Down in the front few rows, I could see some individuals acknowledging applause around them with nods and smiles. These must be the candidates put forward by each voting tribe. Not as richly dressed as Aristarchos and his fellow patrons, they were still men with well-filled strongboxes, and clearly flattered at being the centre of attention.
A voting tribe’s officials always listen whenever a play’s patron suggests they propose a particular man as a potential judge. That’s why the final choice rests with the lottery guided by the gods and goddesses. Even then, only five of the ten judges’ votes will count towards winning a victory, making any attempt at swaying the competitions’ results futile. Mortal men must work hard to secure divine favour.
A stagehand carried the first tall, narrow-necked urn onto the stage. He knelt before the Archon and offered it up.
‘The judge from Acamantis will be…’ The magistrate reached in, ostentatiously looking away even though the urn’s mouth was barely wide enough for his clenched fist to withdraw a potsherd. He opened his fingers and looked at the name scratched on the broken pottery. ‘Agathokles Apollodorou.’
The man made his way to the end of the row where he’d been sitting and was escorted to the very front seats. He was trying to look suitably modest at being selected by Dionysos but he couldn’t restrain his smile of delight once his backside hit the cushioned marble.
I waited, tense, for the name to be drawn from the next urn. Would the judge for Hippothontis be one of the men who’d so openly sneered at my play for the Lenaia? What if it was someone with political reasons to vote against any victory honouring Aristarchos?
‘Timon Pamphilou.’
No, I didn’t know him either. That was a relief. By the time the last seat was filled, only one of the men now enjoying the best view of the stage gave me any concern.
Apollonides insisted that Dracontides, son of Euathlos, held a grudge against him. The influential landowner from Aiantis had been mercilessly mocked in Morsimos’s last play, The Ploughmen. Apollonides had played the lead role of the country farmer whose savagely cutting lines had been directed at a thinly disguised caricature of Dracontides. Naturally the audience had greeted such ridicule with howls of laughter, even the ones who hadn’t set foot outside the city since the walls to Piraeus were built.
It was hard to believe a judge would punish a completely different performance because of words another playwright once put in a hired actor’s mouth. Well, there was nothing we could do if he was so petty. We’d just have to pray that tainted vote wasn’t one of the five that counted. I glanced at Dionysos’s masked effigy with a silent appeal.
As the stagehand retreated with the last of the urns, the religious Archon raised his hands high, first to the crowd and then turning to the god’s ancient statue. ‘The city of Athens dedicates this festival to Dionysos!’
As the magistrate left the stage, the crowd shuffled and murmured, eager to get their first look at the choruses and actors who’d be entertaining them for the next few days.
My time had come. The moment was finally here. I was about to take the stage in front of the largest audience I had ever known. My stomach felt so hollow, I might not have eaten for days. Not that I could have swallowed anything. My throat had a lump in it like the stone that tricked Kronos, out to devour the infant Zeus.
This was a hundred times worse than the Lenaia. There were thousands more people out there. If they didn’t like my play, I’d be humiliated to the end of my days. My legs were as stiff as carved marble. I couldn’t take a single step.
‘Mind your back, Philodemos!’ Euxenos shoved me aside as he led his Butterflies out. The chorus scurried after him, flapping wings of painted cloth sewn to the side seams of their costumes and tied to wrist and ankle. His actors were a trio of men dressed for travel, escorted by Diagoras. Their musician raised his double pipes with a flourish of familiar notes that won a ripple of happy recognition from the crowd.
Bastard. Anger burned through my nausea. If I could have reached Euxenos, I’d have punched him for calling me Philodemos. He knew what my name was and as Zeus was my witness, he’d better fear it. Now this competition really was underway.
As I clenched my fists, Pittalos walked past, alongside a suave man about town, a frivolous nymph and a stooped old countryman. His chorus of Sheep trailed after their leader, whose mask was complete with leather collar and bell. Their pipe player was making an excellent job of mimicking plaintive bleating, already prompting laughter from the upper benches.
‘Ready?’ Lysicrates appeared at my side, masked and wigged. ‘Any disasters among the judges?’
‘I don’t think so. All right, let’s go.’ Discreetly wiping my sweating palms on the sides of my tunic, I walked out onto the circular dancing floor with Lysicrates on my arm throwing flirtatious nods and gestures in all directions.
Apollonides and Menekles marched on either side of us, bold heroes in breastplates and helmets. Chrysion followed, leading our gang of workmen who could have strolled off any building site in Athens. Almost as plainly dressed, in contrast to the other musicians’ fancy tunics, Hyanthidas brought up the rear. He was playing a jaunty medley of the tunes such labourers favoured. We’d agreed he’d keep his original compositions for the performance itself.
I fixed a smile on my face, as immoveable as the one on a comedy mask. Acknowledging the massive crowd with a wave, I tried to look as though I didn’t have
