Martin Millar - The Goddess of Buttercups and Daisies

‘I know what will happen. Laet will turn up and everyone will be at each other’s throats.’

The goddess smiled. ‘We have to hope for the best. You haven’t done badly so far.’

‘Goddess, could I really not just chop Laet’s head off? It would make everything much easier.’

‘No! I don’t think she would die from your blade, Bremusa. Even if she did, Athens would be cursed. With her spirit haunting the acropolis, the city would be doomed.’

‘Can I kill Idomeneus?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘He deserves it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because…’ Bremusa paused. She couldn’t really say why he deserved to die, though she wanted to kill him. He’d defeated her on the battlefield at Troy. It was an affront to her honour. She didn’t want to admit that to the goddess. She shouldn’t be thinking of her own desires.

‘He’s a bad person,’ she said, limply. ‘And he’s protecting Laet.’

‘You’re there to assist the Athenians make peace, Bremusa. You should avoid violence if at all possible.’

‘Would that include slapping Luxos and Metris round the head?’

The goddess laughed. ‘You always pretend you’re no good for anything but fighting, Bremusa. But that’s not true. I know you can do more.’

‘I’m an Amazon. If I don’t get to fight I get twitchy.’

‘If you need some activity, try sampling Athenian culture.’

Bremusa scowled. ‘I don’t understand culture. Even that foolish nymph knows more than me. Metris has been looking at art behind my back. She’s seen statues and paintings and processions and all sorts of things. Now I’m feeling ignorant. I’m obviously too stupid to understand culture.’

‘Perhaps Aristophanes’ comedy might serve as a gentle introduction?’

‘I have a very poor sense of humour.’

The goddess smiled. ‘Now’s your chance to develop it. If Aristophanes can make the city laugh, it might go a long way to combating Laet. So take care of him.’

Bremusa sighed. ‘I’ll try my best.’

Luxos stood alone on the beach, a solitary figure far from the city walls, declaiming to the waves. He often came here to practice. Words written down were one thing, but recitation was another. Poetry had to sound right. Here, with his lyre, facing the Mediterranean, competing with the sound of the tides and the seabirds overhead, Luxos would refine his technique, strengthening his voice, perfecting his emphasis so that the poetry flowed powerfully and gracefully. With no one to distract him, Luxos would recite for hours.

He was trying out some lines of his new poem about the Goddess Athena when he heard someone call his name. Metris was scrambling over the rocky shore towards him.

‘Luxos, I’m so glad you’re safe!’

‘Thanks, but —’

‘I had a terrible dream! I saw you dying!’

Luxos frowned. It wasn’t the best thing to hear, particularly from a nymph who might well have powers of seeing things that others couldn’t.

‘What happened?’

‘I saw you lying under a great burnt-out chariot! At least I think it was a chariot. Something with wheels, anyway. I think it might have been the future.’

‘Well, I’m safe for a while then,’ said Luxos. ‘There aren’t many chariots around here.’

‘But what if you go to war? The enemy might have chariots.’

‘The Spartans wouldn’t. I suppose the Persians might. Were there Persians in your dream?’

Metris shook her head. ‘No.’ She frowned, as if trying to piece her memories of the dream together. ‘I got the impression you were a long way away. Like thousands of miles. And maybe hundreds of years in the future. Someone said you had died.’

Luxos’s alarm ebbed away. ‘At least I’m safe for the moment.’

They sat down together. Metris carried a small canvas bag. She brought out a loaf of bread and some goat’s cheese. They shared the food on the beach, sitting close so their bodies touched.

‘Why would I be alive, hundreds of years in the future?’

‘Who knows? Bremusa and Idomeneus have managed it. Funny things happen when you meet anyone from Mount Olympus.’

The heat was still oppressive but not quite as bad on the beach, with a breeze coming in from the sea. Despite Metris’s odd premonition, Luxos’s spirits had soared when she appeared.

‘It’s so good to see you. Will this get you into trouble with Bremusa?’

‘She likes me better since I put some fires out. She gave me some time off.’ Metris delicately arranged their cheese on two slices of bread. ‘Listen, I had an idea. You told me Isidoros was reciting his poetry before Aristophanes’ play. You said he drinks a lot?’

‘He’s notorious for it.’

‘How about getting him drunk before he starts? If he was too drunk to recite, maybe there’d be no time for Aristophanes to find anyone else? Then he’d let you go on instead.’

Luxos considered the nymph’s suggestion. It wasn’t a bad plan. Isidoros was famously fond of wine. He had been known to miss performances because of it. Getting him drunk on purpose was a credible idea. It might be done. And after that, who knew? Luxos might find himself the only person capable of taking his place at short notice.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t think I can do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘It wouldn’t be honourable. I can’t harm a fellow poet.’

‘Even one you don’t like?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Metris was temporarily disappointed but soon smiled again. She liked that Luxos was honourable. She put her arm round him.

‘If you ever find yourself dying under a huge burnt-out chariot, hundreds of years in the future, I’ll rescue you at the last moment. Anyone who says you died will be wrong. Even if people think you’re dead, I’ll still save you.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘Of course. I’m a nymph. And I’m getting really close to Athena these days. She’ll probably grant me lots of new powers when she invites me to live on Mount Olympus.’

It was the eve of the final day of the Dionysia. Tomorrow, the comedies would be performed and judged. Aristophanes knew his play wasn’t perfect but, for the first time, he was cautiously optimistic. The whole production had been given a boost by Theodota’s money. Everyone was pleased with their new props and costumes, and showed a willingness to work. Even the technical rehearsal, often a tedious process, went fairly well. Every prop was carefully tested, scenes were gone over again and again until everything ran smoothly, with all the actors and chorus doing their best to make the comedy work.

‘We’ve done all we can,’ said Aristophanes to Hermogenes. ‘We might get away with it.’

Hermogenes nodded. He’d been pleased with the rehearsals, though he still worried about some technical aspects of the play. With the many tragedies and comedies all being performed at the same location during the Dionysia, the various acting companies could not rehearse at the theatre itself. At their own rehearsal space they had a replica of the stage, but that wasn’t quite the same. There was always the fear that something might go wrong when they performed in the great theatre of Dionysus.

The actors, chorus, stagehands and everyone else associated with the production were warned by Aristophanes to make sure they got a good night’s sleep. All of them ignored his warning, and spent the night celebrating instead, turning up at the theatre the next morning in a fragile state, but still ready to work hard.

The delegations from Athens and Sparta were due to meet for the last time. The meeting would begin as soon as the plays were finished. If no agreement could be reached the war would continue.