The Athenian coloured with annoyance, throwing a fold of his red cloak back over his shoulder. ‘If the poets who will inherit these mantles need not strain to commit every word to memory, they can study the passion of our performance, our eloquence and the skills that convey the unequalled majesty of Homer’s creation.’
He had a point, as far as I was concerned. I won’t argue with anyone insisting Homer is the greatest poet who has ever lived – it’s really not worth the trouble – but it’s the performance that brings his words to life.
The best epic poets are truly masters of their craft. They stride to and fro, using their cloaks and their performer’s staff to add to the drama. That stick can be one of the countless spears hurled in battle, or Achilles’ whip as he lashes his chariot horses. They use their voices with equal skill. Each character’s speeches must be distinct and delivered as the drama demands, from roaring to whispering. It doesn’t matter how well we know the story, the audience must be left breathless by the epic’s twists and turns. When a master performs, the gods looking down from Olympos will see the crowd on the Pnyx rapt and silent.
Compare that with sitting through my uncle droning his way through the bits he can remember of the battle between Aias and Hector, and you have proof that the finest work can be killed deader than Patroclos by lousy delivery.
The first Athenian persisted with his argument. He really should have mixed more water with his wine. ‘When we are judged, one against another, everyone should use the same text.’
The second Ionian protested. ‘But how can we be judged fairly when we are told which passages to recite, so we may hone and polish our delivery? A true master should be able to call to mind any episode demanded of him.’
The Athenian peacemaker’s patience was fraying. ‘I trust divine Athena’s wisdom will guide those who choose which episode each of us will deliver.’
The Ionians had no answer for that. Silence hung in the air. I could hear cheerful chatter at the tables outside. Another moment passed and the tension eased. A man at the table next to us raised his empty wine jug to summon a tavern slave to refill it.
A red-cloaked Boeotian had been sitting drinking on his own. Now he intervened with the deliberate spite of Eris, goddess of discord, using her golden apple to set divine Hera, Athena and Aphrodite at odds, and start the whole Trojan War.
‘Who decided you Athenians should tell the rest of us what Homer said?’
The Ionians sat up straighter, more than ready to pursue this fresh argument. Ionians think they have some special claim on Homer because he was born on Chios.
Athenians glared at the Boeotian, and I don’t only mean the poets. Half the men in this tavern were my age or older. Like me, they would have marched in the Athenian army sent to put down the Boeotian rebellion only five years ago. After our initial victories, the rabble-rousers had forced us into a bloody retreat. We’re not supposed to hold grudges now that peace is restored, and especially not during the Great Panathenaia, but a lot of us will never forget the dead we left behind.
This Boeotian was unrepentant and he looked like a man who could hold his own in a fight. ‘Peisistratos the tyrant, that’s who. You can’t deny it.’
The Athenian who wanted to play peacemaker did his best. ‘The Great Panathenaia and its traditions were established when Peisistratos ruled, but that does not mean that any man can claim credit for offering Homer’s genius to all Hellenes. These great works are a gift from the gods.’
I could see the Ionians were torn. Chians in particular like to say Lykurgos the Spartan was entrusted with bringing the Iliad and the Odyssey to the Peloponnese, but disputing the roles different long-dead rulers had played in preserving Homer’s legacy looked petty, as well as potentially impious. I saw poets on both sides of the debate decide to keep their mouths shut. No one here to compete in the festival was going to chance divine disapproval before they’d even set foot on the Pnyx.
The Boeotian had no such concerns. He spat on the tavern floor. ‘You people lecture everyone about the virtues of your democracy, but when it comes to other Hellenes, you are nothing but tyrants yourselves.’
The mood in the tavern changed in the blink of an eye. No Athenian was going to take that from a Boeotian. Not at the Great Panathenaia.
‘We kill tyrants in Athens.’ The belligerent poet who’d spoken first fixed the Boeotian with an unblinking gaze. ‘As well as honouring great Athena, this festival remembers Harmodios and Aristogeiton who slew Peisistratos’ son.’
He spoke like someone explaining something to a halfwit, though there can’t have been anyone in the tavern who didn’t know that.
‘Weren’t they supposed to kill both of them?’ the drunken Boeotian taunted him. ‘They made a right mess of it, didn’t they? Leaving the other one alive until the Spartans turned up to save you.’
In the next breath, half the Athenians in the tavern were on their feet.
A poet who hadn’t yet spoken now challenged the Boeotian. His face was as red as his cloak with fury. ‘Why don’t you sod off back to whatever shithole you crawled out of? Better men than you will gladly take your place in this contest.’
‘Let’s see if you get to the gate on your road home before someone teaches you manners,’ someone else snarled.
‘All right, that’s enough!’ The tavern owner saw there’d be no shortage of volunteers to teach the Boeotian a little humility. ‘All of you, out! I’m not having my tables smashed before the festival’s even begun!’
He grabbed the Boeotian by the shoulder and dragged him towards the door. A couple of burly men appeared and began rousting the red-cloaked poets from their seats.
‘We
