Near the harbour, the surroundings were less pleasant. There were beggars on the streets and the air smelled of rotting fish. The houses were small and ramshackle, and what temples there were seemed badly in need of repair.
Metris spotted Luxos sitting on a small hillock. She smiled at the sight of his thick, tousled hair. Who had hair like that? No one she’d ever seen. She could sense his sadness. He was playing his lyre, and though his playing didn’t quite compare with the music of the water nymphs, which was so beautiful it could lure a man to his death, it was heartfelt and moving. Metris could see the sad aura emanating from Luxos as he sat on his own on the dusty ground. She walked up to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. His tunic was so threadbare she could feel his skin through the fabric.
‘You’re sad.’
He nodded. ‘No one will listen to my poetry.’
She sat down beside him. ‘I’ll listen.’
‘Really?’
Metris had never seen such a dilapidated lyre. It was nothing like the fine instruments of the water nymphs. But the young poet knew how to play it. He recited a rather sad poem about the loss of a parent, accompanying his words with a few gentle notes.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Metris, after he’d finished.
‘Luxos.’
‘I’m Metris.’
Quite abruptly, she kissed him. The air grew warm, and a great carpet of buttercups and daisies blanketed the hillock.
‘I like your poetry.’
‘I like your flowers.’
Metris took a strand of his funny blond hair in her fingers. ‘Who could resist your poetry?’
‘The whole of Athens. Aristophanes says I’m not the right sort of person. I just realised he’s probably correct.’
Luxos had such a pretty face. Metris had never seen such a pretty youth.
‘I wouldn’t mind so much, but I’d like to have been given a chance before I get killed in battle.’
‘Battle?’ Metris was surprised. ‘Surely you don’t go to war?’
‘Everyone in Athens goes to war. Farmers, philosophers, carpenters, poets — everyone. The order comes out, you turn up with three days’ rations, and off you go.’
‘I can’t imagine you in battle. What’s it like?’
Luxos looked very troubled. ‘Terrible,’ he said, and didn’t seem inclined to describe it further.
‘Couldn’t you refuse to fight?’
The young poet was shocked by the suggestion. ‘Athens needs everyone. I might be feeble but I’m not a coward. I do my best, even if I’m not much use at it.’
Metris put her face close to his and looked into his blue eyes. ‘My warrior hero,’ she said, and kissed him again.
After a few moments, she rose daintily to her feet. She knew that Bremusa would be looking for her.
‘I have to go now. But I’ll find you again.’
Aristophanes
Aristophanes sat on a couch with Theodota, in her stately villa in the west side of town, home to all the city’s most successful hetaerae. At twenty-four, Theodota was Athens’ most beautiful and most famous courtesan. Aristophanes lusted after her permanently, and quite painfully. He desperately wished that she liked him more. The playwright had given her a lot of money in the past year. It hadn’t made much difference. They sat next to each other comfortably enough, but no one would have said they were intimate. Finely wrought earrings of delicate gold, imported from Syracuse, hung seductively on the courtesan’s ears, a present from Aristophanes, given to her only the day before. Theodota loved the earrings: she showed no sign of loving Aristophanes.
He watched as her young female servant Mnesarete poured wine for them.
‘To your beauty,’ he said, toasting Theodota.
‘To Athens,’ said Theodota.
Aristophanes had come here for a purpose other than simply lust, but once again, Theodota was not responding as well as he’d hoped.
‘Why won’t you do it?’
‘I’m afraid it’s out of the question, Aristophanes.’
‘Why?’
‘I have my reputation to consider.’
That seemed like an unsatisfactory answer. ‘Reputation? Theodota, you’re Athens’ most famous courtesan.’
‘Exactly. Why would men pay for my services if they could already see me walking around naked for free?’
‘It would really help me out.’
‘I still don’t see why you need a woman to come on stage at the end of your play and walk around naked. Isn’t that a little cheap?’
‘Cheap? You’re as bad as Hermogenes with his artistic principles. I’m not Aeschylus, you know. I’m not writing a great tragedy. I’m writing a comedy and I’m trying to win the prize for it, which means impressing a panel of judges. Five men drawn by lot, who for some reason always turn out to be the five most ignorant men in the city. And nothing would impress these ignorant judges more than Athens’ most beautiful woman walking out naked on stage.’
‘Isn’t female nudity against festival rules?’
‘We’ll give you a few pieces of string.’
Theodota laughed. When she laughed, her features lit up. It was intoxicating, even more intoxicating than her voice, which was already enough to hypnotise most of the men with whom she came into contact.
‘Sorry, Aristophanes, I’m not doing it. The Athenians don’t mind me plying my trade here as long as I’m reasonably discreet, but if I start wandering around naked at the Dionysia I’ll be in trouble.’
‘I think you might be more helpful, Theodota. I’m really struggling.’
‘Everyone’s finding it difficult these days, with the war.’
Aristophanes grunted with annoyance. ‘My rivals don’t seem to be suffering. They’ve got decent producers. Damn Eupolis and Leucon. Neither of them can write to save their lives. All you get from them is one cheap stunt after another. Are you sure you won’t appear naked?’
Theodota sipped her wine. She wore an expression Aristophanes had come to recognise, an expression that meant he wasn’t going to get what he wanted.
‘You could ask someone else. Mnesarete, for instance. She’s pretty. Good figure too.’
‘Your maid? It wouldn’t be the same.’ Aristophanes’ face clouded over. ‘I bet you’d do it for Socrates.’
Theodota rolled her eyes. ‘Not this again.’
He felt a familiar bad temper coming on. ‘Well, you obviously like him better than me.’
‘I’m not having a relationship with Socrates.’
‘You would if he asked. You probably wouldn’t even charge him. Why are all the courtesans in Athens so keen on Socrates?’
‘Why?’ said Theodota. ‘I suppose it’s because he’s intelligent and funny, and he gives good advice. He’s nice to us and treats us with respect. And he doesn’t want anything from us in return.’
‘Yes, fine. I wasn’t really looking for such a detailed answer.’
Aristophanes scowled, angered at the injustice of it. Theodota was capable of freezing out anyone she didn’t like. Her regal disdain could leave a man feeling crushed. There were famous, handsome, wealthy Athenians she’d never accept as clients, because she’d taken a dislike to them for some reason. But whenever shabby, ugly, old Socrates appeared, she just fawned over him like a little girl. It was infuriating. Damn Socrates. Aristophanes felt glad he’d made fun of him in his last play.
Idomeneus
Idomeneus entered the room upstairs in the tavern and placed a heavy bag of silver on the table.
‘I have the money from Euphranor.’
‘Is it all there?’
‘Minus the priestess’s commission.’
‘Ah, the priestess. How is Kleonike?’