He was indeed a very talented pipe player, and so was the man who came after him. The day finally started to feel like a holiday as I let my mind follow the intricacies of the melody and enjoy the harmonies that underpinned it. I began to note the subtle differences between this man’s performance and the others. It’s hard to explain, and some people can never hear it, but somehow, one man’s touch on the pipes or the lyre can be recognisably different from another’s. That’s one of the things that distinguishes a master artist. An everyday entertainer’s ambition goes no further than hitting the right notes of songs and dances that everyone already knows.
As the next competitor was announced, I opened my eyes. It was Hyanthidas. I raised my gaze to the sky, and thanked Athena that I had got here in time. As I stood up, the Corinthian started to play a bold, fast-moving composition. It only took a handful of notes to show this was something very different to the tunes we’d been hearing so far. The music swooped and soared and doubled back on itself, to tease us with echoes of its own melody. It wasn’t a song that was sung in the streets or taverns here in Athens, but the rhythm reassured us with gleeful hints of familiarity before offering some new delight.
I watched Hyanthidas as he swayed and ducked his head while his fingers danced on the pipes. His gaze was fixed on the judges, alert and direct. His whole demeanour invited them to join him in the joyful music’s embrace. I looked at them myself, but couldn’t see any hint of what they were thinking. Their faces might have been carved marble, as unyielding as the seats beneath their well-born buttocks.
All too soon, Hyanthidas finished his performance with a resounding flourish. As the last ephemeral echoes faded, he stood motionless, gazing up beyond the audience towards the pale crags of the Acropolis. I recognised that feeling, even if a playwright never takes to the stage himself, not these days in Athens anyway. I had sat in this theatre, amid thousands of friends and strangers, in that strange twilight after the art I had toiled over for countless days had been offered up, just the once, to win or lose. At least the comedy contests are all decided and the winner crowned on the same day. I don’t know how I would cope if I had to wait a full seven days before I knew the judges’ verdict.
I tried to decide if the audience’s response to Hyanthidas was louder or more excited than the reactions I’d heard so far. I thought the whispers sounded more favourable, unless I was just imagining that because I wanted my friend to win.
Then Hyanthidas strolled off the platform and headed away towards the eastern side of the theatre. That didn’t matter. I seized my chance as the audience stirred to ease stiff legs and numb buttocks while they waited for the next piper. Dodging past the slave who was still standing there with folded arms, I hurried down the path cutting along the edge of the seats below and heading towards the stage. I didn’t cut across the dancing floor and risk official wrath, not to mention divine disapproval, but headed around behind the scenery building, there to serve as whatever palace or humble hovel might be required for a play. This was terrain I knew well, after competing here myself.
I found some competitors were lingering back there, surrounded by family and friends. Those loyal supporters were keeping their congratulations and encouragement suitably muted but no less heartfelt. More groups were gathered over by the small temple to Dionysos a short distance away. I saw concert lyre players still holding their cherished instruments, as well as men and boys whose pristine tunics and freshly barbered look suggested they had been entrants in the singing competitions earlier in the day.
The altar is set a little way away from the front of the modest temple. It had been newly whitened with chalk for the festival. Now the carved stone was liberally streaked with evidence of fervent libations. Apollo might have invented the lyre, and the reed pipe was Athena’s gift to humanity, but this theatre is Dionysos’ sacred territory. It looked as if every prudent musician had acknowledged the capricious god.
I looked around for Hyanthidas and saw his familiar tall figure walking towards a wine-seller. The enterprising man’s cart was drawn up at the very edge of the temple precinct, as close to the altar as he could get without intruding on sanctified ground. I lengthened my stride and the piper turned to see who the wine-seller was looking at when the man’s jug halted in mid-pour. As he recognised me, the Corinthian smiled.
‘You made it then.’
‘Barely,’ I admitted. I reached inside my tunic. ‘Let me pay for this as my penance.’
For one horrible moment, I thought I’d lost my money while I’d been rushing around the city. Then I realised the drawstring pouch had slid around behind my back. I loosened my belt so it could drop to the ground, stooped, and picked it up.
‘Two, please, large measures. The black for me, if you please.’ I looked at Hyanthidas.
He nodded at the wine-seller. ‘The same, thank you.’
‘Four obols.’ The man smiled blandly at me.
That was twice what I expected to pay, but it was festival time, and I wasn’t in any mood to haggle. I handed over the coins, re-tightened my belt and dropped my money back down the neck of my tunic. We took our rough pottery cups and walked over to the altar. Hyanthidas was lost in his own thoughts and I didn’t intrude.
