Martin Millar - The Goddess of Buttercups and Daisies

‘I’d like you to put it on stage. Not right away, of course. At some future festival.’

‘What? I can’t do that!’

‘Then I won’t lend you the money.’

‘This is outrageous. Socrates, she wants me to put on her play! Tell her it’s impossible.’

Socrates sometimes wore a mocking little smile which Aristophanes found particularly annoying. He was smiling now. ‘I don’t know that we could say it’s impossible, Aristophanes. There’s no logical reason why it couldn’t be done.’

‘There are plenty of reasons.’

‘None of them insurmountable. It would have to be produced under your name, of course, but it could be done.’

‘Stop supporting her!’

‘It’s only a first draft,’ said Theodota. ‘We could rewrite it together. I’d need final say, of course. And the heavy end of the box office.’

With Athens becoming more factious by the hour, and the signing of a peace treaty less likely every moment, Bremusa wondered if it was worth using Metris’s cheerful aura to try and counteract Laet. While the nymph didn’t have her mother’s powers of dispelling all negative energies, it did seem to Bremusa that she had a way of improving people’s moods. Not Bremusa’s mood — she still found her infuriating — but other people seemed to like her. When she was happy, the nymph exuded warmth. She’d certainly cheered up the children she’d met, and other people seemed happier when she was around.

‘Let’s just walk through the agora and see if you can lighten the mood.’

Metris was doubtful. ‘I can’t counteract Laet. She’s too powerful.’

‘I know. But children like you. Maybe you can cheer up the market workers and make them all stop arguing. We have to do something. The goddess told me to use my initiative and I can’t think of anything else.’

Metris was willing to try, but she was distracted. Bremusa knew why.

‘The goddess didn’t send you here to waste your time on poets of dubious talent.’

‘Luxos has plenty of talent!’ cried Metris.

‘Talent? Ha.’ Bremusa quickly changed the subject, worried that Metris might be as knowledgeable about poetry as she’d turned out to be about other Athenian arts. If the nymph started lecturing her on Homer she’d have to kill her. ‘If we pay attention, we might be able to find out where Laet has been, and try improving things there.’

‘I think she’s been over there,’ said Metris.

‘Why?’

‘Because that house is on fire.’

Suddenly there were Athenian citizens everywhere, rushing around with buckets, jars, amphoras, anything that would carry water.

‘I told Polykarpos not to roast a whole sheep in his bedroom!’ cried an elderly man. ‘It was bound to go wrong.’

‘We need more water!’

The amount of water the Athenians were able to produce seemed hopelessly insufficient. The flames took hold. Bremusa turned to Metris, only to find that she was no longer at her side. She’d walked over towards the firefighters. As the Amazon watched, the nymph discreetly pointed a finger. Their buckets and amphoras instantly began to fill up with water. Bremusa pursed her lips.

I suppose having a river goddess as your mother does have its advantages.

‘Where did all this water come from?’ cried one of the firefighters.

‘Never mind, put the fire out!’

Metris rejoined Bremusa and they watched as the Athenians quickly damped down the flames, assisted by the endless supply of water that seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Metris looked smug.

‘All right,’ said Bremusa. ‘I admit you’re not so useless. Producing all that water was very effective.’

She noticed that the area around the dampened house was now blanketed with a great field of buttercups and daisies.

‘They could probably have managed without all the flowers.’

‘I thought it was a nice touch.’

Metris suddenly shivered. She turned towards the edge of the agora. ‘But that doesn’t feel very nice.’

‘What?’ said Bremusa. Metris was already walking towards a small altar, an ancient, almost featureless stone pillar. She came to a halt, examining it. The Altar of Pity had been repaired by the city’s workmen. There were no finer stonemasons than those in Athens, and they’d done an excellent job of repairing it.

‘But it’s no good,’ said Metris.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘This lovely old altar. They’ve repaired it but it hasn’t made it right. The altar doesn’t work any more. It’s been spoiled.’

‘How?’

‘By Laet, I suppose.’ Metris appeared distressed. ‘It was such a beautiful old altar. Laet’s ruined it.’

‘Can you fix it?’

Metris shook her head. ‘She’s too powerful for me. I can’t do anything.’

Walking down the street with Socrates, Aristophanes was disconsolate.

‘I’m disconsolate,’ he said.

‘You look disconsolate.’

‘Why wouldn’t I be? I don’t want to put on Theodota’s play.’

‘You haven’t read it yet. It might be good.’

‘I doubt it. What sort of title is Lysistrata ? And even if it is good, how could I use her script? The festival authorities aren’t going to accept a play written by a woman. It would be a scandal.’

‘Theodota knows that,’ said Socrates. ‘She offered to rewrite it, with you. Aren’t your plays sometimes put on under your producer’s name anyway?’

‘Sometimes. But the whole thing is demeaning. Who’s the comic genius here, me or Theodota?’

Socrates halted and looked at him. ‘I don’t know about comic genius but if you want to be a romantic genius, I’d be a little more enthusiastic about Theodota’s talents. If you just dismiss them she’ll be angry.’

‘Will she?’

‘Yes.’

Aristophanes sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. Do you think she’s been plotting this all along? Perhaps she only ever agreed to see me so that one day she could trick me into producing her play.’

Socrates laughed. ‘Who knows? I told you she was intelligent. Look on the bright side. At least you’ve got the money you need.’

With that, Socrates departed, off to his daily practice of talking about philosophy with whoever would listen. Aristophanes headed towards his rehearsal, feeling dissatisfied about various things but relieved that at last his production had money. Theodota had provided him with all the funds he required.

‘I’ll show these Athenians what a comedy is meant to be. And I’ll show up these warmongers in the assembly for the fools they are while I’m at it.’

The sun blazed down. The city sweltered, and tempers rose. Athenian priests checked their records to see if it had ever been so hot during the Dionysia before, and wondered if it was another portent of misfortune.

Luxos stopped to look at some street performers in the shade of the Temple of Eukleia. Despite the heat, they were juggling, tumbling, throwing and catching hoops. He knew them slightly, and waved. They depended on whatever money they could pick up from passers-by, so he felt a sense of fellowship. Luxos was not athletic, but he did sympathise with fellow struggling artists. There was an uncomfortable gnawing in his stomach. It might have been hunger, or it might have been the realisation that he had no money and no prospects. He stood in the same spot for a long time, wishing that the street performers might divert his attention away from his sadness over Metris.

He rested against the wall of the temple. Eukleia — the spirit of glory, and good repute. ‘A spirit that obviously dislikes me,’ he muttered, considering the state of his own reputation.