The Goddess of Buttercups & Daisies Page 5

  Bremusa glared at Metris. ‘Are you telling me you can’t magically locate her?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘If we can’t even find Laet, how can you use your soothing nymph-powers to dispel her negative energy?’

  The nymph shifted uncomfortably under Bremusa’s glare. ‘About that…’ She looked up. ‘Oh look, you can just see the Parthenon. Isn’t it lovely?’

  ‘Never mind the Parthenon! Are you telling me you can’t dispel negative energy?’

  ‘Not for powerful beings like Laet, no. Though I’m good with children. And cats always like me.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about children and cats! You were sent here to perform a task and now you can’t do it! Have you been lying about everything?’

  ‘Of course not. You might just have got the wrong impression about a few things.’

  Bremusa growled in frustration. ‘You can’t do the things you were brought here for! That’s not a wrong impression! That’s you making things up. I don’t believe you’re even the daughter of a river spirit. You probably just made that up too.’

  ‘I did not! I was Metricia’s favourite daughter. Second favourite. Third at the very least.’

  Bremusa glared at her in the way she’d once glared at enemies on the battlefield. ‘Did you inherit any of your mother’s powers?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I can make daisies and buttercups grow really quickly. Look!’

  Metris waved her hand. Quite magically, a host of daisies and buttercups appeared at their feet. Standing amongst a small sea of flowers, the nymph seemed pleased with herself.

  ‘Aren’t they lovely?’

  ‘Lovely? Is that your only power? What use is that to anyone?’

  Metris smiled cheerfully. ‘It always brightens things up.’

  ‘You idiot! No one cares about buttercups and daisies! That’s not going to save Athens. Why did you lie about your powers?’

  ‘I wanted to come to the festival… it’s draughty in my temple since it got ruined.’

  ‘I’ll ruin you, you —’

  The Amazon broke off as four Scythian archers walked by; the night patrol, keeping order in the city. They looked over suspiciously, though their expressions softened when Metris smiled at them and gave them a cheerful wave.

  ‘The Goddess Athena is not going to be pleased with you,’ said Bremusa, when the archers had gone.

  That didn’t seem to worry Metris. By now her attention had wandered to other matters. ‘I wonder why that young man was carrying all those penises?’

  ‘Probably because he was the local idiot.’

  ‘I thought he looked nice. Did you notice how nice his hair was? And he had nice eyes too.’

  ‘Stop saying “nice”. Nothing about him was nice.’

  ‘I hope we meet him again. He looked nice.’

  Aristophanes and Luxos

  Aristophanes was trying to sort out some problems in the chorus’s second-act choreography when young Luxos bounded into the rehearsal space, looking eager. Aristophanes left the chorus in the hands of Hermogenes and went over to talk to him.

  ‘Stop grinning at me in that offensive manner. What happened on your mission?’

  ‘I measured both your rivals’ phalluses. Leucon and Eupolis’s are much bigger. Good working order too, from what I could see. There’ll be some mighty erections on stage when they get going. Might be some sort of new record.’

  The playwright scowled. It was bad news. Their producers were providing them with enough money for props, despite the hardships in Athens.

  ‘It’s because their plays are so bland. They get money because they never offend anyone. Damn them.’

  Aristophanes hunted around for some coins to pay Luxos for his work. He noticed the young poet was still smiling. Aristophanes, burdened by worry, found this mildly irritating.

  ‘What are you so happy about?’

  ‘I’m in love.’

  ‘You’re always in love.’

  ‘This time it’s the real thing!’ gushed Luxos.

  Aristophanes’ irritation increased. As if Luxos’s unceasing attempts to break into the refined world of Athenian poetry weren’t annoying enough, he was always falling in love as well, and he liked to talk about it.

  ‘Weren’t you already in love with Phryne the courtesan?’

  ‘That was only a passing fancy.’

  ‘You wrote a hundred-line elegy to her.’

  Luxos brushed this aside. ‘I may have felt some temporary attraction. But this is the real thing. She’s the most beautiful girl in Athens!’

  ‘Really? How much does she charge?’

  ‘She’s not a courtesan!’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  Luxos looked confused. ‘Eh…’

  ‘Where’s she from?’

  ‘Eh…’

  ‘Did you even talk to her?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Luxos. ‘But we shared some significant eye contact. I tell you, it’s the real thing.’

  There is the heat of Love,

  the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover’s whisper,

  irresistible – magic to make the sanest man go mad.

  ‘I’ve never thought you were that sane, Luxos. And don’t quote Homer at me.’

  Aristophanes looked down at Luxos, who was not tall. At the sight of his smiling face, his shaggy blond hair and eager blue eyes, he felt his irritation growing. Athens was suffering and this young fool was going around smiling, telling people he was in love with a girl he’d never even spoken to.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be doing something useful, like rowing a trireme?’

  ‘Can I bring her to Callias’s symposium?’

  ‘Of course not. Can’t you get it into your head you’re not invited? If you show up at Callias’s drinking party he’ll have you brutalised by the Scythian archers.’

  ‘But she’s really pretty. I’m sure you’d like her. And I can recite my poetry while I’m there.’

  ‘Enough, Luxos. I need to see the prop-maker and get him to make our phalluses bigger somehow.’

  ‘Are they really that important?’

  ‘Of course. If Eupolis has bigger and funnier penises, why would the jury vote for my play?’

  ‘Because they’d still be in a good mood after I’d recited some great poetry before your play! Let me have that spot, it’ll really help you.’

  ‘I’ve already asked Isidoros.’

  ‘Isidoros?’ Luxos was aghast. ‘He’s an awful poet.’

  ‘He’s popular.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he’s any good.’

  There was something in that, but Aristophanes had had enough. He had too many problems to indulge Luxos’s flights of fancy. Already he could see his rivals being lauded at the festival while he was disparaged. Mocked, even. His plays had brought him many enemies. They’d like nothing better than to see him mount a shabby production and be derided by the audience. The Athenian audience could be very critical. The rough proletarian mass of Athenian oarsmen would not stand for an inferior comedy. Fruit and vegetables had been thrown. Aristophanes’ blood ran cold at the thought of his chorus being pelted with fruit.

  The sun was climbing rapidly. The sheltered rehearsal space would soon be baking hot.

  ‘Luxos. I almost admire your ambition. And your relentless optimism. But can’t you understand that no one in Athens is ever going to listen to your poetry? You don’t come from the right class. You weren’t educated like a gentleman. You never had a proper teacher. You don’t have a patron, or any influential friends. Give it up. It’s hopeless. It’ll only make you unhappy. Here’s the money I owe you. Now go back to the docks where you belong, and try and make something of your life there.’

  For the first time, Luxos seemed to understand what Aristophanes was saying. The light in his eyes dimmed a little. Aristophanes handed him his money, then returned to his choreography.

  Bremusa

 
There was a small shrine close to the harbour, rarely used, through which Bremusa could communicate with the goddess. Furious with Metris for her lies, the Amazon left her trailing in her wake as she hurried towards Piraeus.

  What am I going to do now? Metris was meant to locate Laet, and then dispel her bad energy. It turns out she can’t do either. I knew she was an impostor.

  Their plan having failed at the first obstacle, Bremusa had no idea how to proceed. She’d fought in many battles but she’d never been a good tactician. Generally she’d left strategy to others. She turned left at a crossroads marked by the Herm statues that were everywhere in Athens. Little square columns, with a head and a penis. She wondered if Messenger God Hermes liked them.

  I’ll have to ask him next time I see him.

  The road to the unused shrine ran over a rough area of shingle next to the shore, vacant save for some children playing in the distance. Bremusa halted to take her bearings, trying to remember the directions Athena had given her.

  ‘Hello, Bremusa,’ came a male voice. Bremusa jumped. Having left the mortal realm hundreds of years ago, she hadn’t been expecting anyone to address her by name. She spun round to find herself staring at a man she’d never forgotten, or forgiven. A tall, sturdy man, with a black beard, wearing a bronze breastplate of a design which had not been seen in this world for a very long time.

  ‘Idomeneus!’

  He bowed. ‘Indeed. Idomeneus of Crete. I never thought I’d meet you again, Bremusa of the Amazons. How long has it been?’

  Bremusa placed her hand on the pommel of her sword, watching him warily. ‘Almost eight hundred years.’

  ‘Really? Is it that long since the war at Troy?’ Idomeneus laughed. He had a deep, earthy, intimidating voice. ‘You managed to flee just before I killed you.’

  ‘I’ve never fled from battle, Idomeneus of Crete.’

  They stared at each other, both in their archaic armour, on a quiet rocky beach, relics from the past.

  ‘What are you doing here? And how have you lived so long?’

  Idomeneus drew his sword. ‘I could ask you the same. But I think I’d rather just finish what I started at Troy.’

  Bremusa drew her sword. Idomeneus stepped forward, and they fought. On Olympus, Bremusa had not neglected her training, but she’d had few occasions to use a sword in anger. Growing up as a young Amazon warrior, she was fighting all the time. Her life depended on it. These days, she wasn’t as sharp.

  Idomeneus had been a commander, a man who led his troops into battle. He’d killed many opponents. He’d even engaged in combat with the mighty Hector, and lived to tell of it. He was a fearless and skilful warrior. He forced Bremusa back. The shingle beneath their feet was poor footing, shifting and sliding as she desperately parried each of his thrusts. Unlike their ancient encounter before the walls of Troy, neither of them carried shields, making their fight even more hazardous. Bremusa knew she couldn’t allow him close. His blade, swung with such strength, would cut right through her leather armour. It didn’t need to be a lethal blow; a wounding strike would be enough to create an opening for him to kill her.

  Though she was forced back, the Amazon felt no fear. In battle, she never had. Hard-pressed as she was, she still looked for opportunities to attack, and her blade almost made it through Idomeneus’s defence, making him pause. His expression changed as he remembered that Bremusa the Amazon was also a dangerous opponent.

  Bremusa was a tall woman, but Idomeneus towered over her. As she stepped backwards, parrying another stroke, she felt her heel brush against an overturned rowing boat. She’d noticed this before, and was expecting it. She nimbly hopped backwards onto the wooden boat, raising her eighteen inches or so and giving her a height advantage. When Idomeneus rushed forward she slashed downwards with all her might. Her blade almost evaded his guard and actually cut into his beard. Idomeneus, uninjured but humiliated, roared with anger and attacked even more violently. At that moment, the rotting timbers of the elderly rowing boat gave way and Bremusa sprawled backwards onto the stony beach.

  Her situation was now desperate. She was close to death on several occasions as she struggled to rise while blocking her opponent’s sword. She’d almost made it back to her feet when they were interrupted by a woman’s laugh. It wouldn’t have made Bremusa stop fighting but, to her surprise, Idomeneus took a step backwards. He didn’t lower his guard, but did turn his eyes to the newcomer. Bremusa risked a sidelong glance. She realised she no longer had to search for Laet. The female who strolled to Idomeneus’s side could be no one else, because she was obviously not quite human.

  Laet was tall, like the Amazon. Her robe was as finely spun as anything seen on Mount Olympus, but darker, and it clung to her figure in a way that might have made Aphrodite envious. She glanced at the broken timbers.

  ‘You shouldn’t have jumped on that old boat. The timbers were bound to give way. But people do seem to make bad decisions when I’m around.’

  She turned to Idomeneus. ‘Idomeneus, we’re trying to remain discreet. Is it necessary for you to fight this woman?’

  ‘She’s an Amazon. I hate Amazons. I’d have killed her at Troy, if she hadn’t suddenly vanished when my spear was at her throat.’

  ‘Really?’ Laet regarded Bremusa with her coal-black eyes. The pallor of her skin suggested she was rarely exposed to sunlight, or even daylight.

  ‘You fought at Troy?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘But you disappeared from the field of battle? Presumably you were saved by some god?’

  ‘By the Goddess Athena.’

  ‘Ah. I see. Have you been with her ever since?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I assume the goddess has now sent you here to look for me?’

  That, thought Bremusa, was rather astute. Not wanting to show she was impressed by her deduction, she didn’t reply.

  ‘No doubt Athena fears I’ll wreck the peace conference.’ Laet smiled, not pleasantly. ‘She’s right.’

  Incongruously, she yawned. Bremusa felt insulted.

  ‘Come, Idomeneus. I’m tired. There are children playing nearby and that always gives me a headache. I don’t find this Amazon very interesting. You can kill her another time if it really bothers you.’

  They walked off up the shingle beach towards the city. Bremusa watched them go. She suddenly realised how fatigued she was from the battle, under the sun, in her leather armour. Her skin was caked with perspiration.

  Two children ran screaming in front of her, pursued by their female attendant. She was a stern-looking woman who scolded her charges, both around eight years old.

  ‘Plato, Xenophon, stop fighting! Can’t you behave better in public? Stop staring at the foreign woman and come with me.’

  They departed, young Plato and Xenophon still scuffling with each other. Bremusa turned round and hurried towards the shrine. She urgently needed to talk to the Goddess Athena.

  Luxos

  There were two shops in Athens which sold beautiful, expensive lyres, instruments good enough for a professional to play on stage. There were several stalls in the agora that stocked instruments of slightly lesser quality, the sort that wealthy young men might use while for playing music with their friends. Close to the harbour, there was Straton’s junk shop which sold the cheapest instruments in the city. That was where Luxos had bought his lyre. It wasn’t a high-quality instrument. He wasn’t even sure that it was made from genuine turtle shell. Nonetheless, Luxos loved his lyre, and had taught himself to play, copying the musicians he saw performing at the gymnasium. A true Greek poet recited his poetry to the accompaniment of the lyre, and Luxos had learned how to do it, without instruction.

  Not far from the junk shop was Lysander’s pawn shop, current location of Luxos’s lyre. He’d been ashamed when he pawned it to buy food; as ashamed as a man throwing down his shield when he fled from the battlefield: he’d only done it after fainting from hunger. Like many people in Athens, Luxos was very poor, and
unlike most, he had no family to fall back on. As a young orphan the community, his deme, had fed and cared for him, after a fashion, but after he reached the age of eighteen he was on his own. It would have been difficult at the best of times. With Athens in the state it now was, he was struggling to survive. For a while he’d tried to earn money by singing and playing on the street, but no citizen in Piraeus had much money to spare for street performers. He tried playing in some of the wealthier areas uptown, but the Scythian archers chased him away.

  Now, with Aristophanes’ money, he hurried to reclaim his lyre. He was happy and excited to retrieve his instrument, but as he left the shop, he remembered what Aristophanes had said. No one would ever listen to his songs or his poetry. Previously Luxos had ignored all criticism, banished all discouragement, but for some reason the words struck home. He looked around at Athens, and for the first time it seemed like an unfriendly place. There was something different in the air. He couldn’t say what, but he could feel a great cloud of depression settling over him.

  Luxos the poet trudged home, to the abandoned shack behind the great dockyard where triremes were constructed. There he sat and played his lyre. This cheered him a little, but he kept hearing Aristophanes’ words: You don’t come from the right class. You weren’t educated like a gentleman. You never had a proper teacher. You don’t have a patron, or any influential friends. It was all true. The sons of the wealthy citizens of Athens were schooled in literature, philosophy and rhetoric from a young age. Luxos wasn’t. Those same wealthy young men had influential friends to call upon should they ever wish to see their lyrics or poetry performed in public. Luxos knew no one influential.

  His shoulders slumped. For as long as he could remember, he’d dreamed of striding out onto the stage at the great theatre and performing for the whole of Athens. Now he wondered if that would ever happen. Perhaps Aristophanes was right. Perhaps no one would ever be interested in his poetry.