As Nicias made his way to the theatre, he noticed the atmosphere was more subdued than at previous festivals. Perhaps that was to be expected, given the difficult times Athens had been going through recently. The unseasonal heat had not dissipated, and people were feeling it. There was anxiety too. Everyone seemed to know someone who’d been involved in recent misfortune, from merchants who’d lost money on deals, to women who’d lost their lives in childbirth. It had been the unluckiest month anyone could remember, and no matter what a citizen did to make things better, it always went wrong. It was as if the city had collectively lost its ability to make the right choice in anything. It didn’t bode well for the peace conference.
If the mood was less festive than usual, it was not entirely sombre. People were glad of a few days’ break from worrying about the war, and listening to politicians screaming insults at each other in the assembly. Whatever might happen in the coming weeks, they were at least sure to laugh at the plays of Aristophanes, Eupolis and Leucon. People looked forward to seeing three comedies, one after another, although even that number carried a reminder of their troubles. At one time there had been five comedies, but the number had been reduced, because of the war.
Luxos
Luxos made his way to the theatre on his own. Metris had returned to her duties with Bremusa. Luxos missed her, though his spirits had been bolstered by the picnic they’d shared on the beach. He had already written twenty-eight lines about sharing their bread and cheese, and there was a lot more to come.
He’d considered boycotting the last day of the festival in protest at it not involving him in any way, but no Athenian could be truly comfortable missing out on such a huge communal event.
I’ll just have to sit through that hack Isidoros reciting his useless poetry. I will watch with dignity. Maybe mutter a little abuse. Nothing extravagant.
He wondered how Aristophanes’ play would be received. Luxos had seen a lot of it in rehearsal. None of it seemed to be working that well, though he could see its potential if it all came together. Recent events had not endeared Aristophanes to Luxos. Nonetheless, the young poet wanted the war to end. If Aristophanes’ play could help, then he probably should support it.
Luxos was swept up in the great mass of citizens approaching the theatre. For a short time he experienced the feeling of unity, of commune, of being part of a great body of people all striving for the same thing: the Athenians, proud of their city, and their democracy, and their arts. It was spoiled when three youths, part of a wealthy family, flanked by servants, poked fun at him.
‘What’s that? Is that meant to be a lyre?’
‘Looks like something washed up on the beach.’
‘So does he.’
‘Get a haircut, you look like a barbarian.’
Luxos sighed. He was used to criticism, both personal and artistic, but he wasn’t immune to it. As the theatre came into view, his spirits fell further. Here he was, in the very heart of Greek culture, and he couldn’t make any impression. He wished that it wasn’t so hot. He wished Metris was there. He wished someone would listen to his poetry.
Aristophanes
Leucon’s comedy was nearing its conclusion. It had gone well with the audience but Aristophanes wasn’t paying attention. He had no regard for Leucon, and was too busy double-checking that everything was ready for his own company’s performance. After their final rehearsals, Aristophanes was feeling optimistic. There would be no repeat of last year, when the panel of five judges had denied him first prize.
One of the most scandalously corrupt decisions ever seen in the Athenian theatre!
He entered the backstage area to make a final check. Hermogenes ran towards him, a look of alarm on his face.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Our penises have gone missing.’
Aristophanes stared at him blankly. His assistant seemed to be talking gibberish. ‘What do you mean “Our penises have gone missing?”’
‘I mean they’ve disappeared!’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘How much clearer can I be? Our giant funny phalluses are no longer on the premises!’
‘But how?’
‘Someone’s stolen them!’
Aristophanes looked at him, aghast. ‘Not the new, big ones? Not all of them?’
‘Yes!’
Aristophanes sagged. Never before in the theatre had he received such a body-blow.
‘It’s the end,’ he muttered. Tears welled up in his eyes. He looked up to heaven. ‘Why? Why do the gods curse me? Am I really such a bad person?’
He slumped into a chair. ‘Cancel the play. We can’t go on.’
‘We can’t cancel the play,’ said Hermogenes. ‘The play must go on. Everyone knows that. The crowd would riot.’
‘But what can we do? We can’t send the actors on without huge dangly penises. It’s unheard of. It’s probably against festival rules.’
Hermogenes shrugged ‘We’ll just have to use the old, small, unsatisfactory penises.’
‘But they’re back at the rehearsal space!’
‘I’ll send people to fetch them,’ said Hermogenes.
‘Do we have time?’
‘We could ask Isidoros to recite for a little longer. He’s due to go on any moment now.’
Bremusa
It was a long time since Bremusa had actually seen anyone skipping gaily along the street. It tended not to happen on Mount Olympus, and it was never done among the Amazons. Metris was, however, skipping along at that moment, bubbling over with enthusiasm.
‘What are you so happy about?’
‘I’m so looking forward to the comedy! It will be lovely to be in the theatre!’
‘I think you’re happy because you sneaked off to see Luxos.’
‘No, I didn’t!’ Metris smiled. As a nymph, she never felt that much obligation to tell the truth, if the truth happened to be awkward.
Bremusa was trying to think of something withering to say, because the skipping was annoying her, when she practically bumped into Idomeneus of Crete. He stood, tall and rock-like in front of her, looking down on her with contempt. Behind him were two men, pulling a cart.
‘Bremusa the Amazon.’
‘Idomeneus of Crete.’
‘I’d kill you but I’m busy at the moment.’
‘I’d kill you but I’m busy too.’
The cart was covered by a tarpaulin. Metris, for no particular reason, peered under it.
‘Look! It’s full of big penises.’
‘I told you, the city is obsessed with them,’ said Bremusa. ‘Let’s go.’
‘But they must have stolen them from Aristophanes!’ cried Metris, an astute observation that had not occurred to the Amazon. She stared at Idomeneus.
‘Is that true?’
‘What if it is?’
Bremusa laid her hand on the pommel of her sword. ‘Hand them over.’
‘No,’ said Idomeneus.
‘I’m not letting you ruin Aristophanes’ play.’
‘What do you care about the theatre?’
‘I’m a huge enthusiast.’ Bremusa drew her sword. ‘You’ve lived too long, Idomeneus.’
Idomeneus drew his sword. ‘Prepare to die, Amazon.’
Abruptly, shockingly, and rather absurdly, a huge wall of flowers suddenly erupted between the Amazon and the Cretan warrior. Metris had caused a giant mass of buttercups and daisies to separate them, doing it in such a way that Idomeneus and his men were on one side, while she, Metris and the cart were on the other.