by Tom Holt
To start with, I was overjoyed at the thought that I might be able to divorce Phaedra for adultery and be rid of her for good. I remember joking about it, at home in Pallene or at Philodemus’ house; we drank toasts to my liberator as if he were a new Solon come to free the serfs, and adapted the words of the Harmodius. But somehow I could never get around to doing anything about it, even though Philodemus and Callicrates offered to fight the case for me.
‘For God’s sake, boy,’ Philodemus would say, ‘it’s like a gift from Olympus, and you just sit there and do nothing. If it’s losing the dowry you’re worried about, I’ve spoken to half the lawyers in Athens, and—’
But I would shake my head and change the subject, and after a while they stopped bothering, looking on me as mad and already lost; or perhaps they were waiting until Phaedra got pregnant and I was forced to take action. I couldn’t understand it myself; I only knew that it was something to be done next week, or next month, or after the figs had been harvested.
The day came when, to my inseparable joy and sorrow, The General was finished and, try as I might, I could think of no reason why I should not take it down to the Archon. It was as near perfect as it would ever be, I had the backing of several influential people including Philonides himself, and I was old enough to take out a Chorus in my own name. By the way, I realise that I have omitted to describe my coming-of-age celebrations and setting-down in the phratry lists. When I started writing this History I intended to give a full account of it, so that generations yet unborn should know what such a ceremony was like in the heyday of the Athenian power. But to be honest with you, it’s such a tedious business that I can’t be bothered; so if you wish to read about it, I recommend that you dig out one of the metrical accounts by one of the old lyric poets.
Anyway, I trudged unhappily over to my uncle’s house with a big knapsack full of Egyptian paper, commandeered his secretary, and dictated the whole thing at a sitting; then I made the poor boy read it all back to me and corrected the mistakes, and told him to write out five fair copies, while I stood over him just to make sure he was doing it properly. I live in terror of having my words distorted by incompetent copyists. One lapse in attention can ruin a whole roll, in my opinion, and they hate the sight of me at the copying workshops when I come down to see how they are getting on.
When the rolls were finished, cut, dried and folded and properly polished with pumice, I packed them up in little bronze cylinders which I had had specially made in Pallene, with ‘The General of Eupolis son of Euchorus of the deme of Pallene’ and the first line of the play neatly inscribed on the outside, and set off for the Archon’s house. My dear Callicrates could see how nervous I was and offered to come with me, but I refused. I wanted to go alone, without even Little Zeus. I felt like Theseus going into the Labyrinth.
It was nearly dark, and I was terrified in case I ran into robbers who would steal the rolls for their bronze covers; but apparently there was a big funeral over on the other side of the City that night, and so the streets were deserted and safe. I arrived at the Archon’s door and knocked loudly, to raise my spirits.
A housemaid opened the door and asked who was making such a noise at this time of night. I gave my name and said that I wanted to see the Archon.
‘Is it important?’ she said. ‘He’s got visitors. They’re singing the Harmodius.’
The thought of going away and coming back the next day was more than I could bear. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s very important, you’d better let me in.’
As I stepped into the house I immediately thought better of it. What, after all, could be more likely to inspire the fury of the Archon than bursting in on him when he was drinking with a few friends? It would be a miracle if he even accepted the rolls. I looked despairingly around the room. To my horror, I saw that the guests, who were all staring at me, included some of the men I had most savagely and obscenely attacked in the play. There, for example, was Hyperbolus, and beside him Cleonymus the Vulture, and Cleon himself, who I knew to speak to and who was smiling at me in a friendly and welcoming way. I stammered out my business, thrust the rolls at the Archon (for some reason I cannot remember his name, although every other detail of that scene is etched on my mind as clearly as my name was inscribed on those confounded roll-covers) and prepared to make my escape.
‘So this is your famous General, son of Euchorus,’ said the Archon drowsily — he had reached that stage of relaxation that is easy to confuse with drunkenness. ‘Lie down and have a cup with us. We’ve all heard about this marvellous play of yours, haven’t we?’
His guests murmured that they certainly had, and I started to sweat. It was, I decided, that defile in Samos all over again, except that this time the enemy were well within range.
‘Let’s have a few lines,’ said Cleonymus, wiping oyster sauce from his chin. ‘I feel like some poetry.’
‘The hell with that,’ said Cleon. ‘It’s early yet, and we have the author here. Let’s have the whole thing. You’re not busy tonight, are you, Eupolis?’
I started to explain all about this party I had promised to go to. In fact, I was late already.
‘Well then,’ someone said, ‘if you’re late already, you’d better not go at all. Dreadful manners to arrive late. Stay here and let’s hear your play. Isn’t there a scene with an old woman and a pot of lentils?’
I cursed my mother under my breath for ever having given birth to me, sat down on a couch and gulped down the cup of strong wine which somebody passed to me. Then I fumbled the roll out of its cover (whatever possessed me to order those stupid bronze cylinders in the first place?) and drew it open across my knee. Of course, I didn’t look at it since I knew the play by heart already, and Cleonymus told me later that I had it upside down.
The opening scene went down very well, and Cleon in particular laughed at the old joke about the size of his private parts — which must have been a politician’s instinct, for it was a very unfunny joke and only put in because such a joke was now virtually obligatory in the opening scene of a Comedy. The entry of the Chorus too was rapturously received. It all seemed so horrible, for any moment now the really unforgivable personal attacks would come along, and they would probably cut my ears off with their meat-knives. I couldn’t bear to look; instead, I crouched down over the roll and tried to give the play the best reading I could. My favourite lines, which I had nursed since they were little more than a patter of sounds in my head, rattled off my tongue like olives falling out of a punctured basket, and I wished that I had never composed them.
The Cleonymus scene came and went, and the scene where Hyperbolus sells his grandmother to the stone quarry foreman in return for a pound of salt and two cloves of garlic, and still they were laughing. I was just about to start on the Cleon scene when the man himself laid his hand on my arm and asked, ‘Am I in this?’
Cleon, the only man in history to have prosecuted a Comic poet. ‘Yes,’ I said, staring at the writing on the roll.
‘Have you got a spare copy?’ Cleon asked. I handed him one, and he found the place. Then he motioned to me to continue. Suddenly I heard his voice — he was reading his own part, and roaring with laughter as he did so.
‘This is quite good,’ he kept saying. ‘Do I really talk like this?’
‘Yes,’ Cleonymus said. ‘Get on with it, will you? I’m enjoying this after the beating I took just now.’
Somehow I struggled on to the end, and when I had finished, they clapped me on the back until I thought my spine would snap.
‘Eupolis of Pallene,’ said the Archon gravely, ‘do I take it that you are petitioning me for a Chorus at the City Dionysia?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. It was not the most graceful speech in the world, but I felt too drained to say anything else.
‘Then I shall read and consider your play,’ he replied, taking the roll from me. ‘Of course, it would be most improper of me—’
‘Most improper,’ said Cleon. ‘Don’t be so damned pompo
us.’
‘Most improper of me to make any comment,’ the Archon continued, ‘but if you know of a suitable Chorus-trainer, it might be worth your while giving him a copy now. They like to have time to work out the dances, you know.’
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘Philonides the Chorus-master.
‘Oh well then, you’re all right,’ said the Archon. ‘If he’s behind you, I don’t know why you bothered bringing it to me.’ A wicked sort of grin passed over his face. ‘Who shall we nominate to finance your play, Eupolis son of Euchorus, of the deme of Pallene? Cleon here is rich enough; do you fancy it, Cleon?’
Cleon laughed. ‘It’d be the kiss of death to it if I did. Who else gets a hard time, Eupolis? What about Nicias son of Niceratus?’
The Archon made a very peculiar noise and spilt his wine down his chest. ‘You’re evil, Cleon,’ he said. ‘I’ll summon him first thing in the morning.’
‘Nicias,’ explained Hyperbolus, who was the only man present (except me, of course) with a straight face, ‘is a good man but he has no sense of humour. None whatsoever.’
Then someone demanded an encore, and this time not only Cleon but Hyperbolus (who would have made a superb actor) and Cleonymus took their own parts, and the Archon was the Chorus-leader, and we went through virtually the whole play all over again. Two of my beautifully prepared rolls were ruined by having wine spilt all over them but by this stage I couldn’t care less; and I don’t think I’ll tell you what we did with those elegant bronze covers.
So, about four hours before dawn, I bade the Archon and his guests goodnight and took my leave of them. I was far more drunk than I had ever been in my life before, and I had no real idea of where I was going. I dropped the torch they had given me and it went out, so I blundered along in the dark, and soon fell over. By now I had no idea where I was, and I didn’t really care. My General was going to be produced — my Chorus was as good as dressed and trained, and I could almost hear the rumble of those little wooden wheels as the trireme-costumes trundled across the orchestra of the Theatre of Dionysus. I levered myself up out of the puddle into which I had fallen, and continued on my random way.
What happened next is still fairly vague; someone stepped out in front of me and hit me over the head with a stick or a club or something, while somebody behind me jerked my cloak off my shoulders and pulled my purse out of my belt. I fell heavily on my shoulder and lay still, trying not to breathe.
‘You’ve done it now, Orestes,’ said the man behind me, and the blood turned to ice in my veins. The man standing over me had been, ever since I could remember, the most feared robber in Athens. ‘You’ve killed him, you realise.’
‘Not hard enough for that,’ laughed Orestes. ‘Come on, move.’
I waited until their footsteps had faded away, and then I tried to move, but I couldn’t. My soul inside me wailed, ‘This is what comes of your pride, Eupolis, you fool. You’re paralysed. They’ll have to carry you to the Theatre on a chair.’ I could feel tears running down my cheeks and nose, but I couldn’t move my hand to wipe them away.
I don’t know how long I lay there, sobbing miserably to myself; but some old men on their way to be first in the jury queue tripped over me and saw the blood on my head. They asked me what had happened, and I croaked out the single word, ‘Orestes’.
‘Don’t talk soft, son,’ said one of the old men, ‘he was hung five years ago.’
That somehow seemed to add the finishing touch to my misery; to have been crippled for life by the great Orestes would have been something to boast about, in the long years of utter stillness that lay ahead of me.
‘I can’t move,’ I gasped. ‘Do you understand me, I can’t…’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said the old man, ‘You’re lying on your cloak. That’s why your arm’s trapped.’
‘He’s not hurt at all,’ said another old man. ‘Have you smelt his breath?’
They started laughing and walked on. As soon as they had gone, I made another attempt at moving and was soon standing upright rubbing my head. It was nearly light now, and I recognised the district I had wandered into. Phaedra’s house — my house — was just around the corner. I picked up my stick, which had broken under me, and crept slowly to my front door.
There was light under it, and the sound of voices singing inside, but I had no strength to be angry. I just beat on the door with the crook of my stick and leaned heavily against the frame.
‘If that’s Mnesarchus come back again,’ I heard Phaedra call out, ‘tell him to go away until he’s sobered up. That tapestry cost twenty drachmas.’
The door was opened a crack, and I threw my whole weight against it. ‘You paid twenty drachmas for a tapestry, you stupid cow?’ I yelled, and fell forward into the room.
There was a sort of shriek, and Phaedra hurriedly wrapped a tablecloth around herself. The men weren’t so quick.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, coming home in that state?’ Phaedra said, but her heart wasn’t in it. Still, I had to admire her for the effort.
My soul within me reminded me that my sword hung over the door, and I pulled it down and waved it ferociously. ‘On your feet,’ I snapped, ‘all of you.’
There were three men with Phaedra, all undressed and obviously drunk. Two of them I had never seen before, but the third one I had known for a long time.
‘You two get out,’ I said to the strangers, ‘now, before I change my mind. But you,’ and I pointed to Aristophanes son of Philip, of the deme of Cholleidae, with the point of my sword, ‘stay right where you are.’
The two strangers ran out into the night without even trying to collect their cloaks. Aristophanes tried to hide behind Phaedra, but she stepped aside.
‘Thank God you came, Eupolis,’ she sobbed. ‘He was just about to—’
‘I could see that,’ I said, and my soul sang within me. ‘Go into the inner room and stay there. Don’t you dare come out,’ I added sternly, ‘whatever you may hear.’
Of course, I didn’t really intend to kill Aristophanes; for a start, he’s much bigger and stronger than me, and if I’d tried to attack him I would probably not be writing this now. But I was enjoying myself too much not to play the scene for all it was worth, and perhaps I played it a little bit too well. Anyway, as soon as I said these words, Phaedra picked up a dish of mushrooms in garlic and cream cheese and threw it at me. I ducked, and Aristophanes dashed past me out of the house. I picked myself slowly up off the floor and felt the edge of my sword.
‘That only leaves you, Phaedra,’ I started to say, but before I could finish I got a fit of the giggles and let the sword fall to the ground with a clang. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do,’ I quoted.
‘Oh, very funny,’ Phaedra said, and went into the inner room, slamming the door behind her. I picked up my sword and put it carefully back on the wall; then I followed her.
‘There’s garlic and mushrooms all over your statue of Clytemnestra,’ I said. ‘Help me off with my sandals, there’s a good girl.’
She gave me a look of pure mustard, then undid the sandal-thongs and threw them into the corner of the room. ‘You smell like a wine-press,’ she said. ‘Have you been fighting?’
‘I got robbed,’ I replied, ‘but they’re going to give me a Chorus.’
‘There’s blood on your forehead,’ she said. ‘I’ll get some water.’
‘Don’t bother,’ I said. ‘Did you really pay twenty drachmas for a tapestry?’
She blushed. ‘It was a bargain,’ she muttered. ‘Genuine Sidonian. There’s only two or three in the whole of Athens.’
‘Crap,’ I replied. ‘They make them in Corinth by the thousand and the Aeginetans ship them over here as ballast. Twenty drachmas!’
Then she tried to kiss me, but I pushed her away. ‘Not until I’ve made my will,’ I said. Her scowl wavered, very slightly.
‘I didn’t expect you home,’ she said. ‘If I had, I’d have been waiting for you. With an axe, like
Clytemnestra.’
‘Are you pleased I’ve got my Chorus?’ I asked, peeling my sodden tunic off over my head.
‘So long as it makes you happy,’ she said, pouring water into a cup and handing it to me, ‘and provided it keeps you out of the house. I trust you’re going to wash before you get into bed. I may be a slut, but I’m a clean slut.’
‘You’re the cleanest slut in all Athens,’ I yawned. ‘But I’m too tired to wash right now. Besides, it deprives the skin of all those natural oils that make for a healthy complexion.’
‘You’re no better than a pig,’ she said. ‘Do you ever wash when you’re in the country?’
‘Never.’
She let down her hair over her shoulders, like new wine pouring into an ivory bowl. ‘You looked a complete idiot standing there in the doorway waving that sword,’ she said. ‘Honestly, I was ashamed of you, in front of those people. It’ll be all round the City in the morning.’
‘It’s the morning already,’ I said, ‘and I’ve got to go and see Philonides the Chorus-trainer first thing.’
‘Well then,’ she said, letting the tablecloth fall around her ankles. ‘You’d better get some sleep.’
‘Why bother?’ I replied. ‘It’s too late now.’
CHAPTER TEN
Now I suppose you will get the idea that that was a reconciliation, and that henceforth all was well within the house. Not so. I don’t think we hated each other any less; but I believe we started to enjoy fighting. For a start, we were no longer afraid of each other, and our marriage developed into a sort of running Contest Scene, which is, of course, the heart of any good Comedy. Certainly, I found myself spending more and more time at the house, though that was at least partially because I needed to be in that part of the City, to work with Philonides on the play. Phaedra and I fought all the time, day and night; and yet it was a strange sort of conflict. In fact, it reminded me of those two Spartan hounds of hers, who were always at each other’s throats; blood and broken crockery and no end of noise. But when one of them was run over by a cart in the street, the other one refused to eat and died soon afterwards, leaving me thirty drachmas worse off. I don’t understand what people see in dogs.