by J M Alvey
I fixed a smile on my face, as immoveable as the one on a comedy mask. Acknowledging the massive crowd with a wave, I tried to look as though I didn’t have a care in the world. Inside, I was quaking. I could already see this vast audience weren’t interested in us. Most were looking over our heads in hopes of some more impressive spectacle.
They got it in Strato’s Brigands, who swaggered on wearing those red-headed Thracian masks, with swirling barbarian tattoos painted all over their body-stockings. The trio of actors dressed as Athenian travellers, mother, father and youthful son, all cringed with appropriate terror as this chorus capered to raucous northern rhythms.
While the audience clapped and murmured, I stole a discreet sideways glance at Chrysion’s men. I could see the end of a cheeky red leather phallus poking out below the hem of a couple of tunics but there was nothing more obvious to see than any of the other traditional comedy cocks worn by every other actor in male garb. So far, so good.
Last, and after the Brigands, clearly least in the eyes of the audience, Trygaeos led on his chorus of Philosophers, all wrapped up in faded cloaks with flowing white beards and wigs. Seeing his actors were two callow youths and a stern father, muttering suggested the crowd had already worked out that play’s plot for themselves.
As the comedy companies followed each other around the dancing floor, I saw Chrysion was right about Euxenos’s Butterflies. Those gaudily painted wings trailed tantalisingly on the ground whenever a chorus member let his arms hang down, just waiting for someone to step on that painted cloth and tear it loose. If I’d been a little closer, I might even have done so myself. That’s probably why Lysicrates’s firm hold on my arm held me back to a stately, measured pace.
Coming full circle, we slowed to allow Pittalos’s Sheep to leave the theatre ahead of us. Menekles gave me a long, slow wink through his mask’s eyehole. I could hear him smiling with satisfaction as he spoke.
‘We’re going to give them all a good run for our patron’s money.’
‘Oh yes.’ Apollonides had no doubt. ‘Oh, sorry, please excuse us.’
We stepped aside to allow the first of the tragedy choruses to go past. They were ominously costumed as Odysseus’s men gaunt with hunger on the Isle of Helios. I was looking forward to Zoilos’s tragedies and seeing what new twists he’d found amid Homer’s canny hero’s misadventures.
Once we returned to our designated enclosure, Lysicrates knelt down to allow one of the chorus to unpin his colossal wig. ‘So what are your plans for the rest of the day?’ he asked me.
‘Come and watch the choir competition with us,’ urged Menekles. ‘We should look for some up-and-coming talent.’
Chrysion nodded as he removed his own mask. ‘It’s never too early to approach good singers for next year’s Lenaia.’
‘They’ll all be singing because they’ve chosen to,’ said Menekles with mingled relief and satisfaction. ‘Not just to get the military deferment.’
‘Have you had any thoughts?’ Apollonides looked expectantly at me. ‘For your next play?’
I blinked. ‘We don’t even know who’ll be called to read for the Archons at New Year.’
All three actors laughed. Lysicrates grinned. ‘I don’t think you need worry.’
‘Really?’ I didn’t know whether to be flattered or terrified by their confidence in me.
‘Right, you lot!’ With an ear-splitting shout, Chrysion turned to the chorus. They were busy undressing and stowing their masks and costumes in vast wicker baskets. Stagehands were waiting to get everything safely stowed under lock and key in the theatre buildings.
‘Enjoy the choir competition. Go home and feast with your families. Do not get so drunk you can’t get out of bed bright and early,’ he said with emphasis. ‘I want you all here in good time tomorrow, in case we draw first place in the order.’
Hyanthidas raised his hand. ‘Would that be to our advantage or not?’
He was endlessly curious about the ins and outs of Athens’ drama competitions. Music and poetry contests at Corinth’s Isthmian Games were very different, from what he’d told me.
‘You can argue that coming and going,’ Chrysion told the pipe player. ‘Go first and everyone who comes after has to measure up to you.’
Menekles shrugged. ‘Go later and your performance is fresher in the judges’ minds.’
Apollonides would have said something but the first full-throated verses in praise of Dionysos drowned him out. The choir competition had started. All the actors’ heads turned and I swear if their ears could prick like a dog’s they would have.
If this was any indication, the standard of singing this year would be higher than ever. I reckoned Menekles was right. None of these choirs had been lumbered with tone-deaf croakers forced into their ranks to please a patron and his cronies by securing their sons’ exemption if the hoplite phalanxes were mustered to fight.
I clapped Chrysion on the shoulder. ‘I’m going to go and sit with my family.’
I waved a brief farewell to the chorus, who surprised me with a discreetly muted cheer. None of them wanted to interrupt the singers. These men had first proved their own talents in such choirs, volunteering to represent the districts that acknowledged them as citizens.
Circling round the back of the theatre building, I saw Euxenos hissing at the stagehands hefting his chorus’s baskets through a storage-room door. He shot me a filthy look, as baleful as Hephaistos with a hangover. I couldn’t think why, though it raised my spirits to see him so agitated.
Further down the slope the broad stone altar outside the ancient shrine to Dionysos had been swept clean of old ashes and freshly whitened with chalk. Bundles of firewood were stacked ready beside it while the robed and garlanded priests sharpened their sacrificial knives. Muscular acolytes stood ready to subdue any beribboned bullock inclined to change his mind about participating in the forthcoming ritual.
Reaching the theatre’s western entrance, I waited until the boys’ choir from the Acamantis tribe filed out, to be quickly replaced by fifty beardless youths from Pandionis.
I climbed up the hillside before cutting across to join my family, stooping low and whispering apologies as I edged between the benches. Nymenios shuffled along to make room for me beside Zosime. As I sat down, she slipped her hand into mine and squeezed, loving, reassuring.
‘Your costumes look . . . interesting,’ Nymenios murmured mischievously.
I shot him a warning glance. He grinned at me, unrepentant. Thankfully a stout man in the bench below turned around to glare at us both. I guessed he must have a son or nephew singing his heart out down below and was determined to hear every note.
Chairephanes passed along a wineskin and Kleio produced twists of cloth holding spiced pastries from the basket at her feet. I eased my arm around Zosime’s shoulders and drew her close. There was nothing I could do about the play now, so I might as well enjoy the choir contest.
I didn’t sit there taking note of particularly fine voices or graceful movers as the choirs came and went. I wasn’t about to tempt Dionysos or Athena or any other deity to slap me down for arrogantly assuming I’d be awarded another chorus by the freshly appointed Archons at the new year.
Instead I drank wine and ate treats with my family and enjoyed the spring sunshine’s warmth on my face and arms. Melina, Kleio and Glykera all covered their heads with lightly woven shawls though, and their long gowns had loose, flowing sleeves. They weren’t about to risk the darkly tanned skin that marks out the poorer women who work in the marketplaces. Zosime had no such concerns. Her father’s blood had bronzed her complexion and her Cretan accent ensured nobody cared.
Not everyone stayed for the entire competition. People discreetly took their leave in the brief intervals as one choir made way for the next. After three more performances, Nymenios nudged me in the ribs and leaned close to whisper, ‘Shall we go do
wn to the sacrifices now?’
‘Good idea,’ I mouthed. It was already nearing noon.
Nymenios looked along the bench, catching Chairephanes’ eye. He nodded and nudged Pamphilos and Kalliphon, who gathered up their cloaks.
‘We’re going to the shrine,’ I murmured to Zosime, and she nodded her understanding.
As soon as the singing stopped again, we made our way quickly to the end of the benches and headed down the hill. That did leave all four women under Chairephanes’s sole protection but nothing untoward could happen in broad daylight in the middle of the theatre.
Besides, nothing short of Pegasus could have carried Melina away from her entertainment. She and Kleio and Glykera would be sitting there until the judges’ votes were counted and the winners announced.
The sacrifices were already well underway at the Shrine of Dionysos. The whitened altar was liberally splashed with blood, and ashes were piling up around its base as fresh wood was heaped on to keep the flames burning fiercely for each new offering. A soot-smudged priest slapped down the next portion of bones wrapped in fat. The altar fire hissed and flared and savoury smoke surged upwards for the gods’ delectation.
The smell set my mouth watering and I realised I was ravenous. Fortunately, with so many beasts being sacrificed, the priests were happy to share out the treats that were usually their sole privilege after the omens had been read. Youthful acolytes were cooking strips of liver on skewers over the altar fires, handing them to slaves to be distributed among the crowds. I beckoned one of the slaves over and relished the succulent offal.
‘We’ll meet you back here.’ Pamphilos and Kalliphon headed off to join another group of men who were watching shrine slaves haul a freshly gutted bullock away for butchering. As well as both being carpenters, they’re men of the Kollytos voting district and I recognised one of their councillors over there.
‘Aischylos!’ Nymenios waved to one of Alopeke’s officials.
The thin, balding man greeted us with flattering enthusiasm. ‘So good to see you both. Philocles! We’re all looking forward to your play.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ I hastily swallowed a mouthful of hot liver, meek as a schoolboy.
I first met Aischylos as a wide-eyed three-year-old at the Spring Anthesteria festival, clutching my little jug. Aischylos was the man who had filled it with the wine pressed the autumn before. That’s when I’d poured my first libation and first tasted Dionysos’s great gift, suitably well watered.
Along with all the other boys born in the same year, I’d been presented to the brotherhood that my father and grandfather and all our forefathers had belonged to since time out of mind. District brotherhoods may not boast noble names like the Phytalids, but our roots go just as deep. Every man who’d stood witness when my father swore my brothers and I were his true-born sons would vouch for our citizens’ rights life-long, just as we would vouch for their sons.
For the moment, everyone was catching up with everyone else’s news of family doings, joys and calamities since the last festival had brought us together. Friends asked Nymenios about his children’s health and sent good wishes from their wives to Melina and our mother. Some took the opportunity to do a little business here and there.
Meantime, Aischylos, along with the treasurer and the other brotherhood officials, was scanning the crowd for unfamiliar faces. With so many visitors in the city, there are always some slinking around, trying to claim a fraudulent share in the sacrificed meat. Then there are the men who’ve been convicted in the courts and lost their citizen privileges as a consequence. Woe betide anyone here today who was challenged and couldn’t call witnesses to confirm his rights. Hauling slaughtered bullocks about gives temple slaves the muscles to inflict painful chastisement for such impiety.
I felt a familiar pang at the thought of Zosime missing out on this bounty, but there was no point trying to bring her to a family festival meal. She wouldn’t agree to come, for one thing. My relatives were happy to spend time with her out and about in the city and no one had any concerns about us living together. But she wasn’t my wife and she wasn’t a citizen, so asking her to cross an Athenian threshold while we honoured the city’s gods simply wasn’t appropriate. She would be as uncomfortable at our family table as my mother would be to see her there.
As we watched some slaves expertly skinning a beast, Nymenios nudged me. ‘I’ve been asking around, to see who could supply us with leather if Dexios lets us down.’
‘And?’ I really wished we could leave this until after the festival but I knew Nymenios wouldn’t shut up until he’d had his say.
Nymenios scowled. ‘Pataikos has precious few hides not already spoken for, and none of his finest quality, though we’re welcome to the pick of the rest. He’s having his own troubles getting fresh skins.’
‘Really?’ That got my attention. This was bizarre.
Nymenios nodded. ‘He’s been dealing with the Sanctuary of Castor and Pollux for years now, but the priests said they’d had a better offer for raw hides, and he needed to go elsewhere. He’s negotiating with the Sanctuary of Heracles out at Acharnai.’
‘He can’t find anyone closer?’ Acharnai is as far out of the city as a man can walk and return in a day and still have time to do some brisk business there.
But before we could discuss it further, Aischylos called for our attention. A junior priest was hacking up a sacrifice and, unlike some, he wasn’t keeping the choicest cuts for his own friends and family. We each got solid, meaty chunks of haunch and loin. I decided to take that for a good omen. Dividing a bullock into equal portions is all very well in theory but some shares are definitely more worth having than others.
We carried our spoils back to the theatre, so Chairephanes could carry the meat home to be cooked long and slow into tender succulence for the evening. I took particular care not to get any bloodstains on my smart new tunic. As we arrived, one choir was making way for the next and people were quitting or reclaiming their seats. As Nymenios waved to attract our brother’s attention, insistent fingers plucked at my elbow. Startled, I turned to see Lydis, Aristarchos’s personal slave.
‘My master’s compliments.’ He smiled and handed me a letter. Before I could ask what it was about, he slipped away through the crowd.
‘What’s that?’ Nymenios demanded as I passed him the beef I was carrying.
‘How about you let me read it?’ I cracked the wax seals and found Aristarchos’s neat script, concise and to the point.
I’m told that the Pargasarenes are at a travellers’ hostel owned by Proclus of Miletus in Heliotrope Lane, in Kollytos. The head of their delegation is called Azamis.
As far as I can establish, no one has informed them of their companion’s fate. If you are the first to tell them, make note of how they react. That may tell us something significant.
Don’t delay. Once you have spoken to them, come to my house. Don’t mention my name at their hostel, and be careful where you share your own.
There was no signature. Had Aristarchos heard something to give him cause for concern or was he simply being cautious?
Never mind. I could ask him when I told him how these Pargasarenes took the bad news. After that, I could head for my father’s house and eat sacrificial beef along with fish and fowl and cakes and whatever other festival dishes Melina’s slaves had prepared, with or without Mother’s help.
I waved the papyrus at Nymenios. ‘I have an errand to run. Tell Zosime I won’t be long.’
Chapter Nine
I left the theatre and headed for the Kollytos district. Thankfully it wasn’t too far, between the agora and the city’s southern Itonian Gate. Once I left the main roads I was familiar with, I began looking for someone I could ask for more detailed directions. That took longer than I expected. These side streets were deserted. Everyone who wasn’t at the theatre was evidently enjoying their leisure with
relatives and friends. Here and there I heard snatches of laughter and conversations carried on the breeze.
I quickened my pace, eager to get this done and get back to my own family feast. A few more twists and turns and I saw an elderly man sweeping wilted petals from festival garlands out of a gateway. Most likely he was a slave but it’s never wise to assume, so I greeted him as politely as I would speak to any citizen.
‘Good day to you. I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for Heliotrope Lane.’
He obliged with a toothless smile. ‘Take the first left down there and then the third on your right. You can’t miss it.’
He wasn’t wrong. Heliotrope plants flourished along both sides of the hard-packed earth, and someone had crowned the Hermes pillar on the corner with a garland of the dark green foliage. Someone, or perhaps the same person, had wound another spray around the pillar’s jutting stone cock.
Gates stood wide on either side of the lane, showing me broad courtyards enclosed by pillared porches. I heard a handful of different languages as I passed by. Travellers and their coin were warmly welcomed here.
A dark-skinned man with Phoenician features was walking towards me. I waved a hand. ‘Good day. Can you tell me where to find Proclus of Miletus’s house?’
Incurious, he barely slowed as he pointed and answered in heavily accented Greek. ‘That one.’
‘Thank you.’ The open gate revealed paving crowded with tables and stools. I knocked on the doorpost. ‘Hello within! I’m looking for Azamis of Pargasa.’
A slave boy in a grimy tunic big enough for him and a friend to share appeared from a dark doorway.
‘Who shall I say wants him?’ He was barely as tall as my elbow, but he knew to be cautious when strangers asked for paying customers.