‘I can beat any man here at cottabus!’ yelled Eupolis.
Aristophanes wasn’t going to decline a challenge like that. ‘I’ll take you on!’ he roared.
Cottabus was a popular after-dinner game. Players had to fling the dregs of their wine at a small statue, attempting to knock it from its perch so it fell into a saucer below. They did this while reclining on their couches. After an evening of drinking, it could be a challenging task. On Callias’s orders servants bustled in, setting up the stand with the tiny statue on top.
‘Watch this!’ cried Aristophanes, in the general direction of Socrates. ‘It takes a fine eye and a steady hand to win at cottabus. If you’re a dramatist of unusual skill, that helps too.’
Aristophanes made short work of Eupolis, knocking the statue from its perch with deadly aim while his opponent flailed around hopelessly.
‘Much as he does in the theatre!’ yelled Aristophanes, very amused. Nicias was too statesmanlike to play, but General Lamachus was always up for a challenge. He put up more of a fight but Aristophanes saw him off too, before scoring another fine triumph over some young man he hadn’t been introduced to, a lover of Callias’s, possibly. He was a good-looking youth. Far too good-looking for Callias, thought Aristophanes, but when you were as rich as he was, you could buy all the handsome lovers you wanted.
Aristophanes was looking round for more opponents when he was interrupted by a voice he’d rather not have heard.
‘And now, our special entertainment of the evening — lyric poetry from Athens’ favourite up-and-coming young poet, Luxos!’
Luxos, having introduced himself, appeared on the small stage, holding his cheap lyre.
‘I know I didn’t invite him,’ said Callias. ‘Aristophanes, is he a friend of yours?’
‘I’ve never seen him before.’
‘Throw the scoundrel out!’ cried Eupolis. But Callias, full of wine and keen to recline after dancing far too vigorously for a man of his age and bulk, didn’t seem to mind.
‘Oh, let him recite, I need a rest anyway.’
Luxos’s youthful face lit up. Against the odds, he’d succeeded. He was finally going to be able to recite his poetry to an influential audience. Aristophanes chuckled. Luxos was a young scoundrel, but if he was willing to make that much effort, perhaps he deserved his chance. As his female companion looked on, rather adoringly, people noticed, Luxos began to recite:
Immortal meadows of many-coloured flowers
welcome in their embrace —
And at that moment there was an almighty commotion as the door burst open and Alcibiades arrived. Alcibiades, the most famous, most controversial, loudest, wealthiest, wildest young man in Athens, marched into the dining room with a garland of flowers askew on his head, an entourage of young aristocrats and prostitutes in his wake.
‘Callias, you dog!’ he roared. ‘You think you can have a drinking party without Alcibiades? Hand over a cup of wine and let’s get this party under way!’
Immediately the room degenerated into chaos as the wealthy youth of Athens took over. Suddenly it was full of dancing girls, dancing boys and roaring young drunks, standing on couches, yelling, laughing and singing. Everyone was swept up into the celebration. Only Socrates held back, remaining in his place on his couch, quietly observing. He noticed Luxos on stage, still holding his lyre. Realising that he could no longer be heard, and no one was paying any attention to him, the young poet looked forlorn. Metris took his hand and they watched the drunken revelry for a few minutes before disappearing offstage. Luxos trudged away like a reprimanded schoolboy, his eyes on the ground, his shoulders slumped in misery.
Alcibiades’ face, normally handsome, was flushed red from drinking. ‘Aristophanes!’ he yelled. ‘Are you putting me in your play this year? I’ll be disappointed if you don’t!’
Aristophanes smiled and nodded. He wasn’t putting him in his play. When someone was that keen to be mocked on stage, it wasn’t that much fun doing it.
‘Time for the procession!’ yelled one of Alcibiades’ friends.
‘Everybody outside!’ cried Alcibiades.
Aristophanes did enjoy a good after-party procession. Led by Alcibiades and Callias, everyone grabbed hold of torches, filled up their wine cups, slung their cloaks over their shoulders and headed outside to parade through the dark streets; not an uncommon event after a riotous symposium like the one they’d just attended.
Aristophanes was still in a fine mood. Some drinking, some dancing, a few victories at cottabus — life felt much better. Looking at his problems now, they didn’t seem too bad.
So, my producer is a miser. Eupolis and Leucon have more money to spend. Do they have my talent? Of course not. Once I’ve ironed out a few problems with the choreography I’ll have a play fit to win any Dionysia.
He marched along with a torch in one hand and a cup of wine in the other, bawling out one of his favourite drinking songs.
That Callias, he’s not such a bad soul really. Fat fool, of course, and tardy with the wine, but generous in the end.
When it came to the chorus, Aristophanes noticed that no one was joining in. That was odd. It was a popular song, recounting Athens’ great victory at Salamis. He looked around and realised he was on his own. Somehow, in the darkness, he’d wandered away from the procession. He looked at his cup of wine. It was empty. His torch flickered and went out. He felt a chill breeze blowing through his summer cloak. His good mood vanished with the wind. Now he felt drunk, but not pleasantly so. He realised he’d been fooling himself about his play being nearly ready. It wasn’t. The play was a shambles. Again he had an alarming vision of being booed off stage by angry Athenians. An overwhelming depression settled in. He felt lonely and far from home. He needed rest. He needed sleep.
He didn’t need, or expect, a large man with a bronze breastplate to appear from nowhere, with a sword in his hand.
‘Aristophanes?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Me. I’m here to kill you.’
Bremusa
Bremusa withdrew into the shadows as a noisy torchlight procession approached. A great group of revellers, mainly drunken men, with a few women behind them. She realised they must have come from the symposium at Callias’s house and she wondered why Aristophanes wasn’t with them. As the procession passed her, a voice from a house nearby shouted for them to be quiet and stop disturbing the peace. The leader of the procession hurled back some cheerful abuse and started up another raucous song. Bremusa remained hidden till they’d gone, then hurried on.
It was worrying that Aristophanes hadn’t been with his companions. She sensed that something bad was about to happen and picked up her pace. She ran round another dark corner and suddenly came upon Aristophanes and Idomeneus. Idomeneus had a sword in his hand. Aristophanes was fumbling for something at his belt. Perhaps he thought there was a blade there, though there wasn’t. Then he fell over.
So much for Athens’ greatest comic playwright, thought Bremusa. Too drunk to find a weapon or even stay on his feet.
She sprinted forward, unsheathing her sword.
‘Step back, Idomeneus.’