by Tom Holt
‘But only,’ Socrates went on, raising his voice ever so slightly, ‘the dog-trainer?’
‘Absolutely, yes, But…’
‘And cattle-farming is attending to cattle?’
‘Undoubtedly. But…’
‘Then piety must be attending to the Gods, mustn’t it, Euripides? Is that what you’re getting at?’
‘Well …’
Socrates grinned and went on, ‘Yes, of course. But isn’t the effect of attendance always the same?’
A pause, for Euripides has lost his train of thought entirely. ‘Yes,’ he says lamely. ‘But…’
‘What I mean is, it’s for the good of the thing attended to, so that, to use your example, horses are benefited by horse-training.’
‘Actually, it was your…
‘And so (I presume) are dogs by dog-training, and cattle by cattle-farming, and so on.’
‘But…’
‘Or do you think,’ said Socrates, narrowing his formidable brows, ‘that attendance aims to hurt the thing attended?’
‘Obviously not,’ replied Euripides. ‘But…’
‘It aims at the benefit of it?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. What…
‘Then if piety is attending on the Gods, as you said, is it a benefit to the Gods?’ A little gesture here; a shrug of the shoulders and a raising of one eyebrow. ‘Does it help them in some way to become better Gods, or somehow more Godlike?’
‘No, of course not. But…’
‘I didn’t think you meant that, Euripides,’ replied Socrates, sitting back in his couch. ‘Now, what were you saying?’
Of course, by this stage Euripides had entirely forgotten what he had been trying to say, and just sat there with his mouth open. Before he could marshal his thoughts, Socrates started off again, and soon had him tied up in little knots over the meaning of the word ‘service’, until Aristophanes restored order by banging on the table again.
Then the mix of wine and water was strengthened again, and we began to talk about Poetry. Especially Comic Poetry, with particular regard to the excellence of The Acharnians. This went on for quite some time, as you can imagine, what with Euripides trying to be ever so polite about the extended personal attack on him in the play, and Philonides the Chorus-trainer telling a long and pointless anecdote about a Chorus-member who always kicked left when he should have kicked right. All this talk — even the boring anecdote — was extremely exciting for me, and I think Aristophanes must have noticed how enthralled I was, for he sent his boy over to me with the wine, and said, ‘Friend Eupolis here is going to be a Comic poet.’ He didn’t add ‘when he grows up’, but he certainly implied it. ‘I think we should hear a little of this Colonel of his, don’t you?’
Theorus dug me in the ribs with his elbow, and I had an inspiration.
‘Surely not,’ I replied, mumbling slightly. ‘I’d be ashamed to repeat my rubbish under the roof of a master. Can’t we have the big speech from The Acharnians instead? I know that by heart.’
‘Later perhaps,’ Aristophanes said. ‘But now we’d like something by the immortal Eupolis. Wouldn’t we?’
‘Well, if you insist,’ I replied modestly. ‘Let me see,’ I mused, ‘I could give you the Goatherds’ dialogue from The Steading of Pisistratus.’
Aristophanes turned bright red. ‘Not a dialogue scene,’ he said. ‘They’re so hard for one speaker to do properly. Let’s have something from this Brigadier of yours.’
‘There’s a good scene at the end,’ I replied. ‘A drunken party, with a Thessalian witch in it.’
Some of the others had got an idea what was going on by now. ‘That sounds good,’ they said. ‘Let’s have the Thessalian witch.’
‘Dreadfully passé, those witch scenes,’ Aristophanes muttered, ‘don’t you think? What about your parabasis? That would be worth hearing, wouldn’t it?’
It was, a nasty moment, but I kept my head. You may remember that I told you that my mother used to say that I spoke verse before I spoke prose. Well, when really pushed, I can extemporise verse — not very good verse, granted, but verse that scans. I took a deep breath, cleared my throat, and began to recite anapaests.
It took several lines before Aristophanes realised what I was doing, and then, of course, it was too late to stop me. The theme of this extempore parabasis of mine was that hardy perennial, scurrilous abuse of one’s rival competitors. I started off with the hackneyed attack on Cratinus — his drinking and repellent habits and so on —then did a couple of lines on Pherecrates before launching into my main target Aristophanes, basing myself on his own attacks on Cleon for the more virulent compound epithets.
Not only (I said) does the son of Philip steal goats; he also lifts jokes and scenes and whole choruses from better and cleverer poets, which he overhears in wine shops and the public baths and copies down in the little pocket tablet he carries inside the sleeve of his gown. Of course he writes so quickly that he often gets a word wrong here or there, and since he’s too thick to understand really clever writing, he doesn’t notice the mistakes and reproduces them in the text he gives up to the Committee. His motive for this wholesale plagiarism is not, as you might suppose, envy; rather, it’s partly to eke out his own bald and unimaginative texts, and partly because he doesn’t have much time for writing, what with all his little trips to Sparta to tell his friend Brasidas about our naval tactics — what, didn’t you know about that? Why else do you suppose he’s always urging the City to accept the peace offers from Sparta, when it’s obvious that they’re woefully inadequate. You ask for proof? Well, you know how the Spartans don’t use coins for money like normal people, but instead use great big iron bars, like spits. If you’d ever been to Aristophanes’ house, you’d see a brand new iron spit in his hearth, with ‘Made in Sparta’ stamped on it in Doric letters.
At which, everyone’s eyes turn to the hearth, and see a beautiful iron spit inscribed in Doric letters (‘Made in Plataea’, actually, but I was the only person close enough to read it), and a great shout of laughter goes up from the company. Euripides in particular seems highly amused.
‘Encore!’ he shouts. ‘And now let’s have the Thessalian witch.’
‘No, really,’ I said, holding up my hand for silence, ‘off with the flute-players and on with the actors, as I believe you poets say. Let’s have the big speech from The Acharnians, like you promised.’
Of course, the big speech from The Acharnians is a plea for peace with Sparta, saying that the outbreak of the war was as much our fault as theirs — which was exactly why I’d made him promise to recite it. In short, I did to him what Theorus said he intended to do to me, and although the audience laughed at his great speech, they laughed for quite the wrong reason.
After that, we sang Harmodius and played riddles, and Moschus played the Orthian; but I was too exhausted to take much of a part in the proceedings. I ended up sitting next to Philonides the Chorus-trainer; and while Theorus (who by now was completely drunk) was singing a Hymn to Dionysus, he leant over to me and said, ‘When you’re old enough to bring on your General, you’ll need a Chorus-trainer.’
‘Certainly,’ I replied.
‘I like to see a play as soon as it’s written, so that I can start blocking out the moves. My house is near the Temple of Hephaestus — anyone round there will point it out to you.’
I thanked him as best I could, but he grinned and turned away. In those days, for a Chorus-trainer like Philonides to approach a poet was almost unheard of; rather like a captain of a warship asking the crew’s advice on when to start rowing.
Not wishing to push my luck, I left the party shortly afterwards. This, of course, was a mistake — you should never leave a party until either all your enemies have gone or everyone is too drunk to be dangerous. I later heard that after I had left my name was linked with a number of very unsavoury characters. For some reason, when someone spreads a rumour at a party, people always believe him; and one of the guests who heard that rumour was Alcibiades.
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But I was so full of myself for days afterwards that there was no living with me, and even Philodemus and my dear Callicrates began to regard me as insufferable. I naturally put this down to jealousy; but it started me thinking that when quite soon I came of age, I would be leaving Philodemus’ house and becoming a householder in my own right. In which case, obviously, I would need a wife.
I had been visiting Phaedra and her family ever since the night of the Serenade, so that my intentions by now were plainly obvious. Her family seemed to welcome the idea of me as a son-in-law, which I put down to my wealth and, I fear, my wit and magnetic personality. In fact, they seemed quite happy to do without some of the required stages of courtship and get straight on to a betrothal.
But Philodemus, who was conducting the negotiations for me, seemed unwilling to press on so quickly, and insisted on formal discussions about the dowry, even though they seemed quite happy to pay what we asked. I found this infuriating, and we quarrelled about it.
‘But don’t you see, you young idiot?’ he told me. ‘If they’re so keen to offload the girl on you, there must be some reason…
‘Offload?’ I replied angrily. ‘What do you mean offload? She’s beautiful and accomplished, they’re offering ten acres…
‘Exactly,’ said my uncle. ‘And still, at nearly sixteen, the girl is unpromised. What’s your explanation?’
‘Simple,’ I replied, trying desperately to think of one. ‘She was promised to a man who suddenly lost all his wealth or was killed in the war.’
‘Don’t you think they’d have mentioned something like that?’ he persisted.
‘Since the subject has never come up,’ I replied grandly, ‘no.’
‘If the subject has never come up,’ said my uncle despairingly, ‘all that proves is that you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.’
I decided to attack. ‘All right, then,’ I said, ‘what do you think the reason is? Like I said, she’s beautiful and accomplished, and the dowry is marvellous, and I’m absolutely sure she doesn’t have any deformities or diseases. That doesn’t leave much, does it?’
Philodemus shook his head. ‘I don’t know either,’ he said, ‘and neither does anyone else. But all the people I know are Infantry; they don’t mix in Cavalry circles. And Callicrates says he thinks his army friends know something but won’t say.’
‘You’ve been asking?’ I said furiously.
‘Of course I have,’ said Philodemus. ‘It’s my duty to ask, or why do you think marriages are arranged this way? It’s so that young idiots like you with stars instead of eyes don’t end up marrying girls with Thracian grandmothers or only one leg.’
I decided to be reasonable. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I know you’re doing what you think is for the best and I appreciate it, really I do. But there’s nothing wrong with Phaedra. I swear there isn’t’
‘Then why,’ said Philodemus, ‘don’t you ask some of your new Cavalry friends we hear so much about in this house, and see if they know anything?’
This made me very angry. ‘So that’s what it’s all about, is it?’ I shouted. ‘You think I should be marrying some Infantry girl with red hands and a few goats on Parnes. Got someone in mind, have you, with a nice little commission in it for yourself from her grateful father?’
For a moment I thought Philodemus was going to hit me, and I backed away. He turned bright red in the face and grabbed his walking-stick; then with a visible effort he calmed down and became as cold as ice.
‘If that’s the way you feel,’ he said, ‘I shall conclude the negotiations on the terms as offered, and then you can go to the crows for all I care. And I hope your damned Phaedra turns out to have two club feet and leprosy.’
I tried to apologise but he was offended, so I made my excuses and left. As I walked up to the Market Square I thought over what he had said, and it occurred to me that the only person I knew who seemed to know something about Phaedra was Aristophanes. Hadn’t he said something about her ‘habits’ on the night of the Serenade? But how could I go and ask him for help, when I had made him look a fool in front of his guests? True, I had only been paying him back in advance, so to speak, for what he was going to do to me; but I doubted whether he would see it in that light. And then a horrible thought struck me. What if Theorus, who had a grudge against him, had lied to me about Aristophanes’ motive in inviting me? What if he had invited me so that I could meet Philonides the Chorus-trainer and all those other important people? My blood seemed to freeze in my veins. Supposing the great Comic poet had been extending the hand of friendship, as one craftsman to another, and I had repaid him by wrecking his Victory celebrations? The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that Theorus had been lying — he was not, after all, the sort of man you would believe if he told you your name — and that I had made the most terrible mistake.
As I wandered through the anchovy stalls, feeling as if I had just murdered my host, who should I bump into but Aristophanes himself? He was arguing heatedly with a fishmonger about an eel he had bought the day before, and which he swore blind was off. The fishmonger was adamant that a real Copaic eel, smuggled through enemy lines at the risk of the courier’s life, was bound to smell a bit hooky, that that was what gave them their flavour, and a proper gentleman would know Copaic eel when he tasted it. Aristophanes replied that he knew perfectly well what Copaic eels tasted like, that he had eaten them in the company of the richest men in Athens, and that a proper Copaic eel doesn’t make you throw up like Mount Aetna half an hour later. The fishmonger, who obviously never went to the Theatre and so didn’t know the risk he was taking, replied that even the best-behaved Copaic eel is likely to get a bit frisky when a man of dubious citizenship like Aristophanes son of Philip gobbled it up like a starving dog, instead of chewing it like a gentleman, and then washed it down with half a jar of unmixed wine.
Aristophanes gave up the unequal struggle and retired to a neighbouring stall to buy a crab. I came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped.
‘What in God’s name did you do that for?’ he snapped. ‘I nearly swallowed my change.’
I apologised, feeling that I had not begun this vital interview in the best possible way. Aristophanes fished an obol out of his mouth, paid for the crab and started to walk away.
‘Please, Aristophanes,’ I said humbly, ‘I want to apologise for spoiling your party.’
‘So I should think,’ he said cautiously. ‘That’s the last time I try to help a young poet.’
‘Someone told me a dreadful lie about you,’ I explained, ‘and I got so drunk that I believed it.’
‘You didn’t seem very drunk when you were spewing up those anapaests,’ he said. ‘Honestly, I didn’t know where to look. And can you think of a worse omen than that for a Victory party? I’ll be lucky if I get a Chorus at all next year.’
I had forgotten how superstitious he was, and I blushed. ‘I really am sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘It really was a stupid thing to do.’
‘Never mind,’ he said, forcing himself to smile. ‘After all what could be a better omen than to be mentioned in a parabasis? Means I’m bound to get a Chorus, or why am I being mentioned at all? Forget it, Eupolis. Set it off against that confounded goat.’
He slapped me, hard, on the back and I smiled. ‘I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out, then,’ I said, ‘because I want your advice.’
‘Certainly,’ he said warmly. ‘Got a scene you’re having trouble with?’
‘No, it’s not that.’
‘Oh.’ He looked disappointed, and I saw that he really was taking an interest in my career.
‘No, it’s about my marriage. You remember that girl you…
‘At the Serenade?’
‘Yes.’
‘Phaedra. Nice girl. What about her?’
‘That’s what I wanted to ask you, actually. I’ve been wondering why a girl like that, with everything going for her, is still unpromised.’
A smile crossed Ari
stophanes’ face, and he put an arm around my shoulders. ‘I thought you might wonder that,’ he said.
‘Do you know something then?’
‘As it happens, I know the whole story. Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you all about it.’
We went across to a wine shop and I bought a jar of the finest Pramnian. We exchanged healths, and he told me the story. It was just as I had guessed. Phaedra had indeed been promised, and to a truly marvellous man called Amyntas. I had heard of him, vaguely.
‘Wasn’t he killed in the war?’ I asked.
‘It was a tragedy,’ said Aristophanes sadly. ‘Friend of mine, actually. Died defending a wounded comrade. Phaedra was heartbroken.’
‘I can imagine,’ I said.
‘Of course, the family hadn’t announced a formal betrothal — there was some problem with the dowry; apparently Amyntas’ family were asking seven acres, when the girl would be a bargain without any dowry at all. What are they offering you, by the way?’
‘Ten acres,’ I said. Aristophanes whistled, and went on:
‘I imagine they haven’t mentioned it because of the bargain they had to strike with Phaedra after she heard the news. Apparently she was so upset that she was all for running away and becoming a priestess of Demeter. They only stopped her by promising never to mention his name again. You know what girls are like.’
‘Of course, I see,’ I said. ‘Well, thank you, you’ve taken a great weight off my mind.’
‘If I were you,’ said Aristophanes, drinking off the rest of the wine and wiping his chin daintily, ‘I’d get the betrothal all sealed and concluded as quickly as possible, before she starts thinking about her lost love and changes her mind. You may have noticed that her parents are a bit anxious to get her married off; you can see their point, can’t you?’
‘Absolutely. Thank you.’
‘Not at all, not at all,’ said Aristophanes. ‘After all, considering how I insulted the poor girl that night, the least I can do is make sure she gets a suitable husband.’
‘And what you said about her habits…