Shadows of Athens

by J M Alvey

  ‘Who should we dedicate this new temple to?’ wondered Thersites.

  ‘Athena! Who else?’ Meriones indicated the imaginary landscape with that same sweeping gesture. ‘We’re surrounded by olive trees! How can we doubt her blessing in sending us here?’

  ‘What tools do we have for building this city you’ve got planned?’ Thersites looked around.

  Meriones heaved an exaggerated sigh and offered his spear. ‘It’s a bit narrow for a shovel, but I suppose it’s the best we’ve got.’

  Thersites went to retrieve his shield. ‘We can use this for carrying things.’

  Meriones considered his helmet. ‘A bucket?’

  Thersites nodded before suddenly clapping a hand to his head in a florid gesture of despair. ‘But how can we build if we can’t measure anything?’

  ‘Oh, that’s no problem,’ Meriones laughed, confident. He reached under the front of his tunic. ‘There you are. That’s a foot long.’

  It worked, thanks to Nymenios’s expert knowledge of how to cut and sew leather. As Menekles tugged on what I sincerely hoped everyone in the audience had just assumed was the usual comedy phallus, the jaunty red cock tripled in length.

  Judging by the roar of astonished hilarity from the entire theatre, we’d successfully kept this trick up our sleeves. Well, not our sleeves exactly.

  Apollonides had to wait for the noise to die down to have any hope of his next line being heard. ‘A foot? I don’t think so. I think you’ll find this is a foot!’

  With a jerk and a suggestive thrust of his hips, he produced a cock twice the length. That got an even louder and longer reception. People probably heard the laughter in Sparta.

  Apollonides and Menekles had to stand there waiting for the roars to subside, waving those ludicrous phalluses around before they could appeal to their loyal Achaeans to decide which standard measure they were going to adopt.

  Naturally the chorus responded by displaying their own suddenly impressive appendages. I saw the riotous mirth sweep all around the theatre with private satisfaction. Follow that with your pretty Butterflies, Euxenos. Whatever else they might think of my play, those judges in the front row would have no trouble remembering it, no matter what the Brigands, the Sheep or the Philosophers might get up to.

  Best of all, the audience loved it. I’d promised Aristarchos they would, because he’d looked extremely dubious when I outlined this particular part of my plan. As I’d explained, it’s all well and good having comedies that promote civic virtues and honour the city’s democracy by means of elegant satire, but when an Attic farmer comes to the city after a year of seeing the same faces, the same houses and trees, and the same mule’s arse day in and day out, what he really wants is a play with plenty of belly laughs and lots of cock jokes.

  Lysicrates timed his entrance superbly, ostentatiously creeping along the stage just in front of the scenery with a finger held to his mask’s lips to hush the audience.

  ‘Well, that’s an interesting tool!’ He stepped up close, so the rapacious Egeria could peer over Thersites’s shoulder. ‘This new city of yours will be full of marvellous erections!’

  Thersites shrieked and ran off the stage, high-stepping like a startled satyr. Egeria scampered after him, hitching handfuls of skirts indecently high.

  Once the laughter had died down, the audience got a chance to catch their breath as the chorus sang in a more reflective mood. They painted a lyrical picture of the fine buildings that would adorn their new city. This would be the Builders’ legacy for their sons.

  With my words and Hyanthidas’s music, it was a very fine song. But was it long enough? I knew what was coming next and wiped apprehensively sweating hands on my second-best tunic. Lysicrates and Apollonides had rehearsed this next series of swift-moving scenes time and again but there were so many ways that things could go horribly wrong.

  ‘Nice new city you’ve got here. Wanna buy some amber?’ Lysicrates was unrecognisable, dressed as a northern barbarian from the snowy slopes of the Alps as he sidled up to Menekles. Even his voice was completely different as he extolled the mysterious virtues of electrum.

  ‘How about some nuts?’ Apollonides was a hoarse-voiced Sardinian approaching from the opposite direction. ‘Got to have nuts in a market place.’

  ‘I’ve never known a market that wasn’t full of nutters,’ Menekles agreed.

  The jokes came as thick and as fast as the costume changes as Apollonides and Lysicrates dashed on and off the stage only to reappear as different merchants with something new to offer each time.

  Menekles did a splendid job of portraying Meriones’s heroic disdain for bartering like a common trader, before he realised the fun and profit to be had by playing these merchants against each other.

  I think the audience was as breathless as the actors by the time our erstwhile hero was left alone on the stage once more, contemplating all the goods he’d amassed.

  ‘Mine. All mine,’ he gloated, hugging himself.

  ‘Really?’ Chrysion stepped forward from the chorus to challenge him. ‘When we’re the ones building the city that these merchants are flocking to? You don’t think you should show a little gratitude by sharing some of that out?’

  ‘What? Oh, oh, yes, of course,’ Meriones said unconvincingly.

  The chorus began planning the fine meals they would cook, congratulating each other on the comforts that would furnish their homes.

  ‘Oh! Meriones! You shouldn’t have!’ As the music wound down, Thersites returned to the stage with Egeria on his arm. ‘A wedding feast for us? How generous. Truly, a noble gesture!’ he told the audience.

  ‘What? Wait! No—’ But Meriones’s protests were drowned out as Hyanthidas’s music led the chorus in a triumphal marriage hymn. Chrysion predicted great things for the sons of Thersites as the music changed to a traditional wedding-night ballad and the happy couple were escorted off to bed.

  The nuptial song ended with an intricate flourish as the last man in the chorus passed by the end of the stage, leaving the theatre. Applause for the actors and singers swiftly changed into loud conversation and people hurried to and fro along the benches. A festival audience knows when to seize their chance to change places or find refreshments or to head for a public latrine before the next performance.

  I sat on the end of that wooden bench, looking at the empty stage and dancing floor. My first play at the Dionysia. It was all over. Nine months of work, endless rehearsing, so much effort and skill put into those costumes, into the masks and that glorious, unexpected and original music. Everything was done with.

  I heaved a sigh as I sat there alone amid the festival hubbub.

  Chapter Fifteen

  We didn’t win. That honour went to Trygaeos and his Philosophers. The sly old comedian astounded us all as he breathed new life into his tale of fatherly wisdom challenged by youthful presumption. Dazzling wordplay impressed the city’s intellectuals while ever-accelerating action entertained the rest.

  After scorning their old man’s reliance on the hoary sayings of Hellas’s Seven Sages, the play’s two sons belatedly realised that he still knew a thing or two about the best ways to charm pretty girls. More importantly, he knew the secrets of impressing the watchful mothers and wealthy fathers of potential brides. So the hapless lads came begging for help after their own comically scant success. One had tried showing off the latest mathematical and rhetorical theories, only to discover that bored the girls rigid. His brother fared no better despite flexing well-honed muscles and boasting of his discus and javelin victories. He learned that girls aren’t very interested in a man who’s most interested in himself.

  The play’s underlying message was that ancient Hellenic wisdom, hallowed at Delphi and echoed by Athens’ favourite sage, Solon: nothing to excess. The music was solidly traditional and skilfully played so I’ve no doubt that impressed the judges a
s well.

  Trygaeos was ecstatic as his patron Simylos was awarded the winner’s ivy-leaf crown. Even with disappointment gnawing at my guts, I couldn’t help but smile at the old man’s delight. I watched him thanking his actors and the chorus who came crowding around. Meantime Simylos accepted congratulations from his wealthy and well-born friends, along with the ornamental bronze tripod. He’d soon be setting it up as a public monument, to remind everyone that he’d won this honour for eternity. Meantime, Trygaeos’s actors and chorus would dedicate their victorious masks to hang in Dionysos’s shrine.

  Besides, The Builders came second, and that was some salve for my wounded pride. Even if second place doesn’t win any prizes, I reckoned that should keep my name in people’s minds when they needed a man skilled at turning a phrase. It should certainly help me compete for a chorus for the next Dionysia.

  I got up, dusted off my backside and walked down the slope to offer my own congratulations to the winners. As I caught a glimpse of Aristarchos in the well-born crowd around Simylos, I wondered how my patron was taking this result. His smiling face gave nothing away.

  I noticed his son Hipparchos had appeared from somewhere. He stood close by his father, accepting jovial commiserations and compliments on the play which his father’s money had financed and my imagination had created. He clearly had no qualms about taking credit for other men’s hard work.

  Mind you, a few paces away, his friend Nikandros looked as sour as an unripe apple. I sincerely hoped the arrogant prick realised how stupid he looked, now that his predictions for my play’s abject failure had come to nothing.

  ‘Well done, my young hero!’ Pittalos nearly spilled his cup of wine down my tunic. ‘Well done indeed!’

  ‘You do realise I didn’t win?’ Was he really that drunk? ‘First prize is the one that counts.’

  ‘True enough, but after that, what matters most is not coming last,’ he said cheerily. ‘As long as a poet avoids that humiliation, we’re all equal before the gods. No one will even remember who came second, third or fourth by the end of the festival.’

  He certainly wouldn’t, if he kept on drinking at that rate.

  ‘True enough.’ I smiled and went on my way.

  Truth be told, Pittalos and his Sheep could just as easily have taken second place. The country visitors in the audience had been especially taken with his tale of a humble farmer duped by a quick-talking conman. The crook swore the farmer could breed sheep with blue or scarlet wool if he paid for rare and miraculous herbs. The old fool had only been saved from ruin by the loyal sheep themselves, fearing their flock would be stolen or slaughtered by rival shepherds.

  They’d persuaded a mischievous nymph to lead the conman astray, promising him untold erotic delights. The crowd had particularly liked the scene where the nymph duped the conman into eating goat shit, imagining the pellets were grapes. Jokes about dung are nearly as popular as ones about pricks. Then the nymph and the sheep set about convincing the old man that, if something looks too good to be true, that’s what it’ll prove to be.

  I headed for the rehearsal ground in search of Apollonides, Menekles and Lysicrates. As I reached our enclosure, Chrysion and every man of our chorus greeted my arrival with heart-warming cheers.

  I bowed to them all, smiling. ‘Thank you, thank you all for your hard work and dedication. This is as much your not-quite-victory as it is mine.’ That got a laugh.

  The three actors were talking to Sosimenes while the costumes and masks were being packed away.

  ‘Betting on the outcome?’ I wondered who’d won and who’d lost.

  The mask maker chuckled. ‘You think we’ll let all that good cloth go to waste?’

  Apollonides grinned. ‘This year’s under-costumes will lay the foundation of the next festival’s masks.’

  ‘Whichever plays win or lose, Sosimenes always come out on top,’ Lysicrates said wryly.

  ‘Good to know.’ I nodded at the basket. ‘Is there any money in second-hand wigs?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll take those off your hands.’ Though Sosimenes raised a cautionary finger. ‘I won’t be in a hurry to get rid of them though, in case you need them for the Country Dionysia season. You’ll be getting an offer from more than one rural theatre, if I’m any judge.’

  ‘Really?’ I looked at the actors, trying to decide if the mask maker was serious or having one last joke at my expense.

  Menekles nodded. ‘I’d wager on it, but it would be unfair to take your money on a sure thing.’

  ‘Just hope the best offer comes from somewhere closer than Thorikos.’ Apollonides grimaced. ‘I don’t fancy that journey again.’

  ‘We’ll show you how to shepherd a chorus of country bumpkins around,’ Lysicrates assured me, ‘without them tripping over each other.’

  I hadn’t really thought about the possibility of the three actors and me being hired to reprise our play at one of the district festivals out in Attica around the winter solstice. If that happened, I’d be the one leading a chorus of local volunteers. That was a daunting prospect. I’d sung in a few plays in my time, in tragedy choruses for the Lenaia, but taking the lead in a comedy was a very different challenge.

  ‘Don’t shake hands on any agreement without discussing it with these three first,’ Sosimenes advised. ‘You want the best possible price for your time and trouble.’

  On the other hand, being paid a second time for work I’d already done definitely appealed, even if that meant putting on a chorus mask and costume myself.

  A moment later, voices passing our enclosure entrance caught everyone’s ear.

  ‘Some judges can always be swayed by showy tricks over subtle performance. And of course, Trygaeos won sympathy votes because no one expects another play from him. He’ll be dead by next year.’

  Euxenos was sneering as he passed by with his patron, Lamachos. The comedy writer looked as cheery as a man with an eagle chewing his liver. The wealthy gentleman was clearly none too pleased that all his coin had seen his play come last.

  Lysicrates made a farting noise and our chorus all jeered. Euxenos didn’t betray any obvious reaction but I saw the back of his neck go red.

  ‘He’s got no time for showy tricks?’ mocked Menekles. ‘I can’t remember when I last saw the stage crane get that much use in a comedy.’

  The chorus leader’s butterfly costume had assuredly looked very fine, swooping to and fro as the theatre slaves hauled on the ropes that swung the machinery holding him up in his harness. As for the rest down on the dancing floor, only one man had trodden on another’s trailing drapery, as far as I could tell. But their dazzling colours had been the most memorable thing about Euxenos’s play. That and the impatient shouts to get on with it and give everyone a few laughs. Heckling from the upper benches had come thick and fast, whenever the chorus embarked on yet another soulful song extolling the muses’ gifts to humanity.

  I was more surprised to get a filthy look from Strato as he stalked past a moment later. His Brigands had been well received and rightly so. That family’s misadventures had been highly entertaining as they followed the road from Athens to a citizens’ settlement up in Macedonia. No matter how bad things got, the deluded hero continually consoled his family with the promise of their handsome allotment of land, so different to their cramped hovel in a burned-out slum. His faith had been rewarded, and if different judges had been selected, there was every chance such a heart-warming play could have come second.

  Well, if Strato was going to sulk that was his problem, not mine.

  Apollonides clapped his hands. ‘Where are we drinking tonight?’

  As the chorus all clamoured for their preferred wine sellers, insistent fingers plucked at my tunic. I turned to see Lydis, Aristarchos’s slave.

  ‘My master’s compliments, and can you spare him a moment?’

  ‘Of course. Excuse me.’ I waved a
hand at the actors. ‘Our patron wants a word. I should see my family as well before they leave the theatre. Where shall I meet up with you?’

  ‘Soterides’s place, by the Itonian Gate?’ suggested Menekles.

  That won general approval.

  ‘I’ll see you there,’ I assured them before following Lydis over to join Aristarchos.

  Standing by his marble seat, our patron was deep in conversation with another well-bred Athenian whom I didn’t recognise.

  ‘You think we should seriously consider looking westwards?’ the other man queried thoughtfully. ‘For corn as well?’

  ‘We already know that Sicily can rival Egypt as a bread basket,’ Aristarchos pointed out. ‘Surely it’s better to fill our granaries from an island where we can trade in peace and profit instead of risking treading on some Persian satrap’s toes?’

  ‘Isn’t it wiser for us to buy up the corn which some overly ambitious satrap would need to feed his armies?’ the other man countered.

  ‘Why not send out our own citizens to plough fertile land we already know lies fallow,’ another man interjected, unasked, ‘to grow our own crops without being beholden to anyone?’

  I recognised him. Pheidestratos had been Strato’s patron, and he was looking as disgruntled as the playwright.

  ‘Another valid strategy,’ Aristarchos agreed, ‘and surely it’s better to look westwards into wilderness lands for such opportunities rather than along the already crowded shores to the east?’

  Pheidestratos looked ready to argue that point but the unknown man had noticed Lydis and me, and politely indicated our arrival to Aristarchos.

  ‘Ah, excuse me.’ He smiled and ushered me away towards the theatre’s western entrance where we could talk without being overheard.

  ‘I didn’t mean to intrude. Lydis did say you wanted to see me.’ I may have spoken a little sharply. It had been a long and stress-filled day.

  Aristarchos smiled, though I saw that calculating glint in his dark eyes. ‘You think I should have introduced you? Wouldn’t you rather they dismissed you as some scribbler whose face they need not even remember by tomorrow?’