The Goddess of Buttercups and Daisies (6 page)

There was a small shrine close to the harbour, rarely used, through which Bremusa could communicate with the goddess. Furious with Metris for her lies, the Amazon left her trailing in her wake as she hurried towards Piraeus.

What am I going to do now? Metris was meant to locate Laet, and then dispel her bad energy. It turns out she can’t do either. I knew she was an impostor.
 

Their plan having failed at the first obstacle, Bremusa had no idea how to proceed. She’d fought in many battles but she’d never been a good tactician. Generally she’d left strategy to others. She turned left at a crossroads marked by the Herm statues that were everywhere in Athens. Little square columns, with a head and a penis. She wondered if Messenger God Hermes liked them.

I’ll have to ask him next time I see him.
 

The road to the unused shrine ran over a rough area of shingle next to the shore, vacant save for some children playing in the distance. Bremusa halted to take her bearings, trying to remember the directions Athena had given her.

‘Hello, Bremusa,’ came a male voice. Bremusa jumped. Having left the mortal realm hundreds of years ago, she hadn’t been expecting anyone to address her by name. She spun round to find herself staring at a man she’d never forgotten, or forgiven. A tall, sturdy man, with a black beard, wearing a bronze breastplate of a design which had not been seen in this world for a very long time.

‘Idomeneus!’

He bowed. ‘Indeed. Idomeneus of Crete. I never thought I’d meet you again, Bremusa of the Amazons. How long has it been?’

Bremusa placed her hand on the pommel of her sword, watching him warily. ‘Almost eight hundred years.’

‘Really? Is it that long since the war at Troy?’ Idomeneus laughed. He had a deep, earthy, intimidating voice. ‘You managed to flee just before I killed you.’

‘I’ve never fled from battle, Idomeneus of Crete.’

They stared at each other, both in their archaic armour, on a quiet rocky beach, relics from the past.

‘What are you doing here? And how have you lived so long?’

Idomeneus drew his sword. ‘I could ask you the same. But I think I’d rather just finish what I started at Troy.’

Bremusa drew her sword. Idomeneus stepped forward, and they fought. On Olympus, Bremusa had not neglected her training, but she’d had few occasions to use a sword in anger. Growing up as a young Amazon warrior, she was fighting all the time. Her life depended on it. These days, she wasn’t as sharp.

Idomeneus had been a commander, a man who led his troops into battle. He’d killed many opponents. He’d even engaged in combat with the mighty Hector, and lived to tell of it. He was a fearless and skilful warrior. He forced Bremusa back. The shingle beneath their feet was poor footing, shifting and sliding as she desperately parried each of his thrusts. Unlike their ancient encounter before the walls of Troy, neither of them carried shields, making their fight even more hazardous. Bremusa knew she couldn’t allow him close. His blade, swung with such strength, would cut right through her leather armour. It didn’t need to be a lethal blow; a wounding strike would be enough to create an opening for him to kill her.

Though she was forced back, the Amazon felt no fear. In battle, she never had. Hard-pressed as she was, she still looked for opportunities to attack, and her blade almost made it through Idomeneus’s defence, making him pause. His expression changed as he remembered that Bremusa the Amazon was also a dangerous opponent.

Bremusa was a tall woman, but Idomeneus towered over her. As she stepped backwards, parrying another stroke, she felt her heel brush against an overturned rowing boat. She’d noticed this before, and was expecting it. She nimbly hopped backwards onto the wooden boat, raising her eighteen inches or so and giving her a height advantage. When Idomeneus rushed forward she slashed downwards with all her might. Her blade almost evaded his guard and actually cut into his beard. Idomeneus, uninjured but humiliated, roared with anger and attacked even more violently. At that moment, the rotting timbers of the elderly rowing boat gave way and Bremusa sprawled backwards onto the stony beach.

Her situation was now desperate. She was close to death on several occasions as she struggled to rise while blocking her opponent’s sword. She’d almost made it back to her feet when they were interrupted by a woman’s laugh. It wouldn’t have made Bremusa stop fighting but, to her surprise, Idomeneus took a step backwards. He didn’t lower his guard, but did turn his eyes to the newcomer. Bremusa risked a sidelong glance. She realised she no longer had to search for Laet. The female who strolled to Idomeneus’s side could be no one else, because she was obviously not quite human.

Laet was tall, like the Amazon. Her robe was as finely spun as anything seen on Mount Olympus, but darker, and it clung to her figure in a way that might have made Aphrodite envious. She glanced at the broken timbers.

‘You shouldn’t have jumped on that old boat. The timbers were bound to give way. But people do seem to make bad decisions when I’m around.’

She turned to Idomeneus. ‘Idomeneus, we’re trying to remain discreet. Is it necessary for you to fight this woman?’

‘She’s an Amazon. I hate Amazons. I’d have killed her at Troy, if she hadn’t suddenly vanished when my spear was at her throat.’

‘Really?’ Laet regarded Bremusa with her coal-black eyes. The pallor of her skin suggested she was rarely exposed to sunlight, or even daylight.

‘You fought at Troy?’

‘I did.’

‘But you disappeared from the field of battle? Presumably you were saved by some god?’

‘By the Goddess Athena.’

‘Ah. I see. Have you been with her ever since?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I assume the goddess has now sent you here to look for me?’

That,
thought Bremusa
, was rather astute.
Not wanting to show she was impressed by her deduction, she didn’t reply.

‘No doubt Athena fears I’ll wreck the peace conference.’ Laet smiled, not pleasantly. ‘She’s right.’

Incongruously, she yawned. Bremusa felt insulted.

‘Come, Idomeneus. I’m tired. There are children playing nearby and that always gives me a headache. I don’t find this Amazon very interesting. You can kill her another time if it really bothers you.’

They walked off up the shingle beach towards the city. Bremusa watched them go. She suddenly realised how fatigued she was from the battle, under the sun, in her leather armour. Her skin was caked with perspiration.

Two children ran screaming in front of her, pursued by their female attendant. She was a stern-looking woman who scolded her charges, both around eight years old.

‘Plato, Xenophon, stop fighting! Can’t you behave better in public? Stop staring at the foreign woman and come with me.’

They departed, young Plato and Xenophon still scuffling with each other. Bremusa turned round and hurried towards the shrine. She urgently needed to talk to the Goddess Athena.

There were two shops in Athens which sold beautiful, expensive lyres, instruments good enough for a professional to play on stage. There were several stalls in the agora that stocked instruments of slightly lesser quality, the sort that wealthy young men might use while for playing music with their friends. Close to the harbour, there was Straton’s junk shop which sold the cheapest instruments in the city. That was where Luxos had bought his lyre. It wasn’t a high-quality instrument. He wasn’t even sure that it was made from genuine turtle shell. Nonetheless, Luxos loved his lyre, and had taught himself to play, copying the musicians he saw performing at the gymnasium. A true Greek poet recited his poetry to the accompaniment of the lyre, and Luxos had learned how to do it, without instruction.

Not far from the junk shop was Lysander’s pawn shop, current location of Luxos’s lyre. He’d been ashamed when he pawned it to buy food; as ashamed as a man throwing down his shield when he fled from the battlefield: he’d only done it after fainting from hunger. Like many people in Athens, Luxos was very poor, and unlike most, he had no family to fall back on. As a young orphan the community, his deme, had fed and cared for him, after a fashion, but after he reached the age of eighteen he was on his own. It would have been difficult at the best of times. With Athens in the state it now was, he was struggling to survive. For a while he’d tried to earn money by singing and playing on the street, but no citizen in Piraeus had much money to spare for street performers. He tried playing in some of the wealthier areas uptown, but the Scythian archers chased him away.

Now, with Aristophanes’ money, he hurried to reclaim his lyre. He was happy and excited to retrieve his instrument, but as he left the shop, he remembered what Aristophanes had said. No one would ever listen to his songs or his poetry. Previously Luxos had ignored all criticism, banished all discouragement, but for some reason the words struck home. He looked around at Athens, and for the first time it seemed like an unfriendly place. There was something different in the air. He couldn’t say what, but he could feel a great cloud of depression settling over him.

Luxos the poet trudged home, to the abandoned shack behind the great dockyard where triremes were constructed. There he sat and played his lyre. This cheered him a little, but he kept hearing Aristophanes’ words:
You don’t come from the right class. You weren’t educated like a gentleman. You never had a proper teacher. You don’t have a patron, or any influential friends.
It was all true. The sons of the wealthy citizens of Athens were schooled in literature, philosophy and rhetoric from a young age. Luxos wasn’t. Those same wealthy young men had influential friends to call upon should they ever wish to see their lyrics or poetry performed in public. Luxos knew no one influential.

His shoulders slumped. For as long as he could remember, he’d dreamed of striding out onto the stage at the great theatre and performing for the whole of Athens. Now he wondered if that would ever happen. Perhaps Aristophanes was right. Perhaps no one would ever be interested in his poetry.

Aristophanes knew that Philippus wasn’t happy. He was a good actor but he’d never been able to reconcile himself to being successful only in comedies. He could put a funny line over like few others in Athens, but somewhere in his mind there was the thought that, really, he should have been a serious dramatic player, taking the leading role in one of the great tragedies of Sophocles or Aeschylus. Aristophanes found it difficult to sympathise. It wasn’t as if being a successful comic actor hadn’t brought Philippus success. He’d won plaudits on numerous occasions, in his plays, and in others’. People still talked of his hilarious performance in Aristophanes’ production last year,
The Wasps
. He had plenty of admirers, and a good reputation throughout the city. It should have been enough, in Aristophanes’ opinion.

Actors. They’re never satisfied with what they have.
 

It was no surprise when Hermogenes told him that Philippus was complaining.

‘He’s always complaining. What’s wrong this time? Not enough olives in his dressing room?’

‘It’s the dung beetle. He doesn’t like it.’

Aristophanes followed Hermogenes across to the rehearsal stage where Philippus, in mask and costume, was sitting astride a giant dung beetle. This beetle was one of their few successful props, constructed to look rather humorous. It was brightly painted, with a smiling expression and a fat, funny body. By means of the stage crane, it could be hoisted into the air and made to fly over the stage. It could even be swung over the front rows of the audience, which was quite a spectacular effect. When Philippus used his giant phallus as a rudder to steer the flying beetle, it was going to get a huge laugh. Even the stagehands found it funny, and they were generally a hard group to please, having already seen most things.

Philippus slipped his mask up over his head. ‘Aristophanes! Are you sure this scene is necessary?’

‘It’s our big opening.’

‘I don’t like it.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s undignified.’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘I’m flying a gigantic dung beetle!’ cried Philippus. ‘How much more undignified could it be?’ He glared down at the playwright. ‘I am a serious actor, you know.’

‘You’re flying up to heaven to ask the gods to end the war. What could be more serious than that?’

The scene was a parody of the well-known story of the hero flying to heaven on the winged horse Pegasus. Aristophanes’ play started off with Philippus feeding the beetle more and more dung, till it was large enough for him to mount. His family questioned his sanity, but Philippus claimed to be the sanest person in Athens. He was sick of the war, and he planned to visit the gods, and ask them to end it.

‘Pegasus flying to heaven was serious,’ said Philippus. ‘This is farcical.’

‘Exactly!’ cried Aristophanes. ‘But I’m not really getting it from your performance. Try pulling on your phallus a little more when you’re steering. Get it waving around so the audience can see it.’

He left Philippus muttering about the time he’d been the lead actor in
Oedipus
, and what a mistake it had been to ever get involved with the crude comedies of Aristophanes.

‘He’s always the same,’ said Aristophanes to his assistant. ‘Always wants to be taken seriously.’

‘He’ll be fine once the crowd starts applauding. That always works like magic. Did you manage to squeeze any more money out of our choregos?’

‘I’m afraid not. Antimachus won’t cough up.’

Hermogenes shook his head. He was a few years older than Aristophanes, and he’d been in the theatre all his life. ‘It’s unusual for a producer to starve his production of funds. Being chosen as choregos is meant to be an honour.’

‘That’s what I told him, but it was no use. He’s still annoyed because I mildly lampooned him on stage.’

‘You grossly insulted him,’ said Hermogenes.

‘I wasn’t to know he had no sense of humour. I’ve grossly insulted most important men in the city, they don’t normally hold a grudge.

‘Kleon prosecuted you.’

Aristophanes scowled. That had been quite an affair. The leader of the pro-war faction had taken his revenge by prosecuting him for impiety. The playwright had been fined, and it could have been worse.

‘I’m sorry to say this about a fellow Athenian citizen, but I was relieved when he was killed last year.’

‘You weren’t the only one,’ said Hermogenes.

Many people thought that with Kleon gone, it might be easier to bring the war to an end, particularly as Brasidas, the Spartan war-leader, had also died in battle.

‘I really thought we’d make peace when they were both killed,’ said Aristophanes. ‘It was a great opportunity. But there seems to be no limit on how foolish the citizens of Athens can be. Kleon was a warmonger but Hyperbolus is even worse. Why do people listen to these demagogues?’

They paused for a while to watch the chorus go through the dance steps that introduced the last act of the play. Aristophanes had choreographed a very funny sequence involving a lot of phallus twirling, none of which seemed to be working out very well. The chorus was often a problem. They weren’t professionals, just honest citizens recruited for the festival. It often took some time to whip them into shape.

‘I think there’s more to it than just Antimachus hating me. He told me that certain important people don’t want me writing a play that promotes peace.’

‘I can guess who these certain important people are.’ Hermogenes frowned as two members of the chorus got their dance steps wrong and collided with each other. ‘Are you sure you want to insult Hyperbolus in this play? He’ll be in the audience with his supporters. It could lead to trouble.’

‘Hyperbolus is scum. He needs to be insulted.’

‘I wouldn’t exactly say that he was scum,’ said Hermogenes.

‘I can’t believe you’re still defending him!’ cried Aristophanes.

‘I come from a family of sailors. We’ve always supported the democratic faction.’

‘Can’t you see he’s nothing more than a self-serving loudmouth?’

‘I can see that he helped distribute food to the poor when the rich men of Athens weren’t doing much to help.’

Aristophanes and Hermogenes glared at each other. The argument might have gone further had not both realised that the last thing they needed was more friction in the rehearsal room.

‘Just keep me out of the court case. I have four children to support.’

Aristophanes didn’t know Hermogenes had four children. He had a vague memory he might have been at the birth celebrations for some of them.