‘I thought he looked nice. Did you notice how nice his hair was? And he had nice eyes too.’
‘Stop saying “nice”. Nothing about him was nice.’
‘I hope we meet him again. He looked nice.’
Aristophanes and Luxos
Aristophanes was trying to sort out some problems in the chorus’s second-act choreography when young Luxos bounded into the rehearsal space, looking eager. Aristophanes left the chorus in the hands of Hermogenes and went over to talk to him.
‘Stop grinning at me in that offensive manner. What happened on your mission?’
‘I measured both your rivals’ phalluses. Leucon and Eupolis’s are much bigger. Good working order too, from what I could see. There’ll be some mighty erections on stage when they get going. Might be some sort of new record.’
The playwright scowled. It was bad news. Their producers were providing them with enough money for props, despite the hardships in Athens.
‘It’s because their plays are so bland. They get money because they never offend anyone. Damn them.’
Aristophanes hunted around for some coins to pay Luxos for his work. He noticed the young poet was still smiling. Aristophanes, burdened by worry, found this mildly irritating.
‘What are you so happy about?’
‘I’m in love.’
‘You’re always in love.’
‘This time it’s the real thing!’ gushed Luxos.
Aristophanes’ irritation increased. As if Luxos’s unceasing attempts to break into the refined world of Athenian poetry weren’t annoying enough, he was always falling in love as well, and he liked to talk about it.
‘Weren’t you already in love with Phryne the courtesan?’
‘That was only a passing fancy.’
‘You wrote a hundred-line elegy to her.’
Luxos brushed this aside. ‘I may have felt some temporary attraction. But this is the real thing. She’s the most beautiful girl in Athens!’
‘Really? How much does she charge?’
‘She’s not a courtesan!’
‘What’s her name?’
Luxos looked confused. ‘Eh…’
‘Where’s she from?’
‘Eh…’
‘Did you even talk to her?’
‘No,’ admitted Luxos. ‘But we shared some significant eye contact. I tell you, it’s the real thing.’
There is the heat of Love,
the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover’s whisper,
irresistible — magic to make the sanest man go mad.
‘I’ve never thought you were that sane, Luxos. And don’t quote Homer at me.’
Aristophanes looked down at Luxos, who was not tall. At the sight of his smiling face, his shaggy blond hair and eager blue eyes, he felt his irritation growing. Athens was suffering and this young fool was going around smiling, telling people he was in love with a girl he’d never even spoken to.
‘Shouldn’t you be doing something useful, like rowing a trireme?’
‘Can I bring her to Callias’s symposium?’
‘Of course not. Can’t you get it into your head you’re not invited? If you show up at Callias’s drinking party he’ll have you brutalised by the Scythian archers.’
‘But she’s really pretty. I’m sure you’d like her. And I can recite my poetry while I’m there.’
‘Enough, Luxos. I need to see the prop-maker and get him to make our phalluses bigger somehow.’
‘Are they really that important?’
‘Of course. If Eupolis has bigger and funnier penises, why would the jury vote for my play?’
‘Because they’d still be in a good mood after I’d recited some great poetry before your play! Let me have that spot, it’ll really help you.’
‘I’ve already asked Isidoros.’
‘Isidoros?’ Luxos was aghast. ‘He’s an awful poet.’
‘He’s popular.’
‘That doesn’t mean he’s any good.’
There was something in that, but Aristophanes had had enough. He had too many problems to indulge Luxos’s flights of fancy. Already he could see his rivals being lauded at the festival while he was disparaged. Mocked, even. His plays had brought him many enemies. They’d like nothing better than to see him mount a shabby production and be derided by the audience. The Athenian audience could be very critical. The rough proletarian mass of Athenian oarsmen would not stand for an inferior comedy. Fruit and vegetables had been thrown. Aristophanes’ blood ran cold at the thought of his chorus being pelted with fruit.
The sun was climbing rapidly. The sheltered rehearsal space would soon be baking hot.
‘Luxos. I almost admire your ambition. And your relentless optimism. But can’t you understand that no one in Athens is ever going to listen to your poetry? 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. Give it up. It’s hopeless. It’ll only make you unhappy. Here’s the money I owe you. Now go back to the docks where you belong, and try and make something of your life there.’
For the first time, Luxos seemed to understand what Aristophanes was saying. The light in his eyes dimmed a little. Aristophanes handed him his money, then returned to his choreography.
Bremusa
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.