The Athenian Women

by Alessandro Barbero

  “Halt. You can’t go any farther.”

  “Can’t we climb the hill?” Cimon asked aggressively.

  The man looked at him with some distaste.

  “No. We have orders not to let anyone through.”

  “Why not?” Cimon insisted.

  “Those are the orders,” the man replied brusquely.

  Cimon turned around to look at the others.

  “Well, then let’s go back,” said Argyrus.

  “Yes, let’s go back,” Cratippus agreed. “What the hell do I care about seeing a bunch of Spartans? I would have liked it better if you’d taken us to see the flute girls.”

  For a while they rode in silence, ruminating. Each of them wondered when his father would decide he was old enough to take part in the drinking parties. All three of them were the sons of wealthy, old-fashioned men. Young men should stay with those their age, Eubulus had decreed, flatly.

  “There were two of them, you said?” asked Argyrus.

  “Two,” Cimon confirmed, now somewhat aloof. Of course there were two of them. When it comes to money, my father doesn’t believe in half measures.

  “Were they any good?”

  “How would I know! They were fast asleep.”

  “When it comes to that sort of thing, all the slave girls are good at it. All they do all day is have sex,” broke in Cratippus, contemptuously.

  They all burst out laughing, and then Cimon put into words a thought that had been buzzing around in his head for a while.

  “So listen, Cratippus, in your opinion is there any difference between a slave girl and a peasant’s wife?”

  Cratippus snickered.

  “The peasants seem to think so!”

  “Exactly!” laughed Cimon. “But in reality there is no difference. Look at Andromache: she was a freewoman, wasn’t she? But now she goes to my father’s bed, and how.”

  All three of them felt their mouths go dry. Argyrus and Cratippus were often at Cimon’s house: they all knew Andromache, and the circles under her eyes from lack of sleep and her hips, slender in spite of her age, sent a shiver through men both young and old.

  “Do you remember when he bought her?”

  “I was just a child,” Cimon reflected. “I remember that she was always crying. And how my father was always fighting with my mother. She hated Andromache. If it hadn’t been for my father, who got between them, she would have caned her to death, just to vent her anger.”

  Cratippus laughed.

  “A solid caning is good for slaves,” he said nonchalantly. “That’s the only way to teach them who’s the master.”

  The mare had stopped to shove her muzzle into the foliage of an evergreen, in search of something to nibble on. Cimon kicked his heels into her sides, forcing her to move on.

  “And it would do some of these so-called free young women a world of good, too. Speaking of which, there’s a prime specimen right there,” he added, pointing at the house they were approaching.

  Glycera had come to look out the window the minute she heard the sound of horses’ hooves and the young men’s voices.

  “Hello there, neighbor!” Cimon greeted her ceremoniously, after winking an eye at his compatriots; and he halted his horse right outside the window. In order to make an impression, he jerked the bridle more than necessary; the horse, feeling the bite of the bit, whinnied and furiously shook its head.

  Glycera blushed and stammered something. What an idiot I am, she thought, such an idiot! And she blushed even brighter.

  “I saw you the other day. So you like horses?” Cimon asked.

  “Very much!” laughed Glycera, in relief.

  Cimon smiled at her. He didn’t know exactly what to say next, but there was something about the young woman that tickled his fancy.

  “Are you making a necklace for the procession?”

  Glycera realized that she was still holding the length of twine on which she’d been stringing dried figs. The next day, the festivities of the Wine Press would be held, and the young women who carried the baskets of offerings for the sacrifice to the wine god would wear a necklace of dried figs around their necks. Glycera and the other girls her age thought it was ridiculous, but that’s what had always been done, since the days of their forefathers. They must have had some reason for it.

  “Yes, I’ll be carrying the basket,” she said; and blushed again.

  An idea occurred to Cimon.

  “Nice figs you have there. Did you harvest a lot this year?”

  “Yes, quite a lot.”

  “Sell me a bushel. We don’t have many this year, the wasps ruined them all.”

  “I can’t right now,” Glycera answered in confusion.

  “No, not right now,” laughed Cimon. “Bring them to me at my house. I’ll pay you well: three obols.”

  The other young men pricked up their ears. What a guy, that Cimon: the thought of suggesting, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, that a young freewoman should come to his house! And she blushes, but she doesn’t curse him, she doesn’t slam her shutters closed and bolt them: it really is true, there is no difference between the daughters of the poor and immigrant women or slave girls, it’s just a matter of knowing how to treat them.

  Glycera’s mind was in too much of a tizzy to realize just how offensive that suggestion really was: the young man was handsome as a god, and he was smiling at her. So infuriating, she thought, if only my father had gone into town today, I could have gone, but he’ll be back from the vineyard any minute.

  “I can’t, my father won’t let me.” She tried to act as if it were funny, shaking her head and rolling her eyes: we both know what old men are like, don’t we?

  Cimon smiled again. He had noticed that every time he smiled, the young woman’s eyes sparkled. He stayed there a little longer, sitting upright in his saddle, working hard to look nonchalant. Still, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Oh well, neighbor girl, then there’s nothing to be done. Sorry about that. Take care.”

  The three young men rode off, and Glycera stood there watching them go. I could have seen the inside of a rich man’s house, she was thinking; and then, once I was there, with him, who knows what else could have happened! It’s clear that he likes me, he noticed me, after all. Deep inside, she could feel a wave of anger surging higher at her father’s absurd prejudices.

  “That miserable wretch! As if it wasn’t obvious that she was ready to spread her legs,” Cimon commented as soon as they were out of earshot. “‘My father won’t let me,’” he mimicked her, in a mocking falsetto.

  But at that moment Glycera summoned them back. She leaned out the window and waved.

  Cimon wheeled his horse around, and a moment later was back under her window.

  “I’m all ears.”

  Glycera had thought it over in haste. Tomorrow, after the sacrifice, her father would surely head out to the theater, and so would Polemon: everyone, there, went into the city for the festival and the comedy competition. They’d leave at dawn and they never returned until late at night, enthusiastic, ravenous, furiously arguing about who was likely to be the winner.

  “What if I came tomorrow?”

  Cimon thought it over. If it were just for the figs, she could have left them with Moca. But he didn’t care about the figs at all, he had just dreamed them up as a pretext to see if he could tempt the young woman to come to his house. I could just skip going to the theater and come here: no one would be home, after all, they’d all be going into the city for the festival . . .

  “Then come tomorrow, o daughter of Thrasyllus,” he solemnly said.

  Glycera couldn’t help but laugh. Three obols! When her father found out, he’d forgive her for going out without permission. Certainly, now that she was committing to it, going all
alone to a man’s house did frighten her a little. Going to market is another matter: there too, the men look at you, but you’re in the middle of a crowd, nothing bad can happen to you. Sure, still, there was always Moca, the Thracian woman, at Cimon’s house, and she was a friend: what on earth could happen? And after all, her face lighting up as the thought occurred to her, she wouldn’t be going alone.

  “Do you want two bushels?” she ventured, hopefully. “My girlfriend is coming with me.”

  “Even better,” Cimon approved; and trotted away. With two of them, there’ll be plenty to go around.

  “Men, tomorrow I want you well nourished and ready for action, we’re going to have a pair of fillies to break,” he announced as soon as he caught up with his friends.

  Euthydemus opened his eyes. For a moment he was bewildered: why, where am I, ye gods? Then he remembered, he was at Eubulus’s house, the party had ended, it was already daytime. Not that that made a great deal of difference: the big room was dark, and even outside there wasn’t much sunlight. The braziers were out and Euthydemus realized that he’d been dreaming he was cold: he was somewhere in the mountains, standing watch in armor, and he was complaining to his comrades about the freezing weather. How many times that had happened to him when he was young, he reflected. You go out one morning, you walk through the square, and there’s your name on the list: you have to drop what you’re doing, go running back home, and spend the day getting ready: you fill your haversack, you send out for cheese and onions . . . Now he had so much money he no longer was required to serve: he simply financed a trireme. Still, how cold it was! And what a headache he had from this hangover!

  He noticed that Eubulus, too, was still awake.

  “But are we the only ones left?”

  “So it would seem, o Euthydemus. Tell me, do you want something to drink?”

  The guest gestured in horror.

  “Never again! I’ll never drink as much as I drank last night, I swear it on the goddess!”

  Eubulus laughed. He’d sworn oaths of the sort more than once himself.

  “Something to eat?”

  Euthydemus shook his head.

  “My head is splitting, I couldn’t eat. I’m going home. Have them bring my sandals.”

  A young slave boy appeared, yawning, with the guest’s sandals in one hand, and he kneeled down to lace them up. Andromache peered in at the door; she was clean and scrubbed and her hair was neatly brushed, pulled back in her scarf; only her ashen complexion and the circles under her eyes revealed that she had not slept.

  “The master has awakened,” she observed.

  “As you can see for yourself. Bring some water so we can wash our faces.”

  The slave woman moved off. Euthydemus followed her with his gaze, and he too, like all the others, realized that that woman troubled him. Who could say, perhaps it was simply her past, the knowledge of what happened to her just a few years ago . . .

  The two men’s eyes met and they exchanged a smile.

  “Say, but did her name used to be Andromache, before?” Euthydemus asked as he rose to his feet.

  Eubulus chuckled wickedly.

  “What a thing to ask! I named her that myself, after the wife of Hector who became a slave to Menelaus. Her real name was . . . I can’t remember anymore. Her husband had his throat cut with all the other men. She had a little boy, but I didn’t buy him, I had no use for him.”

  “And is she good in bed?”

  “Not bad. At first, she was a little recalcitrant. Then she learned.”

  Euthydemus approved.

  “It’s really true what they say: it just takes one night for a woman to learn to appreciate a man’s bed!”

  They both snickered.

  Andromache returned with a krater and an amphora. One after the other, the two men dipped their hands and washed their faces; Eubulus sprinkled a few drops of water on the floor, muttering the requisite words.

  “Well, I’m going. No, wait, actually: do you remember what Kritias said last night, too?” Euthydemus asked, retracing his steps.

  “I remember perfectly.”

  Euthydemus looked around: Andromache had returned to the kitchen, the little slave boy was waiting to accompany him to the door.

  “Get going, you!” Eubulus commanded.

  Euthydemus sat down again.

  “Then listen, we’re understood, am I right?”

  Eubulus agreed prudently.

  “You want to know what I think? Kritias has a point: if we’re going to do this thing, then we should get started immediately.”

  “Go on.”

  “There’s no need for a lot of meetings. For the moment, the only ones we need are the ones who were here yesterday: we’re all in agreement, so let’s get started immediately. I know the right men to carry out a few choice acts, and I’m sure that you have a few at your fingertips,” he added, lowering his voice.

  Eubulus concurred.

  “If necessary, yes.”

  “Tomorrow the festivities of the Wine Press begin, it’s the perfect occasion. With all the people who’ll be out in the street. I have a neighbor, I don’t know if you know him, Opilio. One of the angry ones,” he added, with a smirk.

  Eubulus spread his arms wide. How can you know everybody?

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll take care of everything today. Tomorrow on his way back from the theater I’ll have him lured to a safe place and killed. You could do the same thing.”

  Eubulus thought it over. The matter really wasn’t as simple as Euthydemus made it out to be. In fact, he thought, it’s complicated, it slips through your fingers on all sides, you can’t grasp it with one hand. But last night we made a commitment, he’s right about that. And it’s also true that we might as well get started.

  “Don’t you have a neighbor there in the country, who always gets pretty worked up in the assembly? I remember hearing him once myself, he was shouting that tyranny is at the gates. One with a limp arm, no?”

  Eubulus’s face lit up.

  “Of course! Are you saying I could have that guy killed?”

  “That’s right,” Euthydemus agreed. “It should be even easier, seeing that he lives in the country. What’s his name?”

  “Thrasyllus,” said Eubulus.

  “That’s the one. He’d be perfect.”

  “But,” Eubulus said hesitantly, “don’t you think two at a time might be a little much? Let’s start with one.”

  Euthydemus didn’t spend a lot of time thinking it over. His head was pounding, his headache was getting worse, all he wanted was to get home.

  “We can just start with one. You or me?”

  “Let’s draw straws.”

  Eubulus plucked a blade of straw off the floor, broke it in half, and extended his hand to Euthydemus.

  “The long straw?”

  “The long straw.”

  Euthydemus picked.

  “So you’re it. That is, Thrasyllus is it,” he laughed. “All right then, my guy can wait for later. Let it be clear,” he added, turning serious again, “that we’re both in this thing up to our necks. The blood of that man will unite us.”

  “Everyone who was here last night is already united,” Eubulus nodded.

  “Good. Well, then, I’ll go. Be well!”

  At the door, the shipowner stopped to look up at the leaden sky: as usual, it looked like rain. What a winter, he thought to himself. Trudging down the muddy road, he headed for home. On a wall around an orchard, he noticed a piece of graffiti scrawled in charcoal, large sprawling letters traced out by the hand of a functional illiterate saying: “Fuck Sparta.”

  Euthydemus shook his head. When we’re in charge, we’ll put an end to this absurd war, we’ll make peace with Sparta, and if we need help from the Spartans to keep the populace under control, then we�
��ll ask them for help . . .

  4

  It’s quite clear,” said the priest of Dionysus, rummaging with his fingers among the warm viscera of the suckling pig that had just been gutted on the altar. Until a moment ago, the piglet had still been twitching. “Clear, clear, clear.” The words issued from his lips like a nursery rhyme, he was so used to saying them. The three men around him were waiting impatiently, but didn’t dare to hurry him. The priest extracted the bloody liver, manipulating it with the ease of long habit, and scrutinized it by the tremulous light of an oil lamp (it was still dark outside). He saw the sign. “There it is, there it is, there it is,” the priest told himself in a singsong. He was an old man, and every now and then he had gaps in his memory, but he knew his profession. The three men looked at the liver, but none of them would have known what to look for.

  “The god has spoken, it’s right there, there’s no mistaking the sign. The victim is in favor of the last of you going first. The last of you: it’s clear, clear, clear.” He looked the third of the three men in the face and smiled. “Aristophanes, today you’re it.”

  The man remained impassive. He had a short salt-and-pepper beard, and he was completely bald. The other two rivals remained silent, but inwardly they were rejoicing. They both felt certain that in order to win the competition, it was best to go onstage on the last day. It’s like at the assembly: the last one to speak is always right. All right, I’ll show you all the same, thought Aristophanes, with a quiver of excitement. And now to alert the actors and the chorus, because before long, it’s on with the show.

  The three of them walked out together into the darkness. The evacuees who were sleeping in the streets had just begun to stir, a few children were crying here and there.

  “Ah then, Aristophanes, today we’ll finally know whether what people are saying is true,” one of his rivals prodded him.

  “Why? What are people saying?” the bald man retorted.

  “That in your comedy you’re going to argue against the war,” said the other man, in an ironic tone of voice.