The Goddess of Buttercups and Daisies (14 page)

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 Theodota’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.’

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.’

It was Socrates.

‘My heart is broken,’ announced Luxos. ‘Metris isn’t allowed to talk to me any more.’

‘Who isn’t allowing her?’

‘The Goddess Athena.’ Luxos looked defiantly at the philosopher. ‘I expect you think I’m crazy for saying that.’

‘No, I believe you.’

‘You do? Oh.’ Luxos was pleased, but then his face fell. ‘Athena says Metris has to help with important work. She can’t see me any more.’

The young poet’s brow furrowed, and he began to look angry. ‘It’s outrageous. After all the prayers I’ve offered up to the goddess. And all the daisies I’ve left at her altar!’

A beautiful dark-haired woman appeared behind the street performers. Laet gazed at Luxos.

‘I’m going to have revenge,’ said Luxos to Socrates. ‘I’ll make Goddess Athena regret ruining my romance. I’m going to write a really mean poem about her.’

‘That’s your plan?’

‘Yes.’

Socrates looked at Luxos, slightly raising one eyebrow.

‘Why are you looking at me like that? Athena deserves to have a nasty poem written about her.’

Socrates continued to look at Luxos. Luxos stared down at his feet. He shifted uncomfortably under Socrates’ gaze.

‘Maybe it’s not such a great idea. I’ll probably just get cursed or something. And then I’ll never see Metris again. But what else can I do? I can’t do anything except write poetry.’

In the background, Laet had worn a faint smile, but it was fading as Luxos stood in deep thought.

‘Do you think maybe it would be a good idea to write something nice about Goddess Athena?’ he asked Socrates.

Socrates smiled.

‘Of course,’ said Luxos. ‘You’re right. I’m going to write a really great poem about Athena! Then she’ll let me see Metris again!’

Luxos hurried off enthusiastically, turning to call back to Socrates. ‘Thanks, Socrates. You’re a really wise man!’

The street performers were making a human pyramid, juggling hoops as they climbed on top of each other. Idomeneus joined Laet. He gazed at the departing Luxos.

‘That didn’t go quite as expected,’ he said.

Laet narrowed her eyes, displeased.

‘Socrates’ rationality triumphs over your baleful influence,’ said Idomeneus.

Laet smiled, quite cruelly. ‘Let Socrates have a few small triumphs. Athens will do for him in the end.’

They walked off. As they passed by the street performers Laet directed a fierce scowl in their direction. Immediately their performance went disastrously wrong and they crashed in a painful heap on the ground.

Luxos ran all the way home. He grabbed his lyre, a quill and his very last sheet of parchment. ‘I’m going to write a really great poem about the Goddess Athena,’ he muttered, and got to work.

Aristophanes was in his element. There was nothing like the bustle of a rehearsal space when things were going well. He felt that the Goddess Athena herself might have been smiling on them as they went to work that day. Now that they had the money they needed, everything was starting to go well.

‘Get that dung beetle flying up there! I want to see it swooping over the audience. That’s much better! Hermogenes, have the chorus go through the last number again, I want some rhythm! Where are my new phalluses?’

‘Just arrived. They’re huge!’

‘Do they rise properly?’

‘Like mighty oak trees!’

‘Excellent! This is more like it. I’ll show Eupolis and Leucon how to put on a comedy. Chorus, get these phalluses strapped on and wave them like you mean it!’

A second young assistant arrived in a rush. ‘We’ve just received a message from Isidoros. He got your payment and he’s prepared to take the introductory spot.’

Aristophanes nodded approval. ‘Good news. Isidoros’s poetry recital will warm up the crowd. Have you heard him recently? Sensational lyre playing. And not a bad rhymer, when he’s sober. Was he sober?’

‘His secretary assured me he was.’

‘Then let’s hope for the best.’

A third second assistant hurried over. ‘The new statues are here!’

A team of stagehands carried the new statue of peace onto the stage. It was a lightweight construction, made of wood, for theatrical use only, but it was beautifully carved and painted. The Goddess of Peace herself would have been delighted with it. If there were a Goddess of Peace, that was. Strictly speaking, there wasn’t. But there were so many divine figures in the Athenian pantheon that creating a new one for the purposes of the play wouldn’t offend anyone. As Aristophanes said, who could object to a Goddess of Peace?

‘Great statue!’ he enthused. ‘When that pops up out of the cavern the audience can’t fail to be impressed. And we’ll impress them even more when young Mnesarete makes her appearance.’

Mnesarete, Theodota’s servant, was currently wandering around the stage, semi-clad, rehearsing for her appearance at the end of the play. She was a beautiful young woman. The stagehands had expressed their complete approval.

Hermogenes frowned. ‘Is it really necessary to send on a naked young woman?’

‘Yes.’

‘It still seems cheap.’

‘Cheap? Who cares if it’s cheap? You think these idiots on the judging panel care about art?’

Annoyingly for Aristophanes, Hermogenes wouldn’t drop the subject. ‘I care,’ he said. ‘And you used to as well. I remember when you first appeared in the theatre. All you could talk about was the quality of your poetry. You used to despise stage effects. Said they were taking away from the purity of the drama.’

‘That’s when I was young and stupid. You know as well as I do that the audience is never going to be satisfied with a comedy just because it has the best poetry.’

‘I don’t know that at all. They might be. And even if they’re not, isn’t that what matters to you most? It used to be.’

Aristophanes could feel a slight throbbing in his head. The heat in the open-air rehearsal space was oppressive. ‘What matters to me most is winning the competition. I was swindled out of first prize last year and that’s not going to happen again. Now stop sounding like Socrates and help me unload these new costumes.’

They pitched in to help the stagehands who were carrying a great mass of props and costumes into the theatre. Time was now very short, and everyone was working furiously. The actors had completed their speed run that morning, racing through their lines at a furious pace in an effort to memorise them fully, and it seemed to have worked. Philippus could now deliver his opening speech quite beautifully, and he’d even stopped complaining about the giant beetle.

‘How did you pay for all this?’ asked Hermogenes.

‘Oh, I just called in a few favours.’ Aristophanes looked thoughtful. ‘Hermogenes, do you think a comedy about women ruling the city would be such a bad idea?’

Bremusa went to the private shrine to commune with the goddess. Once again, Athena made herself visible. She wasn’t in her mansion but on the slopes of Mount Olympus, in front of a small rural altar, not much more than an ancient pile of stones.

‘I’ve failed, Goddess. Laet is causing chaos. Everyone is making bad decisions. We’ll be lucky if the whole city doesn’t burn to the ground.’

‘Please don’t let that happen. When the Persians set fire to my temples it reduced me to tears.’

‘I remember. But I don’t know what to do to make things better.’

‘You have to keep trying. If they manage to hold the last session of the peace conference, who knows what might happen?’

‘I know what will happen. Laet will turn up and everyone will be at each other’s throats.’

The goddess smiled. ‘We have to hope for the best. You haven’t done badly so far.’

‘Goddess, could I really not just chop Laet’s head off? It would make everything much easier.’

‘No! I don’t think she would die from your blade, Bremusa. Even if she did, Athens would be cursed. With her spirit haunting the acropolis, the city would be doomed.’

‘Can I kill Idomeneus?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘He deserves it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because…’ Bremusa paused. She couldn’t really say why he deserved to die, though she wanted to kill him. He’d defeated her on the battlefield at Troy. It was an affront to her honour. She didn’t want to admit that to the goddess. She shouldn’t be thinking of her own desires.

‘He’s a bad person,’ she said, limply. ‘And he’s protecting Laet.’

‘You’re there to assist the Athenians make peace, Bremusa. You should avoid violence if at all possible.’

‘Would that include slapping Luxos and Metris round the head?’

The goddess laughed. ‘You always pretend you’re no good for anything but fighting, Bremusa. But that’s not true. I know you can do more.’

‘I’m an Amazon. If I don’t get to fight I get twitchy.’

‘If you need some activity, try sampling Athenian culture.’

Bremusa scowled. ‘I don’t understand culture. Even that foolish nymph knows more than me. Metris has been looking at art behind my back. She’s seen statues and paintings and processions and all sorts of things. Now I’m feeling ignorant. I’m obviously too stupid to understand culture.’

‘Perhaps Aristophanes’ comedy might serve as a gentle introduction?’

‘I have a very poor sense of humour.’

The goddess smiled. ‘Now’s your chance to develop it. If Aristophanes can make the city laugh, it might go a long way to combating Laet. So take care of him.’

Bremusa sighed. ‘I’ll try my best.’

Luxos stood alone on the beach, a solitary figure far from the city walls, declaiming to the waves. He often came here to practice. Words written down were one thing, but recitation was another. Poetry had to sound right. Here, with his lyre, facing the Mediterranean, competing with the sound of the tides and the seabirds overhead, Luxos would refine his technique, strengthening his voice, perfecting his emphasis so that the poetry flowed powerfully and gracefully. With no one to distract him, Luxos would recite for hours.

He was trying out some lines of his new poem about the Goddess Athena when he heard someone call his name. Metris was scrambling over the rocky shore towards him.

‘Luxos, I’m so glad you’re safe!’

‘Thanks, but —’

‘I had a terrible dream! I saw you dying!’

Luxos frowned. It wasn’t the best thing to hear, particularly from a nymph who might well have powers of seeing things that others couldn’t.

‘What happened?’

‘I saw you lying under a great burnt-out chariot! At least I think it was a chariot. Something with wheels, anyway. I think it might have been the future.’

‘Well, I’m safe for a while then,’ said Luxos. ‘There aren’t many chariots around here.’

‘But what if you go to war? The enemy might have chariots.’

‘The Spartans wouldn’t. I suppose the Persians might. Were there Persians in your dream?’

Metris shook her head. ‘No.’ She frowned, as if trying to piece her memories of the dream together. ‘I got the impression you were a long way away. Like thousands of miles. And maybe hundreds of years in the future. Someone said you had died.’

Luxos’s alarm ebbed away. ‘At least I’m safe for the moment.’

They sat down together. Metris carried a small canvas bag. She brought out a loaf of bread and some goat’s cheese. They shared the food on the beach, sitting close so their bodies touched.

‘Why would I be alive, hundreds of years in the future?’

‘Who knows? Bremusa and Idomeneus have managed it. Funny things happen when you meet anyone from Mount Olympus.’

The heat was still oppressive but not quite as bad on the beach, with a breeze coming in from the sea. Despite Metris’s odd premonition, Luxos’s spirits had soared when she appeared.

‘It’s so good to see you. Will this get you into trouble with Bremusa?’

‘She likes me better since I put some fires out. She gave me some time off.’ Metris delicately arranged their cheese on two slices of bread. ‘Listen, I had an idea. You told me Isidoros was reciting his poetry before Aristophanes’ play. You said he drinks a lot?’

‘He’s notorious for it.’

‘How about getting him drunk before he starts? If he was too drunk to recite, maybe there’d be no time for Aristophanes to find anyone else? Then he’d let you go on instead.’

Luxos considered the nymph’s suggestion. It wasn’t a bad plan. Isidoros was famously fond of wine. He had been known to miss performances because of it. Getting him drunk on purpose was a credible idea. It might be done. And after that, who knew? Luxos might find himself the only person capable of taking his place at short notice.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t think I can do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘It wouldn’t be honourable. I can’t harm a fellow poet.’

‘Even one you don’t like?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Metris was temporarily disappointed but soon smiled again. She liked that Luxos was honourable. She put her arm round him.

‘If you ever find yourself dying under a huge burnt-out chariot, hundreds of years in the future, I’ll rescue you at the last moment. Anyone who says you died will be wrong. Even if people think you’re dead, I’ll still save you.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘Of course. I’m a nymph. And I’m getting really close to Athena these days. She’ll probably grant me lots of new powers when she invites me to live on Mount Olympus.’