The Goddess of Buttercups & Daisies

by Martin Millar

  The Theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus lay under the shadow of the acropolis, in the south of the city, close to a smaller theatre, the Odeon, built by Pericles, used for music and singing. It was in this smaller theatre that the proagon had been held, when the titles of the upcoming plays were announced and the judges were selected. The Theatre of Dionysus was a good deal larger, a circular, open-air space holding twelve thousand people. The acoustics were excellent, though the wooden benches were not especially comfortable, particularly for an audience who might spend the whole day there. People laid their cloaks on the benches to make it easier; wealthier citizens brought their own cushions, or hired them. Some days the theatre could be a scene of extreme emotion, as the plays of Athens’ famous tragedians were performed in an atmosphere of religious reverence. On the last day of the Dionysia, the atmosphere changed to one of raucous amusement, as the comedies were staged, comedies which were famous all over Greece for their wit, obscenity and irreverence. The adult population of Athens crammed into the theatre. There were guests too, visitors to the city, and ambassadors from foreign states. Notably, there were representatives from the other Greek states which paid Athens tribute in exchange for protection.

  As Nicias made his way to the theatre, he noticed the atmosphere was more subdued than at previous festivals. Perhaps that was to be expected, given the difficult times Athens had been going through recently. The unseasonal heat had not dissipated, and people were feeling it. There was anxiety too. Everyone seemed to know someone who’d been involved in recent misfortune, from merchants who’d lost money on deals, to women who’d lost their lives in childbirth. It had been the unluckiest month anyone could remember, and no matter what a citizen did to make things better, it always went wrong. It was as if the city had collectively lost its ability to make the right choice in anything. It didn’t bode well for the peace conference.

  If the mood was less festive than usual, it was not entirely sombre. People were glad of a few days’ break from worrying about the war, and listening to politicians screaming insults at each other in the assembly. Whatever might happen in the coming weeks, they were at least sure to laugh at the plays of Aristophanes, Eupolis and Leucon. People looked forward to seeing three comedies, one after another, although even that number carried a reminder of their troubles. At one time there had been five comedies, but the number had been reduced, because of the war.

  Luxos

  Luxos made his way to the theatre on his own. Metris had returned to her duties with Bremusa. Luxos missed her, though his spirits had been bolstered by the picnic they’d shared on the beach. He had already written twenty-eight lines about sharing their bread and cheese, and there was a lot more to come.

  He’d considered boycotting the last day of the festival in protest at it not involving him in any way, but no Athenian could be truly comfortable missing out on such a huge communal event.

  I’ll just have to sit through that hack Isidoros reciting his useless poetry. I will watch with dignity. Maybe mutter a little abuse. Nothing extravagant.

  He wondered how Aristophanes’ play would be received. Luxos had seen a lot of it in rehearsal. None of it seemed to be working that well, though he could see its potential if it all came together. Recent events had not endeared Aristophanes to Luxos. Nonetheless, the young poet wanted the war to end. If Aristophanes’ play could help, then he probably should support it.

  Luxos was swept up in the great mass of citizens approaching the theatre. For a short time he experienced the feeling of unity, of commune, of being part of a great body of people all striving for the same thing: the Athenians, proud of their city, and their democracy, and their arts. It was spoiled when three youths, part of a wealthy family, flanked by servants, poked fun at him.

  ‘What’s that? Is that meant to be a lyre?’

  ‘Looks like something washed up on the beach.’

  ‘So does he.’

  ‘Get a haircut, you look like a barbarian.’

  Luxos sighed. He was used to criticism, both personal and artistic, but he wasn’t immune to it. As the theatre came into view, his spirits fell further. Here he was, in the very heart of Greek culture, and he couldn’t make any impression. He wished that it wasn’t so hot. He wished Metris was there. He wished someone would listen to his poetry.

  Aristophanes

  Leucon’s comedy was nearing its conclusion. It had gone well with the audience but Aristophanes wasn’t paying attention. He had no regard for Leucon, and was too busy double-checking that everything was ready for his own company’s performance. After their final rehearsals, Aristophanes was feeling optimistic. There would be no repeat of last year, when the panel of five judges had denied him first prize.

  One of the most scandalously corrupt decisions ever seen in the Athenian theatre!

  He entered the backstage area to make a final check. Hermogenes ran towards him, a look of alarm on his face.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Our penises have gone missing.’

  Aristophanes stared at him blankly. His assistant seemed to be talking gibberish. ‘What do you mean “Our penises have gone missing?”’

  ‘I mean they’ve disappeared!’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘How much clearer can I be? Our giant funny phalluses are no longer on the premises!’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Someone’s stolen them!’

  Aristophanes looked at him, aghast. ‘Not the new, big ones? Not all of them?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Aristophanes sagged. Never before in the theatre had he received such a body-blow.

  ‘It’s the end,’ he muttered. Tears welled up in his eyes. He looked up to heaven. ‘Why? Why do the gods curse me? Am I really such a bad person?’

  He slumped into a chair. ‘Cancel the play. We can’t go on.’

  ‘We can’t cancel the play,’ said Hermogenes. ‘The play must go on. Everyone knows that. The crowd would riot.’

  ‘But what can we do? We can’t send the actors on without huge dangly penises. It’s unheard of. It’s probably against festival rules.’

  Hermogenes shrugged ‘We’ll just have to use the old, small, unsatisfactory penises.’

  ‘But they’re back at the rehearsal space!’

  ‘I’ll send people to fetch them,’ said Hermogenes.

  ‘Do we have time?’

  ‘We could ask Isidoros to recite for a little longer. He’s due to go on any moment now.’

  Bremusa

  It was a long time since Bremusa had actually seen anyone skipping gaily along the street. It tended not to happen on Mount Olympus, and it was never done among the Amazons. Metris was, however, skipping along at that moment, bubbling over with enthusiasm.

  ‘What are you so happy about?’

  ‘I’m so looking forward to the comedy! It will be lovely to be in the theatre!’

  ‘I think you’re happy because you sneaked off to see Luxos.’

  ‘No, I didn’t!’ Metris smiled. As a nymph, she never felt that much obligation to tell the truth, if the truth happened to be awkward.

  Bremusa was trying to think of something withering to say, because the skipping was annoying her, when she practically bumped into Idomeneus of Crete. He stood, tall and rock-like in front of her, looking down on her with contempt. Behind him were two men, pulling a cart.

  ‘Bremusa the Amazon.’

  ‘Idomeneus of Crete.’

  ‘I’d kill you but I’m busy at the moment.’

  ‘I’d kill you but I’m busy too.’

  The cart was covered by a tarpaulin. Metris, for no particular reason, peered under it.

  ‘Look! It’s full of big penises.’

  ‘I told you, the city is obsessed with them,’ said Bremusa. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘But they must have stolen them from Aristophanes!’ cried Metris, an astute observation that had not occurred to the Amazon. She stared at Idomeneus.

  ‘Is that
true?’

  ‘What if it is?’

  Bremusa laid her hand on the pommel of her sword. ‘Hand them over.’

  ‘No,’ said Idomeneus.

  ‘I’m not letting you ruin Aristophanes’ play.’

  ‘What do you care about the theatre?’

  ‘I’m a huge enthusiast.’ Bremusa drew her sword. ‘You’ve lived too long, Idomeneus.’

  Idomeneus drew his sword. ‘Prepare to die, Amazon.’

  Abruptly, shockingly, and rather absurdly, a huge wall of flowers suddenly erupted between the Amazon and the Cretan warrior. Metris had caused a giant mass of buttercups and daisies to separate them, doing it in such a way that Idomeneus and his men were on one side, while she, Metris and the cart were on the other.

  ‘Metris, what are you doing?’

  ‘I’m fed up with all this silly fighting. You really ought to try resolving your problems some other way. Come on, let’s take these back to the theatre.’

  Bremusa and Metris hurried off, pulling the cart behind them, leaving Idomeneus and his hirelings still trying to fight their way through a wall of flowers.

  Aristophanes

  Aristophanes mopped perspiration off his brow. The heat was oppressive in the covered backstage area.

  What’s keeping Hermogenes? Where’s Isidoros? He should be reciting by now.

  Outside in the theatre, there were murmurings. The audience were becoming restive. They didn’t like to be kept waiting, not when the temperature was so high. A lot of festival wine had already been consumed. That could make an audience receptive. It could also make them hostile.

  Hermogenes burst into the room. ‘Isidoros can’t go on.’

  ‘What? Why not?’

  ‘You’d better see for yourself.’

  Aristophanes followed his assistant into the next room, up a flight of stairs, and along a corridor. There, in one of the dressing rooms, he was not that surprised – having already worked out that this was the most likely cause of the problem – to find Isidoros lying on a couch in a drunken stupor. The playwright looked at his prone figure with disgust.

  ‘Didn’t he promise he wasn’t going to do this?’ Aristophanes rounded on Hermogenes. ‘You were meant to keep him sober!’

  ‘I can’t do everything! He was fine when I last saw him.’

  The famous lyric poet opened his eyes and raised a limp hand in greeting to the playwright. ‘Aristophanes. You’re always criticising Hyperbolus. But he’s a fine man. Very liberal with the wine. Always ready to give a man an amphora or two.’

  With that, Isidoros closed his eyes and began to snore.

  ‘Now what do we do?’ cried Aristophanes. ‘We can’t start the play without our penises and we don’t have Isidoros to entertain the crowd while they’re waiting.’

  ‘You’ll have to stall,’ said Hermogenes. ‘Get out there and make excuses to the audience.’

  ‘What sort of excuses?’

  ‘You’re the creative genius,’ said Hermogenes. ‘I’ll see if there’s any sign of the old phalluses arriving.’

  Hermogenes hurried off. Aristophanes made his way pensively back along the corridor and down the stairs to the side of the stage. He felt his spirit wilting. It was all very well for Hermogenes to talk about stalling. An Athenian audience was not that easy to stall. Particularly at the end of the day, when they’d already worked themselves up by watching two comedies and drinking heavily. Anyone walking out on stage with bad news was liable to get hit by a well-aimed onion. The Athenian audience could turn nasty very quickly.

  Some of these people will have drunk enough wine to sink a trireme by now, he thought. Wine is a curse. It should be outlawed.

  He took a deep breath and walked out on stage. Already the murmurings of discontent were growing as the audience realised the play wasn’t going to start on time. Aristophanes emerged through the skene, the small wooden building at the back of the stage, and made his way forward. The noise coming from the crowd was growing. The theatre was built to seat twelve thousand people, and there were more than that crammed in today, with some sitting in the aisles, and others standing at the back.

  Aristophanes gazed out at the vast crowd, hoping to see a few friendly faces. Unfortunately, the only faces he could see were those of Hyperbolus, Euphranor and their friends, gathered near the front of the auditorium, no doubt for the purpose of heckling the production. He walked to the front of the stage. The heat was still intense.

  ‘Citizens of Athens! There has been an unfortunate delay —’

  That was as far as he got before the first jeers started. It struck Aristophanes that after all he’d done for the city, they might have been a little more tolerant, but apparently not. He could feel sweat trickling uncomfortably down his neck.

  ‘We’re not quite ready to begin, and our esteemed poet, Isidoros, is currently indisposed —’

  This produced a great deal of mocking laughter. Isidoros’s reputation was well known.

  ‘— but we’ll be starting soon. Quite soon. It’s hard to say when exactly, but not too long, I would say. Almost certainly it will be not long from now…’

  Aristophanes knew he was babbling. Hyperbolus and his claque started booing, which put him off further. A few pieces of fruit began to land on the stage.

  ‘Aristophanes is making fools of us!’ cried someone. One of Euphranor’s many paid flunkies, most probably.

  ‘Booooo!’

  The barrage of fruit began to intensify. The combination of the heat, the tense atmosphere in the city, and the efforts of Hyperbolus and Euphranor to ridicule Aristophanes threatened to make events spiral out of control in record time. Aristophanes wouldn’t be the first dramatist to be chased out of the Theatre of Dionysus Eleuthereus. He looked round desperately for assistance, hoping that Hermogenes might appear with news of their reserve phalluses. There was no sign of him. More vegetables began to appear onstage, including a cabbage, which could be a lethal weapon if thrown by an Athenian who’d been hardened on the battlefield.

  Aristophanes tried to stall for time. ‘Meanwhile, we’ll be entertaining you with… eh… eh…’ Unfortunately, he didn’t know what they’d be entertaining them with.

  ‘Booooo! Booooo!’

  The crowd started a slow handclap. While their emotions were unusually intense, they did have cause for complaint. The city granted certain playwrights the honour of showing their work at the festival, and they had months to prepare their plays. The least the city might expect in return was that the playwrights should be ready on time. It was highly unusual for there to be such a long delay, and the audience didn’t like it at all.

  The slow handclap was one of the most humiliating moments of Aristophanes’ life. He was on the verge of fleeing the stage. Fleeing the city, perhaps. An onion caught him in the ribs, making him wince. Hyperbolus and the agents he’d distributed around the audience were now roaring at the top of their voices, mocking Aristophanes and calling for him to be expelled from the competition. He looked round desperately for inspiration, and found none.

  ‘We’ll be… we’ll be…’

  ‘We’ll be entertaining you with a performance from one of our most promising young lyric poets – Luxos of Piraeus!’ cried Luxos, rushing on to the stage, his lyre in his hand.

  Aristophanes looked at Luxos wildly. Fruit and vegetables continued to rain down. He turned to the crowd. ‘Indeed! A performance from one of our most promising young poets. Please welcome Luxos!’

  With that, Aristophanes fled the stage. In the wings he crashed right into Hermogenes. Hermogenes raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Luxos? You’re going to let him go through with it?’

  ‘What else could I do?’

  ‘They’ll kill him.’

  ‘Rather him than me.’ Aristophanes shuddered.

  They turned to peer out from the wings, carefully keeping themselves hidden while Luxos faced the hostile crowd.

  ‘I really don’t think this is a good idea,’ said
Hermogenes.

  ‘I didn’t make him invade the stage. Anyway, he wanted a chance to perform to an audience, didn’t he? Now he’s got one.’

  The audience were now even more hostile. A performance from an unknown young poet was not what they’d come here for. Standing in front of the huge crowd in the amphitheatre, stretched out in a great semicircle all around him, Luxos looked tiny. And very shabby, Aristophanes suddenly noticed, with a pang of sympathy.

  ‘Isn’t that Luxos the oarsman’s son?’ shouted someone in the audience.

  ‘What does he know about poetry?’

  ‘Booooo! Booooo!’

  An onion flew over Luxos’s head, missing him by inches. Aristophanes was expecting him to flee, and wouldn’t have blamed him. The young poet held his ground, even striding forward to the front of the stage. He raised his lyre, took a deep breath, and addressed the audience in a surprisingly strong, clear voice.

  ‘Fellow Citizens of Athens – this is a poem I wrote about the Goddess Athena.’

  Pallas Athena, glorious child of almighty Zeus

  Righteous, blissful and blessèd goddess

  Striding over mountains,

  through groves and caverns

  Rejoicing in mastery of sword and spear

  Fierce in battle,

  Strengthening weak mortal souls

  With the terrible spirit of the Furies

  Athletic maiden

  Free from marriage

  You wrath descends on the wicked

  And your wisdom on the good

  Raging destroyer of Gorgons and joyful Mother of the Arts

  Mistress of wisdom

  Master of strategy

  Male, female, natures combined

  Shapeshifter