‘Just say something clever if you see me reaching for my weapon.’ Aristophanes chuckled. ‘“Reaching for my weapon”. Rather a good line. Must remember it. Audiences always love a good double entendre.’
Socrates laughed too. In the past, he’d appreciated Aristophanes’ clever wordplay. ‘Like when your actor playing Euripides was hunting for an argument in his bag, saying he was going to pull out something “strong and meaty”?’
‘That was a good one! The audience roared.’
‘They did. Though the real Euripides looked rather grim, as I remember.’
‘Well, he has a poor sense of humour. Just look at his plays.’
Aristophanes walked on. The streets were still quiet. The morning bustle would start soon, though the morning bustle in Athens was not what it had been. There used to be a scramble for the best places in the agora. Merchants and their servants could be seen at all hours, vying for the best spot. That didn’t happen now. There weren’t enough goods to sell.
Round the next corner Aristophanes ran into Hyperbolus. He tried to ignore him but Hyperbolus stood in his way. He was a large man, strong, and heavily bearded.
‘Hyperbolus? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be practising your shouting?’
Hyperbolus glared at him. ‘Aristophanes, you make me sick. You and your rich friends. You can’t stand it that an ordinary man like me has some influence in this city. You’d like to go back to the time when rich people ran everything.’
‘I’d like to go back to a time when Athens wasn’t run by self-serving buffoons.’
Even when he wasn’t addressing the assembly, Hyperbolus had a very loud voice. It boomed out over the quiet streets. ‘If you keep insulting the city that way, you’re going to be in trouble.’
‘For such a determined democrat, Hyperbolus, you’re not very keen on considering other people’s views.’
‘Not if their views are traitorous.’
‘Hoping for an end to the war isn’t traitorous.’
‘It is if it means giving in to these filthy Spartans.’
By now they were almost nose to nose. Hyperbolus was a far larger man but Aristophanes didn’t intend to back down.
‘I’ve fought for Athens more times than you have, Hyperbolus. But it’s time to end this war. You and General Lamachus like conflict. It’s good for your careers. Everyone else is sick of it.’
‘Everyone else is sick of you, you and your vile, unpatriotic, insulting plays. I’m warning you, Aristophanes, if you keep harping on about peace there’s going to be trouble. What’s your new play called?’
‘Peace.’
‘Then I predict trouble.’
Socrates
Socrates usually exercised in the morning. At forty-nine, he was still a strong man. He’d grown up as a stonemason, helping his father hew rocks, and since then he’d never neglected his health. He left the Lyceum with friends, Menexenus and others. Not teaching, though talking, as always, of philosophy.
‘I just don’t understand this,’ said young Menexenus. ‘You say knowledge is contained inside people? And learning is merely a process of remembering? I can’t see that at all.’
Socrates nodded as they passed beyond the boundary of the Lyceum. He was fond of young Menexenus, an Athenian of good character. They paused under the three olive trees, a familiar landmark.
‘I could demonstrate my meaning, if someone with little knowledge appeared,’ said Socrates.
Abruptly there was a dull thud, followed by a cry of pain. The philosopher and his followers looked round to see a figure sprawled in the dirt, comically spreadeagled, face down.
‘It’s young Luxos,’ said Menexenus. ‘He’s fallen over that small twig.’
‘Perfect,’ said Socrates. ‘Luxos, would you care to help me with a demonstration?’
A young woman in an unusually short dress was bending over Luxos, soothing his hurt and helping him to his feet. The young poet clambered upright, embarrassed at his display of clumsiness so close to the training grounds. Luxos generally avoided the city’s gymnasiums, not being very good at any sort of physical activity.
‘Not right now, Socrates,’ he said. ‘We’ve come to you for advice.’
There was a general lack of interest in this from the group, though Socrates paid polite attention.
‘We thought you might be able to help,’ said the girl, and smiled.
Socrates nodded. ‘Does Luxos want to know how to get his poetry heard by the Greek masses?’
‘Oh,’ said the girl, and looked impressed. ‘You really are wise.’
‘The subject has come up before.’ Socrates smiled.
Nearby there was the sound of discuses landing, thrown by athletes in the Lyceum. Metris, rather cleverly, had by now manoeuvred them a few paces back from Socrates’ companions, where they could talk without being overheard.
‘I don’t think I can help you,’ said Socrates. ‘I would if I could, but I can’t see any way for you to attract a rich sponsor.’
‘Are you going to Callias’s symposium tonight?’ asked Luxos.
‘I am… rather unwillingly…’
‘Could you get me in?’
Socrates pursed his lips. ‘Callias is not that enlightened when it comes to inviting penniless poets to his drinking parties.’
Luxos was immediately disheartened. ‘It’s so unfair.’
The philosopher turned to Metris. He noticed the small flute she wore on a string around her neck.
‘Can you play that flute well?’
‘I can.’
Socrates lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Well, you could sneak in the servants’ door at the back and pretend to be the entertainment.’
Luxos’s face lit up. ‘That’s a brilliant idea! Once I’m in there I’m bound to get a chance to recite some poetry. I’ll get a sponsor in no time. Thanks, Socrates!’
Socrates nodded. ‘Don’t tell anyone I suggested it,’ he whispered, then went on his way.
Hyperbolus
Hyperbolus, as a strong supporter of Athens’ democratic faction, could not enter the Pegasus barber shop, where Euphranor the weapon-maker conducted most of his business. Similarly, Euphranor, a conservative, would not have been welcomed in the back room of the tavern on the edge of Piraeus where the important democrats met to discuss their affairs. So they met on top of the acropolis, outside the Parthenon, where anyone might be. For a place to hide in plain sight, it was ideal. The Parthenon was renowned as one of the finest buildings in the world. Everyone met there at some time, even political enemies. There was nothing suspicious about them exchanging a few words.
Neither liked the other. In past times, Hyperbolus had castigated Euphranor in front of the whole assembly, accusing him of exploiting the workers who toiled in his armoury, and using his wealth to bribe politicians. For his part, Euphranor had bribed politicians to lay into Hyperbolus, blackening his name, spreading rumours about him and paying people to vote against him. Now they were allies, supporting the same cause. They both wanted the war to continue. It suited them to put aside their differences for a while.
‘I don’t like the way things are going,’ said Hyperbolus. ‘It was a step forward when the peace conference broke up, but there’s still a lot of pressure to end the war. I particularly don’t like the way everyone is talking about Aristophanes’ play. You know it’s called Peace?’
‘It’s just a play,’ said Euphranor. ‘Is it that important?’
‘Who knows? It might be the thing that tips the balance.’
‘Antimachus is his choregos. He assured us he’d sabotage it. He hasn’t been giving Aristophanes any money.’