a little less stiffly, and smiled at Theodota. Theodota smiled back at him. She wasn’t at all self-conscious about being naked in company.

  ‘Aristophanes, we were just finishing for the day.’

  Zeuxis put down his brush. ‘Ah, Theodota. I never thought I’d find a model beautiful enough for my painting of Helen of Troy.’

  Aristophanes didn’t like the way they were smiling at each other. He wondered if Zeuxis had become her lover. He felt a pang of jealousy, adding to his annoyance about Socrates being here. The man got everywhere.

  Theodota motioned for a servant to bring her a robe.

  ‘If you wait in the next room I’ll join you soon,’ she said.

  Aristophanes waited with Socrates in another of Theodota’s elegant reception rooms, of which there were many. On a shelf by the window were two vases, painted by Euphronios. In the fifty or so years since his death, Euphronios’s work had become so famous in Athens that his plates, vases and amphoras were now priceless collector’s items. Families who were lucky enough to own them, old Athenian families with roots deep in the past, wouldn’t let them out of their sight. Even a man as rich as Callias wouldn’t be able to get hold of many of them. Yet here were two of them, just sitting on a shelf in Theodota’s reception rooms.

  Aristophanes studied the vases for a few minutes. One depicted a courtesan, another a satyr. They were beautiful pieces of work. Euphronios deserved his reputation. Socrates was staring into space. As ever, he was dressed in the plainest homespun chiton, and a pair of leather sandals that had seen better days. Aristophanes asked him what he was doing there.

  ‘Theodota invited me to observe the famous Zeuxis at work.’

  ‘Oh. She never invited me. It’s strange the way Theodota likes you so much. And annoying.’

  ‘Why is it annoying?’ asked Socrates.

  ‘Because I’ve paid out a lot of money to her and you never pay her anything!’

  ‘We have different expectations. I admire Theodota for her intelligence.’

  ‘Trust you to be the only person in Athens who admires her for that.’

  Socrates smiled genially. ‘Zeuxis is a fine painter. I’d say his technique rivals even that of Parrhasius.’

  ‘Parrhasius? Has he been here as well?’

  Parrhasius was another very famous artist. Aristophanes knew he shouldn’t have been annoyed by the way Greece’s most brilliant artists flocked to Athens to paint Theodota, but he was. He suspected that his own fame as a playwright was the only reason she acknowledged him at all, and he wasn’t as famous as Zeuxis or Parrhasius. He could see himself being forced out of the picture if they stayed around.

  ‘Are they in love with her?’ he asked, which was a highly inappropriate question, and one at which Socrates would have been quite entitled to laugh. He didn’t.

  ‘I couldn’t say. They might be. Or they might just be here because she’s one of the few people in Athens with enough money to pay their fees these days.’

  A servant appeared, beckoning them through to a dining room which faced south, and was always light and airy. Theodota, now dressed, was sitting at a table laden with bowls of fruit and bread. An amphora of wine was resting on a smaller table. Aristophanes greeted her as naturally as he could, but in truth he was apprehensive. He’d come on a delicate matter, and finding Zeuxis and Socrates here had put him off his stride. At least Zeuxis seemed to have departed. He wondered if either Zeuxis or Parrhasius had managed to catch the blue of Theodota’s eyes properly. No one had eyes as blue as Theodota.

  Perhaps it wasn’t so bad that Socrates was here. He could be tactful, when required. If it all went humiliatingly wrong with Theodota, he’d probably manage to say something to make things less awkward. He had on one occasion rescued Aristophanes from an embarrassing moment concerning Nicias’s wife, when the playwright had put his foot in it with a comment about the poor quality of the wine on offer. He hadn’t known her father owned the vineyard.

  ‘So, Aristophanes.’ Theodota smiled. ‘I wasn’t expecting you today.’

  Aristophanes wondered if either painter had managed to capture her smile. He doubted it. Theodota’s smile could not be reproduced.

  ‘Theodota, I wanted to ask you something, but… eh… the thing is… hmm… it’s a little embarrassing…’

  Theodota looked amused. ‘Feel free to speak your mind, Aristophanes. I started in my profession at a young age, and it would be very difficult to shock me.’

  ‘I need to borrow a lot of money.’

  Greatly shocked, Theodota had a coughing fit as some wine went down the wrong way, and she had to be
assisted by her servants. There was quite a long delay while she was patted on the back and brought back to life. A young servant was sent off to fetch soothing oils.

  Aristophanes shrank in his seat. That went worse than I expected. I’ve almost killed her.

  Finally Theodota regained the power of speech. ‘You want to borrow money? Aren’t you wealthy?’

  ‘I was, before the war. These days I’m poor like everyone else. My choregos Antimachus is starving me of funds. He doesn’t like that I’m writing about peace. He doesn’t want a comedy about the war ending to be successful.’

  Aristophanes looked hopefully at Theodota. ‘But you, as an intelligent woman, will be eager to see an end to the fighting.’

  ‘Why? It’s good for my business. When the rich men of Athens realise that they’re liable to get killed any day, they tend to turn to me for comfort.’

  ‘That may be the case. But it’s not good for the people who get killed, and the people who have their farms and businesses ruined.’

  ‘True,’ said Theodota. ‘But as no one permits me, or any other woman in Athens, to have a say in politics, you can’t blame me for making the best of the situation.’

  She mused for a moment, then turned to Socrates. ‘What do you think? Would backing Aristophanes’ play really help end the war?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Socrates. ‘It might influence the population. The situation is finely balanced.’

  Theodota nodded. She motioned to one of her young attendants, the attractive young Mnesarete, and whispered in her ear. Mnesarete departed. Theodota sipped a little wine, rather carefully after her recent distressing experience.

  ‘Aristophanes, you remember I told you I’d been writing in my spare time?’

  Mnesarete returned. She was carrying a scroll, which she handed to Theodota.

  ‘My first draft of a comedy,’ said Theodota. ‘I call it Lysistrata. You might like it. It’s rather anti-war, just like your work. Though in my play the women of Athens have a lot more say in things.’

  Aristophanes was puzzled by this development, and wary. ‘I’d be… pleased to read it some time.’

  ‘I’d like you to put it on stage. Not right away, of course. At some future festival.’

  ‘What? I can’t do that!’

  ‘Then I won’t lend you the money.’

  ‘This is outrageous. Socrates, she wants me to put on her play! Tell her it’s impossible.’

  Socrates sometimes wore a mocking little smile which Aristophanes found particularly annoying. He was smiling now. ‘I don’t know that we could say it’s impossible, Aristophanes. There’s no logical reason why it couldn’t be done.’

  ‘There are plenty of reasons.’

  ‘None of them insurmountable. It would have to be produced under your name, of course, but it could be done.’

  ‘Stop supporting her!’

  ‘It’s only a first draft,’ said Theodota. ‘We could rewrite it together. I’d need final say, of course. And the heavy end of the box office.’

  Bremusa

  With Athens becoming more factious by the hour, and the signing of a peace treaty less likely every moment, Bremusa wondered if it was worth using Metris’s cheerful aura to try and counteract Laet. While the nymph didn’t have her mother’s powers of dispelling all negative energies, it did seem to Bremusa that she had a way of improving people’s moods. Not Bremusa’s mood – she still found her infuriating – but other people seemed to like her. When she was happy, the nymph exuded warmth. She’d certainly cheered up the children she’d met, and other people seemed happier when she was around.

  ‘Let’s just walk through the agora and see if you can lighten the mood.’

  Metris was doubtful. ‘I can’t counteract Laet. She’s too powerful.’

  ‘I know. But children like you. Maybe you can cheer up the market workers and make them all stop arguing. We have to do something. The goddess told me to use my initiative and I can’t think of anything else.’

  Metris was willing to try, but she was distracted. Bremusa knew why.

  ‘The goddess didn’t send you here to waste your time on poets of dubious talent.’

  ‘Luxos has plenty of talent!’ cried Metris.

  ‘Talent? Ha.’ Bremusa quickly changed the subject, worried that Metris might be as knowledgeable about poetry as she’d turned out to be about other Athenian arts. If the nymph started lecturing her on Homer she’d have to kill her. ‘If we pay attention, we might be able to find out where Laet has been, and try improving things there.’

  ‘I think she’s been over there,’ said Metris.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that house is on fire.’

  Suddenly there were Athenian citizens everywhere, rushing around with buckets, jars, amphoras, anything that would carry water.

  ‘I told Polykarpos not to roast a whole sheep in his bedroom!’ cried an elderly man. ‘It was bound to go wrong.’

  ‘We need more water!’

  The amount of water the Athenians were able to produce seemed hopelessly insufficient. The flames took hold. Bremusa turned to Metris, only to find that she was no longer at her side. She’d walked over towards the firefighters. As the Amazon watched, the nymph discreetly pointed a finger. Their buckets and amphoras instantly began to fill up with water. Bremusa pursed her lips.

  I suppose having a river goddess as your mother does have its advantages.

  ‘Where did all this water come from?’ cried one of the firefighters.

  ‘Never mind, put the fire out!’

  Metris rejoined Bremusa and they watched as the Athenians quickly damped down the flames, assisted by the endless supply of water that seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Metris looked smug.

  ‘All right,’ said Bremusa. ‘I admit you’re not so useless. Producing all that water was very effective.’

  She noticed that the area around the dampened house was now blanketed with a great field of buttercups and daisies.

  ‘They could probably have managed without all the flowers.’

  ‘I thought it was a nice touch.’

  Metris suddenly shivered. She turned towards the edge of the agora. ‘But that doesn’t feel very nice.’

  ‘What?’ said Bremusa. Metris was already walking towards a small altar, an ancient, almost featureless stone pillar. She came to a halt, examining it. The Altar of Pity had been repaired by the city’s workmen. There were no finer stonemasons than those in Athens, and they’d done an excellent job of repairing it.

  ‘But it’s no good,’ said Metris.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘This lovely old altar. They’ve repaired it but it hasn’t made it right. The altar doesn’t work any more. It’s been spoiled.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By Laet, I suppose.’ Metris appeared distressed. ‘It was such a beautiful old altar. Laet’s ruined it.’

  ‘Can you fix it?’

  Metris shook her head. ‘She’s too powerful for me. I can’t do anything.’

  Aristophanes

  Walking down the street with Socrates, Aristophanes was disconsolate.

  ‘I’m disconsolate,’ he said.

  ‘You look disconsolate.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be? I don’t want to put on Theodota’s play.’

  ‘You haven’t read it yet. It might be good.’

  ‘I doubt it. What sort of title is Lysistrata? And even if it is good, how could I use her script? The festival authorities aren’t going to accept a play written by a woman. It would be a scandal.’

  ‘Theodota knows that,’ said Socrates. ‘She offered to rewrite it, with you. Aren’t your plays sometimes put on under your producer’s name anyway?’

  ‘Sometimes. But the whole thing is demeaning. Who’s the comic genius here, me or Theodota?’

  Socrates halted and looked at him. ‘I don’t know about comic genius but if you want to be a romantic genius, I’d be a little more enthusiastic about Theo
dota’s talents. If you just dismiss them she’ll be angry.’

  ‘Will she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Aristophanes sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. Do you think she’s been plotting this all along? Perhaps she only ever agreed to see me so that one day she could trick me into producing her play.’

  Socrates laughed. ‘Who knows? I told you she was intelligent. Look on the bright side. At least you’ve got the money you need.’

  With that, Socrates departed, off to his daily practice of talking about philosophy with whoever would listen. Aristophanes headed towards his rehearsal, feeling dissatisfied about various things but relieved that at last his production had money. Theodota had provided him with all the funds he required.

  ‘I’ll show these Athenians what a comedy is meant to be. And I’ll show up these warmongers in the assembly for the fools they are while I’m at it.’

  Luxos

  The sun blazed down. The city sweltered, and tempers rose. Athenian priests checked their records to see if it had ever been so hot during the Dionysia before, and wondered if it was another portent of misfortune.

  Luxos stopped to look at some street performers in the shade of the Temple of Eukleia. Despite the heat, they were juggling, tumbling, throwing and catching hoops. He knew them slightly, and waved. They depended on whatever money they could pick up from passers-by, so he felt a sense of fellowship. Luxos was not athletic, but he did sympathise with fellow struggling artists. There was an uncomfortable gnawing in his stomach. It might have been hunger, or it might have been the realisation that he had no money and no prospects. He stood in the same spot for a long time, wishing that the street performers might divert his attention away from his sadness over Metris.

  He rested against the wall of the temple. Eukleia – the spirit of glory, and good repute. ‘A spirit that obviously dislikes me,’ he muttered, considering the state of his own reputation.

  ‘You look sad, Luxos.’