The Walled Orchard

by Tom Holt

  ‘My mistress asks me to tell you that she’s visiting her father in the country,’ he said, ‘and so the house will be empty for three days. She asks you not to let your friends be sick on the couches.’

  At the time, I raised my hands in thanksgiving to Dionysus and started issuing invitations immediately; but as I was being carried home to Philodemus’ house, my soul pointed out to me that this was a generous gesture from someone whom I had not treated well.

  Mind you, I think that I had drunk so much wine that some of it must have seeped through into my soul, for it was being unusually sentimental that night.

  After a few hours’ sleep I was up and busy, sending all Phiodemus’ household, Callicrates, and even Philodemus himself out into the City with invitations, which were on no account to be refused. My own role in this Xerxian campaign was quartermaster, and I filled my purse with handfuls of money and set off for the market. The sunlight hit me like a hammer as soon as I set foot outside, but I persevered manfully and bought up every drop of wine in Athens, together with a good stock of food, mostly fish, in case people should forget to bring any of their own. Then I descended on Phaedra’s house, with a train of porters behind me that seriously disrupted the movement in the streets, and got to work.

  Phaedra’s house, which I had not seen for some time, was a splendid setting for a party with all its expensive and ostentatious fittings. There were more couches and chairs than in Aristophanes’ house, and enough mixing-bowls to mix the Aegean with Ocean. Phaedra had removed every feminine object from the place, and the floor was scrupulously clean and dry. But outside the back door, I found a cache of empty wine jars, all ready for the jar-collector, and I wondered how on earth she had managed to empty so many.

  Needless to say, I hadn’t expected the prize guests —what you might call the collector’s items — to turn up, for I had invited men who I had never even met. But they came. Everyone came, from Cleonymus and Theorus down to my nearest neighbours at Pallene; even Cratinus came, although he was very ill indeed and had to leave early. Only Socrates son of Sophroniscus didn’t come, at which I was secretly relieved, for he never seems to get drunk and monopolises the conversation. Oh no, it wasn’t one of those cosy little parties where seven or eight close friends sit in a semicircle and talk about the Meaning of Truth, which is how people celebrate victories nowadays. It was a good old Athenian thrash. The formal drinking-rules I had devised, the subtle order of courses and succession of toasts and libations, were abandoned like the shields of an infantry-line when the cavalry attacks it from behind. I have heard many times how Atlantis was overwhelmed by the sea, but I could never visualise it properly until that night.

  It was touch and go at times, but I stuck it out to the last drop. About an hour before dawn, the only people still capable of speech were me, Callicrates, Philodemus, Euripides and Cleonymus, and we were talking about the Soul; we had decided that it couldn’t possibly live in the liver, where everyone thinks it lives, but that it couldn’t live in the chest, since that’s where the heart lives and the two never seem to agree. That left the head (which is absurd), the groin or the feet, and I can’t remember what we finally decided.

  The next morning I left the slaves to scrub the floor and make good the damage, and rode off to Pallene. Cleonymus rode part of the way with me, and I screwed up my courage to thank him. He made a noise that was something between a laugh and a sneer, and changed the subject. Of all the men that I have ever liked, I think he was the most repulsive, with the exception of my dear Cratinus.

  I spent my first few days at Pallene going round my rapidly crumbling new terraces, to remind myself that I was not successful in everything, and then settled down to work. The old Tragedian Phrynichus, who wrote his best plays in Themistocles’ time and was once prosecuted and fined because his Sack of Miletus depressed everyone so much, used to say that when a playwright sat down to watch his Chorus being led out, he should already have his next opening speech perfect in his mind; and I have always tried to follow this advice. When a play is presented and the actors run out to speak the first words, you know that that is the first and last time that that play will ever be heard. It’s like raising a son who is the pride of your heart to run in one race at the Games; even if he wins, you know that you’ll never see him again. So I have always had another play in my mind, and as soon as I hand my words over to the actors I do my best to forget them utterly. Likewise, I am always striving to do better, as if my last play were my own most deadly rival.

  I had rivals enough as it was. My next play, The Man With Two Left Hands, came second, well beaten by Hermippus and only narrowly beating Ameipsias, at a Lenaea for which Aristophanes, Phrynichus and Cratinus had not contributed anything. My Vines and Cities were only saved from third place by the brilliance of the costumes — I paid the vase-painter Phrygus to do them, out of my own pocket — and Aristophanes narrowly beat my Corinthians at the Dionysia when Aristomenes’ Heracles was booed off the stage. I had resigned myself to a future of second prizes when I won, quite unexpectedly, with The Flatterers. After that, I seemed to lose that sense of urgency which had been driving me to compete as often as possible. Although I was never without a play in my head, I found that I could bring myself to wait for a while, instead of forcing myself to complete it in time for the next Festival. I have had a good run, all in all; I have led out seventeen Choruses and won seven first prizes, and only once come third. As for my reputation with posterity, I no longer worry about it. The other day, for example, I came across a book of Aristophanes’ plays, with the copyist’s scribble all down the margins and on the back of the roll, in which some fool had written that Aristophanes’ The Acharnians beat a play called The New Moons, which was there ascribed to me. I have never written a play of that name, and if the copyist had had the sense to ask someone who knows me, he would have found out that I was far too young to have been given a Chorus that year; as you may remember, The Acharnians was the play for which Aristophanes gave the party I went to. But I couldn’t be bothered to look up the copyist and make him correct the mistake, even though this New Moons of mine was supposed to have come third. Twenty years ago, of course, I would have cut his head off for saying such things about me.

  It wasn’t long after The Flatterers, at a time when I was as near content as I have ever been, that I heard that my daughter Cleopatra had died, quite suddenly, from drinking bad water. By the time the news reached me the funeral had already been held, since I was staying with a friend at Araphen, and nobody knew where I was. My host commiserated with me and sent away the guests he had invited, but I must confess that my principal feeling was relief. I suppose that sounds very heartless, especially nowadays, but I had never so much as set eyes on the child, and somehow, given the circumstances of her birth and that stupid, insulting name that Phaedra had given her, she seemed to represent the division between us. You know the story of the Hero Meleager; how when he was born the Goddess prophesied that he would live only as long as it took a certain log on the fire to burn, and how Meleager’s mother grabbed up the log and kept it safe, until one day many years later, she flung it on the fire in a fury and so brought about her son’s death. Well, it had somehow got into my mind that as long as Cleopatra was alive, I could not bring myself to see Phaedra again, even though I had long since come to accept that Cleopatra was my child. Now she had died, as suddenly and inexplicably as Meleager. I felt no guilt for her death; but it seemed to me that there was a purpose to it. If I was one of those people who believe in what they say at the Mysteries, I would no doubt explain it all as the innocent child sacrificed for the good of the People; but I could never be doing with that sort of thing.

  So I took my leave of my host at Araphen and rode to the City, only to find that Phaedra wasn’t there. The doorkeeper at the house said that she had gone to stay with her uncle, out near Eleusis, and wouldn’t be back for a month. I thought of going to Eleusis after her, but I had business in the City which couldn’t be
put off, and so I decided to wait until she got back. I moved into the house, and asked the servants how Phaedra had been getting on.

  They were reluctant to talk to me at first, but when I had convinced them that I wanted a reconciliation between us, it was hard to make them stop. Their mistress had been terribly unhappy, they said; she had stayed in the house, spinning her wool and weaving cloaks and tunics for me in the hope that one day I would come back. She hadn’t touched a drop of wine —wouldn’t have it in the house — and had been to see all my plays. I was deeply touched by this, until I found the remains of several broken wine jars on the ash-heap, which made me suspicious. So I asked the servants to show me the clothes Phaedra had made for me; there must be several chests full of them by now. They looked mustard at me and admitted that they had been exaggerating slightly, about both the clothes and the wine. But they swore by Styx that there had been no men in the house at all, and offered to be tortured if I didn’t believe them.

  Then a messenger arrived from Eleusis to say that Phaedra wouldn’t be back for another couple of weeks at least. He was rather surprised to find me there, and didn’t want to say any more, but a four-drachma piece did wonders for his sense of loyalty, and he told me what had happened.

  Phaedra had gone with her aunt and some other women to make some offering or other at one of those little country shrines; it was more an excuse for a picnic than a religious occasion. They had made their offering and eaten the rest of the food, and the groom was just harnessing the donkeys to the cart when one of them was stung by a fly and went out of control. Phaedra, who had been putting the picnic things in the cart, had been kicked in the face, and her jaw had been broken. They had done what they could — the eminent doctor Eryximachus had been staying near by, and they had sent for him to set the fracture — but the bone had been too badly damaged for much to be possible. Phaedra, said the messenger, would never look the same. She would have a sort of permanent smile; just like that, he said, pointing to me without thinking, only on the other side of her face…

  I burst out into uncontrollable laughter, until everyone was quite angry with me, but I just couldn’t help myself. The thought that my beautiful Phaedra would henceforth be as repulsive as her husband — a matching pair, in fact, except that presumably she still had some hair — was a sort of pure delight, such as you feel when you recognise the intervention of a God. It was not that wonderful feeling you get deep inside you when you hear of the misfortunes of an enemy; there was nothing vindictive about it at all. When I had control of myself again, I told the messenger to go back to Eleusis as quickly as he could and tell Phaedra that I was on my way, and that if he said anything at all about my reaction to his news, I would make sure he spent the rest of his life in the silver mines. First thing next morning, I set out for Eleusis with Little Zeus riding with me, since it would be just like my luck to run into bandits at such a time if I went on my own, and I was determined to go straight there. But my soul made me stop off at Callicrates’ house to pick up the gold and cyanus necklace which I had been given as a parting gift by the princes in Thessaly. It was the most valuable single object I owned at that time.

  I once bought a tripod from a Syrian; it was a wonderful thing, with bronze lion-heads all over it and inlays of lapis and glass. It was far too expensive, and when a man offered to buy it from me, I sold it to him gladly, since I had been worrying about spending so much money ever since. But almost as soon as I had delivered it, I regretted what I had done, and finally I went to the man who had bought it and begged him to sell it back to me. He was a shrewd man, and asked rather more for it than he had given me, but I paid what he asked and took the tripod back with me. When I got it home, I saw that one of the little bronze lion-heads had been broken off and most of the lapis had been dug out with a small knife, probably to be used for earrings. But I didn’t feel that the damage spoiled my precious tripod; it made me value it all the more, and I never had it repaired.

  It was nearly dark when I reached Eleusis, and Phaedra’s uncle, who was called Parmenides, was standing by the door.

  ‘I don’t know what you want here,’ he said. ‘I’d have thought you’d done enough damage without coming to gloat.’

  Parmenides was shorter than me, and I wasn’t afraid of him. ‘Does this look like gloating?’ I said, waving the Thessalian necklace under his nose. ‘Where is she? I want to see her.’

  ‘She’s told me not to say where she is,’ said Parmenides firmly, as if his house was as big as the Labyrinth. In fact it was quite small, and I could see over his shoulder into the main room. She wasn’t there, so she had to be in the inner room or upstairs.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I’ll find her. I’ll just have to break down all the doors, that’s all. Right, Little Zeus, you’d better start looking round for something you can use as a hammer.’

  Little Zeus’ face lit up, for he dearly loved smashing things; I think he thought it was rather aristocratic. He pushed past Parmenides and picked up a big bronze lamp stand.

  ‘She’s in the inner room,’ said Parmenides, ‘and if you break anything I’m calling a witness.’

  I thanked him and strode like the avenging Odysseus to the inner door. As I put my hand on it I heard the bar go up.

  ‘Let’s see that lamp stand,’ I shouted, but before Little Zeus had a chance to move, Parmenides was standing beside me hammering on the door with his fists.

  ‘Phaedra,’ he shouted, ‘this is your uncle. Open this door immediately. I won’t have violence in my house.’

  That didn’t have much effect, and Little Zeus stepped forward, with his Heracles face on and the lamp stand in both hands, but I pushed him back. He shrugged and put the lamp stand back exactly where it had been, for he was a most meticulous man.

  ‘For the last time, Phaedra,’ Parmenides was saying, ‘will you open this door, or do I send for the carpenter?’ I left him to it, and crept out through the door. I went round to the back of the house and sure enough, there was a nice big window. The shutters were drawn but not barred, and I gingerly pulled them open, so as not to make a noise. Then I climbed in.

  Phaedra was leaning against the door, obviously preparing to resist the onslaught of the lamp stand to the last drop of blood. She hadn’t heard me come in so, treading as carefully as if I were walking on ice, I made my way over to a chair beside the bed and lowered myself into it.

  ‘Hello, Phaedra,’ I said.

  She jumped about a man’s stride in the air, whirled round and stared at me. ‘You left the window open,’ I went on. ‘Leonidas wouldn’t have done that, and neither would Demosthenes. You’re slipping.’

  I got up, went to the window, and closed and barred the shutters. I didn’t want any interruptions.

  ‘Go on, then,’ she said, and her voice was slow and painful. ‘Have a good look.’ She thrust her face at me, as if she were a soldier on parade presenting his shield for inspection.

  I needed no invitation. It looked much worse than it really was, because of the bruises, but I could see that it was the sort of disfigurement that could ruin somebody’s life, especially in Athens, where we are obsessed with beauty. But I’m proud to say that I didn’t shudder, or spit in my cloak for luck. Instead, I stood up and turned my own face to her.

  ‘They say husband and wife get to look like each other in time,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry it had to happen to you.’ Then I pulled the necklace out from under my belt and fastened it round her neck, and I kissed her.

  ‘Idiot,’ she said. ‘What do you mean by it, creeping up on me like that?’

  I put my arms round her. ‘You’ve put on weight,’ I lied.

  ‘No I haven’t,’ she replied. ‘And take your hands off me.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and that last play of yours was the worst yet. I was so ashamed that I didn’t go out for days.’

  ‘What did you do all that time,’ I asked, ‘stay in and catch up on your drink
ing?’

  ‘Who says I can afford wine, on the pittance you send me?’ She tried to smile, but it hurt her too much. ‘Is it very horrible?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘You look like Medusa,’ I said. ‘Both before and after she was transformed.’

  Even she could think of no answer to that, so she looked down at the necklace and stroked it. It was the first thing I had ever given her.

  ‘Where did you get this piece of junk from?’ she said. ‘If you expect me to appear in public wearing it, you’re very much mistaken.’

  ‘The hell with you,’ I said.

  ‘And how dare you be so rude to my uncle?’

  ‘The hell with him too.’

  ‘And now I expect I’ll have to put up with you under my feet all day long,’ she whispered, ‘not to mention your disgusting friends.’

  ‘It’ll be just as bad for me,’ I said, ‘coming home and finding your lovers hiding under the—’

  It was the wrong thing to say. ‘That’s not really likely, is it?’ she said, pulling away from me. ‘Not unless I take to sleeping with blind men.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Phaedra, I didn’t think.’

  She tried to laugh. ‘What’s up, Eupolis,’ she said, ‘lost your sparkle? Or are you so big in the Theatre now that you can’t spare a clever insult for your poor, ugly wife? Don’t say you’re running out of jokes at last.’