‘Something went wrong,’ said Euphranor. ‘Aristophanes survived.’
‘Whose fault was that?’
‘The assassin’s, I suppose,’ said the weapon-maker.
‘Where did we hire him?’
‘Through the priestess Kleonike.’
Hyperbolus scowled; he looked fierce, with his shaggy black hair and beard. It was an expression he often wore while speaking at the assembly. ‘So we’re depending on a woman now?’
Euphranor mopped his brow. The heat was overpowering. ‘She’s done all right for us so far. The peace conference is falling apart.’
‘I suppose that’s true.’ Hyperbolus nodded. ‘Once I’ve spoken in the assembly today it’s going to fall apart a lot quicker. I’m going to accuse Nicias of taking bribes.’
‘Has he been?’
‘Who cares? Damned aristocrat, I’ll see him ostracised before I’m finished with him.’
They were interrupted by two citizens, both elderly, who wanted to thank Hyperbolus for the food he’d sent them. The democratic faction had been organising the collection and distribution of supplies for impoverished citizens, and the elderly pair were grateful for the help they’d received. Hyperbolus accepted their thanks politely, and wished them well as they made their way into the assembly.
The heat was oppressive, far too hot for April. No one could remember the temperature rising so sharply before. The mood was sombre, with undertones of anger. Everyone knew that their situation was becoming desperate, and the meeting was likely to be stormy. No one expected it to end in any sort of agreement. The atmosphere in Athens had worsened quite dramatically in the past few days. Nothing was going well, and nobody could agree on anything. None of those assembled expected today’s meeting to be any different to the last. Hyperbolus would hurl abuse at Nicias, accusing him of cowardice, corruption and selling out the city to the Spartans. Nicias would in turn lacerate Hyperbolus and his associates, till it seemed an absurd notion that the Athenians could ever sign a treaty with Sparta, when they themselves were so bitterly divided.
Bremusa
Bremusa had become used to the odd looks she received while walking round Athens. Although upper-class Athenian women tended to remain indoors, out of public view, there were plenty of women on the streets — vendors, tavern employees, dock workers, hetaerae, slaves and others. None looked like the Amazon. Her hair was longer, and she wore it loose and unstyled. She had dark leather armour and leggings. The leggings alone were enough to mark her out as a barbarian. No Athenian of either sex would ever wear trousers. They were the mark of the uncivilised.
After a few days, though, it did seem to Bremusa that she was receiving less attention. Perhaps people were becoming used to her. Or perhaps they had more pressing matters to worry about. The atmosphere of frustration and annoyance was tangible. It was more than just the despair caused by the never-ending war, and the failure to make progress in the negotiations. Something else was weighing Athens down. Bremusa knew that Laet’s baleful influence was permeating the city.
The woman is a curse. I’ve never encountered anything like it. If she continues roaming around like this, something very bad is going to happen.
Bremusa looked for Metris. It took a while to locate her, but eventually she came across her at the entrance to the Long Walls that ran down to Piraeus. She was sitting with two children, amusing them by making daisies and buttercups appear beneath their feet. The children looked happy. At least someone in Athens was.
‘Hello, Bremusa! I’ve been playing with my new friends. This is Plato, he’s nine, and Xenophon, he’s eight. We’ve been having a picnic.’
They looked like a grubby, unintelligent pair of children to Bremusa, though they did seem happier than the last time she’d encountered them, when they’d been fighting on the beach. She noticed their nanny, slumbering peacefully on a bench nearby.
‘Athena wants to see you.’
From the tone of Bremusa’s voice, it should have been obvious that Metris was in trouble, but the nymph was too impervious to the world around her to notice. It didn’t occur to her that the goddess might be angry with her.
‘All right,’ she said, cheerfully. She looked down at her companions.
‘I’ll see you again later. We can play some more.’
Plato and Xenophon waved goodbye to their new friend. Bremusa had to admit that she’d rarely seen happier-looking children than those two at that moment. The nymph obviously did have some powers of spreading contentment. If only she could apply herself, she might be able to do something to thwart Laet, or at least ameliorate the effect of her malign influence.
When they arrived at the private shrine, the goddess herself appeared. Metris greeted her as cheerfully as a woman meeting a friend for a pleasant shopping trip.
‘Thanks for sending me to Athens! I do so like it here!’
The Goddess Athena glared at her. ‘What’s this I hear about you and this Luxos the poet?’
‘He’s really nice!’ enthused the nymph. ‘He has lovely blond hair and he writes beautiful poems.’
The goddess was not impressed by either the lovely hair or the beautiful poems. ‘Didn’t I instruct you assist Bremusa?’
‘I needed to comfort Luxos. He was upset after —’
‘Silence! You’re not there to comfort Luxos, you’re there to help bring peace!’
Metris fell silent, for the first time realising that all was not well. She looked a little abashed.
‘Sorry, Goddess.’
Athena leaned forward. ‘Metris, listen well. You are to stay with Bremusa and assist her. You must have no more distractions. I forbid you to see Luxos again.’
Metris quailed. ‘But —’
‘Enough! Now do as I say! Apply yourself to the task I set you or I’ll make you regret it.’
Metris was upset as they left the shrine. Bremusa was pleased. It was time someone talked some sense into the young fool.
Aristophanes
Another complete waste of time. Aristophanes rested his head on his hands as he sat in the open-air meeting place, while politicians and demagogues rose to harangue each other. He still felt queasy from his drinking exploits. He wished he were back at rehearsals. There were so many things he needed to attend to. The last rehearsal had been a shambles. It was customary for three actors to share the speaking roles in Athenian comedies, changing their masks as necessary to represent different characters. This could make it difficult for them to learn their lines but up till now that hadn’t been a problem in this production. While everything else had gone wrong, Philippus and his two fellow processionals had at least managed to learn the script. Unfortunately, they’d now forgotten it again. Aristophanes had watched, anguished, as each actor stumbled over their lines, finally grinding to a complete halt, wondering who was meant to speak next, and what they were meant to say.
‘You knew these lines yesterday!’ raged Aristophanes.
‘Sorry.’ Philippus had the good grace to look embarrassed. ‘They’ve just completely gone out of my head. Something strange in the air in Athens these days. My art is suffering.’
‘I’ll make his art suffer,’ muttered Aristophanes, now slumped in the baking heat. ‘I’ll make them all suffer. We’ll have a speed run through the script at dawn tomorrow. That’ll teach them to forget their lines. Great Zeus, that sun is hot. I wish I could get out of here.’