The Goddess of Buttercups & Daisies Page 9

  I don’t know how to defeat Laet. If Athena had allowed me to kill her, I might have had a chance of succeeding. Now it’s hopeless. I have no clever plan. I’ve never had a clever plan.

  The depression that had been gnawing at Bremusa since she arrived in Athens began to grow. She felt like a stupid, ancient, uneducated woman, a relic from the past, blundering around in a city she didn’t understand, surrounded by poets, artists and philosophers with whom she had nothing in common. Now she was meant to protect Aristophanes, another task she didn’t relish.

  I loathe the theatre. I don’t understand why people want to sit and watch people pretending to be other people. What’s the point? I was born underneath a horse, on the way to battle. We didn’t have theatres.

  The Amazon bumped into a statue of a naked man throwing a discus. She glared at it.

  I don’t like their statues either. Or their paintings. The whole city is degenerate. I wouldn’t care if Sparta destroyed it.

  She scowled. ‘Wait till I get my hands on Idomeneus. I’d have beaten him at Troy if my foot hadn’t slipped. I’ll make him sorry. And Metris too. What’s the matter with her? If my mother had caught me hanging round a young poet when I was her age, she’d have chopped my head off.’

  Bremusa carried on, her mood worsening all the time.

  Aristophanes

  Callias may be a fool, an easy target for flatterers and fortune hunters, who will probably divest him of his fortune one day. And he may be too keen to welcome inferior dramatists into his house. But I will give him credit for one thing. When he finally gets round to serving the wine, it’s good quality, and there’s an endless supply. Aristophanes was enjoying the role of symposiarch. The huge krater of wine in the centre of the room was emptying rapidly as each guest’s cup was filled again and again. Aristophanes called for the krater to be refilled, meanwhile ignoring all requests for the wine to be diluted, or handed round more slowly.

  ‘Stop complaining, you pathetic little weeds, and drink some wine. I’ve written better plays than all of you, I’ve fought better on the battlefield, and I’ve slept with more hetaerae than you. Now I’m going to show you how an Athenian can drink.’

  It was not the sort of challenge his companions could ignore. After an hour or so of heavy drinking, the room was in uproar, and Aristophanes was feeling a lot better about life. He flung his arm round Socrates’ shoulder.

  ‘You’re not a bad chap, Socrates. Much too keen on lecturing people about philosophy, but you did fight well at Delium, and you can drink a reasonable-sized cup of wine. Talking of which, why are our goblets empty? Bring more wine! Stronger this time!’

  ‘Is that really a good idea?’ said Socrates.

  ‘Who’s symposiarch, you or me? Bring more wine!’

  Aristophanes laughed as the aged Leucon, so-called comic poet, fell off his couch.

  ‘Ha. Can’t take his wine like us, Socrates. We’re old soldiers. We’re tough!’

  Aristophanes noticed Callias was looking a little displeased. He had no idea why.

  ‘Perhaps it’s time for a pause in the proceedings,’ said their host. ‘I think it’s time for some entertainment.’

  One end of the room had been cleared, to act as a stage. There was a fancy embroidered curtain as a backdrop, and from behind it stepped a surprisingly beautiful young woman. She carried a flute, and smiled cheerfully as she emerged.

  Callias looked puzzled. ‘I don’t remember hiring her. Where’s my secretary?’

  The secretary was lying drunk under a couch, unable to keep up with the company. He wasn’t the only one. Aristophanes kept sending the wine round, and several guests were finding it difficult to maintain the pace.

  Two actors, newcomers to the party, shouted at Callias.

  ‘Can she play the flute?’

  ‘Let her play anyway! She’s beautiful.’

  ‘If you like that sort of thing.’

  Metris began to play. Even though many of the guests were by now rather the worse for wear, it was soon obvious that she was a talented performer. Not only that, there was something about her that seemed to radiate good cheer. Aristophanes found himself tapping out the rhythm with his feet. His garland of flowers fell off. He jammed it back on and began to dance.

  Idomeneus

  Laet had informed Idomeneus that if he wanted to earn some extra money, there was now a price on Aristophanes’ head. Euphranor was offering a reward. She didn’t say how she’d learned this, but Idomeneus assumed she’d something to do with initiating it. He accepted the offer. He’d never been poor since travelling with Laet, but he wasn’t wealthy either. He used to be, centuries ago, and he still remembered that.

  Before they parted he asked Laet if she needed anything. She shook her head. She rarely needed much. She wasn’t that demanding a woman. She ate little, quickly became bored by luxuries, and apparently had no sexual desire. She often preferred to remain silent for long periods. Despite their long association, Idomeneus didn’t really know what motivated her. He knew she liked to ruin other people’s lives. She’d been doing that for eight hundred years, but she’d never offered him any sort of explanation. Perhaps the semi-divines didn’t need the same sort of motivations that humans did.

  For most of that time, Idomeneus of Crete had been her bodyguard. Or servant, perhaps, though that’s not how he liked to think of himself. He’d been a military leader, back in his natural life span. He didn’t serve anyone. But when a man had his life extended by such an amount, he was prepared to do a few things he’d rather not do.

  Last week Idomeneus had killed two men who’d tried to waylay them on their way to Athens. He ran each of them through in an instant. He’d never lost his fighting skill. Afterwards he couldn’t understand why the robbers had thought they could attack them.

  Why did they think they could rob me? I wouldn’t say I looked like an easy target. Perhaps they were driven on by Laet’s beauty. Maybe they thought they could take her as a prize. Fools.

  Or perhaps Laet made them do it. When she extended her powers, people did act in ridiculous ways. It might have been her idea of a treat for her bodyguard. She knew he liked to see action every now and then.

  Idomeneus had learned that Aristophanes had been invited to a symposium at Callias’s house. He took directions and made his way there, though progress was slow. The night was dark and he had to conceal himself several times from the groups of Scythian archers who policed the streets at night. As an alien in the city, he knew they’d be suspicious of him, large and heavily armed. He finally made it to the street with the statue of Apollo holding a flute. He knew he was close to Callias’s mansion and settled down to wait. At some point Aristophanes was going to emerge, and Idomeneus was going to kill him.

  Aristophanes

  When the girl finished playing her flute there was a lot of applause, and a lot of laughter at those individuals who, moved to dance but too intoxicated to keep up, had collapsed on their couches, or underneath them. Aristophanes’ mood had transformed. Why was he worrying? He was the best comic dramatist in Athens. He was the best poet. He wrote the funniest scenes. Was anyone going to defeat him in a contest? Let them try.

  ‘I can beat any man here at cottabus!’ yelled Eupolis.

  Aristophanes wasn’t going to decline a challenge like that. ‘I’ll take you on!’ he roared.

  Cottabus was a popular after-dinner game. Players had to fling the dregs of their wine at a small statue, attempting to knock it from its perch so it fell into a saucer below. They did this while reclining on their couches. After an evening of drinking, it could be a challenging task. On Callias’s orders servants bustled in, setting up the stand with the tiny statue on top.

  ‘Watch this!’ cried Aristophanes, in the general direction of Socrates. ‘It takes a fine eye and a steady hand to win at cottabus. If you’re a dramatist of unusual skill, that helps too.’

  Aristophanes made short work of Eupolis, knocking the statue from its perch with d
eadly aim while his opponent flailed around hopelessly.

  ‘Much as he does in the theatre!’ yelled Aristophanes, very amused. Nicias was too statesmanlike to play, but General Lamachus was always up for a challenge. He put up more of a fight but Aristophanes saw him off too, before scoring another fine triumph over some young man he hadn’t been introduced to, a lover of Callias’s, possibly. He was a good-looking youth. Far too good-looking for Callias, thought Aristophanes, but when you were as rich as he was, you could buy all the handsome lovers you wanted.

  Aristophanes was looking round for more opponents when he was interrupted by a voice he’d rather not have heard.

  ‘And now, our special entertainment of the evening – lyric poetry from Athens’ favourite up-and-coming young poet, Luxos!’

  Luxos, having introduced himself, appeared on the small stage, holding his cheap lyre.

  ‘I know I didn’t invite him,’ said Callias. ‘Aristophanes, is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him before.’

  ‘Throw the scoundrel out!’ cried Eupolis. But Callias, full of wine and keen to recline after dancing far too vigorously for a man of his age and bulk, didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Oh, let him recite, I need a rest anyway.’

  Luxos’s youthful face lit up. Against the odds, he’d succeeded. He was finally going to be able to recite his poetry to an influential audience. Aristophanes chuckled. Luxos was a young scoundrel, but if he was willing to make that much effort, perhaps he deserved his chance. As his female companion looked on, rather adoringly, people noticed, Luxos began to recite:

  Immortal meadows of many-coloured flowers

  welcome in their embrace —

  And at that moment there was an almighty commotion as the door burst open and Alcibiades arrived. Alcibiades, the most famous, most controversial, loudest, wealthiest, wildest young man in Athens, marched into the dining room with a garland of flowers askew on his head, an entourage of young aristocrats and prostitutes in his wake.

  ‘Callias, you dog!’ he roared. ‘You think you can have a drinking party without Alcibiades? Hand over a cup of wine and let’s get this party under way!’

  Immediately the room degenerated into chaos as the wealthy youth of Athens took over. Suddenly it was full of dancing girls, dancing boys and roaring young drunks, standing on couches, yelling, laughing and singing. Everyone was swept up into the celebration. Only Socrates held back, remaining in his place on his couch, quietly observing. He noticed Luxos on stage, still holding his lyre. Realising that he could no longer be heard, and no one was paying any attention to him, the young poet looked forlorn. Metris took his hand and they watched the drunken revelry for a few minutes before disappearing offstage. Luxos trudged away like a reprimanded schoolboy, his eyes on the ground, his shoulders slumped in misery.

  Alcibiades’ face, normally handsome, was flushed red from drinking. ‘Aristophanes!’ he yelled. ‘Are you putting me in your play this year? I’ll be disappointed if you don’t!’

  Aristophanes smiled and nodded. He wasn’t putting him in his play. When someone was that keen to be mocked on stage, it wasn’t that much fun doing it.

  ‘Time for the procession!’ yelled one of Alcibiades’ friends.

  ‘Everybody outside!’ cried Alcibiades.

  Aristophanes did enjoy a good after-party procession. Led by Alcibiades and Callias, everyone grabbed hold of torches, filled up their wine cups, slung their cloaks over their shoulders and headed outside to parade through the dark streets; not an uncommon event after a riotous symposium like the one they’d just attended.

  Aristophanes was still in a fine mood. Some drinking, some dancing, a few victories at cottabus – life felt much better. Looking at his problems now, they didn’t seem too bad.

  So, my producer is a miser. Eupolis and Leucon have more money to spend. Do they have my talent? Of course not. Once I’ve ironed out a few problems with the choreography I’ll have a play fit to win any Dionysia.

  He marched along with a torch in one hand and a cup of wine in the other, bawling out one of his favourite drinking songs.

  That Callias, he’s not such a bad soul really. Fat fool, of course, and tardy with the wine, but generous in the end.

  When it came to the chorus, Aristophanes noticed that no one was joining in. That was odd. It was a popular song, recounting Athens’ great victory at Salamis. He looked around and realised he was on his own. Somehow, in the darkness, he’d wandered away from the procession. He looked at his cup of wine. It was empty. His torch flickered and went out. He felt a chill breeze blowing through his summer cloak. His good mood vanished with the wind. Now he felt drunk, but not pleasantly so. He realised he’d been fooling himself about his play being nearly ready. It wasn’t. The play was a shambles. Again he had an alarming vision of being booed off stage by angry Athenians. An overwhelming depression settled in. He felt lonely and far from home. He needed rest. He needed sleep.

  He didn’t need, or expect, a large man with a bronze breastplate to appear from nowhere, with a sword in his hand.

  ‘Aristophanes?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Me. I’m here to kill you.’

  Bremusa

  Bremusa withdrew into the shadows as a noisy torchlight procession approached. A great group of revellers, mainly drunken men, with a few women behind them. She realised they must have come from the symposium at Callias’s house and she wondered why Aristophanes wasn’t with them. As the procession passed her, a voice from a house nearby shouted for them to be quiet and stop disturbing the peace. The leader of the procession hurled back some cheerful abuse and started up another raucous song. Bremusa remained hidden till they’d gone, then hurried on.

  It was worrying that Aristophanes hadn’t been with his companions. She sensed that something bad was about to happen and picked up her pace. She ran round another dark corner and suddenly came upon Aristophanes and Idomeneus. Idomeneus had a sword in his hand. Aristophanes was fumbling for something at his belt. Perhaps he thought there was a blade there, though there wasn’t. Then he fell over.

  So much for Athens’ greatest comic playwright, thought Bremusa. Too drunk to find a weapon or even stay on his feet.

  She sprinted forward, unsheathing her sword.

  ‘Step back, Idomeneus.’

  Idomeneus whirled round. When he saw Bremusa approaching he didn’t waste time in speech, he just flew at her with his sword raised. They engaged immediately and there was furious combat on the dark muddy street, the only illumination coming from an oil lamp which burned dimly in front of a small shrine nearby. Their swords clashed noisily and rapidly. Idomeneus of Crete was a very strong man, and a skilful fighter. He’d killed many enemies before the Trojan walls. He’d killed Amazons too. The memory of this infuriated Bremusa, and it was not just her own defeat for which she sought revenge. They fought a desperate battle in the dim light, till it happened that their swords clashed in such a way as to make them both take a step back.

  Idomeneus glared at the Amazon. ‘Athena’s not here to help you now.’

  ‘And Laet’s not here to help you.’

  They re-engaged, even more furiously. Bremusa matched him in skill but his strength began to drive her back. His blade slid over hers and she felt a sharp pain as it cut her shoulder. Completely enraged, Bremusa yelled out the battle cry of the Amazons and flung herself forward like one of the Furies, determined to kill him. So violent was her assault that she succeeded in driving him back. She wounded him too, a cut to the left arm that made him wince, though it didn’t slow him.

  ‘Die, you Amazon bitch,’ yelled Idomeneus, and advanced again, his sword flashing towards her. Bremusa blocked desperately as she was driven back. Idomeneus’s strength was beginning to tell. At that moment they were interrupted by the sound of whistles and pounding feet, very close.

  Idomeneus paused, though he maintained his guard.

  ‘Scythian archers,’ he muttere
d. There was a second’s indecision, then he took off, disappearing into the darkness. Bremusa whirled round. Aristophanes was sitting on the ground. She dragged him to his feet.

  ‘Quickly, unless you want to get arrested.’

  She dragged him past the shrine and through several small vegetable gardens, escaping the street before the Scythian archers arrived. Aristophanes was too intoxicated to move quickly, but didn’t protest as she shepherded him to safety. When they’d gone far enough to avoid detection, they halted.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ mumbled Aristophanes. There was a pause. ‘Take me to Theodota’s.’

  ‘Theodota? The hetaera? Won’t she have another client at this time?’

  To Bremusa’s annoyance, Aristophanes sat down. He was still drunk, and now he looked depressed as well.

  ‘I don’t want to go home alone,’ he said. ‘Do you live somewhere?’

  ‘Yes, but you can’t go there. Tell me where you live!’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  Bremusa could hear voices, not far off. She wasn’t sure if the Scythian archers had given up looking for them or not. They might arrive at any moment. The Amazon didn’t know if arrest would have serious consequences for Aristophanes, but she couldn’t allow herself to be apprehended for causing a disturbance in the street. The Goddess Athena would be annoyed if she were careless enough to get arrested while on a mission for her.

  ‘Damn it,’ she muttered. She helped Aristophanes to his feet, put her arm round his shoulder to support him, then set off towards the tavern where she’d rented a room. She gritted her teeth as the wound in her shoulder began to sting.

  ‘Slow down,’ said Aristophanes, slurring his words.

  ‘We can’t slow down. Do you have to drink so much?’

  Around Callias’s mansion the streets were beautifully tended. In the area where Bremusa had rented a room, they weren’t. They were cracked, muddy and treacherous. It made walking at night difficult, and potentially messy too, if you came across one of the open sewers. It took quite a long time to drag the intoxicated Aristophanes to the tavern. Bremusa’s mood, already bad, had worsened.