by J M Alvey
Chapter Twenty-Three
Menekles as Meriones, and Apollonides as Thersites, got our play underway. Meriones was tall and broad-shouldered in his armour, with a Corinthian helmet (naturally) tucked under one arm as he made commanding gestures with his spear. We’ve all seen such Homeric heroes immortalised on a thousand pots.
Thersites was altogether an earthier character, shorter, scruffier, and constantly interrupting Meriones’ ambitious plans for settling in this fertile new land with persistent demands to know exactly where their shipload of Achaeans had washed up. His sly asides made it clear that Meriones was responsible for getting them so thoroughly lost on their way back from the Trojan War.
‘You kept sticking your oar in! You told the steersman to stick the ship’s prow between those inviting headlands and swore we’d find some nice snug anchorage.’ Half-crouched, Thersites ran his hands suggestively up and down his thighs. ‘You do recall it was Paris sticking his prow in Helen’s harbour that got us dragged away from home in the first place?’
The audience’s laughter suggested there wasn’t much local sympathy for Sparta’s straying queen. I desperately wanted to make a proper assessment of their reactions through this opening scene, but my vision was narrowed to a tight focus by my mask, so I could only pick out individual faces in the avid crowd. Besides, I was the leader of these singers today, and the bickering on stage demanded all my attention if the chorus and I weren’t to miss our cue.
Finally, Thersites forced Meriones to admit they would be staying here, even if neither of them knew where ‘here’ might be.
I raised my arms to the heavens and led the chorus in Hyanthidas’ first hymn of praise to this unknown land. Half the singers followed me in a half-circle heading away to the left of the stage building, while the others danced off to the right. Striving to stay light on my feet as we approached the audience, I swung back around to the centre of the dancing floor. The rest of the singers were heading towards me. Our two lines crossed, each man slipping deftly past his counterpart, turning one way and then the other. As the last pair went their separate ways, the chorus divided again, into four circles of six. Now our steps mimicked a country dance, before we all came back together for the hymn’s triumphant conclusion.
Everyone was word-perfect and immaculately in step. That was a relief because I very nearly lost my own rhythm when our dance’s sweeping gestures proved so well-suited to words I’d written long months ago and so far away.
As we praised seas full of fish, lush olive groves all around us, and well-watered heights offering timber and stone for building a new city, an Athenian audience needed to use their fertile imaginations to replace the city rooftops spread out below the theatre. Here in Corinth, in this shallow hollow of a theatre with unobstructed views in all directions, our outstretched hands pointed towards the sparkling blue waters of the Gulf, and to the well-tilled plain of the Corinthia. As we wheeled around in the dance, chorus and audience alike saw the mountains of the Peloponnese rising up beyond the Acrocorinth.
The Corinthian chorus’ devotion to their city lent resonant fervour to their song. I felt a surge of pride in their performance as well as humble gratitude to Dionysos for bringing my play to this audience.
The cheers and applause died down as Egeria appeared, full-bosomed and sensual. Lysicrates was utterly convincing as the Etruscan noblewoman, who explained that the Achaeans had arrived in the notoriously licentious wilderness of Northern Italy. She welcomed them warmly, blithely unaware of Meriones’ shocked reaction as she explained the sexual services that the local women would expect in return for granting the Achaeans land for their city.
‘You look as if you know how to use your plough.’ She stroked a tantalising hand down Meriones’ breastplate and fluttered teasing fingers just below his belt buckle. ‘You’ll find we appreciate a good, deep thrust into our moist, soft furrows.’
‘As for you—’ She spun around to startle Thersites. ‘You may not stand as tall and proud as your brother in arms, but a humble ass can serve just as well as a mighty stallion. Did you know that Etruscan women like to ride?’ she cooed as she pressed herself up against him. ‘To ride, and ride, and ride . . .’
She sighed winsomely as their hips moved in unison, and the audience chuckled appreciatively. This is where comedy always wins out over tragedy as far as I am concerned. Whatever a play’s underlying message might be, a few bawdy gags ease it along like a splash of olive oil in a lover’s hand.
Thersites protested, proclaiming his unsullied virtue, until Egeria pursued him off stage. Meriones turned to the chorus, aghast at this unexpected encounter with such unabashed, self-confident womanhood.
‘We need to decide how we’re going to rule ourselves, and quickly,’ he told the Achaeans. ‘Before I – before we – I mean you—’ Meriones hastily corrected himself. ‘Before you find yourselves trapped under Egeria’s . . .’ His voice trailed off, his hand straying towards his red leather cock. Then he shook his shoulders, like a dog coming in from the rain, and cleared his throat. ‘Under her – her thumb, yes, that’s it, her thumb.’
Meriones’ first suggestion was adopting the rigorous Spartan system of discipline: all drill, and no sex. As the chorus leader, my role was to encourage the protests of these men eager to put all thoughts of war behind them, and to enjoy the fruits of this new land with their new Etruscan friends.
‘I’m looking forward to splitting a nice ripe peach with my little fruit knife,’ I told the audience, with a suggestive thrust of my hips. ‘Or maybe a juicy pomegranate.’
So far, so well rehearsed. Menekles and I had been repeating these lines since I’d first written my first draft back in Athens. If I hadn’t played this part before, I knew the words as well as any of the actors, and from the audience’s vocal support for the chorus, advocates for Sparta had few friends in this theatre today.
As Thersites came back on stage, we were into, dare I say it, virgin territory. I retreated with the rest of the chorus as the actors embarked on their rewritten and so recently learned scene. My mouth dry, I reminded myself that Hyanthidas and Telesilla had approved this new version, and that Zosime had lent me her wits to polish it up. It made no difference. All I could remember was that old saying about success having many fathers while failure has only one. That would be me. The Builders was my play. For the first time, I was glad I was safely anonymous in my mask and costume in the midst of the chorus rather than sitting in the theatre for unimpressed Corinthians to stare at.
Meriones was proclaiming his intention to rule as a king, and to bequeath this new kingdom to his sons. Thersites was pointing out the flaws in this plan, with a whole new set of arguments to replace the play’s original praise for Athenian democracy.
‘You don’t think the Etruscans will have something to say about this? You did meet Egeria? That beauty with such great—’ he mimed cupping ample breasts ‘—personal attributes?’
‘We will put these Etruscan women in their place,’ Meriones asserted loftily. ‘Never fear.’
‘How?’ Thersites demanded.
‘We will explain that we are stronger and thus naturally born to rule.’
‘All right. You do that. What else?’
‘We will explain that we are wiser, and obviously better suited to making decisions.’
‘All right. You do that. What else?’
‘We will explain that we are calmer and less easily swayed by our emotions.’
‘All right. You do that. What else?’
‘We will explain—’ Meriones broke off. ‘Why will I be the one saying all this? Where will you be?’
‘Oh, I’ll be right behind you,’ Thersites dodged to stand with Meriones between him and the audience.
Meriones stepped aside. ‘We should be standing shoulder to shoulder.’
‘Not a chance!’ Thersites instantly took cover again. �
�They might start throwing things.’
Meriones clapped a hand to his breastplate, wounded. ‘Have you so little faith in me?’
‘When did you last win an argument with a woman?’ Thersites demanded.
‘Well, I—’
‘You can’t ever win. You know that. If you ever even come close, they change the subject and walk away.’
Now Thersites addressed the audience. ‘They remember everything you’ve ever said, and every detail of every mistake you make. They remember these things for years and then they use them against you. Don’t believe me? Ask Agamemnon. Oh, you can’t, can you? His wife killed him.’
‘Clytemnestra used an axe, not cutting words,’ protested Meriones.
Thersites nodded sagely. ‘Proving a woman can hold a grudge for ten years, keeping it sharp as ever. I’m not getting on the wrong side of that.’
‘Oh, come now,’ Meriones objected.
‘Haven’t you heard about the women here?’ Thersites gestured vaguely off-stage. ‘I’ve been asking around.’
This was where Hyanthidas and Telesilla had proved invaluable. Back in Athens, the lengthy scene debating democracy had included not-so-veiled references to recent successes, failures and scandals of local politicians. That gave the audience plenty to laugh at, and reminded the great and the good that they will always answer to the people. It wouldn’t work in Corinth, so we’d taken a different line.
‘Did you hear about the priestess and the doves?’ Thersites invited the audience into his confidence. ‘When that grain trader thought he could cheat her?’
I wasn’t clear on the details, but Telesilla had assured me that Demeter’s formidable handmaiden had made a local merchant look very foolish last winter. Having got on the wrong side of the woman who ruled the Sanctuary, I could well believe it. Judging from the audience’s appreciative laughter as Thersites told the story, they’d heard it too.
‘I did hear a rumour,’ Meriones admitted uneasily. ‘There’s a town not so far away whose men were slaughtered in battle, leaving greybeards and boys to defend their walls. Apparently the women marched out to fight and the invaders ran away!’
That was of course a swift summary of the way that the renowned poet Telesilla of Argos had led the defence of her home town in our grandfathers’ day. Hyanthidas’ beloved had been named to honour the famous and formidable woman who had humiliated the Spartans so thoroughly. Refusing to fight females, the fearsome red-cloaked warriors had no option but turn around and go back home.
Thersites and Meriones swapped a few more stories of redoubtable women, which the audience cheered loudly. They were forced to conclude that any man trying to rule this new city alone would face more challenges from Egeria and her sisters than any single warrior could handle. Consultation and consensus was surely the way to ensure peace and prosperity, giving all voices a hearing.
That philosophy should be just about acceptable to Corinth’s oligarchs, as well as assuring these ordinary citizens that Athens wouldn’t have a whip hand over the new colony at Thurii. As far as the play was concerned, these tales were in keeping with Etruscan women’s reputation for shameless behaviour. As far as the audience was concerned, they also enjoyed a good-natured laugh at Athens’ expense.
The implication was clear. With our own wives and daughters so excluded from public life, as so many exaggerated travellers’ tales claim, Athenian men simply couldn’t cope if they met an assertive woman. Menekles and Lysicrates were right. We’d get pelted with nuts and worse if we ever played this scene in Attica, but this was Corinthia and so the new scene went down as smoothly as Perantas’ free wine.
As Meriones and Thersites agreed to work together, I felt like Sisyphus reaching the top of his mountain and realising that bloody boulder was actually going to stay there for once. With a spring in my step, I led the chorus across the dancing floor once again, to celebrate the benefits of cooperation. This time we turned and stepped and twirled in unison, as our song remembered the Hellene forces standing united against Troy.
After that, the play proceeded much as it had originally been written. Everyone’s thoughts turned to building a shrine and a marketplace. We’d rewritten a few lines so this scene honoured Apollo in place of Athena. That was only courteous when we were performing within sight of his glorious temple.
First, the question of tools arose. Thersites and Meriones made the most of the resources to hand; that helmet, a shield, the spear. Then they faced the challenge of establishing a standard measure. With one good tug, Meriones’ comedy cock unexpectedly tripled in length, and he proudly proclaimed that was clearly a foot long. Naturally Thersites outdid him by suddenly yanking out a still more ludicrous phallus.
Of course, back in Athens, the entire chorus had been similarly equipped, and I was still a little sorry we’d decided against that here, but since the Corinthians didn’t know what they were missing, the audience laughed themselves hoarse.
Egeria slipped back on stage in time to lavish praise on Thersites’ impressive equipment and express her willingness to give him a hand deploying his measuring rod. Thersites fled, with Egeria in pursuit, leaving Meriones alone on the stage, and the Chorus in lyrical mood, envisioning the fine city they would build and its cultural riches they would bequeath to their sons.
More tangible riches were the focus of the next scene, and once again I had to force myself to focus on the words and dance steps that were my immediate responsibility. It wasn’t easy. There was still so much that could go wrong on stage. Lysicrates and Apollonides had to make a series of swift costume changes, to reappear as a multitude of eager merchants looking to trade with Menekles. With Zosime and Telesilla out on the dancing floor, only Kadous and Arion were left to help behind the scenes.
The scene started slowly enough, with Meriones seduced into banter and barter as he realised he could make himself rich, but by the time Lysicrates appeared with a ruddy-cheeked mask and a Sicilian accent, he was apparently breathless with haste. ‘Good day to you, honoured sir, tell me, are you interested in gold—’
‘Ooh, yes,’ Meriones said greedily.
‘—en grain?’ the Sicilian concluded.
‘Oh, no’ said Meriones, disappointed, and then affronted. ‘Do I look like a baker to you?’
‘You look like a man—’ the Sicilian pointed at the expectant chorus ‘—with plenty of mouths to feed.’
‘Oh . . . yes . . .’ Meriones said, apprehensive, as we all raised pleading hands or hugged our empty bellies.
‘Leeks! Firm, fresh leeks to trade!’ An eager Phoenician appeared on the other side of the stage, equally breathless.
Meriones planted his hands on his hips. ‘Do I look like a greengrocer to you?’
‘You look like a man—’ the Phoenician mimicked a rising erection with the vegetable in his hand, before peering at the cock dangling to Meriones’ knees ‘—who could use a good dish of leeks.’ He paused before continuing with salacious emphasis. ‘To give you an appetite for the local delicacies.’
The audience’s appreciative roar gave Apollonides a chance to catch his breath. Even so, I could hear the increasing toll all this coming and going was taking on him. It was all very well Lysicrates pretending to pant with exertion so the audience thought this was part of the play, but I began to worry that Apollonides might not make it to the end of the scene.
Menekles clearly thought the same. There were still two more merchants to come and go when he cut the action short by striding to the front of the stage where Meriones gloated over his newly acquired goods.
‘Mine. All mine.’
‘Really?’ I seized on the chorus’ cue to challenge him, asserting the rights of the men who were building this city to share in the profits to be had. The cheers of support from the audience made me think there’d be plenty of interest in Thurii after this.
Hyanthidas’ music led u
s into our next song and dance. The chorus stepped forward in twos and threes as the rest of us clapped and danced in place. Each couplet cheerfully anticipated the sumptuous meals we would now prepare, and the comforts that would furnish our new homes. Above us on the stage, Menekles conveyed Meriones’ anguish at losing his hoard with extravagant gestures.
When we were about to finish our dance, though, there was no sign of Egeria and Thersites. They should have been at the side of the stage, ready to make their next, and final, entrance. Thankfully Hyanthidas didn’t miss a beat. His pipe swooped seamlessly into a repeat of our last caper around the dancing floor. With my heart racing, I strode forward, praying fervently that the rest of the chorus would follow me. As I turned in front of the stage, I saw that they had done so. By the time we’d reprised our final steps, Apollonides and Lysicrates had appeared.
‘Oh! Meriones! You shouldn’t have!’ Egeria fluted as she dragged Thersites onto the stage, his arm firmly locked in hers. ‘A wedding feast for us? How generous. Truly, a noble gesture!’
As originally written, those were Thersites’ words, but I wasn’t going to argue with whatever stratagem got us to the end of the play without the audience noticing anything amiss.
‘What? Wait! No—’ As Meriones protested, I led the chorus forward into a rousing rendition of a bridal hymn. Once we had looked forward to Egeria and Thersites raising a fine family of noble sons and beautiful daughters, a wedding ballad ushered them off stage to their waiting marital bed, escorted by the gleeful Achaeans.
Cheers and applause were ringing around the shallow bowl of the theatre as we disappeared behind the stage building. Glad as I was to hear it, I was more concerned about Apollonides.
Ripping off my mask, I saw him lying flat on his back, his own mask discarded. Zosime knelt beside him, lifting his head with one hand as she held a cup to his lips. I hurried over.
‘Let me do that. You and Telesilla get dressed before anyone comes around to congratulate us.’