Martin Millar - The Goddess of Buttercups and Daisies

Metris waved to a couple of naiads through the trees, then spotted her friend Pholus.

‘Hey, Pholus! I’m off on a secret mission for the Goddess Athena!’

The centaur nodded, and looked impressed.

‘I’m going to the Dionysia! I’ll bring you back something nice!’

‘Be quiet,’ hissed Bremusa. ‘Our mission is secret. No one’s meant to know.’

‘Pholus won’t tell anyone. Maybe a few naiads, no one else. Naiads are quite discreet, when they’re sober anyway. It was so exciting meeting Athena! If I succeed on this mission do you think she’ll invite me to live on Mount Olympus?’

‘No.’

‘Not that I don’t like my little temple. It’s a lovely little temple. But it’s sad the way it got ruined in the war.’

They walked on. Metris fingered the small flute that hung daintily around her neck.

‘Would I get my own temple?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bremusa.

‘If I went to live on Mount Olympus?’

‘You’re not —’

‘A nice big one. With lots of room for statues. I like statues.’

‘You’re not getting a temple.’

‘The goddess said I’d be rewarded. She might invite me to live on Mount Olympus! I suppose I’d have to start being a bit more responsible. But you still have some good times there, right? Drinking, dancing, that sort of thing?’

‘Mount Olympus is no concern of yours.’

The nymph wasn’t put off by Bremusa’s unfriendly tone. She had a lot of questions for her. It wasn’t every day that you met someone from the home of the gods.

‘What’s Zeus really like? Is he scowly like his statues? Or is he more friendly? Did Athena really get born from his head? Is it true she doesn’t get on well with Hera? What about Aphrodite? I’ve always wanted to meet her. Is she really that beautiful? Pholus says she’s the most beautiful goddess ever. Is she prettier than Athena? Athena was really pretty.’

Bremusa came to a halt and stared at her companion, rather angrily.

‘Be quiet! Stop this inane chatter!’

‘Don’t you like to talk?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. I like to talk. Have you ever met Ares the God of War? Is he really fierce? What did Aphrodite see in him? Why are you clutching your brow like that? Are you not feeling well?’

They walked on down the grassy hill. It was a bright, lovely day.

As he embarked on his night-time spying mission, Luxos passed by the Altar of Pity, a small, plain altar not far from the agora. This altar, while not dedicated specifically to any god or goddess, was a popular destination for those in dire need. During the plague, people had gathered there, praying desperately that their gravely ill relatives might recover. These days, mothers could be seen praying for news of their sons missing in battle. Luxos felt a vague desire to offer up a prayer himself, but resisted the urge. His life might not be going that well, but affairs had not yet reached such a crisis. He was still confident that Athena would help him.

He walked west towards the rehearsal space used by Aristophanes’ rivals, Eupolis and Leucon. Though the streets were dark, he’d been there often and found it easily enough. Things began to go wrong when he tried to sneak over the fence, caught his tunic and plummeted to the ground, landing painfully. He rose as quickly as he could, and hobbled on. He wasn’t certain if there would be a watchman on duty at the rehearsal grounds. Were theatrical props guarded at night? He didn’t know but didn’t want to be apprehended if they were. Aristophanes had given him enough money for a few good meals, and he was pleased about that, but he didn’t want to be caught trying to measure phalluses. It would be bad for his reputation which, Luxos acknowledged, was already poor. The young poet was not generally regarded as a valuable member of Athenian society.

He felt a twinge of sadness. I shouldn’t have to be doing this. I’m a poet. I’m not cut out for secret missions. I never claimed to be any good as a spy.

He peered into several dark huts, looking for theatrical props. Why was Aristophanes so worried about penises for his chorus anyway?

You wouldn’t catch a real poet worrying about that, thought Luxos . I could entertain the Athenians without a lot of funny props if someone would just give me a chance. But they’re all such a mean clique, the poets and their friends. They won’t listen to me. They wouldn’t read my poems even if I could afford to get copies made.

Athens’ most successful poets had their work copied onto scrolls and widely distributed, but that was expensive. Without a wealthy sponsor, Luxos’s poetry was never going to find its way into the best Athenian households.

The light from the moon was fairly bright and Luxos was still worried about being caught, but there didn’t seem to be any sort of security. Presumably Athens had more than enough worries at the moment without assigning valuable citizens the task of guarding props.

There they are. Luxos eased his way into one of the huts and started rummaging around among several sacks full of comedy stage-penises.

They do seem quite big .

Aristophanes had asked Luxos to measure them. That was difficult in the dark wooden hut. After a few minutes’ frustration, he loaded himself up with as many as he could carry, draping them over his shoulders and arms, and went back outside. There, in the bright moonlight, he walked straight into the most beautiful girl in the whole world. Or so it seemed to Luxos. There was also an intimidating woman with a sword.

The most beautiful girl in the world had big brown eyes and long black wavy hair. She wore a short white dress and delicate little sandals. Luxos stared at her in awe. For the first time in living memory, he couldn’t think of anything to say. He did realise that he was draped in a great bundle of funny phalluses. He regretted that. It seemed to be hindering conversation.

There was a long silence. Finally the intimidating-looking woman turned to her young companion.

‘I told you Athenians were obsessed with penises.’

With that they walked off. Luxos gazed after them, awestruck at the girl’s other-worldly beauty. He knew he was in love.

In the early morning light, Aristophanes was so wrapped up in bitter thoughts about his producer that he almost tumbled into the open sewer that ran past the statue of Solon the Wise. He avoided it at the last moment, only to bump into Nicias, also engrossed in his own thoughts. Aristophanes knew Nicias quite well, though the politician came from an older generation. He held him in reasonable esteem, regarding him as honest, if uninspired. Aristophanes had rarely mocked him in his comedies, and when he had, the ridicule had not been too severe. There had been one memorable scene in which the actor playing Nicias made such a boring speech that the entire assembly fell asleep. The real Nicias hadn’t made a fuss about it, acknowledging that he’d never been Athens’ most gifted orator, although privately he’d been rather offended by it.

‘Nicias. Shouldn’t you be wringing concessions from the Spartans?’

Nicias shook his head wearily. ‘The conference broke up.’

‘Broke up? How?’

‘In chaos. It was all I could do to prevent a brawl between the delegates. If I hadn’t got General Lamachus out of there he’d be facing an impiety charge for murdering a guest in our city.’

‘How could that happen? Everyone said it was going well.’

Nicias spread his hands hopelessly. Aristophanes noticed he was looking older. Soon his actors would need a new funny mask to represent him.