Head bowed, he tucked his lyre under his arm and trudged off home, depressed and close to defeat.
Perhaps I should just stop writing poetry. No one wants to listen. Maybe I’m no good at it anyway.
Close to home, he passed a group of young girls, playing on one of the many rough patches of vacant land around the docks. He paused to watch as five of the little girls sang a song while they danced around another girl, seated in the centre.
Torti-tortoise,
Sitting on the ground
Torti-tortoise,
We’re all around
Weave a web of
Milesian wool
How did your son die?
He jumped in a pool!
As the children chanted the last line, the girl in the middle leapt up, trying to catch one of the others. There was a lot of shrieking and laughter, as whoever was caught became the new tortoise in the middle. The girls, all grubby from the rough ground, were completely involved in their play and paid no attention to Luxos.
Luxos smiled at the familiar children’s game. He’d played torti-tortoise when he was an infant. He’d sung the song, too. No one knew what the words meant any more. Who had been weaving a web of Milesian wool, and whose son had jumped in a pool, was lost in history, or myth, but the rhyme could still be heard all over Athens, when children played their jumping and chasing game.
Luxos felt a little heartened. He walked home, humming ‘Torti-tortoise’.
Good poetry is inspiring and it makes people happy, he thought, remembering the children’s smiling faces. I’m not giving up. Athens needs me.
Aristophanes
Theodota’s taste was widely admired. She was so wealthy that she could have built the largest house in Athens if she’d wanted. Rejecting such ostentation, she lived in the third largest. It was a notable dwelling. Her private courtyard contained a statue of Apollo that would not have looked out of place in one of the city’s better temples. There were frescos on the walls painted by some of Greece’s finest artists, and her collection of pottery was staggering, second only to her collection of clothes. For a twenty-four-year-old woman who was born poor, and had moved at a young age to a city that didn’t grant that many rights to women, it was all quite an achievement.
‘Theodota’s worked for her success,’ acknowledged Aristophanes, as he approached her house. ‘She’s used her beauty, discretion and intelligence to build up a client list of the wealthiest men in the city.’
Her clients weren’t just Athenians. Theodota had received visits from famous figures from other cities too. Other countries, even.
As a hetaera, Theodota would not have been welcomed in the house of any respectable Athenian. No well-born Athenian woman would even talk to her. Her profession had put her far beyond the bounds of polite society. Aristophanes wasn’t certain how she felt about that. If she took note of the poor Athenian women in the agora, working long hours for little pay, he doubted it bothered her that much.
He announced himself at the door, having sent word that he was on his way. He hoped that no one was visiting. Even when Theodota wasn’t working, she did receive many callers. A surprising collection of artists, poets, philosophers, statesmen and writers could often be found there. The servant at the door welcomed him in, not that respectfully. Theodota’s servants, having such a rich mistress, tended to be sniffy about her guests. Even her slaves were known to be arrogant.
‘Is Theodota on her own?’
‘No. The mistress is being painted by Zeuxis.’
‘Oh.’
Aristophanes hadn’t known that Zeuxis was painting Theodota. It wasn’t really a surprise. He was one of the most famous painters in Greece. He came from the Greek colony in Heraclea, and had studied under Apollodorus.
‘I’ll ask her if you can observe, if you wish.’
He followed the servant through several long corridors towards one of the numerous reception rooms. Inside, Theodota was reclining naked on a couch. The afternoon light streamed in through the open window, illuminating her. Zeuxis stood at an easel, brush in hand. He was quite an unconventional character. Mid-forties, but with longer hair than you’d expect, and a very unusual silver necklace. Artists could get away with that sort of thing, if they were famous.
Aristophanes wasn’t pleased to find Socrates reclining on another couch, observing. He greeted the philosopher stiffly, Zeuxis a little less stiffly, and smiled at Theodota. Theodota smiled back at him. She wasn’t at all self-conscious about being naked in company.
‘Aristophanes, we were just finishing for the day.’
Zeuxis put down his brush. ‘Ah, Theodota. I never thought I’d find a model beautiful enough for my painting of Helen of Troy.’
Aristophanes didn’t like the way they were smiling at each other. He wondered if Zeuxis had become her lover. He felt a pang of jealousy, adding to his annoyance about Socrates being here. The man got everywhere.
Theodota motioned for a servant to bring her a robe.
‘If you wait in the next room I’ll join you soon,’ she said.
Aristophanes waited with Socrates in another of Theodota’s elegant reception rooms, of which there were many. On a shelf by the window were two vases, painted by Euphronios. In the fifty or so years since his death, Euphronios’s work had become so famous in Athens that his plates, vases and amphoras were now priceless collector’s items. Families who were lucky enough to own them, old Athenian families with roots deep in the past, wouldn’t let them out of their sight. Even a man as rich as Callias wouldn’t be able to get hold of many of them. Yet here were two of them, just sitting on a shelf in Theodota’s reception rooms.
Aristophanes studied the vases for a few minutes. One depicted a courtesan, another a satyr. They were beautiful pieces of work. Euphronios deserved his reputation. Socrates was staring into space. As ever, he was dressed in the plainest homespun chiton, and a pair of leather sandals that had seen better days. Aristophanes asked him what he was doing there.
‘Theodota invited me to observe the famous Zeuxis at work.’
‘Oh. She never invited me. It’s strange the way Theodota likes you so much. And annoying.’
‘Why is it annoying?’ asked Socrates.
‘Because I’ve paid out a lot of money to her and you never pay her anything!’
‘We have different expectations. I admire Theodota for her intelligence.’
‘Trust you to be the only person in Athens who admires her for that.’
Socrates smiled genially. ‘Zeuxis is a fine painter. I’d say his technique rivals even that of Parrhasius.’
‘Parrhasius? Has he been here as well?’
Parrhasius was another very famous artist. Aristophanes knew he shouldn’t have been annoyed by the way Greece’s most brilliant artists flocked to Athens to paint Theodota, but he was. He suspected that his own fame as a playwright was the only reason she acknowledged him at all, and he wasn’t as famous as Zeuxis or Parrhasius. He could see himself being forced out of the picture if they stayed around.
‘Are they in love with her?’ he asked, which was a highly inappropriate question, and one at which Socrates would have been quite entitled to laugh. He didn’t.
‘I couldn’t say. They might be. Or they might just be here because she’s one of the few people in Athens with enough money to pay their fees these days.’