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.
Aristophanes
Callias may be a fool, an easy target for flatterers and fortune hunters, who will probably divest him of his fortune one day. And he may be too keen to welcome inferior dramatists into his house. But I will give him credit for one thing. When he finally gets round to serving the wine, it’s good quality, and there’s an endless supply. Aristophanes was enjoying the role of symposiarch. The huge krater of wine in the centre of the room was emptying rapidly as each guest’s cup was filled again and again. Aristophanes called for the krater to be refilled, meanwhile ignoring all requests for the wine to be diluted, or handed round more slowly.
‘Stop complaining, you pathetic little weeds, and drink some wine. I’ve written better plays than all of you, I’ve fought better on the battlefield, and I’ve slept with more hetaerae than you. Now I’m going to show you how an Athenian can drink.’
It was not the sort of challenge his companions could ignore. After an hour or so of heavy drinking, the room was in uproar, and Aristophanes was feeling a lot better about life. He flung his arm round Socrates’ shoulder.
‘You’re not a bad chap, Socrates. Much too keen on lecturing people about philosophy, but you did fight well at Delium, and you can drink a reasonable-sized cup of wine. Talking of which, why are our goblets empty? Bring more wine! Stronger this time!’
‘Is that really a good idea?’ said Socrates.
‘Who’s symposiarch, you or me? Bring more wine!’
Aristophanes laughed as the aged Leucon, so-called comic poet, fell off his couch.
‘Ha. Can’t take his wine like us, Socrates. We’re old soldiers. We’re tough!’
Aristophanes noticed Callias was looking a little displeased. He had no idea why.
‘Perhaps it’s time for a pause in the proceedings,’ said their host. ‘I think it’s time for some entertainment.’
One end of the room had been cleared, to act as a stage. There was a fancy embroidered curtain as a backdrop, and from behind it stepped a surprisingly beautiful young woman. She carried a flute, and smiled cheerfully as she emerged.
Callias looked puzzled. ‘I don’t remember hiring her. Where’s my secretary?’
The secretary was lying drunk under a couch, unable to keep up with the company. He wasn’t the only one. Aristophanes kept sending the wine round, and several guests were finding it difficult to maintain the pace.
Two actors, newcomers to the party, shouted at Callias.
‘Can she play the flute?’
‘Let her play anyway! She’s beautiful.’
‘If you like that sort of thing.’
Metris began to play. Even though many of the guests were by now rather the worse for wear, it was soon obvious that she was a talented performer. Not only that, there was something about her that seemed to radiate good cheer. Aristophanes found himself tapping out the rhythm with his feet. His garland of flowers fell off. He jammed it back on and began to dance.
Idomeneus
Laet had informed Idomeneus that if he wanted to earn some extra money, there was now a price on Aristophanes’ head. Euphranor was offering a reward. She didn’t say how she’d learned this, but Idomeneus assumed she’d something to do with initiating it. He accepted the offer. He’d never been poor since travelling with Laet, but he wasn’t wealthy either. He used to be, centuries ago, and he still remembered that.
Before they parted he asked Laet if she needed anything. She shook her head. She rarely needed much. She wasn’t that demanding a woman. She ate little, quickly became bored by luxuries, and apparently had no sexual desire. She often preferred to remain silent for long periods. Despite their long association, Idomeneus didn’t really know what motivated her. He knew she liked to ruin other people’s lives. She’d been doing that for eight hundred years, but she’d never offered him any sort of explanation. Perhaps the semi-divines didn’t need the same sort of motivations that humans did.
For most of that time, Idomeneus of Crete had been her bodyguard. Or servant, perhaps, though that’s not how he liked to think of himself. He’d been a military leader, back in his natural life span. He didn’t serve anyone. But when a man had his life extended by such an amount, he was prepared to do a few things he’d rather not do.
Last week Idomeneus had killed two men who’d tried to waylay them on their way to Athens. He ran each of them through in an instant. He’d never lost his fighting skill. Afterwards he couldn’t understand why the robbers had thought they could attack them.
Why did they think they could rob me? I wouldn’t say I looked like an easy target. Perhaps they were driven on by Laet’s beauty. Maybe they thought they could take her as a prize. Fools.
Or perhaps Laet made them do it. When she extended her powers, people did act in ridiculous ways. It might have been her idea of a treat for her bodyguard. She knew he liked to see action every now and then.
Idomeneus had learned that Aristophanes had been invited to a symposium at Callias’s house. He took directions and made his way there, though progress was slow. The night was dark and he had to conceal himself several times from the groups of Scythian archers who policed the streets at night. As an alien in the city, he knew they’d be suspicious of him, large and heavily armed. He finally made it to the street with the statue of Apollo holding a flute. He knew he was close to Callias’s mansion and settled down to wait. At some point Aristophanes was going to emerge, and Idomeneus was going to kill him.
Aristophanes
When the girl finished playing her flute there was a lot of applause, and a lot of laughter at those individuals who, moved to dance but too intoxicated to keep up, had collapsed on their couches, or underneath them. Aristophanes’ mood had transformed. Why was he worrying? He was the best comic dramatist in Athens. He was the best poet. He wrote the funniest scenes. Was anyone going to defeat him in a contest? Let them try.