They got it in Strato’s Brigands, who swaggered on wearing those red-headed Thracian masks, with swirling barbarian tattoos painted all over their body-stockings. The trio of actors dressed as Athenian travellers, mother, father and youthful son, all cringed with appropriate terror as this chorus capered to raucous northern rhythms.
While the audience clapped and murmured, I stole a discreet sideways glance at Chrysion’s men. I could see the end of a cheeky red leather phallus poking out below the hem of a couple of tunics, but there was nothing more obvious to see than any of the other traditional comedy cocks worn by every other actor in male garb. So far, so good.
Last and, after the Brigands, clearly least in the eyes of the audience, Trygaeos led on his chorus of Philosophers, all wrapped up in faded cloaks with flowing white beards and wigs. Seeing his actors were two callow youths and a stern father, muttering suggested the crowd had already worked out that play’s plot for themselves.
As the comedy companies followed each other around the dancing floor, I saw Chrysion was right about Euxenos’s Butterflies. Those gaudily painted wings trailed tantalisingly on the ground whenever a chorus member let his arms hang down, just waiting for someone to step on that painted cloth and tear it loose. If I’d been a little closer, I might even have done so myself. That’s probably why Lysicrates’s firm hold on my arm held me back to a stately, measured pace.
Coming full circle, we slowed to allow Pittalos’s Sheep to leave the theatre ahead of us. Menekles gave me a long, slow wink through his mask’s eyehole. I could hear him smiling with satisfaction as he spoke.
‘We’re going to give them all a good run for our patron’s money.’
‘Oh yes.’ Apollonides had no doubt. ‘Oh, sorry, please excuse us.’
We stepped aside to allow the first of the tragedy choruses to go past. They were ominously costumed as Odysseus’s men gaunt with hunger on the Isle of Helios. I was looking forward to Zoilos’s tragedies and seeing what new twists he’d found amid Homer’s canny hero’s misadventures.
Once we returned to our designated enclosure, Lysicrates knelt down to allow one of the chorus to unpin his colossal wig. ‘So what are your plans for the rest of the day?’ he asked me.
‘Come and watch the choir competition with us,’ urged Menekles. ‘We should look for some up-and-coming talent.’
Chrysion nodded as he removed his own mask. ‘It’s never too early to approach good singers for next year’s Lenaia.’
‘They’ll all be singing because they’ve chosen to,’ said Menekles with mingled relief and satisfaction. ‘Not just to get the military deferment.’
‘Have you had any thoughts?’ Apollonides looked expectantly at me. ‘For your next play?’
I blinked. ‘We don’t even know who’ll be called to read for the Archons at New Year.’
All three actors laughed. Lysicrates grinned. ‘I don’t think you need worry.’
‘Really?’ I didn’t know whether to be flattered or terrified by their confidence in me.
‘Right, you lot!’ With an ear-splitting shout, Chrysion turned to the chorus. They were busy undressing and stowing their masks and costumes in vast wicker baskets. Stagehands were waiting to get everything safely stowed under lock and key in the theatre buildings.
‘Enjoy the choir competition. Go home and feast with your families. Do not get so drunk you can’t get out of bed bright and early,’ he said with emphasis. ‘I want you all here in good time tomorrow, in case we draw first place in the order.’
Hyanthidas raised his hand. ‘Would that be to our advantage or not?’
He was endlessly curious about the ins and outs of Athens’ drama competitions. Music and poetry contests at Corinth’s Isthmian Games were very different, from what he’d told me.
‘You can argue that coming and going,’ Chrysion told the pipe player. ‘Go first and everyone who comes after has to measure up to you.’
Menekles shrugged. ‘Go later and your performance is fresher in the judges’ minds.’
Apollonides would have said something but the first full-throated verses in praise of Dionysos drowned him out. The choir competition had started. All the actors’ heads turned and I swear if their ears could prick like a dog’s they would have.
If this was any indication, the standard of singing this year would be higher than ever. I reckoned Menekles was right. None of these choirs had been lumbered with tone-deaf croakers forced into their ranks to please a patron and his cronies by securing their sons’ exemption if the hoplite phalanxes were mustered to fight.
I clapped Chrysion on the shoulder. ‘I’m going to go and sit with my family.’
I waved a brief farewell to the chorus, who surprised me with a discreetly muted cheer. None of them wanted to interrupt the singers. These men had first proved their own talents in such choirs, volunteering to represent the districts that acknowledged them as citizens.
Circling round the back of the theatre building, I saw Euxenos hissing at the stagehands hefting his chorus’s baskets through a storage-room door. He shot me a filthy look, as baleful as Hephaistos with a hangover. I couldn’t think why, though it raised my spirits to see him so agitated.
Further down the slope, the broad stone altar outside the ancient shrine to Dionysos had been swept clean of old ashes and freshly whitened with chalk. Bundles of firewood were stacked ready beside it while the robed and garlanded priests sharpened their sacrificial knives. Muscular acolytes stood ready to subdue any beribboned bullock inclined to change his mind about participating in the forthcoming ritual.
Reaching the theatre’s western entrance, I waited until the boys’ choir from the Acamantis tribe filed out, to be quickly replaced by fifty beardless youths from Pandionis.
I climbed up the hillside before cutting across to join my family, stooping low and whispering apologies as I edged between
