‘Did you wear a shawl this morning?’ Another layer of cloth between Zosime’s charms and some lecher’s groping hands wouldn’t go amiss in these crowds.
‘I did.’ She fetched her brown woollen wrap from a peg and swung it around her shoulders. ‘Shall we go?’
I took her hand as we walked down the lane. ‘Your father said he was seeing some friends. If you join him, you won’t have to spend the day listening to me fretting.’ I tried to make a joke of it and failed.
Zosime freed her hand from mine and slipped it through the crook of my arm to pull me close. ‘I’ll find a way to distract you. And, no, thanks all the same. Dad and his cronies will be drinking and talking about people and places I don’t even remember.’
She had been barely ten years old when Menkaure and his wife had fled from Egypt to Crete to seek shelter with her mother’s family. He was wise enough to see which way the wind was blowing before the full might of the Persian army arrived to crush the Egyptians’ rebellion. A rebellion that Athens had been foolish enough to support, at the cost of so many deaths, including my lost brother and the firstborn son of my play’s patron.
We were on our way to his house. The man whose substantial wealth was financing my comedy is called Aristarchos. He lives in that favoured district of Athens to the north of the Acropolis and to the east of the agora. This means his spacious and elegant residence is within easy walking distance of the courts and the Council Chamber as they flank the marketplace. It’s only a short stroll further to the People’s Assembly up on the Pnyx, or to the Areopagus for a murder trial in the court there. After all, wealthy men like him spend a great deal of their time on the people’s business, safeguarding the city’s interests.
They safeguard their own wealth and households with tall walls and narrow, barred windows high enough to stop passers-by peering in or sneak thieves slipping through. It’s a world away from the neighbourhood I grew up in, with constant comings and goings amid bustling workshops and storehouses, with families living cheek by jowl.
As Zosime and I made our way through the quiet streets, I could hear light lyre music floating through open shutters above my head. Women who marry men like Aristarchos have the leisure to enjoy artistic pastimes and to share such skills with their daughters. I’d grown up with the sound of women’s laughter in the room overlooking the courtyard and my father’s workshop, punctuated by the muted thud of spindles dropping on floorboards as my mother and her slaves turned combed wool into yarn.
When we turned the last corner, I saw somebody standing outside Aristarchos’s gate. I walked faster, dreading bad news from the mask maker. Perhaps some disaster had befallen our costumes. Messengers on the stage seldom herald anything good.
Had my most hated rival discovered who would be performing my music? We’d done our best to keep that particular secret throughout our months of rehearsals, but there was always the risk that one of the chorus had let something slip while sharing a jug of wine. Had Euxenos sent his scene shifters to snap Hyanthidas’s double pipes over his head? No, that was a ridiculous notion.
We drew closer as a young man came out through the gate, his back to us as he spoke to the first youth, who was kneeling to retie his shoe.
‘You know they want to see your father embarrassed. Why else foist an untried poet on him?’
‘He won a prize at the Lenaia last year,’ countered the lad having trouble with his laces. I realised it was Aristarchos’s son, Hipparchos.
‘Second prize,’ the disdainful one spat. ‘His first attempt at a play wasn’t even placed. They didn’t award him a chorus the year after that.’
‘My father—’
‘Regardless, the Lenaia is not the Dionysia,’ the arrogant prick continued. ‘Those plays merely brighten up winter’s gloom with a few cheap laughs for our own citizens. It doesn’t matter how feeble Philocles’s jokes are there. But the Dionysia’s great tradition of drama is as valuable as our city’s coin, honoured far and wide. These performances influence how all Hellas sees our city This great festival’s reputation should not be tarnished by debased doggerel.’
Now I recognised Hipparchos’s friend Nikandros. I wondered who he was mimicking, as brainless as a tame jackdaw. From what I’d seen, he wasn’t the type to study rhetoric and come up with phrases like that.
Nikandros snorted, contemptuous. ‘You saw the crowd’s reaction yesterday when this year’s plays were announced. What sort of title is that? The Builders? And how much of your father’s money is he squandering? You can never trust that sort of scrounger. Their judgement is as flawed as their morals.’
As I braced myself, I felt Zosime do the same. This pair would see us as soon as they turned around. With every gate shut and guarded hereabouts, there was nowhere for us to hide.
The kneeling lad stood up. ‘Let’s get a drink. As long as you’re paying.’
Nikandros laughed. ‘Why not?’
The pair strolled away down the street. I don’t think they even realised we were there.
Zosime’s hand tightened on my arm. ‘Who are they?’
I struggled to keep my voice level. ‘The one unused to tying his own shoes is Aristarchos’s youngest son, Hipparchos. The one who knows everything about anything is his friend Nikandros Kerykes. They both think their fathers’ wealth makes them untouchable.’
And as far as people like me were concerned, those cocky young swine were right. Third of Aristarchos’s surviving sons, Hipparchos, was seven or so years younger than me and I was willing to bet he hadn’t done a day’s work since he’d come home from his military training last year. Noble born and rich, he’d served out those
