He certainly wouldn’t, if he kept on drinking at that rate.
‘True enough.’ I smiled and went on my way.
Truth be told, Pittalos and his Sheep could just as easily have taken second place. The country visitors in the audience had been especially taken with his tale of a humble farmer duped by a quick-talking conman. The crook swore the farmer could breed sheep with blue or scarlet wool if he paid for rare and miraculous herbs. The old fool had only been saved from ruin by the loyal sheep themselves, fearing their flock would be stolen or slaughtered by rival shepherds.
They’d persuaded a mischievous nymph to lead the conman astray, promising him untold erotic delights. The crowd had particularly liked the scene where the nymph duped the conman into eating goat shit, imagining the pellets were grapes. Jokes about dung are nearly as popular as ones about pricks. Then the nymph and the sheep set about convincing the old man that, if something looks too good to be true, that’s what it’ll prove to be.
I headed for the rehearsal ground in search of Apollonides, Menekles and Lysicrates. As I reached our enclosure, Chrysion and every man of our chorus greeted my arrival with heart-warming cheers.
I bowed to them all, smiling. ‘Thank you, thank you all for your hard work and dedication. This is as much your not-quite-victory as it is mine.’ That got a laugh.
The three actors were talking to Sosimenes while the costumes and masks were being packed away.
‘Betting on the outcome?’ I wondered who’d won and who’d lost.
The mask maker chuckled. ‘You think we’ll let all that good cloth go to waste?’
Apollonides grinned. ‘This year’s under-costumes will lay the foundation of the next festival’s masks.’
‘Whichever plays win or lose, Sosimenes always come out on top,’ Lysicrates said wryly.
‘Good to know.’ I nodded at the basket. ‘Is there any money in second-hand wigs?’
‘Oh, I’ll take those off your hands.’ Though Sosimenes raised a cautionary finger. ‘I won’t be in a hurry to get rid of them though, in case you need them for the Country Dionysia season. You’ll be getting an offer from more than one rural theatre, if I’m any judge.’
‘Really?’ I looked at the actors, trying to decide if the mask maker was serious or having one last joke at my expense.
Menekles nodded. ‘I’d wager on it, but it would be unfair to take your money on a sure thing.’
‘Just hope the best offer comes from somewhere closer than Thorikos.’ Apollonides grimaced. ‘I don’t fancy that journey again.’
‘We’ll show you how to shepherd a chorus of country bumpkins around,’ Lysicrates assured me, ‘without them tripping over each other.’
I hadn’t really thought about the possibility of the three actors and me being hired to reprise our play at one of the district festivals out in Attica around the winter solstice. If that happened, I’d be the one leading a chorus of local volunteers. That was a daunting prospect. I’d sung in a few plays in my time, in tragedy choruses for the Lenaia, but taking the lead in a comedy was a very different challenge.
‘Don’t shake hands on any agreement without discussing it with these three first,’ Sosimenes advised. ‘You want the best possible price for your time and trouble.’
On the other hand, being paid a second time for work I’d already done definitely appealed, even if that meant putting on a chorus mask and costume myself.
A moment later, voices passing our enclosure entrance caught everyone’s ear.
‘Some judges can always be swayed by showy tricks over subtle performance. And of course, Trygaeos won sympathy votes because no one expects another play from him. He’ll be dead by next year.’
Euxenos was sneering as he passed by with his patron, Lamachos. The comedy writer looked as cheery as a man with an eagle chewing his liver. The wealthy gentleman was clearly none too pleased that all his coin had seen his play come last.
Lysicrates made a farting noise and our chorus all jeered. Euxenos didn’t betray any obvious reaction but I saw the back of his neck go red.
‘He’s got no time for showy tricks?’ mocked Menekles. ‘I can’t remember when I last saw the stage crane get that much use in a comedy.’
The chorus leader’s butterfly costume had assuredly looked very fine, swooping to and fro as the theatre slaves hauled on the ropes that swung the machinery holding him up in his harness. As for the rest down on the dancing floor, only one man had trodden on another’s trailing drapery, as far as I could tell. But their dazzling colours had been the most memorable thing about Euxenos’s play. That and the impatient shouts to get on with it and give everyone a few laughs. Heckling from the upper benches had come thick and fast, whenever the chorus embarked on yet another soulful song extolling the muses’ gifts to humanity.
I was more surprised to get a filthy look from Strato as he stalked past a moment later. His Brigands had been well received and rightly so. That family’s misadventures had been highly entertaining as they followed the road from Athens to a citizens’ settlement up in Macedonia. No matter how bad things got, the deluded hero continually consoled his family with the promise of their handsome allotment of land, so different to their cramped hovel in a burned-out slum. His faith had been rewarded, and if different judges had been selected, there was every chance such a heart-warming play could have come second.
Well, if Strato was going to sulk that was his problem, not mine.
Apollonides clapped his hands. ‘Where are we drinking tonight?’
As the chorus all clamoured for their preferred wine sellers, insistent fingers plucked at my tunic. I turned to see Lydis, Aristarchos’s slave.
‘My master’s compliments, and can you spare him a moment?’
‘Of course. Excuse me.’ I waved a hand at the actors. ‘Our patron wants a word. I should see my
