I swallowed a laugh. ‘If you say so.’
When we pushed the sailcloth gate aside, I saw Hyanthidas sucking his twin pipes’ reeds, ensuring they were precisely moistened for the performance. He waved a greeting.
Our three actors and the rest of the chorus were already wearing their under-costumes. As one man, they turned, expectant. If they were that well synchronised out on the dancing floor, we had nothing to worry about.
‘We’re first up,’ Chrysion said briskly.
That impressive coordination broke up into what looked very much like disarray. Some pulled on their tunics. Others hurried to the basket holding the custom leatherwork which my brothers and our slaves had toiled over. Lysicrates started laying out masks while Apollonides and Menekles helped each other into their heroic armour.
I watched the chorus all adjusting the belts and straps that secured the comedy cocks hanging just below the hem of their tunics. I felt like a spare prick at a wedding.
Lysicrates came over, yellow skirts swishing. ‘Go and find somewhere to sit and watch. There’s nothing more for you to do. It’s up to us now, win or lose. You’ve offered the god everything you can and he knows it.’
It was strange. Whenever I’d imagined this moment, I’d expected to be racked with nerves. Now it came to it, I felt oddly numb.
‘Good luck.’ I shook Lysicrates’s hand and waved to the others as I left them for the short walk to the theatre.
There’s no official place for playwrights to sit. Not so long ago, they were in the midst of the action, as an actor or chorus leader, maybe even in the singers’ ranks. It still hasn’t occurred to the Archons to accommodate writers like me who merely supply the words. We don’t get any rewards for winning, not even an ivy-leaf garland. It’s the patrons who get all the honours, on the day of competition and thereafter. They customarily set up a monument to their victory to honour Dionysos, which is still more expense for them of course, so I’m happy enough to be spared that.
As for the actors, the finest performance in a tragedy wins a prize, but there’s not even that much recognition for comedy. Not from mortal men anyway. I found my way to the end of the first row of wooden benches and gazed at the god’s ancient statue. His approval was what really counted.
The theatre was growing noisier. The drama competition’s patrons and their closest associates were arriving to take their marble seats in good time. They were all dressed in their festival finery but there was nothing of yesterday’s formality. The city’s most influential men laughed and joked like schoolboys as they congratulated those who’d sponsored yesterday’s winning choirs. Hangers-on commiserated with the unfortunates whose silver had been spent in vain, and wished good luck to those who had opened their purses to ensure the city enjoyed all the new plays over the next four days.
Aristarchos was yet to take his seat. For the moment, he was exchanging courteous smiles and greetings with the wealthy and well-born. Lydis stood a pace behind him at his right side. The slave was covertly scanning the throng for anyone his master would be ill advised to snub, even by accident.
Higher up the hillside, the wooden benches were rapidly filling with ordinary Athenians. Frantically flapping hands caught my eye and I waved to my family. I was pleased they had got good seats and hoped my mother couldn’t see that I wasn’t wearing my new sage-green tunic. I didn’t want to have to explain it had been ruined in that fight in the agora.
I searched the seats higher still. Zosime would be sitting somewhere up there with Menkaure and most likely Thallos, the old Thessalian, and everyone else from the pottery. I guessed Kadous would be with the other slaves from our family workshops right at the top of the slope. I hadn’t a hope of picking him out at this distance.
Nymenios stood up, beckoning to me. I turned away, pretending I hadn’t noticed him. There was no way I was going to sit with them all. I couldn’t face hearing my family’s unguarded comments as the play I’d spent so much time and passion on unfolded before us.
Before Nymenios could bully Chairephanes into coming to get me, a flourish of pipes announced the Archons’ arrival. Everybody hurried to sit down. The sooner the city’s business was done with, the sooner the comedies could start.
The Dionysia is the ideal time to honour those who’ve done Athens some great service. A succession of men from within the city and across Attica each received a diadem as the crowd cheered. As the last grateful and appropriately humble citizen returned to his seat, a further fanfare announced the display of tributes to Athena from our allies in the Delian League.
I leaned forward to get a better view as each successive city was named and its representatives carried the coffers that held their silver around the dancing floor. These contained a sixtieth part of their tribute to the Delian League, token payment at the festival. I wondered how many caskets were lighter than they should be, how many towns were short of the full tally of coin owed to Athena.
It wasn’t easy to match each new contingent to the names being sonorously proclaimed from the stage. The list seemed endless as the Archon of Record announced every dusty town in Ionia, from the Hellespont and the Thraceward districts, which apparently went on forever.
Finally he reached some place names I recognised as Carian. The list scrolled on and on: Madnasa, Lepsimandius… The delegates all looked as poor as Aesop’s country mice. At long last, I heard Pargasa called out.
Azamis shuffled forward. His grey head was bowed and his shoulders were stooped beneath the burden of his years and their town’s coffer. Sarkuk walked beside him, straight-backed, with
