The Goddess of Buttercups and Daisies (9 page)

Luxos and Metris watched as two slaves carrying amphoras of wine entered Callias’s house via the alleyway at the back.

‘I’ve never seen such a big house,’ said Metris.

‘Richest man in Athens, so they say.’

Another wagon-load of supplies trundled past. Seeing the size of the house, the stream of luxury goods being carried inside, and the number of slaves and servants in attendance, Luxos and Metris took a step back, temporarily intimidated.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Luxos.

‘We can outwit them.’ He marched confidently along the alley, his lyre in his hand. ‘The party will be full of influential people and I’m going to give them some poetry they’ll never forget.’

The door at the back was opened by a servant, a woman well-versed in keeping out freeloaders. Her face set grimly at the sight of Luxos and Metris, as likely a pair of freeloaders as she’d seen for some time.

‘What do you want?’

‘Flute player, dancer and poet reporting for duty,’ announced Luxos. ‘Part of tonight’s entertainment.’

The servant eyed Metris. With her pretty face and a flute round her neck, she could be a hired musician. As for Luxos, she wasn’t convinced.

‘You’re a dancer?’

‘Yes. And a talented poet to boot.’

‘Poets,’ grunted the servant, in a tone which suggested she wasn’t a devotee. ‘The house is already full of them.’

‘Old-fashioned, past their prime, no doubt. I’m here as part of the new generation.’

‘And to fill yourself up with as much food as your stomach will hold, I expect,’ said the servant, shrewdly. She was on the point of refusing them entry when she noticed Metris smiling at her. There was something about the nymph’s smile that was hard to resist. It felt as if she was transferring some primal form of happiness.

‘Fine. Come in. Entertain the crowd. But keep out of our way in the kitchens.’

At the edge of the agora, Laet pointed out the Altar of Pity. ‘Rather an important shrine.’

Idomeneus was unimpressed. ‘It looks like a useless old piece of rock. Why is it important?’

Laet stood beside the ancient altar, examining it carefully. It was worn down, so eroded with age as to be almost featureless. ‘It’s the place of last resort. Athenians come here when everything else has failed. When you’ve been to all the temples, and asked every god for help, and your hope has gone, you can come here. There’s no special prayer to say. No particular offering has to be made. You just ask for pity.’

She placed her hand above the small altar. ‘Can you feel it?’

‘Feel what?’

‘All the desperate pleas of Athenians down the ages.’

Idomeneus couldn’t feel anything. He remained silent. Laet’s eyes glinted. She laid her hand on the altar. There was a sharp crack as it split in two and fell in the dust. Without another word, she walked away. Idomeneus hurried after her.

‘Did you just destroy the Athenians’ last hope?’ he asked, catching up with her.

‘I believe so.’

‘Isn’t that more than Kleonike asked you to do?’

‘Probably. It’s never really wise to engage my services. If people are foolish enough to do so, they must live with the consequences. I do like to do a very thorough job. Which reminds me – Aristophanes now has a price on his head, if you’re interested.’

There were torches on the porch, illuminating the entrance to Callias’s house, and rows of oil lamps inside. Few people could afford to burn so much lamp oil these days; Callias was not averse to displaying his wealth. Aristophanes trudged inside in the wake of Eupolis and Leucon, whom he’d met in the street outside. He’d managed to remain civil, though if it had been a longer street, he’d probably have started an argument.

Callias greeted them in the hallway. He was a stout man, though not outrageously so, given his enormous fortune and healthy appetite. His parents and grandparents were important Athenians, statesmen with rich connections to the silver mines. Callias wasn’t a statesman, or even a renowned man of business. He was mainly known for spending money.

Though he does still have some aspirations to be regarded as a thinker, reflected Aristophanes, noticing the statue of Solon the Wise in the hallway. I’ve seen him hanging round Socrates, pretending he knows what the philosopher is talking about.

‘Eupolis! Leucon! Aristophanes! Our three comic geniuses! You honour me by coming to my house. I do hope none of you are going to satirise me this year!’

Aristophanes imagined he’d like nothing better than to be lambasted from the stage. It was a sort of fame; even a mark of honour. At least it meant you were important enough to be talked about. Politicians didn’t enjoy it, but a man like Callias would take it in good part. Cleisthenes, a well-known Athenian with many theatrical connections, always laughed uproariously when Aristophanes mocked his effeminacy.

Callias led them through into his main dining room, which was vast, and illuminated by more oil lamps than any of the diners had ever seen lit at one time in a private dwelling.

‘I know you’ll have us all laughing after we’ve eaten!’

Eupolis and Leucon laughed easily in Callias’s company. That was the right thing to do. There was no sense in not laughing with the rich man when you were in his house, eating his food. Unfortunately for Aristophanes, he was in too poor a temper to join in.

‘Are they serving wine yet?’ he asked, but no one heard him. Callias was spluttering at some joke from Eupolis. Eupolis was young, like Aristophanes. He’d started in the theatre early, like Aristophanes. They had a lot in common. Aristophanes was disliking him more every minute.

There were over a dozen couches in the dining room. Callias’s symposium was on a larger scale than most. Some of the guests who’d arrived early were reclining together on the couches, some were still standing. Socrates was there, in the corner, sitting quietly. Servants were bringing in platters of food, meat and fish, and Callias was bragging about how he’d personally visited the market that day, to make sure only the best produce was used.

‘I’ve hired the finest cook in Athens! You won’t believe what he does with pastry. Eupolis, I met Simonides at the market, he’s your producer this year, isn’t he? He was buying a huge amount of paint from that new Theban stallholder, was that for your scenery?’

‘Yes, we’ve got a lot of expensive decoration going on,’ replied Eupolis. ‘I had to hire three new painters this week.’

‘Is there a wine shortage?’ demanded Aristophanes. ‘Some people could really use a drink.’

No one heard him. He decided to take matters into his own hands. It was polite to wait till everyone arrived, and the correct ceremonies had been conducted, before you started drinking, but Aristophanes wasn’t in the mood for ceremony. He cursed Callias under his breath as he headed for the kitchen.

What sort of fool invites playwrights to their house and doesn’t give them wine as soon as they arrive?
 

As Aristophanes entered the kitchen there was a commotion going on. The newly hired chef was shouting at someone. Chefs were notoriously temperamental.

‘You young ruffians. Have you been stealing my food?’

Aristophanes looked beyond the chef to where two young figures were looking rather guilty: Luxos and a young woman he’d never seen before. Pretty girl, he noticed, though rather embarrassed at the moment, probably because of the loaf of bread poorly concealed about her person.

‘Luxos! What are you doing here?’

‘I’m part of the entertainment!’ said Luxos.

‘Entertainment?’ cried the chef. ‘They’ve been stealing from the kitchen! I’m going to have them arrested.’

Aristophanes shook his head. Luxos was annoying, of course, and apparently not above pilfering food, but he didn’t want to see him locked up. If nothing else, he’d done good work on the spying mission. And he was a fellow member of the Pandionis tribe, unfortunately.

‘It’s all right. The eh… entertainers… are entitled to a meal. I’m sure Callias said it was fine.’

‘Well, get them out of my kitchen,’ roared the chef. ‘I’ve got enough to do without looking out for thieving flute players and hungry poets.’

Luxos and the girl wasted no time in fleeing the kitchen. Aristophanes pursued them into the hallway.

‘What’s the idea of forcing your way into this house?’

‘We’re the entertainment,’ said Luxos.

‘No you’re not! Depart immediately or people will think I invited you. They know we’re in the same tribe.’

With the kitchen now hostile territory, thanks to the imbecilic Luxos, Aristophanes was forced to return to the dining room, still without a goblet of wine. He cursed under his breath. He should have known to fortify himself before setting out.

General Lamachus and the statesman Nicias were reclining on adjacent couches. Nicias looked far older than the general, though the age difference could only have been seven or eight years. The general was a tough, grizzled man who led by example on the battlefield, and showed no sign of his powers diminishing with the passing years. Lamachus had his opponents, and Aristophanes didn’t like him, but no one could ever accuse him of hanging back when there was fighting to be done, or sending others to die in his place. He leaned over to speak to Nicias.

‘I hear you couldn’t get the Spartans back to the negotiating table.’

‘I couldn’t get anyone back to the negotiating table. The Athenians are acting just as badly as the Spartans.’

‘I wouldn’t say we were acting badly. We’re simply not ready for peace. What’s wrong with that?’

‘What is wrong is that it will destroy the city.’

‘Really? I’d say we’ve had the upper hand in the fighting recently.’

‘Recently?’ said Nicias. ‘Perhaps. But it wasn’t long ago that the war was going badly. Then we’d have been pleased with an honourable peace. But as soon as things improve a little, Athens starts thinking maybe we can win the war.’

Aristophanes nodded absently. What Nicias said was true. The phenomenon had been commented on widely enough. When the Athenians gained an advantage, they didn’t want peace. They wanted to press on with the war. Soon enough, the Spartans would gain the advantage. That made the Athenians think that peace might not be such a bad idea, but by then, the Spartans were no longer willing to negotiate. The cycle kept repeating, as it had for the past decade.

‘If we don’t make peace now, we’ll both be destroyed,’ said Nicias. Aristophanes didn’t hear the general’s reply, being diverted by the sight of Leucon and Eupolis sharing a couch. For rival playwrights, they made a show of getting along well. When the titles of the comedies in this year’s Dionysia had been announced –
Peace
by Aristophanes,
The Flatterers
by Eupolis, and
The Clansmen
by Leucon – his two competitors had made a great show of wishing each other luck. Aristophanes loathed all his rivals so comprehensively that he could hardly imagine wishing any of them luck. Callias bustled over and motioned for him to take the next empty couch.

‘I’m sure you three comedy writers have a lot to talk about! I’m hoping Euripides will be here soon, you know he’s presenting a tragedy this year.’

Euripides was a famous, if controversial, figure. Neither Eupolis nor Leucon seemed impressed by the prospect of his attendance.

‘I don’t set a lot of store by today’s tragedies,’ said Leucon.

‘Neither do I,’ agreed Eupolis. ‘The standard has gone down dreadfully in the past few years. I’ve always thought that comedy is much harder to do.’

‘I do agree! The common citizen doesn’t realise how hard it is to make people laugh.’

Aristophanes gritted his teeth. He was starting to think the wine was never going to arrive. He ignored the couch next to the playwrights and joined Socrates on his.

‘I hate these theatrical types.’

‘That must make your life awkward,’ said Socrates.

‘Has Callias got something against drinking?’

‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘He hasn’t served any wine yet. I’d have thought you’d have noticed that, being such a famous intellectual. What’s the delay? The man owns his own vineyard, dammit.’

‘He’s probably just waiting for our garlands; look, here they are now.’

Four young men appeared in the room with garlands of flowers for each guest to wear. They were pleasant garlands, fresh and colourful. As the guests put them on their heads there was general appreciation shown towards their host. Callias beamed.

‘And now it’s time choose our symposiarch.’

The symposiarch acted as toastmaster for the evening, and decided how strongly the wine should be mixed.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Aristophanes, immediately.

Callias looked at him, and then round at the others.

‘Any other volunteers?’

‘I said I’ll do it!’ Aristophanes turned to the nearest servant. ‘Bring the wine and make it strong!’

The moon was obscured by clouds and the night-time streets were very dark. Even with her superior night-vision, Bremusa couldn’t see far in front of her. She wondered where Metris had got to.

Probably still hanging around with that moronic young poet. I never thought much of nymphs and this has confirmed my opinion. If the Goddess Athena sends you on an important mission and the first thing you do is become infatuated with a juvenile poet with too much hair and a poor work ethic, what does that say about your character? Not much. But nymphs are like that. No sense at all.
 

She halted, peering around her, trying to get her bearings. What was she doing here anyway?

I don’t know how to defeat Laet. If Athena had allowed me to kill her, I might have had a chance of succeeding. Now it’s hopeless. I have no clever plan. I’ve never had a clever plan.
 

The depression that had been gnawing at Bremusa since she arrived in Athens began to grow. She felt like a stupid, ancient, uneducated woman, a relic from the past, blundering around in a city she didn’t understand, surrounded by poets, artists and philosophers with whom she had nothing in common. Now she was meant to protect Aristophanes, another task she didn’t relish.

I loathe the theatre. I don’t understand why people want to sit and watch people pretending to be other people. What’s the point? I was born underneath a horse, on the way to battle. We didn’t have theatres.
 

The Amazon bumped into a statue of a naked man throwing a discus. She glared at it.

I don’t like their statues either. Or their paintings. The whole city is degenerate. I wouldn’t care if Sparta destroyed it.
 

She scowled. ‘Wait till I get my hands on Idomeneus. I’d have beaten him at Troy if my foot hadn’t slipped. I’ll make him sorry. And Metris too. What’s the matter with her? If my mother had caught me hanging round a young poet when I was her age, she’d have chopped my head off.’

Bremusa carried on, her mood worsening all the time.