The Goddess of Buttercups & Daisies Read online

  Endure, and prosper.

  Luxos washed down the stale bread with his last remaining mouthful of cheap wine.

  I can really feel things turning my way. I’m sure Athena is going to help me any day now.

  He put on his worn sandals and his ragged chiton and set off into the sunshine to see what he could find.

  General Lamachus

  General Lamachus met with General Acanthus far outside the city walls, away from prying eyes. With the Spartan delegation already in Athens for the peace conference, it wasn’t so strange for an Athenian general to be talking with a Spartan, but their business was private. Acanthus sat erect on his horse, his red cloak and long hair easily identifying him as a Spartan. Lamachus’s cloak was blue and his hair was short, but the Athenian cavalryman didn’t feel they were really so different.

  ‘What’s the mood among the Spartan delegation?’

  ‘Still undecided. But I suspect they’re leaning towards voting for peace, and signing the treaty. What about Athens?’

  ‘The same.’

  There was a pause. They looked back towards the walls. The spring sun was overhead, already hot.

  ‘I don’t want that to happen,’ said the Spartan general.

  ‘Nor do I.’

  ‘It won’t take too much for me to persuade the Spartans not to sign.’ Acanthus looked pointedly at Lamachus.

  ‘I don’t control the Athenian delegation,’ Lamachus told him. ‘There has to be a vote in the assembly. A lot of people want peace.’

  The Spartan sneered. ‘Athens pays too much attention to the people.’

  ‘I know. But there are ways of influencing them.’

  Aristophanes

  Aristophanes could still remember the pride he’d felt when he first walked up the Pnyx to take his seat with the rest of the citizens in the Athenian assembly. He was eighteen, and old enough to vote on public matters. It was a proud moment. A decade or so later, his enthusiasm had dimmed. Allowing every adult male citizen to discuss and vote on every decision was excellent in theory, but it hadn’t rescued them from ten years of war.

  Even though his plays had made him a well-known figure in Athens, Aristophanes wouldn’t have claimed to have much influence in the assembly. You needed a very loud voice to sway the crowd.

  A loud voice, and a lack of scruples, thought the playwright sourly, as he watched Hyperbolus haranguing the assembly. Hyperbolus, a lamp-maker by trade, was the extreme democrats’ new hero. Aristophanes loathed him.

  ‘Nicias and his peace-loving friends are traitors!’ roared Hyperbolus, shaking his fist. ‘Anyone wanting to make peace with the Spartans is a coward! The rich people of Athens would rather cosy up with the Spartans than give the poor people of Athens their fair share of the wealth.’

  Many citizens shouted their approval. Nicias, elderly now, sat with a dignified look on his face.

  As Hyperbolus carried on, Aristophanes nudged Hermogenes, who sat beside him in the open-air assembly.

  ‘Is this oaf ever going to stop speaking? We’ve got work to do.’

  ‘I don’t see us getting to rehearsals any time soon,’ whispered Hermogenes. ‘Nicias is going to make a reply.’

  Aristophanes groaned. ‘The dignified but stumbling oratory of Nicias. We’ll be here all day.’

  ‘He’s not such a bad orator,’ said Hermogenes. ‘Not many laughs, but he makes his point.’

  ‘Eventually, I suppose.’

  Aristophanes yawned. With the sun blazing down, and the effects of last night’s wine still not fully out of his system, he was finding the assembly more than usually irksome.

  ‘It’s not like we’re going to come to any sort of decision today anyway.’

  Hermogenes nodded. There was no clear majority either way, and neither the speeches of Hyperbolus nor Nicias would dramatically change things. Eventually the assembly came to an end without taking a vote, and the citizens trooped back down the hill, dissatisfied. Aristophanes and Hermogenes headed towards their rehearsal space.

  ‘I hate Hyperbolus.’ Aristophanes sounded bitter. ‘I’d write another scene attacking him if it didn’t make me feel cheap even mentioning him. Kleon was despicable, but at least he was coherent. Vaguely intelligent too. Hyperbolus is just a loud-mouthed thug.’

  Hermogenes shrugged. Aristophanes looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘Did you just shrug?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason.’

  They walked on. Aristophanes felt a nagging unease. ‘I really don’t see why you shrugged. Did you just shrug again? What’s with all the shrugging?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘There must be something. No one keeps shrugging for no reason.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t view Hyperbolus quite as badly as you.’

  Aristophanes came to an abrupt halt. ‘What?’

  ‘Maybe I don’t think he’s all bad. All right, he is a loudmouth. Probably a thug, too. That doesn’t mean everything he says is wrong.’

  Aristophanes was aghast. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You mean you support him?’

  ‘Not exactly. I just don’t think he’s as bad as you make out. So he accuses some of the wealthy citizens of being Spartan sympathisers. That’s not that hard to believe, is it? It’s not like they’ve got the best interests of the common oarsman at heart, is it?’

  ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense!’ cried Aristophanes. ‘These people aren’t trying to prolong the war because they’ve got the best interest of the common citizen at heart! They’re just after profit and glory.’

  ‘Some of them, perhaps. But the democrats were the ones who got decent pay for the oarsmen, and my father was in the navy.’

  ‘What use is decent pay if everyone’s farm is destroyed, and all the young men die in battle?’

  Aristophanes and his assistant glared at each other for a few seconds. They’d worked together for several years. Normally, it was a good working relationship.

  ‘We should get to rehearsals,’ said Aristophanes.

  They walked on. Aristophanes fumed briefly over the argument, but quickly forgot about it while considering the problems he’d been having in rehearsals. His new play was called Peace. Aristophanes was keen for it to entertain the audience at the festival, and even keener for it to win first prize.

  It didn’t take long for things to go wrong. Aristophanes was telling his lead actor, Philippus, that he’d rewritten the opening speech – largely due to Philippus’s inability to deliver the original properly – when his assistant Hermogenes bustled up, looking worried.

  ‘Aristophanes! There’s a problem with our penises!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re too floppy!’

  Aristophanes took a step backwards. So did Philippus.

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ said Aristophanes.

  ‘I’ve never had any problem,’ said Philippus.

  ‘I mean our onstage phalluses! Look!’

  He pointed to the small rehearsal stage, where the chorus was assembling, some already wearing their masks, some still carrying them. Each was wearing a simple rehearsal robe but they all had on the standard comedy phallus, an obligatory accessory for the Athenian comic chorus. Some hung down about twelve inches, others eighteen.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘The big ones won’t erect properly!’

  Aristophanes hurried over to the chorus. They already had problems with just about every aspect of the production. The last thing they needed was a phallus malfunction.

  ‘Let me see.’

  The actors in the chorus pulled the internal drawstrings that made their penises go erect. It was a classic move in comedy. All playwrights used it. A good Athenian comedy needed huge penises going up and down at regular intervals.

  Aristophanes frowned. The twelve-inch phalluses were standing up fairly well, but the eighteen-inch models were drooping hopelessly. It made for a sorry sight. There were times when a dr
oopy phallus was the right thing for your comedy, but they had to be able to stand up when required. Everyone knew that.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Aristophanes was irate. ‘Who made these?’

  ‘Normal prop workshop. But they say they can’t get the correct materials. The war…’

  Aristophanes clenched his fist. ‘Damn these Spartans. And damn these politicians who won’t make peace. Now they’re ruining my chorus’s phalluses.’

  ‘Well,’ said Philippus, ‘the smaller ones’re not too bad, they’re standing up all right.’

  Aristophanes waved this away. The smaller penis was only twelve inches long.

  ‘I can’t send my chorus out with only twelve inches dangling in front of them. The audience will jeer them off the stage. I’d be ridiculed. Did you see the size of Eupolis’s last year? When his chorus turned round they almost decapitated the front row. Look, Hermogenes, these just won’t do. Tell Leon in the prop department we need them bigger and better. And harder.’

  ‘We don’t have any money for materials. The props department is already scavenging around for scraps.’

  Aristophanes could feel his fists clenching tighter. His production had been starved of money from the outset, thanks to the Dionysian drama committee giving him the producer from Hades.

  ‘Dammit! A soon as Antimachus was assigned to us, I knew there’d be trouble. He hates me. Eupolis gets Simonides as his producer, and Simonides is rich. My rivals are awash with money and I’m struggling with inferior phalluses!’

  By now he was shaking with anger. ‘If I don’t win first prize for comedy this year there’s going to be trouble. Tell our so-called – our prop designer —’

  Aristophanes was interrupted by a tug on his tunic. As he turned round his face fell.

  ‘Luxos? Who let you in here?’

  ‘Hello, Aristophanes. Would you like to hear my new poem?’

  Aristophanes sighed. Luxos was nineteen, the son of an oarsman. He wanted to be a poet. Zeus only knew why.

  ‘I don’t have time right now, Luxos.’

  ‘But it’s my new poem about the Battle of Salamis!’

  ‘What would you know about Salamis?’

  ‘My grandfather fought there.’

  ‘Did you consider following him into the navy?’

  Luxos looked a little downcast. He was a pretty young boy, but he wasn’t athletic.

  ‘They said I was too weak to pull an oar. Won’t you listen to my poem?’

  ‘I’m too busy.’

  ‘But I want to be a lyric poet.’

  ‘Where’s your lyre?’

  Luxos looked embarrassed. ‘It’s… being repaired.’

  Aristophanes glared at Luxos. It wasn’t the first time the putative young poet had interrupted his work. Aristophanes would have thrown him out of the theatre if they hadn’t both been members of the Pandionis tribe. That did bring certain obligations. You were meant to be civil to fellow members, and help them out if possible. However, while Aristophanes did occasionally farm out some lyric writing to his staff, neither he nor anyone else was ever going to trust Luxos to write poetry for them, with his effeminately long, tousled hair, his obvious poverty, and his lack of training. He was wasting his time.

  Luxos sensed his thoughts. ‘No one will give me a chance. Just because I’m the son of an oarsman…’

  ‘Face it, Luxos, few great Athenian writers have come from families of rowers. You weren’t even educated.’

  ‘I educated myself! How about giving me the poetry spot before your play starts?’

  Before the comedies were presented at the festival, it was customary for one of Athens’ great lyric poets to entertain the crowd with a few well-chosen pieces, to get them in the mood. As with everything connected with the festival, it was an honour to be selected.

  ‘Luxos, before my actors walk onstage, the crowd will be entertained by one of Athens’ great poets. Does that include you?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Only in your own mind.’

  ‘But I could do it if I got the chance.’

  ‘Come back in a few years when you’ve made your reputation and I’ll consider it.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ said Luxos.

  ‘We’ve been at war for ten years. Nothing’s fair any more.’

  Aristophanes turned away. Behind him, Luxos had started reciting, but he wasn’t listening.

  Shout to him! We shall sing of Dionysus on these holy days: he has been absent for twelve months, but now the springtime is here, and all the flowers.

  General Lamachus

  General Lamachus didn’t enjoy being involved with politics in Athens. It had always been troublesome; since the franchise had been extended to almost every man in the city, he’d found it intolerable. He said as much to Euphranor, when they met in the Pegasus barber shop.

  ‘We have a chaotic, ineffective government that can barely make a decision. When they do, it’s liable to be wrong. Do these people think they’re free? As far as I can see they follow the herd. Whoever shouts the loudest, and promises the most reward for the least effort, gets their votes.’

  The general warmed to his theme. ‘I hate the Spartans but I envy them too. They have two kings, and some ephors, and they make all the decisions. None of this consulting the entire population, with the endless slanging matches we have in our assembly. Every petty demagogue saying whatever suits him best, never mind what the city needs. I hate to be involved with these people.’

  Euphranor nodded. He’d been a strong warrior in his time. Now he was grey-haired and overweight, and he wore a chiton a little too fancy for a man of his age. Nonetheless, he was still a powerful character. His weapons factory had made him one of the richest men in Athens. ‘It’s unfortunate, but we need to be involved. We can’t let the peace conference succeed.’

  The general scowled. ‘It’s demeaning for men like us to be associated with a loud-mouthed rabble-rouser like Hyperbolus.’

  ‘I know. But there’s no one like him for stirring up the crowd.’

  Their conversation paused as the barber and his slave attended to Euphranor’s beard. Lamachus wondered what General Acanthus and his Spartan delegation were doing at this moment. Not sitting in a barber’s, that was certain. Long-haired Spartans. He was sure he could lead Athens to victory over them, if only he was given the chance.

  ‘So what’s the feeling in the rest of the city?’

  ‘Still mixed,’ said Euphranor. ‘I’ve given Hyperbolus and his party plenty of silver to spread around, but even so there are a lot of people pushing for peace.’ He paused, and looked momentarily awkward. ‘I paid a visit to Kleonike.’

  ‘Her again?’ General Lamachus was exasperated. ‘We don’t need help from some renegade priestess.’

  ‘No harm in covering all the angles. Kleonike is a clever woman. And fond of money, as it happens.’

  Kleonike, Priestess

  The silver mines at Laurium had brought a lot of wealth to Athens. Themistocles used the money to pay for two hundred triremes, setting them on the road to power. Athenian coins were used all over the civilised world. It was highest quality silver. The priestess Kleonike regretted that she’d never seen any great share of it. As a loyal Athenian priestess of thirty years’ standing, she thought she might have been better remunerated. When Euphranor, who had more than his share of Athenian silver, visited the temple with some specific requests, backed up by some solid currency, she didn’t mind accommodating him.

  Euphranor was a fool, of course. No one but a fool would ask an Athenian priestess to summon Laet.

  She knelt in front of the altar. Egyptian incense swirled around her head. ‘Come to Athens, Laet, bringer of discord. Come to Athens, and let the strife continue.’

  Bremusa, Amazon Warrior

  Bremusa had noticed they didn’t have that many emergencies on Mount Olympus. Fewer than they used to anyway. There didn’t seem to be so many semi-divine adventurers in Greece these days, causing problem
s. However, from the Goddess Athena’s expression as she flew out of the private shrine in her mansion, she knew something bad had happened.

  ‘Bremusa, I just received terrible news from Delphi! Some corrupt priestess in Athens has summoned Laet!’

  ‘Who’s Laet?’

  Athena gave her a rather angry glance. ‘How can you not know who Laet is?’

  ‘You have so many of these semi-divine figures. I lose track.’

  ‘You have been here for more than seven hundred years,’ said the goddess. ‘I thought you’d know them all by now. Laet is the granddaughter of Eris, goddess of strife, discord and war. You remember the trouble she caused with that golden apple. And if that’s not bad enough, Laet is also the daughter of Ate, the spirit of delusion, infatuation and reckless folly.’

  ‘Some parentage. Who’s her father?’

  ‘No one knows. But if he was unwise enough to fall for Ate, I doubt he’s still around.’

  ‘So what’s this Laet like?’

  The goddess made a face. ‘With Strife as a grandmother and Reckless Folly as a mother? Laet is the very embodiment of utter foolishness. She’s the spirit of choosing the worst option on every occasion. She has a baleful influence on all who encounter her. Which means…’

  ‘She’s not the kind of person you’d want at a peace conference?’

  ‘Exactly.’ The Goddess Athena looked troubled. ‘If she enters Athens unchecked, there will be chaos. The peace conference will fall apart.’

  Somehow Bremusa couldn’t see this as such a great crisis. ‘They’ve been fighting for ten years anyway.’

  ‘Bremusa, I want peace! My cities need respite.’

  ‘You’ve participated in a lot of war in your time… Athena Promachos, leader in battle.’

  ‘Well now I’m acting as Athena Polias, protector of the city. And I want peace.’

  The goddess drummed her fingertips on a gilded table, causing the golden bowls of grapes to vibrate.