Bremusa looked at her blankly. Metris had done all that?
‘Haven’t you seen any of it?’ asked the nymph.
Bremusa continued to look at her blankly. She didn’t know what to say. All the self-doubts she’d felt since entering Athens returned in a rush. She was an ignorant barbarian who didn’t know anything about culture. She didn’t even realise there was so much of it going on.
While I’ve been tramping the streets with a sword, Metris has apparently been studying the city’s finest works of art.
The nymph was looking at her, waiting for an answer, but Bremusa was completely stuck for a reply. She didn’t know what to say, and felt inadequate. She told herself not to feel inadequate. It didn’t do any good. She was rescued from her humiliation by the appearance of Aristophanes, who walked morosely towards them, his head down, muttering to himself. He looked older than his years.
‘I detest this city. And all the other cities. And the theatre. And people.’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Bremusa barked at him.
‘Rehearsals are going badly. Not that it’s any of your business, strange archaic woman.’
‘Strange archaic woman who saved your life.’
‘You did? My memory is hazy…’
‘I’m not surprised, with all that wine inside you.’
‘Merely the normal imbibing of an Athenian gentleman,’ said Aristophanes.
‘Or a drunk. Which seems to be much the same thing. So what’s wrong with rehearsals anyway?’
‘No funds, terrible actors, poor chorus, talentless choreographer, incompetent musicians, useless prop-makers —’
‘Maybe you have some script problems?’ said Bremusa, pointedly.
‘No, the writing is remarkably good. But even that can’t lift this disaster of a play above the general malaise that hangs over Athens.’
Not far from them, an argument broke out in the festival procession.
‘Hey, stop pushing me!’
‘You trod on my foot!’
The citizens were dressed in the best clothes for the procession. It didn’t stop them from shoving and jostling each other. It seemed as if blows might be landed, till a parade official managed to separate them.
‘Does everyone in this city just argue all the time?’ asked Bremusa.
‘We do have a talent for it,’ admitted Aristophanes.
The procession drew up in front of the Parthenon. A man in robes emerged to address the people. Bremusa didn’t know who it was.
‘That’s the Archon Basileus,’ said Metris. ‘The chief religious official.’
‘Right.’ The Amazon was still smarting from the revelation that, compared to the nymph, she was an uneducated, uncultured yokel. She tried to shake the feeling off. There was important work to be done.
‘Look, Aristophanes, I don’t regard writing comedies as a fit occupation for a man. But somehow your play has become important to the city. So get back to your theatre and make it work.’
‘No point. Without more funds, Peace can’t go on.’
‘Then get some funds.’
‘Impossible. The only people with money are the weapon-makers, and they’re not going to support me.’
‘What about Theodota?’
Aristophanes shook his head. He was starting to go grey already. ‘I can’t borrow from a hetaera. That would be the most humiliating thing imaginable.’
‘So? Take the humiliation. You want to win the play competition, don’t you?’
‘Desperately.’
‘How desperately?’
‘I’d sell my own grandmother.’
For the first time, Bremusa felt a slight stirring of sympathy for Aristophanes. She admired the will to win.
‘Then you know what you have to do.’
For a few moments they looked into each other’s eyes.
‘I’ll visit Theodota,’ he said, then turned and walked off.
Metris giggled. ‘He likes you, you know.’
‘What?’
‘He’s attracted to you.’
‘That’s the most foolish thing I’ve ever heard, even from you.’
‘I can tell,’ said Metris, blithely. ‘Because I’m a nymph. You should get together with him. Like a holiday romance.’
Bremusa scowled at her. ‘I liked it better when you were sulking.’
Luxos
With the sun high overhead, Luxos marched through Athens, a determined expression on his face. Most of the playwrights rehearsed in the same area, and Luxos planned to visit them all if necessary. He strode up to a gate marked Private.
‘I’m here to see Eupolis,’ he announced to the doorman.
The guard at the entrance looked down at Luxos’s long hair and shabby tunic, and his cheap sandals, which had obviously been repaired many times.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Luxos the poet.’
‘Ah.’ The doorman nodded. ‘Then you can’t come in.’
‘But I want to see Eupolis.’
‘Eupolis left strict instructions that no one called Luxos was ever to be allowed into his rehearsal space.’
Luxos blinked. ‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘He actually named me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ Luxos drew himself up, which made little difference as the huge doorman still towered over him. ‘Then I shall offer my services to Leucon instead. There’s a poet with some taste who will appreciate my work.’
Luxos walked off. It was odd that Eupolis had actually barred him from entering.
Someone must have been spreading stories about me, he thought. I bet it was Aristophanes.
Luxos thought some mean thoughts about Aristophanes. It occurred to him, as he walked towards Leucon’s rehearsal space, that Aristophanes’ comedies were generally funnier than Leucon’s. Luxos had laughed a lot last year at The Wasps.
But humour isn’t everything, he thought. The beauty of the poetry is important too.
It struck him immediately that Aristophanes’ poetry was better too. He used language better than Leucon.
Well I need employment somewhere, thought Luxos, carrying on. I know these poets hire helpers to tidy up their verse, even if they don’t like to admit it.
He patted the Herm statue on the corner for luck, and approached the gate at Leucon’s. There were two doormen this time, both large. As Luxos approached they became excited.
‘It’s him!’
‘Luxos is here!’
‘Eh… hello,’ said Luxos.
The doormen looked at each other.
‘Leucon warned us this day would come,’ said one to the other.
The doormen squared up to the small figure of Luxos. ‘Begone, renegade poet. The talented and erudite Leucon does not require assistance from a skinny urchin from the slums of Piraeus!’
‘But I just —’
Luxos stopped in mid-sentence, knowing it was hopeless. Apparently every established dramatic poet in Athens had been warned about him.
They all think I’m a joke.
The realisation brought with it an abrupt depression. He turned round and walked sadly away. He wished that Metris were around. He longed to see her. But apparently she was forbidden to see him now. She was off somewhere with that strange foreign woman, and wasn’t allowed to visit him.
Luxos hung his head. Is it really that stupid for a poor person in Athens to try and write poetry? Hesiod wasn’t rich. He was just a farmer. People gave him a chance. They let him enter competitions and he proved how good he was.