‘How about some nuts?’ Apollonides was a hoarse-voiced Sardinian approaching from the opposite direction. ‘Got to have nuts in a marketplace.’
‘I’ve never known a market that wasn’t full of nutters,’ Menekles agreed.
The jokes came as thick and as fast as the costume changes as Apollonides and Lysicrates dashed on and off the stage only to reappear as different merchants with something new to offer each time.
Menekles did a splendid job of portraying Meriones’s heroic disdain for bartering like a common trader, before he realised the fun and profit to be had by playing these merchants against each other.
I think the audience was as breathless as the actors by the time our erstwhile hero was left alone on the stage once more, contemplating all the goods he’d amassed.
‘Mine. All mine,’ he gloated, hugging himself.
‘Really?’ Chrysion stepped forward from the chorus to challenge him. ‘When we’re the ones building the city that these merchants are flocking to? You don’t think you should show a little gratitude by sharing some of that out?’
‘What? Oh, oh, yes, of course,’ Meriones said unconvincingly.
The chorus began planning the fine meals they would cook, congratulating each other on the comforts that would furnish their homes.
‘Oh! Meriones! You shouldn’t have!’ As the music wound down, Thersites returned to the stage with Egeria on his arm. ‘A wedding feast for us? How generous. Truly, a noble gesture!’ he told the audience.
‘What? Wait! No—’ But Meriones’s protests were drowned out as Hyanthidas’s music led the chorus in a triumphal marriage hymn. Chrysion predicted great things for the sons of Thersites as the music changed to a traditional wedding-night ballad and the happy couple were escorted off to bed.
The nuptial song ended with an intricate flourish as the last man in the chorus passed by the end of the stage, leaving the theatre. Applause for the actors and singers swiftly changed into loud conversation and people hurried to and fro along the benches. A festival audience knows when to seize their chance to change places or find refreshments or to head for a public latrine before the next performance.
I sat on the end of that wooden bench, looking at the empty stage and dancing floor. My first play at the Dionysia. It was all over. Nine months of work, endless rehearsing, so much effort and skill put into those costumes, into the masks and that glorious, unexpected and original music. Everything was done with.
I heaved a sigh as I sat there alone amid the festival hubbub.
Chapter Fifteen
We didn’t win. That honour went to Trygaeos and his Philosophers. The sly old comedian astounded us all as he breathed new life into his tale of fatherly wisdom challenged by youthful presumption. Dazzling wordplay impressed the city’s intellectuals while ever-accelerating action entertained the rest.
After scorning their old man’s reliance on the hoary sayings of Hellas’s Seven Sages, the play’s two sons belatedly realised that he still knew a thing or two about the best ways to charm pretty girls. More importantly, he knew the secrets of impressing the watchful mothers and wealthy fathers of potential brides. So the hapless lads came begging for help after their own comically scant success. One had tried showing off the latest mathematical and rhetorical theories, only to discover that bored the girls rigid. His brother fared no better despite flexing well-honed muscles and boasting of his discus and javelin victories. He learned that girls aren’t very interested in a man who’s most interested in himself.
The play’s underlying message was that ancient Hellenic wisdom, hallowed at Delphi and echoed by Athens’ favourite sage, Solon: nothing to excess. The music was solidly traditional and skilfully played so I’ve no doubt that impressed the judges as well.
Trygaeos was ecstatic as his patron Simylos was awarded the winner’s ivy-leaf crown. Even with disappointment gnawing at my guts, I couldn’t help but smile at the old man’s delight. I watched him thanking his actors and the chorus who came crowding around. Meantime Simylos accepted congratulations from his wealthy and well-born friends, along with the ornamental bronze tripod. He’d soon be setting it up as a public monument, to remind everyone that he’d won this honour for eternity. Meantime, Trygaeos’s actors and chorus would dedicate their victorious masks to hang in Dionysos’s shrine.
Besides, The Builders came second, and that was some salve for my wounded pride. Even if second place doesn’t win any prizes, I reckoned that should keep my name in people’s minds when they needed a man skilled at turning a phrase. It should certainly help me compete for a chorus for the next Dionysia.
I got up, dusted off my backside and walked down the slope to offer my own congratulations to the winners. As I caught a glimpse of Aristarchos in the well-born crowd around Simylos, I wondered how my patron was taking this result. His smiling face gave nothing away.
I noticed his son Hipparchos had appeared from somewhere. He stood close by his father, accepting jovial commiserations and compliments on the play which his father’s money had financed and my imagination had created. He clearly had no qualms about taking credit for other men’s hard work.
Mind you, a few paces away, his friend Nikandros looked as sour as an unripe apple. I sincerely hoped the arrogant prick realised how stupid he looked, now that his predictions for my play’s abject failure had come to nothing.
‘Well done, my young hero!’ Pittalos nearly spilled his cup of wine down my tunic. ‘Well done indeed!’
‘You do realise I didn’t win?’ Was he really that drunk? ‘First prize is the one that counts.’
‘True enough, but after that, what matters most is not coming last,’ he said cheerily. ‘As long as a poet avoids that humiliation, we’re all equal before the gods. No one
