A second young assistant arrived in a rush. ‘We’ve just received a message from Isidoros. He got your payment and he’s prepared to take the introductory spot.’
Aristophanes nodded approval. ‘Good news. Isidoros’s poetry recital will warm up the crowd. Have you heard him recently? Sensational lyre playing. And not a bad rhymer, when he’s sober. Was he sober?’
‘His secretary assured me he was.’
‘Then let’s hope for the best.’
A third second assistant hurried over. ‘The new statues are here!’
A team of stagehands carried the new statue of peace onto the stage. It was a lightweight construction, made of wood, for theatrical use only, but it was beautifully carved and painted. The Goddess of Peace herself would have been delighted with it. If there were a Goddess of Peace, that was. Strictly speaking, there wasn’t. But there were so many divine figures in the Athenian pantheon that creating a new one for the purposes of the play wouldn’t offend anyone. As Aristophanes said, who could object to a Goddess of Peace?
‘Great statue!’ he enthused. ‘When that pops up out of the cavern the audience can’t fail to be impressed. And we’ll impress them even more when young Mnesarete makes her appearance.’
Mnesarete, Theodota’s servant, was currently wandering around the stage, semi-clad, rehearsing for her appearance at the end of the play. She was a beautiful young woman. The stagehands had expressed their complete approval.
Hermogenes frowned. ‘Is it really necessary to send on a naked young woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘It still seems cheap.’
‘Cheap? Who cares if it’s cheap? You think these idiots on the judging panel care about art?’
Annoyingly for Aristophanes, Hermogenes wouldn’t drop the subject. ‘I care,’ he said. ‘And you used to as well. I remember when you first appeared in the theatre. All you could talk about was the quality of your poetry. You used to despise stage effects. Said they were taking away from the purity of the drama.’
‘That’s when I was young and stupid. You know as well as I do that the audience is never going to be satisfied with a comedy just because it has the best poetry.’
‘I don’t know that at all. They might be. And even if they’re not, isn’t that what matters to you most? It used to be.’
Aristophanes could feel a slight throbbing in his head. The heat in the open-air rehearsal space was oppressive. ‘What matters to me most is winning the competition. I was swindled out of first prize last year and that’s not going to happen again. Now stop sounding like Socrates and help me unload these new costumes.’
They pitched in to help the stagehands who were carrying a great mass of props and costumes into the theatre. Time was now very short, and everyone was working furiously. The actors had completed their speed run that morning, racing through their lines at a furious pace in an effort to memorise them fully, and it seemed to have worked. Philippus could now deliver his opening speech quite beautifully, and he’d even stopped complaining about the giant beetle.
‘How did you pay for all this?’ asked Hermogenes.
‘Oh, I just called in a few favours.’ Aristophanes looked thoughtful. ‘Hermogenes, do you think a comedy about women ruling the city would be such a bad idea?’
Bremusa
Bremusa went to the private shrine to commune with the goddess. Once again, Athena made herself visible. She wasn’t in her mansion but on the slopes of Mount Olympus, in front of a small rural altar, not much more than an ancient pile of stones.
‘I’ve failed, Goddess. Laet is causing chaos. Everyone is making bad decisions. We’ll be lucky if the whole city doesn’t burn to the ground.’
‘Please don’t let that happen. When the Persians set fire to my temples it reduced me to tears.’
‘I remember. But I don’t know what to do to make things better.’
‘You have to keep trying. If they manage to hold the last session of the peace conference, who knows what might happen?’
‘I know what will happen. Laet will turn up and everyone will be at each other’s throats.’
The goddess smiled. ‘We have to hope for the best. You haven’t done badly so far.’
‘Goddess, could I really not just chop Laet’s head off? It would make everything much easier.’
‘No! I don’t think she would die from your blade, Bremusa. Even if she did, Athens would be cursed. With her spirit haunting the acropolis, the city would be doomed.’
‘Can I kill Idomeneus?’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘He deserves it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because…’ Bremusa paused. She couldn’t really say why he deserved to die, though she wanted to kill him. He’d defeated her on the battlefield at Troy. It was an affront to her honour. She didn’t want to admit that to the goddess. She shouldn’t be thinking of her own desires.
‘He’s a bad person,’ she said, limply. ‘And he’s protecting Laet.’
‘You’re there to assist the Athenians make peace, Bremusa. You should avoid violence if at all possible.’
‘Would that include slapping Luxos and Metris round the head?’
The goddess laughed. ‘You always pretend you’re no good for anything but fighting, Bremusa. But that’s not true. I know you can do more.’
‘I’m an Amazon. If I don’t get to fight I get twitchy.’
‘If you need some activity, try sampling Athenian culture.’
Bremusa scowled. ‘I don’t understand culture. Even that foolish nymph knows more than me. Metris has been looking at art behind my back. She’s seen statues and paintings and processions and all sorts of things. Now I’m feeling ignorant. I’m obviously too stupid to understand culture.’
‘Perhaps Aristophanes’ comedy might serve as a gentle introduction?’
‘I have a very poor sense of humour.’
The goddess smiled. ‘Now’s your chance to develop it. If Aristophanes can make the city laugh, it might go a long way to combating Laet. So take care of him.’
Bremusa sighed. ‘I’ll try my best.’
Luxos recites
Luxos stood alone on the beach, a solitary figure far from the city walls, declaiming to the waves. He often came here to practice. Words written down were one thing, but recitation was another. Poetry had to sound right. Here, with his lyre, facing the Mediterranean, competing with the sound of the tides and the seabirds overhead, Luxos would refine his technique, strengthening his voice, perfecting his emphasis so that the poetry flowed powerfully and gracefully. With no one to distract him, Luxos would recite for hours.
He was trying out some lines of his new poem about the Goddess Athena when he heard someone call his name. Metris was scrambling over the rocky shore towards him.
‘Luxos, I’m so glad you’re safe!’
‘Thanks, but —’
‘I had a terrible dream! I saw you dying!’
Luxos frowned. It wasn’t the best thing to hear, particularly from a nymph who might well have powers of seeing things that others couldn’t.
‘What happened?’
‘I saw you lying under a great burnt-out chariot! At least I think it was a chariot. Something with wheels, anyway. I think it might have been the future.’
‘Well, I’m safe for a while then,’ said Luxos. ‘There aren’t many chariots around here.’
‘But what if you go to war? The enemy might have chariots.’
‘The Spartans wouldn’t. I suppose the Persians might. Were there Persians in your dream?’
Metris shook her head. ‘No.’ She frowned, as if trying to piece her memories of the dream together. ‘I got the impression you were a long way away. Like thousands of miles. And maybe hundreds of years in the future. Someone said you had died.’