‘They could probably have managed without all the flowers.’
‘I thought it was a nice touch.’
Metris suddenly shivered. She turned towards the edge of the agora. ‘But that doesn’t feel very nice.’
‘What?’ said Bremusa. Metris was already walking towards a small altar, an ancient, almost featureless stone pillar. She came to a halt, examining it. The Altar of Pity had been repaired by the city’s workmen. There were no finer stonemasons than those in Athens, and they’d done an excellent job of repairing it.
‘But it’s no good,’ said Metris.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘This lovely old altar. They’ve repaired it but it hasn’t made it right. The altar doesn’t work any more. It’s been spoiled.’
‘How?’
‘By Laet, I suppose.’ Metris appeared distressed. ‘It was such a beautiful old altar. Laet’s ruined it.’
‘Can you fix it?’
Metris shook her head. ‘She’s too powerful for me. I can’t do anything.’
Aristophanes
Walking down the street with Socrates, Aristophanes was disconsolate.
‘I’m disconsolate,’ he said.
‘You look disconsolate.’
‘Why wouldn’t I be? I don’t want to put on Theodota’s play.’
‘You haven’t read it yet. It might be good.’
‘I doubt it. What sort of title is Lysistrata? And even if it is good, how could I use her script? The festival authorities aren’t going to accept a play written by a woman. It would be a scandal.’
‘Theodota knows that,’ said Socrates. ‘She offered to rewrite it, with you. Aren’t your plays sometimes put on under your producer’s name anyway?’
‘Sometimes. But the whole thing is demeaning. Who’s the comic genius here, me or Theodota?’
Socrates halted and looked at him. ‘I don’t know about comic genius but if you want to be a romantic genius, I’d be a little more enthusiastic about Theodota’s talents. If you just dismiss them she’ll be angry.’
‘Will she?’
‘Yes.’
Aristophanes sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. Do you think she’s been plotting this all along? Perhaps she only ever agreed to see me so that one day she could trick me into producing her play.’
Socrates laughed. ‘Who knows? I told you she was intelligent. Look on the bright side. At least you’ve got the money you need.’
With that, Socrates departed, off to his daily practice of talking about philosophy with whoever would listen. Aristophanes headed towards his rehearsal, feeling dissatisfied about various things but relieved that at last his production had money. Theodota had provided him with all the funds he required.
‘I’ll show these Athenians what a comedy is meant to be. And I’ll show up these warmongers in the assembly for the fools they are while I’m at it.’
Luxos
The sun blazed down. The city sweltered, and tempers rose. Athenian priests checked their records to see if it had ever been so hot during the Dionysia before, and wondered if it was another portent of misfortune.
Luxos stopped to look at some street performers in the shade of the Temple of Eukleia. Despite the heat, they were juggling, tumbling, throwing and catching hoops. He knew them slightly, and waved. They depended on whatever money they could pick up from passers-by, so he felt a sense of fellowship. Luxos was not athletic, but he did sympathise with fellow struggling artists. There was an uncomfortable gnawing in his stomach. It might have been hunger, or it might have been the realisation that he had no money and no prospects. He stood in the same spot for a long time, wishing that the street performers might divert his attention away from his sadness over Metris.
He rested against the wall of the temple. Eukleia — the spirit of glory, and good repute. ‘A spirit that obviously dislikes me,’ he muttered, considering the state of his own reputation.
‘You look sad, Luxos.’
It was Socrates.
‘My heart is broken,’ announced Luxos. ‘Metris isn’t allowed to talk to me any more.’
‘Who isn’t allowing her?’
‘The Goddess Athena.’ Luxos looked defiantly at the philosopher. ‘I expect you think I’m crazy for saying that.’
‘No, I believe you.’
‘You do? Oh.’ Luxos was pleased, but then his face fell. ‘Athena says Metris has to help with important work. She can’t see me any more.’
The young poet’s brow furrowed, and he began to look angry. ‘It’s outrageous. After all the prayers I’ve offered up to the goddess. And all the daisies I’ve left at her altar!’
A beautiful dark-haired woman appeared behind the street performers. Laet gazed at Luxos.
‘I’m going to have revenge,’ said Luxos to Socrates. ‘I’ll make Goddess Athena regret ruining my romance. I’m going to write a really mean poem about her.’
‘That’s your plan?’
‘Yes.’
Socrates looked at Luxos, slightly raising one eyebrow.
‘Why are you looking at me like that? Athena deserves to have a nasty poem written about her.’
Socrates continued to look at Luxos. Luxos stared down at his feet. He shifted uncomfortably under Socrates’ gaze.
‘Maybe it’s not such a great idea. I’ll probably just get cursed or something. And then I’ll never see Metris again. But what else can I do? I can’t do anything except write poetry.’
In the background, Laet had worn a faint smile, but it was fading as Luxos stood in deep thought.
‘Do you think maybe it would be a good idea to write something nice about Goddess Athena?’ he asked Socrates.
Socrates smiled.
‘Of course,’ said Luxos. ‘You’re right. I’m going to write a really great poem about Athena! Then she’ll let me see Metris again!’
Luxos hurried off enthusiastically, turning to call back to Socrates. ‘Thanks, Socrates. You’re a really wise man!’
The street performers were making a human pyramid, juggling hoops as they climbed on top of each other. Idomeneus joined Laet. He gazed at the departing Luxos.
‘That didn’t go quite as expected,’ he said.
Laet narrowed her eyes, displeased.
‘Socrates’ rationality triumphs over your baleful influence,’ said Idomeneus.
Laet smiled, quite cruelly. ‘Let Socrates have a few small triumphs. Athens will do for him in the end.’
They walked off. As they passed by the street performers Laet directed a fierce scowl in their direction. Immediately their performance went disastrously wrong and they crashed in a painful heap on the ground.
Luxos ran all the way home. He grabbed his lyre, a quill and his very last sheet of parchment. ‘I’m going to write a really great poem about the Goddess Athena,’ he muttered, and got to work.
Aristophanes
Aristophanes was in his element. There was nothing like the bustle of a rehearsal space when things were going well. He felt that the Goddess Athena herself might have been smiling on them as they went to work that day. Now that they had the money they needed, everything was starting to go well.
‘Get that dung beetle flying up there! I want to see it swooping over the audience. That’s much better! Hermogenes, have the chorus go through the last number again, I want some rhythm! Where are my new phalluses?’
‘Just arrived. They’re huge!’
‘Do they rise properly?’
‘Like mighty oak trees!’
‘Excellent! This is more like it. I’ll show Eupolis and Leucon how to put on a comedy. Chorus, get these phalluses strapped on and wave them like you mean it!’