‘Your costumes look… interesting,’ Nymenios murmured mischievously.
I shot him a warning glance. He grinned at me, unrepentant. Thankfully a stout man in the bench below turned around to glare at us both. I guessed he must have a son or nephew singing his heart out down below and was determined to hear every note.
Chairephanes passed along a wineskin and Kleio produced twists of cloth holding spiced pastries from the basket at her feet. I eased my arm around Zosime’s shoulders and drew her close. There was nothing I could do about the play now, so I might as well enjoy the choir contest.
I didn’t sit there taking note of particularly fine voices or graceful movers as the choirs came and went. I wasn’t about to tempt Dionysos or Athena or any other deity to slap me down for arrogantly assuming I’d be awarded another chorus by the freshly appointed Archons at the new year.
Instead I drank wine and ate treats with my family and enjoyed the spring sunshine’s warmth on my face and arms. Melina, Kleio and Glykera all covered their heads with lightly woven shawls though, and their long gowns had loose, flowing sleeves. They weren’t about to risk the darkly tanned skin that marks out the poorer women who work in the marketplaces. Zosime had no such concerns. Her father’s blood had bronzed her complexion and her Cretan accent ensured nobody cared.
Not everyone stayed for the entire competition. People discreetly took their leave in the brief intervals as one choir made way for the next. After three more performances, Nymenios nudged me in the ribs and leaned close to whisper, ‘Shall we go down to the sacrifices now?’
‘Good idea,’ I mouthed. It was already nearing noon.
Nymenios looked along the bench, catching Chairephanes’s eye. He nodded and nudged Pamphilos and Kalliphon, who gathered up their cloaks.
‘We’re going to the shrine,’ I murmured to Zosime, and she nodded her understanding.
As soon as the singing stopped again, we made our way quickly to the end of the benches and headed down the hill. That did leave all four women under Chairephanes’s sole protection, but nothing untoward could happen in broad daylight in the middle of the theatre.
Besides, nothing short of Pegasus could have carried Melina away from her entertainment. She and Kleio and Glykera would be sitting there until the judges’ votes were counted and the winners announced.
The sacrifices were already well underway at the Shrine of Dionysos. The whitened altar was liberally splashed with blood, and ashes were piling up around its base as fresh wood was heaped on to keep the flames burning fiercely for each new offering. A soot-smudged priest slapped down the next portion of bones wrapped in fat. The altar fire hissed and flared and savoury smoke surged upwards for the gods’ delectation.
The smell set my mouth watering and I realised I was ravenous. Fortunately, with so many beasts being sacrificed, the priests were happy to share out the treats that were usually their sole privilege after the omens had been read. Youthful acolytes were cooking strips of liver on skewers over the altar fires, handing them to slaves to be distributed among the crowds. I beckoned one of the slaves over and relished the succulent offal.
‘We’ll meet you back here.’ Pamphilos and Kalliphon headed off to join another group of men who were watching shrine slaves haul a freshly gutted bullock away for butchering. As well as both being carpenters, they’re men of the Kollytos voting district and I recognised one of their councillors over there.
‘Aischylos!’ Nymenios waved to one of Alopeke’s officials.
The thin, balding man greeted us with flattering enthusiasm. ‘So good to see you both. Philocles! We’re all looking forward to your play.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ I hastily swallowed a mouthful of hot liver, meek as a schoolboy.
I first met Aischylos as a wide-eyed three-year-old at the Spring Anthesteria festival, clutching my little jug. Aischylos was the man who had filled it with the wine pressed the autumn before. That’s when I’d poured my first libation and first tasted Dionysos’s great gift, suitably well watered.
Along with all the other boys born in the same year, I’d been presented to the brotherhood that my father and grandfather and all our forefathers had belonged to since time out of mind. District brotherhoods may not boast noble names like the Phytalids, but our roots go just as deep. Every man who’d stood witness when my father swore my brothers and I were his true-born sons would vouch for our citizens’ rights life-long, just as we would vouch for their sons.
For the moment, everyone was catching up with everyone else’s news of family doings, joys and calamities since the last festival had brought us together. Friends asked Nymenios about his children’s health and sent good wishes from their wives to Melina and our mother. Some took the opportunity to do a little business here and there.
Meantime, Aischylos, along with the treasurer and the other brotherhood officials, was scanning the crowd for unfamiliar faces. With so many visitors in the city, there are always some slinking around, trying to claim a fraudulent share in the sacrificed meat. Then there are the men who’ve been convicted in the courts and lost their citizen privileges as a consequence. Woe betide anyone here today who was challenged and couldn’t call witnesses to confirm his rights. Hauling slaughtered bullocks about gives temple slaves the muscles to inflict painful chastisement for such impiety.
I felt a familiar pang at the thought of Zosime missing out on this bounty, but there was no point trying to bring her to a family festival meal. She wouldn’t agree to come, for one thing. My relatives were happy to spend time with her out and about in the city and no one had any concerns about us living together. But she wasn’t my wife
