‘You shameless villain!’ cried Hermes. ‘How dare you invade heaven on a giant dung beetle.’
‘I’m not a villain! I’m Trygaeus of Athmonon in Athens, an honest farmer. I’ve brought you a present!’
Trygaeus pulled some meat from his bag and offered it to Hermes, who wolfed it down rather quickly. His hostility towards his visitor visibly lessened.
‘I’m here to talk to Zeus,’ said the farmer. ‘Is he around?’
‘Is he around? You’ve come looking for Zeus? Ha! You’ve wasted your time. The gods all packed up and left.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re sick of you,’ replied Hermes, imperiously. ‘Sick of you Athenians, and Spartans, and all the other Greeks fighting all the time. They moved out, and they left War behind to do whatever he wants with you.
‘And can you blame them?’ he continued, declaiming loudly as he turned to face the audience. ‘Every time they gave your cities an opportunity for peace, you rejected it. If the Spartans got an advantage in battle, they’d clamour for the war to continue so they could make the Athenians pay. If the Athenians got an advantage, they did exactly the same thing. Both cities could have ended the war any time in the past decade but you were all too stubborn.’
The audience were responding well. Laughter rolled around the amphitheatre and for the first time a festive atmosphere could be felt in the warmth of the late afternoon.
Not everyone in the audience was happy. General Lamachus, seated with other notable citizens, was scowling silently. In the less prestigious seats, Hyperbolus and Euphranor were looking annoyed.
‘I don’t like the way the audience is lapping this up,’ said the weapon-maker.
‘Don’t worry,’ growled Hyperbolus. ‘There are still some surprises to come.’
On the low wooden stage, Trygaeus was still engaged in conversation with the god Hermes.
‘Surely the Goddess of Peace hasn’t completely abandoned us?’
‘Peace?’ said Hermes. ‘War took her and threw her in a cave. You’ll never see her again.’
The chorus sighed, lamenting for Greece, and singing of her continuing misfortune. Watching from the wings, Aristophanes allowed himself a tiny ray of optimism. They’d had a rocky start, but the play was now going well.
‘Wait till the audience sees our giant statue,’ whispered Hermogenes. ‘It’s going to be great.’
The rescue of the Goddess of Peace, in the form of their new statue, had gone brilliantly in rehearsal. The statue was so splendid, so noble, so colourful, so fitting for the Goddess of Peace in every way, that the sight of it being brought up from the underground cavern couldn’t fail to impress the audience. It would rise through the trapdoor as a magnificent symbol of the possibility of ending the war and restoring Athens to its former state of peace and prosperity.
At the centre of the stage Trygaeus was going about the business of rescuing Peace. He’d gathered together the men of the chorus, now representing the honest farmers and artisans of Athens. A rope had been lowered into the trapdoor.
‘Citizens of Greece, if we’re going to rescue Peace we need everyone to pull together — stop laughing at the back — get these weapon-makers and politicians out the way, we only need farmers and honest citizens here. Everyone ready? Pull!’
There was great straining and effort as they attempted to rescue Peace. The trapdoor opened slowly. The audience held their breath.
‘Here she comes!’ cried Trygaeus. ‘We’ve rescued the great Goddess of Peace!’
Peace emerged. Unfortunately, it was not the magnificent new statue as paid for by Aristophanes. It was instead the tiny, ragged doll they’d been using in rehearsal. It rose on the end of the rope, a pathetic sight, and one quite baffling for the audience. Trygaeus, caught unawares, looked at it, completely nonplussed. The chorus shifted uncomfortably, not knowing what had gone wrong.
In the stalls, Hyperbolus and Euphranor roared with laughter and took the opportunity to start booing again, their catcalls being taken up by their allies in the audience.
‘Booooo! Booooo!’
‘We hate your pathetic statue!’
‘Aristophanes is making fools of us.’
In the wings, Aristophanes and Hermogenes were open-mouthed with horror.
‘Hyperbolus and his cronies have switched our statues!’
‘It’s a disaster,’ wailed Aristophanes.
Trygaeus was an experienced actor, and used to things going wrong. Even so, this was a severe blow and one that was difficult to cope with. He did his best.
‘Eh… you see, fellow Greeks, by our combined efforts we have rescued the great Goddess of Peace — or rather this small but nonetheless impressive representation of her — but the eh… important point is, we all worked together and —’
The audience were not so easily pacified.
‘Booooo! It’s the worst prop ever! They’re too cheap to spend any money! Booooo!’
Aristophanes
Aristophanes sprinted down the stairs to the room beneath the trapdoor. He cursed his naivety in not posting a guard there, but really, the Dionysia was meant to be a sacred occasion. He hadn’t been expecting his enemies to stoop so low as to interfere with his props.
They must have bribed the attendants to let them in, so they could send up the doll to humiliate me. If I don’t do something quickly we’re doomed.
The actors onstage had been thrown badly off their stride. The play was grinding to a halt and the audience were starting to jeer. At the foot of the stairs Aristophanes ran into Bremusa. It gave him a sudden inspiration.
‘I need you to pretend to be the Goddess of Peace!’
‘What?’
Above them they could hear Trygaeus fumbling for words. It wasn’t going that well.
‘I have to send something life-size up there. Get on the platform!’
‘Why me?’ said Bremusa.
‘You’re the only woman in the vicinity!’
‘I’m not doing it.’
‘You have to! If you don’t the play will fail!’
Bremusa glared at him. Aristophanes caught her on a weak point. She had been instructed by the goddess to help him. Aristophanes bundled her onto the platform and yanked the rope.
‘Take her up!’ he cried, then sprinted back to the stairs. He was gasping for breath by the time he made it back to the wings. Fruit and vegetables were again raining down but Philippus, despite his faults, was a plucky performer, one who’d faced an angry audience before. He stood his ground, and improvised as best as he could.
‘I’m sure, citizens, that the real goddess we’re just about to rescue will be a stupendous creature… Look! The cave is opening again! Here is our beautiful Goddess of Peace!’
The trapdoor opened and up came Bremusa, Amazon warrior, with a scowl on her face, a sword in her hand, and a dagger in her belt.
‘What?’ said Hermogenes, and looked very doubtful. Aristophanes, however, had a feeling that this would go well. The audience were silent for a moment. There were a few comments from the front rows.
‘I must say, she’s very life-like.’
‘Where did they get that costume? It must be eight hundred years old.’
‘Why is the Goddess of Peace carrying so many weapons?’
‘Is it meant to be satirical?’
‘I think it’s funny.’
It was funny. As the Goddess of Peace, in armour, with a sword in her hand, scowled out at the audience, looking like she might cleave anyone in two if they annoyed her, the audience began to laugh. The absurdity of it fitted the tone of the play, so much so that Aristophanes wondered if it might have been a better idea to go in that direction from the beginning.