Martin Millar - The Goddess of Buttercups and Daisies

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.

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 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! That 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.’