The Goddess of Buttercups and Daisies (2 page)

The Trident had once been the busiest and merriest tavern south of the acropolis. While the wealthy citizens of Athens entertained themselves at their symposiums, the poorer citizens went to Polykarpos’s. It was cheerful, noisy and profitable. Polykarpos was an excellent landlord and he’d made the Trident into a welcoming retreat for friends, acquaintances, travellers, prostitutes, singers, dancers, drinkers and anyone else who needed a cup or two of wine after a hard day’s work. Athens was a hard-working city. The citizens believed in it. They strove to improve it. They were entitled to their leisure.

Decline had set in some years ago. As the war dragged on, and the city suffered, so did the tavern. For the first few years, citizens had maintained their optimism. People might grumble as they were called up into the army, but they put on their hoplite armour, picked up their shields, and went away to serve loyally, believing in the promises of the politicians and orators. For a while, these promises came true. Athens already ruled a large maritime empire and at first it seemed they were going to get the better of the Spartans. Then came the reverses. The war started to go badly. The Spartans marched over from the Peloponnese and began destroying Athenian lands. Athenian colonies took the opportunity to revolt and stopped paying taxes. The city’s income began to shrink. The Trident was no longer such a happy place.

Each year the situation had become worse. After ten years of fighting, Polykarpos was fortunate to serve a few customers a day. Those who did arrive barely had the money for a small cup of wine. Even if they had, the Trident often had little to sell them. Like everything else, wine was in short supply. Athenian vineyards had been destroyed, and there was precious little coming in through the port at Piraeus.

The elderly citizen Methodios appeared through the front door. Polykarpos hadn’t seen him for a while, though he used to be a regular. He mended fishing nets down at the harbour. He took out a small silver coin and asked for a jug of wine.

‘Business picking up?’

Methodios scowled. ‘What business? I’ve got no workers left. Every young man in Piraeus is rowing a warship. Even the slaves were freed so they could be recruited. There’s no one left to mend fishing nets. The only reason I’ve got a coin to my name is because I was called up for jury duty.’

A young prostitute, momentarily hopeful at the appearance of a customer, looked away, disappointed.

Methodios sighed as he sipped his wine. ‘I fought the Persians. Desperate times, but they weren’t as bad as this. How long can it go on for?’

The landlord didn’t reply. Athenians had been asking that for years, and no one had an answer.

‘Some Spring Festival this is going to be,’ muttered the old net-mender.

‘Maybe something will come of the peace conference.’

‘Not likely, from what I hear.’

Polykarpos had noticed a change in attitude among his customers recently. All of them had been involved in the war in some way or another. A few years ago, there had been no talk of peace. That might have been seen as bowing down to the Spartans, which they would never do. Now, people weren’t so sure. Even when news came in of the powerful Athenian navy destroying Spartan settlements, it wasn’t greeted with the same enthusiasm it once had been. The Spartans, after all, were busy destroying theirs.

‘It might help if our own politicians could agree among themselves,’ said Polykarpos.

Methodios snorted as he sipped his wine. ‘Damned politicians. Only interested in lining their own pockets. I hate them.’

Luxos rose, poked his head out the window, and smiled.

‘It’s a beautiful morning. Good day for writing poetry.’

He busied himself with breakfast, which didn’t take long as the only food available in his tiny dwelling was a small scrap of stale bread, hardly enough for a child’s snack. Luxos, however, was used to going without food. In the poor part of the city, many people were hungry these days. Luxos’s poverty was more extreme than most, but he had an optimistic nature and was sure something would turn up. He was nineteen, orphaned, and apparently without prospects, but he had belief in his own abilities, and a great faith in the Goddess Athena.

He addressed his stale piece of bread, quoting a few lines from Archilochus:

Luxos washed down the stale bread with his last remaining mouthful of cheap wine.

I can really feel things turning my way. I’m sure Athena is going to help me any day now.
 

He put on his worn sandals and his ragged chiton and set off into the sunshine to see what he could find.

General Lamachus met with General Acanthus far outside the city walls, away from prying eyes. With the Spartan delegation already in Athens for the peace conference, it wasn’t so strange for an Athenian general to be talking with a Spartan, but their business was private. Acanthus sat erect on his horse, his red cloak and long hair easily identifying him as a Spartan. Lamachus’s cloak was blue and his hair was short, but the Athenian cavalryman didn’t feel they were really so different.

‘What’s the mood among the Spartan delegation?’

‘Still undecided. But I suspect they’re leaning towards voting for peace, and signing the treaty. What about Athens?’

‘The same.’

There was a pause. They looked back towards the walls. The spring sun was overhead, already hot.

‘I don’t want that to happen,’ said the Spartan general.

‘Nor do I.’

‘It won’t take too much for me to persuade the Spartans not to sign.’ Acanthus looked pointedly at Lamachus.

‘I don’t control the Athenian delegation,’ Lamachus told him. ‘There has to be a vote in the assembly. A lot of people want peace.’

The Spartan sneered. ‘Athens pays too much attention to the people.’

‘I know. But there are ways of influencing them.’

Aristophanes could still remember the pride he’d felt when he first walked up the Pnyx to take his seat with the rest of the citizens in the Athenian assembly. He was eighteen, and old enough to vote on public matters. It was a proud moment. A decade or so later, his enthusiasm had dimmed. Allowing every adult male citizen to discuss and vote on every decision was excellent in theory, but it hadn’t rescued them from ten years of war.

Even though his plays had made him a well-known figure in Athens, Aristophanes wouldn’t have claimed to have much influence in the assembly. You needed a very loud voice to sway the crowd.

A loud voice, and a lack of scruples,
thought the playwright sourly
,
as he watched Hyperbolus haranguing the assembly. Hyperbolus, a lamp-maker by trade, was the extreme democrats’ new hero. Aristophanes loathed him.

‘Nicias and his peace-loving friends are traitors!’ roared Hyperbolus, shaking his fist. ‘Anyone wanting to make peace with the Spartans is a coward! The rich people of Athens would rather cosy up with the Spartans than give the poor people of Athens their fair share of the wealth.’

Many citizens shouted their approval. Nicias, elderly now, sat with a dignified look on his face.

As Hyperbolus carried on, Aristophanes nudged Hermogenes, who sat beside him in the open-air assembly.

‘Is this oaf ever going to stop speaking? We’ve got work to do.’

‘I don’t see us getting to rehearsals any time soon,’ whispered Hermogenes. ‘Nicias is going to make a reply.’

Aristophanes groaned. ‘The dignified but stumbling oratory of Nicias. We’ll be here all day.’

‘He’s not such a bad orator,’ said Hermogenes. ‘Not many laughs, but he makes his point.’

‘Eventually, I suppose.’

Aristophanes yawned. With the sun blazing down, and the effects of last night’s wine still not fully out of his system, he was finding the assembly more than usually irksome.

‘It’s not like we’re going to come to any sort of decision today anyway.’

Hermogenes nodded. There was no clear majority either way, and neither the speeches of Hyperbolus nor Nicias would dramatically change things. Eventually the assembly came to an end without taking a vote, and the citizens trooped back down the hill, dissatisfied. Aristophanes and Hermogenes headed towards their rehearsal space.

‘I hate Hyperbolus.’ Aristophanes sounded bitter. ‘I’d write another scene attacking him if it didn’t make me feel cheap even mentioning him. Kleon was despicable, but at least he was coherent. Vaguely intelligent too. Hyperbolus is just a loud-mouthed thug.’

Hermogenes shrugged. Aristophanes looked at him suspiciously.

‘Did you just shrug?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Why?’

‘No reason.’

They walked on. Aristophanes felt a nagging unease. ‘I really don’t see why you shrugged. Did you just shrug again? What’s with all the shrugging?’

‘Nothing.’

‘There must be something. No one keeps shrugging for no reason.’

‘Maybe I don’t view Hyperbolus quite as badly as you.’

Aristophanes came to an abrupt halt. ‘What?’

‘Maybe I don’t think he’s all bad. All right, he is a loudmouth. Probably a thug, too. That doesn’t mean everything he says is wrong.’

Aristophanes was aghast. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You mean you support him?’

‘Not exactly. I just don’t think he’s as bad as you make out. So he accuses some of the wealthy citizens of being Spartan sympathisers. That’s not that hard to believe, is it? It’s not like they’ve got the best interests of the common oarsman at heart, is it?’

‘I’ve never heard such nonsense!’ cried Aristophanes. ‘These people aren’t trying to prolong the war because they’ve got the best interest of the common citizen at heart! They’re just after profit and glory.’

‘Some of them, perhaps. But the democrats were the ones who got decent pay for the oarsmen, and my father was in the navy.’

‘What use is decent pay if everyone’s farm is destroyed, and all the young men die in battle?’

Aristophanes and his assistant glared at each other for a few seconds. They’d worked together for several years. Normally, it was a good working relationship.

‘We should get to rehearsals,’ said Aristophanes.

They walked on. Aristophanes fumed briefly over the argument, but quickly forgot about it while considering the problems he’d been having in rehearsals. His new play was called
Peace
. Aristophanes was keen for it to entertain the audience at the festival, and even keener for it to win first prize.

It didn’t take long for things to go wrong. Aristophanes was telling his lead actor, Philippus, that he’d rewritten the opening speech – largely due to Philippus’s inability to deliver the original properly – when his assistant Hermogenes bustled up, looking worried.

‘Aristophanes! There’s a problem with our penises!’

‘What?’

‘They’re too floppy!’

Aristophanes took a step backwards. So did Philippus.

‘Speak for yourself,’ said Aristophanes.

‘I’ve never had any problem,’ said Philippus.

‘I mean our onstage phalluses! Look!’

He pointed to the small rehearsal stage, where the chorus was assembling, some already wearing their masks, some still carrying them. Each was wearing a simple rehearsal robe but they all had on the standard comedy phallus, an obligatory accessory for the Athenian comic chorus. Some hung down about twelve inches, others eighteen.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘The big ones won’t erect properly!’

Aristophanes hurried over to the chorus. They already had problems with just about every aspect of the production. The last thing they needed was a phallus malfunction.

‘Let me see.’

The actors in the chorus pulled the internal drawstrings that made their penises go erect. It was a classic move in comedy. All playwrights used it. A good Athenian comedy needed huge penises going up and down at regular intervals.

Aristophanes frowned. The twelve-inch phalluses were standing up fairly well, but the eighteen-inch models were drooping hopelessly. It made for a sorry sight. There were times when a droopy phallus was the right thing for your comedy, but they had to be able to stand up when required. Everyone knew that.

‘What’s the matter?’ Aristophanes was irate. ‘Who made these?’

‘Normal prop workshop. But they say they can’t get the correct materials. The war…’

Aristophanes clenched his fist. ‘Damn these Spartans. And damn these politicians who won’t make peace. Now they’re ruining my chorus’s phalluses.’

‘Well,’ said Philippus, ‘the smaller ones’re not too bad, they’re standing up all right.’

Aristophanes waved this away. The smaller penis was only twelve inches long.

‘I can’t send my chorus out with only twelve inches dangling in front of them. The audience will jeer them off the stage. I’d be ridiculed. Did you see the size of Eupolis’s last year? When his chorus turned round they almost decapitated the front row. Look, Hermogenes, these just won’t do. Tell Leon in the prop department we need them bigger and better. And harder.’

‘We don’t have any money for materials. The props department is already scavenging around for scraps.’

Aristophanes could feel his fists clenching tighter. His production had been starved of money from the outset, thanks to the Dionysian drama committee giving him the producer from Hades.

‘Dammit! A soon as Antimachus was assigned to us, I knew there’d be trouble. He hates me. Eupolis gets Simonides as his producer, and Simonides is rich. My rivals are awash with money and I’m struggling with inferior phalluses!’

By now he was shaking with anger. ‘If I don’t win first prize for comedy this year there’s going to be trouble. Tell our so-called – our prop designer —’

Aristophanes was interrupted by a tug on his tunic. As he turned round his face fell.

‘Luxos? Who let you in here?’

‘Hello, Aristophanes. Would you like to hear my new poem?’

Aristophanes sighed. Luxos was nineteen, the son of an oarsman. He wanted to be a poet. Zeus only knew why.

‘I don’t have time right now, Luxos.’

‘But it’s my new poem about the Battle of Salamis!’

‘What would you know about Salamis?’

‘My grandfather fought there.’

‘Did you consider following him into the navy?’

Luxos looked a little downcast. He was a pretty young boy, but he wasn’t athletic.

‘They said I was too weak to pull an oar. Won’t you listen to my poem?’

‘I’m too busy.’

‘But I want to be a lyric poet.’

‘Where’s your lyre?’

Luxos looked embarrassed. ‘It’s… being repaired.’

Aristophanes glared at Luxos. It wasn’t the first time the putative young poet had interrupted his work. Aristophanes would have thrown him out of the theatre if they hadn’t both been members of the Pandionis tribe. That did bring certain obligations. You were meant to be civil to fellow members, and help them out if possible. However, while Aristophanes did occasionally farm out some lyric writing to his staff, neither he nor anyone else was ever going to trust Luxos to write poetry for them, with his effeminately long, tousled hair, his obvious poverty, and his lack of training. He was wasting his time.

Luxos sensed his thoughts. ‘No one will give me a chance. Just because I’m the son of an oarsman…’

‘Face it, Luxos, few great Athenian writers have come from families of rowers. You weren’t even educated.’

‘I educated myself! How about giving me the poetry spot before your play starts?’

Before the comedies were presented at the festival, it was customary for one of Athens’ great lyric poets to entertain the crowd with a few well-chosen pieces, to get them in the mood. As with everything connected with the festival, it was an honour to be selected.

‘Luxos, before my actors walk onstage, the crowd will be entertained by one of Athens’ great poets. Does that include you?’

‘Yes!’

‘Only in your own mind.’

‘But I could do it if I got the chance.’

‘Come back in a few years when you’ve made your reputation and I’ll consider it.’

‘It’s not fair,’ said Luxos.

‘We’ve been at war for ten years. Nothing’s fair any more.’

Aristophanes turned away. Behind him, Luxos had started reciting, but he wasn’t listening.