Taking the southern path skirting the Acropolis, I glanced upwards but, even in the daylight, I couldn’t see the building work from this angle. Instead I took a fresh look at the ramshackle houses and workshops thrown up amid the remnants of the Persian destruction.
Doubtless those first returning Athenians had sworn this was only temporary shelter. They’d soon rebuild their homes, they’d told each other, more elegant, more substantial. I pictured the scene, though I couldn’t see any way to make a comedy out of this. Soon winter had come, and the burden of keeping their families clothed and fed while the city struggled to rise from the ashes took its toll. Not many laughs in that.
It was easy to see how plans for proper rebuilding had yielded to making running repairs, knocking through walls and adding rooms, piecemeal, as time and money allowed. By now, even the most loyal Athenian had to admit this district was a mess.
Pericles planned to sort it all out. The theatre wasn’t his only project hereabouts. I’d heard Apollonides and Menekles discussing rumours of a grand new hall for play rehearsals and concerts.
Disgruntled Ionians would hardly be thrilled to see yet more facilities for Athenian festivals paid for out of public funds. I remembered what Zosime had said earlier. It’s all very well saying that the great celebrations like the Dionysia and the Panathenaia are open to all, but there’s no denying those of us in Attica benefit most, having the least distance to travel.
Though, at the moment, it seemed that every Hellene from Sicily to the Black Sea had come here. We were jostled from every direction, deafened by citizens and visitors alike shouting joyful greetings. I kept my arm around Zosime’s shoulders and Kadous walked on her other side, warding off the crush.
‘Can you see Nymenios or Chairephanes?’ I called over Zosime’s head. We had a long-standing agreement to meet at the theatre’s western entrance, but it looked as if half of Athens had made the same arrangement.
The Phrygian scanned the crowd, shading squinting eyes with a leathery hand. He pointed. ‘Over there.’
As the flood of humanity threatened to sweep us past my family entirely, Kadous forced a path towards them. I tucked Zosime close behind him and brought up the rear, watchful for any thieves ready to snatch her earrings or my purse from my belt.
My brothers flanked Melina, Nymenios’s wife, and our married sister, Kleio. Her husband, Kalliphon, was deep in conversation with my brothers’ neighbour Pamphilos, presumably discussing woodwork since they’re both carpenters. I noted that Chairephanes was escorting Pamphilos’s daughter, Glykera, today.
‘Philocles!’ Melina waved a gleeful hand. She wore a crisply pleated saffron gown and her hair had been curled with hot irons and swept up with an embroidered ribbon. She was ready to make the most of five days setting aside her daily routine of childcare, cooking, cleaning, laundry, spinning and weaving. Foreigners who believe all those tales about Athenians locking their wives and daughters away should consider all the chores that keep women busy, certainly in families like ours that can’t afford a phalanx of domestic slaves.
‘Mother’s not here?’ I looked at Nymenios as Zosime joined the other women to share embraces and admiration for each other’s dresses and jewellery.
‘She said she’d rather look after the children.’ Nymenios lowered his voice. ‘That way she can supervise the cooking. You know she won’t believe the girls will do everything right unless someone is watching.’
‘She’ll be here to see your play tomorrow,’ Chairephanes assured me.
Kalliphon interrupted everyone with a brisk clap of his hands. ‘We’d better find some seats. The procession will soon be here.’
‘We’ll see you later.’ Zosime gave me a quick hug and kiss.
I watched them climb up the rocky slope. Kadous followed close behind until Nymenios claimed an empty bench scant moments before some other family reached it. The Phrygian continued on to the very topmost seats where other slaves with permission to enjoy the holiday were already gathering.
I skirted the stage and its buildings, heading for the rehearsal ground on the theatre’s eastern side. Whatever Pericles might have in mind to replace it, for the moment temporary wooden walls and awnings divided up the space. Officially this was to stop rival choruses distracting one another. This close to the competition, with everyone’s nerves as ragged as a barbarian’s beard, the flimsy barriers mostly stopped actors, dancers and singers coming to blows.
A lanky youth trod on my foot, recoiling without looking behind him when he realised he was about to walk into the wrong enclosure.
‘Watch where you’re going!’ I snapped.
As he turned, I saw he barely had a bristle on his chin. Too young to be singing in any play’s chorus, he must be here for the youth choir competition between the ten voting tribes. I took pity on him. ‘Who are you looking for?’
‘Cecropis,’ he quavered, his accent fresh from the slopes of Hymettos.
‘Over that way.’ I took hold of his shoulders and turned him around.
‘Philocles!’ a voice trilled. A plump matron in a vivid yellow gown flapped eager hands to attract my attention, blocking the entrance to a sailcloth gateway.
‘Is everyone here?’ I tried to swallow my apprehension.
Lysicrates wagged a disapproving finger. ‘Tell me if you like my new dress,’ he chided in a breathy falsetto.
He turned and preened, tossing his close-cropped head as though he was already wearing the ludicrously bewigged mask he held in his other hand.
I grinned. ‘Darling, you look fabulous.’
‘Don’t I just?’ he chuckled in his usual tone: resonant and masculine and invariably startling for anyone who’d only ever heard him on the stage.
Anyone who thinks any actor can play a woman’s role is a fool. There’s so much more to a convincing performance than hiding a man’s beard behind a mask and cloaking his muscles in draperies. An array
