The Goddess of Buttercups and Daisies (16 page)

The Goddess Athena did not always watch the comedies at the Dionysia. They were not particularly to her taste. However, on this occasion she was observing, knowing the importance of the event. So it was that she saw Luxos on stage, and heard his poem. She watched the Athenian crowd applaud him and cheer so loudly for an encore that Luxos was obliged to recite it again. After that, he waved to the audience before retreating backstage and slumping to the floor, worn out by the stress of the occasion. Luxos had craved an audience, but he hadn’t expected his first performance to be in front of more than twelve thousand inebriated Athenians. He was thrilled that his poem had been so well received, but at the moment his legs had turned to jelly and it would be some time before he could walk again.

Aristophanes had hardly recovered from the shock of Luxos’s triumph when the strange foreign woman, Bremusa, ran into the backstage area carrying a huge box. A scenery painter who got in her way was sent sprawling. She walked swiftly towards Aristophanes and dumped the box at his feet.

‘We rescued your phalluses.’

Aristophanes could have jumped for joy, and might have, had time not been so short. As it was he wrenched open the box and screamed at all the stagehands and dressers who were milling around.

‘Strap these penises on the chorus and get them out there before there’s a riot!’

Overcome with gratitude, he grabbed hold of Bremusa and embraced her. Her body went rigid in shock.

‘Thank you for bringing them back.’

The Athenian stagehands could work quickly in a crisis. It took very little time to get the phalluses strapped on. The audience were still in a good mood following Luxos’s poem to Athena when the chorus emerged onto the stage. They went into their opening dance, huge phalluses flopping and flying in every direction. The audience cheered. Applause rang round the auditorium. It was a better start than could have been hoped for only a few minutes before.

Aristophanes noticed Luxos lying on the floor, his face still pale.

‘Thank you, Luxos.’

‘That was very stressful,’ mumbled Luxos.

‘The Athenian theatre is grateful for your efforts. The muses will reward you generously.’

Philippus, wearing the comic mask of the lead character, Trygaeus the farmer, had mounted the giant beetle. Lifted by the stage crane, he flew over the heads of the audience.

‘I’m off to heaven to visit the gods! I’ll find out why they’d abandoned us!’

On stage below, his daughter looked up in alarm.

‘My father’s gone mad!’

Trygaeus used his phallus as a rudder, steering the beetle from one side of the arena to the other. Below him, the audience howled with laughter.

‘Mad?’ he cried. ‘I’m the only sane person in Athens!’

It was rather beneath the dignity of a priestess to directly involve herself in bribery. Kleonike felt it was impious of Euphranor even to ask her. On the other hand, it did involve being paid a healthy commission. The upkeep of her temple required money, and that had been in short supply recently.

You could say that I was doing my religious duty, bringing in much-needed drachmas,
thought Kleonike.

She intercepted Mnesarete on her way into the theatre. Mnesarete was a pretty young girl. Kleonike could see that she might well impress the judges if she walked onstage naked, as apparently she was intended to do.

‘Mnesarete. About your appearance at the end of the play.’

‘Yes?’

Kleonike produced a bag of silver coins, and showed her one of them, a bright, new tetradrachm.

‘What if a sudden unfortunate headache made you unable to appear?’

Mnesarete looked at the gleaming coin, and then at the bag.

‘Now you mention it,’ she said. ‘I am feeling rather unwell.’

She held out her hand. Kleonike gave her the bag of coins.

‘I should probably go home and rest,’ said Mnesarete.

Trygaeus flew to heaven and dismounted from the beetle. In heaven – which was of course the same wooden stage he’d taken off from a few minutes before – he was surprised to find there was no one there. All the gods and goddesses seemed to have departed. Only Hermes remained.

The actor playing Hermes, in a mask less comic and more dignified than those worn by the other performers, looked imperiously down at Trygaeus as he approached. Meanwhile the chorus moved smoothly into position, ready to assist in the conversation.

‘You shameless villain!’ cried Hermes. ‘How dare you invade heaven on a giant dung beetle.’

‘I’m not a villain! I’m Trygaeus of Athmonon in Athens, an honest farmer. I’ve brought you a present!’

Trygaeus pulled some meat from his bag and offered it to Hermes, who wolfed it down rather quickly. His hostility towards his visitor visibly lessened.

‘I’m here to talk to Zeus,’ said the farmer. ‘Is he around?’

‘Is he around? You’ve come looking for Zeus? Ha! You’ve wasted your time. The gods all packed up and left.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they’re sick of you,’ replied Hermes, imperiously. ‘Sick of you Athenians, and Spartans, and all the other Greeks fighting all the time. They moved out, and they left War behind to do whatever he wants with you.

‘And can you blame them?’ he continued, declaiming loudly as he turned to face the audience. ‘Every time they gave your cities an opportunity for peace, you rejected it. If the Spartans got an advantage in battle, they’d clamour for the war to continue so they could make the Athenians pay. If the Athenians got an advantage, they did exactly the same thing. Both cities could have ended the war any time in the past decade but you were all too stubborn.’

The audience were responding well. Laughter rolled around the amphitheatre and for the first time a festive atmosphere could be felt in the warmth of the late afternoon.

Not everyone in the audience was happy. General Lamachus, seated with other notable citizens, was scowling silently. In the less prestigious seats, Hyperbolus and Euphranor were looking annoyed.

‘I don’t like the way the audience is lapping this up,’ said the weapon-maker.

‘Don’t worry,’ growled Hyperbolus. ‘There are still some surprises to come.’

On the low wooden stage, Trygaeus was still engaged in conversation with the god Hermes.

‘Surely the Goddess of Peace hasn’t completely abandoned us?’

‘Peace?’ said Hermes. ‘War took her and threw her in a cave. You’ll never see her again.’

The chorus sighed, lamenting for Greece, and singing of her continuing misfortune. Watching from the wings, Aristophanes allowed himself a tiny ray of optimism. They’d had a rocky start, but the play was now going well.

‘Wait till the audience sees our giant statue,’ whispered Hermogenes. ‘It’s going to be great.’

The rescue of the Goddess of Peace, in the form of their new statue, had gone brilliantly in rehearsal. The statue was so splendid, so noble, so colourful, so fitting for the Goddess of Peace in every way, that the sight of it being brought up from the underground cavern couldn’t fail to impress the audience. It would rise through the trapdoor as a magnificent symbol of the possibility of ending the war and restoring Athens to its former state of peace and prosperity.

At the centre of the stage Trygaeus was going about the business of rescuing Peace. He’d gathered together the men of the chorus, now representing the honest farmers and artisans of Athens. A rope had been lowered into the trapdoor.

‘Citizens of Greece, if we’re going to rescue Peace we need everyone to pull together – stop laughing at the back – get these weapon-makers and politicians out the way, we only need farmers and honest citizens here. Everyone ready? Pull!’

There was great straining and effort as they attempted to rescue Peace. The trapdoor opened slowly. The audience held their breath.

‘Here she comes!’ cried Trygaeus. ‘We’ve rescued the great Goddess of Peace!’

Peace emerged. Unfortunately, it was not the magnificent new statue as paid for by Aristophanes. It was instead the tiny, ragged doll they’d been using in rehearsal. It rose on the end of the rope, a pathetic sight, and one quite baffling for the audience. Trygaeus, caught unawares, looked at it, completely nonplussed. The chorus shifted uncomfortably, not knowing what had gone wrong.

In the stalls, Hyperbolus and Euphranor roared with laughter and took the opportunity to start booing again, their catcalls being taken up by their allies in the audience.

‘Booooo! Booooo!’

‘We hate your pathetic statue!’

‘Aristophanes is making fools of us.’

In the wings, Aristophanes and Hermogenes were open-mouthed with horror.

‘Hyperbolus and his cronies have switched our statues!’

‘It’s a disaster,’ wailed Aristophanes.

Trygaeus was an experienced actor, and used to things going wrong. Even so, this was a severe blow and one that was difficult to cope with. He did his best.

‘Eh… you see, fellow Greeks, by our combined efforts we have rescued the great Goddess of Peace – or rather this small but nonetheless impressive representation of her – but the eh… important point is, we all worked together and —’

The audience were not so easily pacified.

‘Booooo! It’s the worst prop ever! They’re too cheap to spend any money! Booooo!’

Aristophanes sprinted down the stairs to the room beneath the trapdoor. He cursed his naivety in not posting a guard there, but really, the Dionysia was meant to be a sacred occasion. He hadn’t been expecting his enemies to stoop so low as to interfere with his props.

They must have bribed the attendants to let them in, so they could send up the doll to humiliate me. If I don’t do something quickly we’re doomed.
 

The actors onstage had been thrown badly off their stride. The play was grinding to a halt and the audience were starting to jeer. At the foot of the stairs Aristophanes ran into Bremusa. It gave him a sudden inspiration.

‘I need you to pretend to be the Goddess of Peace!’

‘What?’

Above them they could hear Trygaeus fumbling for words. It wasn’t going that well.

‘I have to send something life-size up there. Get on the platform!’

‘Why me?’ said Bremusa.

‘You’re the only woman in the vicinity!’

‘I’m not doing it.’

‘You have to! If you don’t the play will fail!’

Bremusa glared at him. Aristophanes caught her on a weak point. She had been instructed by the goddess to help him. Aristophanes bundled her onto the platform and yanked the rope.

‘Take her up!’ he cried, then sprinted back to the stairs. He was gasping for breath by the time he made it back to the wings. Fruit and vegetables were again raining down but Philippus, despite his faults, was a plucky performer, one who’d faced an angry audience before. He stood his ground, and improvised as best as he could.

‘I’m sure, citizens, that the real goddess we’re just about to rescue will be a stupendous creature… Look! The cave is opening again! Here is our beautiful Goddess of Peace!’

The trapdoor opened and up came Bremusa, Amazon warrior, with a scowl on her face, a sword in her hand, and a dagger in her belt.

‘What?’ said Hermogenes, and looked very doubtful. Aristophanes, however, had a feeling that this would go well. The audience were silent for a moment. There were a few comments from the front rows.

‘I must say, she’s very life-like.’

‘Where did they get that costume? It must be eight hundred years old.’

‘Why is the Goddess of Peace carrying so many weapons?’

‘Is it meant to be satirical?’

‘I think it’s funny.’

It was funny. As the Goddess of Peace, in armour, with a sword in her hand, scowled out at the audience, looking like she might cleave anyone in two if they annoyed her, the audience began to laugh. The absurdity of it fitted the tone of the play, so much so that Aristophanes wondered if it might have been a better idea to go in that direction from the beginning.

He turned to Hermogenes. ‘We’re getting away with it… for Zeus’s sake, get the play moving before we lose the audience again. Is Mnesarete ready to go on?’

‘She’s disappeared.’

‘What?’

‘She’s gone. I think someone might have bribed her to leave.’

Aristophanes glared at Hermogenes. ‘Do you have to give me bad news every time you open your mouth? What sort of assistant are you?’

‘It’s not my fault.’

‘Of course it’s your fault. You’re my assistant! You should have known that Hyperbolus and his cronies might bribe Mnesarete. Unlikely though it may have seemed at the time. What are we going to do now? ‘

Aristophanes cursed, very loudly. What was the world coming to if you couldn’t trust a prostitute?

Luxos the Poet lay on the ground, happy but drained. Metris the nymph was kneeling beside him. She put her face close to his.

‘Your poem was so good! The audience loved you.’

‘I feel weak,’ mumbled Luxos.

‘I’ll make you better,’ said Metris. She kissed him. Luxos felt strength returning to his limbs.

‘Won’t this make Athena angry again?’ he said.

‘How could she mind, after your beautiful poem?’

They kissed again, quite oblivious to the whirlwind of theatrical activity happening all around, as characters rushed on and off stage, and props were carried here and there. Onstage, the chorus was going through one of their dance routines, and the audience were cheering and clapping along.