by J M Alvey
Onesime was rightly dismissive. ‘Hardly.’
Alke jumped like a startled rabbit. ‘We have to go.’
I braced myself for confrontation with Mikos. Then I realised the noise was the rattle of a chain over at Sosistratos’s house. The thought that our neighbours had started chaining up their gates sickened me, though I could hardly blame them after a dead body had been dumped here.
Both women snatched up their water jars, spilling half the contents in their haste. I reached out to detain Onesime, hastily withdrawing my hand as she recoiled.
‘Would you know them again?’
‘I would.’ At least she didn’t hesitate about that.
I considered this new information as we retreated to our own courtyard and Kadous closed the gate. It might be helpful to have someone identify these ruffians, though I couldn’t think how to get Onesime to wherever we might find them. Mikos would never agree to me or anyone else escorting her through the city.
Besides, there was still no proof that the men who’d painted the wall had murdered Xandyberis. All we could be sure of was that they’d dumped his body. Zeus only knew who had told them to do that.
Still, now we knew that yesterday’s insults hadn’t just been spite from a rival playwright or someone who’d seen me accused of Persian sympathies in the agora. I was being deliberately targeted by this conspiracy. I needed to tell Aristarchos about it. If we could put an end to this plotting, all these disturbances should stop. Ideally before my neighbours started dropping hints that I was no longer a favoured friend. I didn’t want to have to move away. I liked our little house. I wanted to decorate my dining room with painted fruit trees and swooping swallows.
But all that would have to wait. I had more important things to do. This was the day my comedy would be performed.
‘How about getting breakfast in the city?’ I suggested to Zosime and Kadous.
We reached the theatre so early that my family hadn’t even arrived. Even so, we weren’t the first there. As soon as he saw us, Chrysion came running across the dancing floor, stage-naked in his pale body-stocking.
‘Where’ve you been? Never mind,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Come on, you need to draw your lot for our place in the competition!’
‘Good luck.’ Zosime grabbed me to snatch a fervent kiss.
‘Come on!’ Chrysion seized my elbow and forced me across the sandy circle like a herder with a recalcitrant goat.
As we approached the rehearsal ground, I could see the Archon for Religious Affairs, along with a stagehand holding a small urn. The other comic playwrights were waiting with their own chorus masters already dressed in their under-costumes. I could hear the hum and bustle of preparation from the comic actors, choruses and musicians behind the wood and sailcloth walls.
‘Good of you to join us.’ Euxenos looked down his long nose.
Strato didn’t say anything, shifting from foot to foot like a man with a radish up his arse. Pittalos seemed unconcerned and Trygaeos even offered me a smile.
‘We’ve time in hand,’ the old playwright assured me.
The Archon thought otherwise. ‘I need everyone to know the order of the day before I attend to other matters,’ he said testily.
‘Forgive me.’ I bowed a deep apology to him, and then to Dionysos’s statue, just for good measure.
The Archon pressed thin lips together and nodded to the slave. I don’t know if Euxenos had arrived earliest this morning, but he was the first to be offered the urn. He reached in and removed his hand, keeping his fist tight closed.
My turn came last, possibly a rebuke for being late. I grinned cheerily at Euxenos as the other three drew their lots. I had no reason to do that, I just wanted him to think I had some secret he didn’t know. To my satisfaction, he narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
When I took the final broken piece of pottery I gripped it so tightly that I had to force myself to relax before the sharp edges cut into my palm.
The Archon looked around the circle. ‘If you please?’
As we all opened our hands, I saw the letter alpha clearly scratched into the black glaze on mine. Euxenos would follow us, then Trygaeos and Strato, with Pittalos and his Sheep bringing up the rear.
‘Excellent,’ Chrysion breathed with deep satisfaction.
‘Proceed.’ The Archon nodded to us all and departed in a bustle of self-importance.
‘Really?’ I asked under my breath as the chorus master and I hurried towards our enclosure.
‘Any troublemakers in the audience haven’t had time to get drunk.’ Chrysion’s grin came and went. ‘As for the judges, who knows? Still, look cheerful. That might put one of the other choruses off their stride, if their leader thinks we got what we wanted.’
I swallowed a laugh. ‘If you say so.’
When we pushed the sailcloth gate aside, I saw Hyanthidas sucking his twin pipes’ reeds, ensuring they were precisely moistened for the performance. He waved a greeting.
Our three actors and the rest of the chorus were already wearing their under-costumes. As one man, they turned, expectant. If they were that well synchronised out on the dancing floor, we had nothing to worry about.
‘We’re first up,’ Chrysion said briskly.
That impressive coordination broke up into what looked very much like disarray. Some pulled on their tunics. Others hurried to the basket holding the custom leatherwork which my brothers and our slaves had toiled over. Lysicrates started laying out masks while Apollonides and Menekles helped each other into their heroic armour.
I watched the chorus all adjusting the belts and straps that secured the comedy cocks hanging just below the hem of their tunics. I felt like a spare prick at a wedding.
Lysicrates came over, yellow skirts swishing. ‘Go and find somewhere to sit and watch. There’s nothing more for you to do. It’s up to us now, win or lose. You’ve offered the god everything you can and he knows it.’
It was strange. Whenever I’d imagined this moment, I’d expected to be racked with nerves. Now it came to it, I felt oddly numb.
‘Good luck.’ I shook Lysicrates’s hand and waved to the others as I left them for the short walk to the theatre.
There’s no official place for playwrights to sit. Not so long ago, they were in the midst of the action, as an actor or chorus leader, maybe even in the singers’ ranks. It still hasn’t occurred to the Archons to accommodate writers like me who merely supply the words. We don’t get any rewards for winning, not even an ivy-leaf garland. It’s the patrons who get all the honours, on the day of competition and thereafter. They customarily set up a monument to their victory to honour Dionysos, which is still more expense for them of course, so I’m happy enough to be spared that.
As for the actors, the finest performance in a tragedy wins a prize, but there’s not even that much recognition for comedy. Not from mortal men anyway. I found my way to the end of the first row of wooden benches and gazed at the god’s ancient statue. His approval was what really counted.
The theatre was growing noisier. The drama competition’s patrons and their closest associates were arriving to take their marble seats in good time. They were all dressed in their festival finery but there was nothing of yesterday’s formality. The city’s most influential men laughed and joked like schoolboys as they congratulated those who’d sponsored yesterday’s winning choirs. Hangers-on commiserated with the unfortunates whose silver had been spent in vain, and wished good luck to those who had opened their purses to ensure the city enjoyed all the new plays over the next four days.
Aristarchos was yet to take his seat. For the moment, he was exchanging courteous smiles and greetings with the wealthy and well-born. Lydis stood a pace behind him at his right side. The slave was covertly scanning the throng for anyone his master would be ill advised to snub, even by accident.
Higher up the hillside, the wooden benches were rapidly filling with ordinary Athenians. Frantically flapping hands caught my eye and I waved to my family.
I was pleased they had got good seats and hoped my mother couldn’t see that I wasn’t wearing my new sage-green tunic. I didn’t want to have to explain it had been ruined in that fight in the agora.
I searched the seats higher still. Zosime would be sitting somewhere up there with Menkaure and most likely Thallos, the old Thessalian, and everyone else from the pottery. I guessed Kadous would be with the other slaves from our family workshops right at the top of the slope. I hadn’t a hope of picking him out at this distance.
Nymenios stood up, beckoning to me. I turned away, pretending I hadn’t noticed him. There was no way I was going to sit with them all. I couldn’t face hearing my family’s unguarded comments as the play I’d spent so much time and passion on unfolded before us.
Before Nymenios could bully Chairephanes into coming to get me, a flourish of pipes announced the Archons’ arrival. Everybody hurried to sit down. The sooner the city’s business was done with, the sooner the comedies could start.
The Dionysia is the ideal time to honour those who’ve done Athens some great service. A succession of men from within the city and across Attica each received a diadem as the crowd cheered. As the last grateful and appropriately humble citizen returned to his seat, a further fanfare announced the display of tributes to Athena from our allies in the Delian League.
I leaned forward to get a better view as each successive city was named and its representatives carried the coffers that held their silver around the dancing floor. These contained a sixtieth part of their tribute to the Delian League, token payment at the festival. I wondered how many caskets were lighter than they should be, how many towns were short of the full tally of coin owed to Athena.
It wasn’t easy to match each new contingent to the names being sonorously proclaimed from the stage. The list seemed endless as the Archon of Record announced every dusty town in Ionia, from the Hellespont and the Thraceward districts, which apparently went on forever.
Finally he reached some place names I recognised as Carian. The list scrolled on and on: Madnasa, Lepsimandius… The delegates all looked as poor as Aesop’s country mice. At long last, I heard Pargasa called out.
Azamis shuffled forward. His grey head was bowed and his shoulders were stooped beneath the burden of his years and their town’s coffer. Sarkuk walked beside him, straight-backed, with his face impassive. They both wore their finest clothes but neither one could boast shoes or a tunic as impressive as those Xandyberis had worn.
There was no sign of Tur. I was relieved to think the young fool wouldn’t be here causing trouble with his volatile temper, or prompting gossip as people saw his cut and bruised face. On the other hand, I’d be relieved to know he’d made it through the night after taking such a vicious beating. I’d seen more than one man go to sleep after a thrashing, never to wake again.
Now that they’d completed their circuit, the Ionian delegates were leaving by the theatre’s western entrance. I was on the eastern side. So near and yet so far. I was itching with frustration. I could hardly run down there and chase the procession to ask them my questions and share my news about the rumours Kadous and Menkaure had heard. I’d have to find them later, or maybe try and catch Lydis, to give him a message for Aristarchos. For the moment, I could only watch as Azamis and Sarkuk walked away, and the Ionians were replaced by nervously smiling delegates from the Chersonese and the countless islands strewn across the Aegean.
At last, when the procession was over, the allied delegates were escorted to seats reserved for them. Shading my eyes with one hand, I was able to pick out where the Pargasarenes were sitting. No one with evil intent would be able to reach them there.
Now the penetrating clamour of brass trumpets announced the arrival of young men who’d just completed their military training. These weren’t all of their year’s contingent though; only the ones whose fathers had died in battle fighting for Athens.
Some of their fathers had been men in my phalanx who’d perished, I shouldn’t wonder. I owed so much to those older soldiers who’d offered their help and advice on the punishing march to Boeotia. They had bolstered us when we were as green and untested as these young men on the dancing floor, when we stood shoulder to shoulder and defied our city’s screaming foes.
Under the solemn gaze of the city’s generals, Pericles prominent among them, these young warriors were presented with their hoplite armour by a grateful city. There were a lot of such deserving young men this year. More than could be rewarded with the sets of warrior’s gear donated by Athens’ allies at the last Panathenaia. That extra equipment would have been paid for from the public treasury. Families who’ve lost so much will never face the humiliation of seeing a hero’s son demoted to the ranks of the rowers because they cannot meet the costs of equipping him.
That’s another reason why I’ve no wish to father citizen sons. It’s why I set some of my earnings aside for the day when I can repay Nymenios for my share of the family business’s profits. I’ll honour my father’s memory by helping to educate and equip young Hestaios and little Kalliphon, along with any other boys born to Melina, and to Glykera and Chairephanes if that match gets made.
Public money might maintain the gymnasiums’ wrestling grounds, running tracks and the teachers holding classes among the Lyceum’s groves or the Academy’s colonnades, but there will be further fees to pay if my nephews are to benefit from the best trainers and tutors. Lectures by visiting philosophers, sharing their latest thoughts on history, mathematics or whatever else the boys show a talent for will cost still more silver.
Sombrely watching this parade of those bereaved by war, I remembered my father relating his struggles to see all four of us properly trained and equipped. Though every sacrifice was worth it, he swore after a few cups of Chian, sloshing his wine for emphasis. No son of his would sweat at a trireme’s oar with some lentil-muncher on the benches above him farting in his face.
I never asked if he felt the same after Lysanias died in Egypt. Glancing at the seats of honour, I saw Aristarchos sitting with his hands knotted in his lap. I couldn’t see his expression at this distance. Was he remembering his own slain son, who was now wandering the shadowy asphodel fields in the realm of the dead?
As I commended Lysanias to the care of the gods below, I wondered if it would have been better or worse if my lost brother had left a son to be honoured at a Dionysia. Would that have tempered my father’s heartbreak, or leavened my mother’s grief? I’ve never been able to decide.
There was a pause as the generals left the stage and Athens’ newest soldiers marched off in well-drilled formation. Slaves were ready and waiting to receive their gleaming armour so they could come back to enjoy the comedies. I hoped a few of my jokes would ease the ache of their loss. That, and a few swallows of the wine provided at Aristarchos’s expense.
A cohort of slaves began carrying amphorae and cups up and down the theatre’s aisles. It was good-quality wine, Lydis had assured me. As people took this opportunity to stretch their legs or have a word with friends and family, I noticed Aristarchos summon his secretary with a snap of his fingers. As I made my own way towards them, Lydis came quickly around the edge of the dancing floor, beckoning to me. We met halfway.
‘The master begs the favour of a quick word.’
‘Of course.’ I hurried down the slope with the slave. ‘The boy, Tur, how is he? Has a doctor seen him?’
Lydis nodded. ‘Spintharos advises that he rests completely, for several days. He is concerned about the blows he took to the head.’
‘Understandable.’ I only hoped the young idiot would take the doctor’s advice, or his father and grandfather could convince him. Either that or tie him to his bed.
We reached the marble seats ringing the dancing floor and Aristarchos turned to greet us.
I wasted no time. ‘I’ve been hearing more strange rumours. There’s talk of widespread discontent with the tribute. More men have been saying there’ll be a reassessment this year, maybe even at this
Dionysia.’
Aristarchos narrowed his eyes. ‘Other Carians are spreading this nonsense?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so. My slave heard it from men fresh from the Hellespont, and a potter I know said that visitors from Crete believed the same.’
A resonant chord from a mighty concert lyre prompted everyone around us to hurry back to their seats.
‘There’s more,’ I said hastily. ‘My home, our wall was painted with insults last night, accusing me of Persian sympathies. It could be just some rival—’
The great concert lyre’s music rang through the theatre again. Everyone was settling down, expectant.
‘We’ll have to continue this later.’ Aristarchos grimaced. Then he surprised me with a conspiratorial smile. ‘I hear that our play will be seen first. That’ll give everyone a few new notions to debate.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ I scurried back to my vantage point. As a slave with a tray passed by, I grabbed a cup of Aristarchos’s wine and downed it in one swallow. Fine vintage or not, I didn’t even taste it.
A theatre slave walked up the steps to the stage. A lean man with a deep, ringing voice, he made the announcement that brought everyone who knew me to the edge of their seats.
‘Let your play commence, Philocles!’
Chapter Fourteen
Menekles strode onto the stage with his head held high. A fine Homeric hero, he cradled his helmet in the crook of one arm and sloped a spear over his other shoulder. He gazed around with satisfaction before addressing the audience in ringing tones.
‘Have you heard the glorious news? Troy’s topless towers have fallen! Who among us ever thought this great victory would come? Yet truly the day has finally dawned. We have prevailed after so much tribulation, lamentation and bloodshed. After ten long years of struggle, sacrifice and dedication, the menace in the east is no more. Now we can look forward with hope. Now we can plan with ambition. Now we can build anew!’
Apollonides ambled into view, bow-legged and with his wig carefully teased so that tufts of hair stuck out in all directions. He dragged his shield along the ground with one hand and was rubbing his cloth-covered arse with the other.