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.
Luxos
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.