The Goddess of Buttercups & Daisies

by Martin Millar

  Aristophanes

  Another complete waste of time. Aristophanes rested his head on his hands as he sat in the open-air meeting place, while politicians and demagogues rose to harangue each other. He still felt queasy from his drinking exploits. He wished he were back at rehearsals. There were so many things he needed to attend to. The last rehearsal had been a shambles. It was customary for three actors to share the speaking roles in Athenian comedies, changing their masks as necessary to represent different characters. This could make it difficult for them to learn their lines but up till now that hadn’t been a problem in this production. While everything else had gone wrong, Philippus and his two fellow processionals had at least managed to learn the script. Unfortunately, they’d now forgotten it again. Aristophanes had watched, anguished, as each actor stumbled over their lines, finally grinding to a complete halt, wondering who was meant to speak next, and what they were meant to say.

  ‘You knew these lines yesterday!’ raged Aristophanes.

  ‘Sorry.’ Philippus had the good grace to look embarrassed. ‘They’ve just completely gone out of my head. Something strange in the air in Athens these days. My art is suffering.’

  ‘I’ll make his art suffer,’ muttered Aristophanes, now slumped in the baking heat. ‘I’ll make them all suffer. We’ll have a speed run through the script at dawn tomorrow. That’ll teach them to forget their lines. Great Zeus, that sun is hot. I wish I could get out of here.’

  Unfortunately, the assembly lasted even longer than usual. In between all the arguing about the failing peace conference, there was a report from Delos, one of Athens’ allies. They were asking for help but Athens didn’t seem to be in a position to help anyone at the moment. Or if they were, no one could agree how to go about it. The failure to agree on any means to assist their ally caused more bad feeling.

  There was one other item on the agenda. The ancient Altar of Pity had split in two. News of this had already spread. Though the altar was not a major place of worship in comparison to the city’s great temples, it was a well-known site, and did have a place in the city’s heritage. The chairman of the committee responsible for public worship reported that it had most likely just fallen apart with age, and would be repaired from public funds. He urged people not to regard it as a bad omen, but most people did exactly that. Some of the more emotional citizens declared that the city was cursed, and that neither Zeus nor Athena would ever show mercy on them again.

  Aristophanes found the news about the altar more depressing than anything else. He’d secretly harboured thoughts about saying a prayer there himself, even though, strictly speaking, a failing play would not be regarded as the sort of serious problem normally taken to the Altar of Pity.

  Might have been worth a shot anyway, he thought, morosely. Nothing else is working.

  When the assembly was finally over, he tried to escape without anyone noticing him, but Nicias waylaid him outside the exit. For a man who’d just been denounced as a traitor who was taking bribes from the Spartans, Nicias seemed quite even-tempered. Aristophanes supposed he was used to it. He’d been involved in Athenian politics for a long time, and had learned how to keep an even temper. Even the malaise that had settled over the city seemed to be affecting him less than others.

  ‘These meetings are getting worse,’ sighed the politician.

  ‘Don’t give up. The population wants peace, no matter what Hyperbolus and Lamachus say.’

  ‘Really? You’d be hard-pressed to tell that from today’s assembly. It’s like they’ve all gone insane. What happened to drive everyone mad?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps the gods really do have it in for us this time.’

  Nicias looked concerned. A few of his supporters tried to get his attention, but he brushed them away, maintaining his grip on Aristophanes’ arm.

  ‘There’s not much time left,’ he told the playwright. ‘The peace conference is meant to end on the last day of the festival. We have to make this city enthusiastic about peace again. If the population don’t want it, the delegates won’t either. No one is going to risk his neck by signing an unpopular treaty.’

  He looked Aristophanes in the eye. ‘I need your play to go well.’

  ‘I doubt my play will make any difference.’

  ‘It advocates peace, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but…’ Aristophanes raised his hands hopelessly. ‘It’s not looking good.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No money. And maybe I’m a poor writer anyway.’

  Nicias was surprised. ‘I counted you as one of the vainest men in Athens. Since when did you lack confidence?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nothing seems right these days.’

  The politician regarded him sternly. ‘Aristophanes, you can’t give up as well. I need your support. Your play has to be good.’

  Aristophanes departed, buying a honey cake in the agora. It was tasty as always. If the honey cakes ever declined in quality, he’d know the end was imminent. He wondered about visiting Theodota. Generally one had to make an appointment. What if she was busy, and wouldn’t let him in? That was a depressing thought.

  ‘Becoming so obsessed with the most popular hetaera in Athens probably wasn’t a great idea,’ Aristophanes mumbled to himself. Suddenly he felt a great desire for the comfort of another honey cake, and went back to buy more.

  Luxos

  Next door to Luxos’s tiny shack was another home, equally humble, occupied by two elderly sisters. They lived alone, their families having been wiped out by the plague some years ago. With no means of support, they relied on charity from their tribes to see them through. Unfortunately this system was not working as well as it had done in the past. The ten tribes of Athens did their best to look after all members in need, but these days there was not enough to go round. Hyperbolus and his faction had stepped in to help, providing food for people in the poorest areas. Luxos had partaken of their charity in the past but today, feeling that the feast he’d eaten at Callias’s symposium would keep him going for a while, he took the food he collected from the distribution point near the Sanctuary of Theseus to the sisters.

  After dropping off the supplies, he played his lyre for them. They were grateful for the food, and they enjoyed the music.

  ‘You’ve really improved with the lyre, Luxos.’

  ‘You should sing for all the people.’

  ‘I will one day!’

  Bremusa

  Bremusa was standing on the steps of the Parthenon in the company of a sullen nymph, wondering what to do next. A procession was approaching. Part of the Dionysia, she supposed, though she didn’t know what part. Bremusa found the different festival activities confusing, and didn’t understand what it all meant.

  Metris was winding strands of her curly, dark hair round her fingers.

  ‘Are you intending to spend all your time sulking now Athena has forbidden you to see Luxos?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well, don’t. We need to work.’

  Metris pouted. Bremusa found that annoying. She had never pouted. Among the Amazons, it had not been encouraged.

  ‘You dragged me to Athens on false pretences,’ said the nymph.

  ‘What are you talking about? Everything was clearly explained to you.’

  ‘No one said I couldn’t talk to poets with nice blond hair.’

  ‘It’s interfering with our mission.’

  ‘What mission?’

  Bremusa tapped her foot on the ground. The procession was coming closer. People were banging drums.

  ‘Our mission to stop Laet.’

  ‘Is it that important?’

  ‘Of course it’s important! It’s the whole reason we’re here!’

  Metris was still pouting. ‘I thought I was being taken to Athens to have a nice time at the festival and then I was going to live on Mount Olympus and be a goddess.’

  The Amazon warrior glared at her. ‘Are all nymphs as insane as you? No one is making you a goddess! Tha
t was never on the agenda.’

  ‘Then I’m going to sulk.’

  Bremusa opened her mouth, but struggled for words. She tapped her foot on the ground again, now in time with the drumming. ‘And no one said anything about having a nice time either!’

  ‘How could anyone not have a nice time at the Dionysia Festival?’

  ‘All you’ve done is hang around the harbour with that stupid poet!’

  ‘That’s not true,’ replied Metris. ‘I’ve seen lots of culture with Luxos.’

  ‘Like what?’

  The young nymph started counting off things on her fingers. ‘I went to the Parthenon and Luxos explained the story of the frieze to me. I saw pictures painted by Zeuxis and Parrhasius in the gallery, and then I watched a wrestling match and a running race at the stadium. Luxos took me to watch a big festival parade, and then we went to the theatre to see a tragedy by Sophocles which was really sad. Then we looked at all Phidias’s most famous sculptures. We listened to Socrates talking about philosophy, and Theodorus of Cyrene lecturing about mathematics. Then Luxos took me to the docks to see how ships are made. Afterwards we met some potters and saw how they make these lovely big amphoras, and then we all went to a tavern and drank wine and sang songs. I’ve had a wonderful time. There’s so much in Athens!’

  Bremusa looked at her blankly. Metris had done all that?

  ‘Haven’t you seen any of it?’ asked the nymph.

  Bremusa continued to look at her blankly. She didn’t know what to say. All the self-doubts she’d felt since entering Athens returned in a rush. She was an ignorant barbarian who didn’t know anything about culture. She didn’t even realise there was so much of it going on.

  While I’ve been tramping the streets with a sword, Metris has apparently been studying the city’s finest works of art.

  The nymph was looking at her, waiting for an answer, but Bremusa was completely stuck for a reply. She didn’t know what to say, and felt inadequate. She told herself not to feel inadequate. It didn’t do any good. She was rescued from her humiliation by the appearance of Aristophanes, who walked morosely towards them, his head down, muttering to himself. He looked older than his years.

  ‘I detest this city. And all the other cities. And the theatre. And people.’

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Bremusa barked at him.

  ‘Rehearsals are going badly. Not that it’s any of your business, strange archaic woman.’

  ‘Strange archaic woman who saved your life.’

  ‘You did? My memory is hazy…’

  ‘I’m not surprised, with all that wine inside you.’

  ‘Merely the normal imbibing of an Athenian gentleman,’ said Aristophanes.

  ‘Or a drunk. Which seems to be much the same thing. So what’s wrong with rehearsals anyway?’

  ‘No funds, terrible actors, poor chorus, talentless choreographer, incompetent musicians, useless prop-makers —’

  ‘Maybe you have some script problems?’ said Bremusa, pointedly.

  ‘No, the writing is remarkably good. But even that can’t lift this disaster of a play above the general malaise that hangs over Athens.’

  Not far from them, an argument broke out in the festival procession.

  ‘Hey, stop pushing me!’

  ‘You trod on my foot!’

  The citizens were dressed in the best clothes for the procession. It didn’t stop them from shoving and jostling each other. It seemed as if blows might be landed, till a parade official managed to separate them.

  ‘Does everyone in this city just argue all the time?’ asked Bremusa.

  ‘We do have a talent for it,’ admitted Aristophanes.

  The procession drew up in front of the Parthenon. A man in robes emerged to address the people. Bremusa didn’t know who it was.

  ‘That’s the Archon Basileus,’ said Metris. ‘The chief religious official.’

  ‘Right.’ The Amazon was still smarting from the revelation that, compared to the nymph, she was an uneducated, uncultured yokel. She tried to shake the feeling off. There was important work to be done.

  ‘Look, Aristophanes, I don’t regard writing comedies as a fit occupation for a man. But somehow your play has become important to the city. So get back to your theatre and make it work.’

  ‘No point. Without more funds, Peace can’t go on.’

  ‘Then get some funds.’

  ‘Impossible. The only people with money are the weapon-makers, and they’re not going to support me.’

  ‘What about Theodota?’

  Aristophanes shook his head. He was starting to go grey already. ‘I can’t borrow from a hetaera. That would be the most humiliating thing imaginable.’

  ‘So? Take the humiliation. You want to win the play competition, don’t you?’

  ‘Desperately.’

  ‘How desperately?’

  ‘I’d sell my own grandmother.’

  For the first time, Bremusa felt a slight stirring of sympathy for Aristophanes. She admired the will to win.

  ‘Then you know what you have to do.’

  For a few moments they looked into each other’s eyes.

  ‘I’ll visit Theodota,’ he said, then turned and walked off.

  Metris giggled. ‘He likes you, you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s attracted to you.’

  ‘That’s the most foolish thing I’ve ever heard, even from you.’

  ‘I can tell,’ said Metris, blithely. ‘Because I’m a nymph. You should get together with him. Like a holiday romance.’

  Bremusa scowled at her. ‘I liked it better when you were sulking.’

  Luxos

  With the sun high overhead, Luxos marched through Athens, a determined expression on his face. Most of the playwrights rehearsed in the same area, and Luxos planned to visit them all if necessary. He strode up to a gate marked Private.

  ‘I’m here to see Eupolis,’ he announced to the doorman.

  The guard at the entrance looked down at Luxos’s long hair and shabby tunic, and his cheap sandals, which had obviously been repaired many times.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Luxos the poet.’

  ‘Ah.’ The doorman nodded. ‘Then you can’t come in.’

  ‘But I want to see Eupolis.’

  ‘Eupolis left strict instructions that no one called Luxos was ever to be allowed into his rehearsal space.’

  Luxos blinked. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He actually named me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh.’ Luxos drew himself up, which made little difference as the huge doorman still towered over him. ‘Then I shall offer my services to Leucon instead. There’s a poet with some taste who will appreciate my work.’

  Luxos walked off. It was odd that Eupolis had actually barred him from entering.

  Someone must have been spreading stories about me, he thought. I bet it was Aristophanes.

  Luxos thought some mean thoughts about Aristophanes. It occurred to him, as he walked towards Leucon’s rehearsal space, that Aristophanes’ comedies were generally funnier than Leucon’s. Luxos had laughed a lot last year at The Wasps.

  But humour isn’t everything, he thought. The beauty of the poetry is important too.

  It struck him immediately that Aristophanes’ poetry was better too. He used language better than Leucon.

  Well I need employment somewhere, thought Luxos, carrying on. I know these poets hire helpers to tidy up their verse, even if they don’t like to admit it.

  He patted the Herm statue on the corner for luck, and approached the gate at Leucon’s. There were two doormen this time, both large. As Luxos approached they became excited.

  ‘It’s him!’

  ‘Luxos is here!’

  ‘Eh… hello,’ said Luxos.

  The doormen looked at each other.

  ‘Leucon warned us this day would come,’ said one to the other.

  The doormen s
quared up to the small figure of Luxos. ‘Begone, renegade poet. The talented and erudite Leucon does not require assistance from a skinny urchin from the slums of Piraeus!’

  ‘But I just —’

  Luxos stopped in mid-sentence, knowing it was hopeless. Apparently every established dramatic poet in Athens had been warned about him.

  They all think I’m a joke.

  The realisation brought with it an abrupt depression. He turned round and walked sadly away. He wished that Metris were around. He longed to see her. But apparently she was forbidden to see him now. She was off somewhere with that strange foreign woman, and wasn’t allowed to visit him.

  Luxos hung his head. Is it really that stupid for a poor person in Athens to try and write poetry? Hesiod wasn’t rich. He was just a farmer. People gave him a chance. They let him enter competitions and he proved how good he was.

  Head bowed, he tucked his lyre under his arm and trudged off home, depressed and close to defeat.

  Perhaps I should just stop writing poetry. No one wants to listen. Maybe I’m no good at it anyway.

  Close to home, he passed a group of young girls, playing on one of the many rough patches of vacant land around the docks. He paused to watch as five of the little girls sang a song while they danced around another girl, seated in the centre.

  Torti-tortoise,

  Sitting on the ground

  Torti-tortoise,

  We’re all around

  Weave a web of

  Milesian wool

  How did your son die?

  He jumped in a pool!

  As the children chanted the last line, the girl in the middle leapt up, trying to catch one of the others. There was a lot of shrieking and laughter, as whoever was caught became the new tortoise in the middle. The girls, all grubby from the rough ground, were completely involved in their play and paid no attention to Luxos.