The Walled Orchard (19 page)

So, about four hours before dawn, I bade the Archon and his guests goodnight and took my leave of them. I was far more drunk than I had ever been in my life before, and I had no real idea of where I was going. I dropped the torch they had given me and it went out, so I blundered along in the dark, and soon fell over. By now I had no idea where I was, and I didn’t really care. My
General
was going to be produced — my Chorus was as good as dressed and trained, and I could almost hear the rumble of those little wooden wheels as the trireme-costumes trundled across the orchestra of the Theatre of Dionysus. I levered myself up out of the puddle into which I had fallen, and continued on my random way.

What happened next is still fairly vague; someone stepped out in front of me and hit me over the head with a stick or a club or something, while somebody behind me jerked my cloak off my shoulders and pulled my purse out of my belt. I fell heavily on my shoulder and lay still, trying not to breathe.

‘You’ve done it now, Orestes,’ said the man behind me, and the blood turned to ice in my veins. The man standing over me had been, ever since I could remember, the most feared robber in Athens. ‘You’ve killed him, you realise.’

‘Not hard enough for that,’ laughed Orestes. ‘Come on, move.’

I waited until their footsteps had faded away, and then I tried to move, but I couldn’t. My soul inside me wailed, ‘This is what comes of your pride, Eupolis, you fool. You’re paralysed. They’ll have to carry you to the Theatre on a chair.’ I could feel tears running down my cheeks and nose, but I couldn’t move my hand to wipe them away.

I don’t know how long I lay there, sobbing miserably to myself; but some old men on their way to be first in the jury queue tripped over me and saw the blood on my head. They asked me what had happened, and I croaked out the single word, ‘Orestes’.

‘Don’t talk soft, son,’ said one of the old men, ‘he was hung five years ago.’

That somehow seemed to add the finishing touch to my misery; to have been crippled for life by the great Orestes would have been something to boast about, in the long years of utter stillness that lay ahead of me.

‘I can’t move,’ I gasped. ‘Do you understand me, I can’t…’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said the old man, ‘You’re lying on your cloak. That’s why your arm’s trapped.’

‘He’s not hurt at all,’ said another old man. ‘Have you smelt his breath?’

They started laughing and walked on. As soon as they had gone, I made another attempt at moving and was soon standing upright rubbing my head. It was nearly light now, and I recognised the district I had wandered into. Phaedra’s house — my house — was just around the corner. I picked up my stick, which had broken under me, and crept slowly to my front door.

There was light under it, and the sound of voices singing inside, but I had no strength to be angry. I just beat on the door with the crook of my stick and leaned heavily against the frame.

‘If that’s Mnesarchus come back again,’ I heard Phaedra call out, ‘tell him to go away until he’s sobered up. That tapestry cost twenty drachmas.’

The door was opened a crack, and I threw my whole weight against it. ‘You paid twenty drachmas for a tapestry, you stupid cow?’ I yelled, and fell forward into the room.

There was a sort of shriek, and Phaedra hurriedly wrapped a tablecloth around herself. The men weren’t so quick.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, coming home in that state?’ Phaedra said, but her heart wasn’t in it. Still, I had to admire her for the effort.

My soul within me reminded me that my sword hung over the door, and I pulled it down and waved it ferociously. ‘On your feet,’ I snapped, ‘all of you.’

There were three men with Phaedra, all undressed and obviously drunk. Two of them I had never seen before, but the third one I had known for a long time.

‘You two get out,’ I said to the strangers, ‘now, before I change my mind. But you,’ and I pointed to Aristophanes son of Philip, of the deme of Cholleidae, with the point of my sword, ‘stay right where you are.’

The two strangers ran out into the night without even trying to collect their cloaks. Aristophanes tried to hide behind Phaedra, but she stepped aside.

‘Thank God you came, Eupolis,’ she sobbed. ‘He was just about to—’

‘I could see that,’ I said, and my soul sang within me. ‘Go into the inner room and stay there. Don’t you dare come out,’ I added sternly, ‘whatever you may hear.’

Of course, I didn’t really intend to kill Aristophanes; for a start, he’s much bigger and stronger than me, and if I’d tried to attack him I would probably not be writing this now. But I was enjoying myself too much not to play the scene for all it was worth, and perhaps I played it a little bit too well. Anyway, as soon as I said these words, Phaedra picked up a dish of mushrooms in garlic and cream cheese and threw it at me. I ducked, and Aristophanes dashed past me out of the house. I picked myself slowly up off the floor and felt the edge of my sword.

‘That only leaves you, Phaedra,’ I started to say, but before I could finish I got a fit of the giggles and let the sword fall to the ground with a clang. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do,’ I quoted.

‘Oh, very funny,’ Phaedra said, and went into the inner room, slamming the door behind her. I picked up my sword and put it carefully back on the wall; then I followed her.

‘There’s garlic and mushrooms all over your statue of Clytemnestra,’ I said. ‘Help me off with my sandals, there’s a good girl.’

She gave me a look of pure mustard, then undid the sandal-thongs and threw them into the corner of the room. ‘You smell like a wine-press,’ she said. ‘Have you been fighting?’

‘I got robbed,’ I replied, ‘but they’re going to give me a Chorus.’

‘There’s blood on your forehead,’ she said. ‘I’ll get some water.’

‘Don’t bother,’ I said. ‘Did you really pay twenty drachmas for a tapestry?’

She blushed. ‘It was a bargain,’ she muttered. ‘Genuine Sidonian. There’s only two or three in the whole of Athens.’

‘Crap,’ I replied. ‘They make them in Corinth by the thousand and the Aeginetans ship them over here as ballast. Twenty drachmas!’

Then she tried to kiss me, but I pushed her away. ‘Not until I’ve made my will,’ I said. Her scowl wavered, very slightly.

‘I didn’t expect you home,’ she said. ‘If I had, I’d have been waiting for you. With an axe, like Clytemnestra.’

‘Are you pleased I’ve got my Chorus?’ I asked, peeling my sodden tunic off over my head.

‘So long as it makes you happy,’ she said, pouring water into a cup and handing it to me, ‘and provided it keeps you out of the house. I trust you’re going to wash before you get into bed. I may be a slut, but I’m a clean slut.’

‘You’re the cleanest slut in all Athens,’ I yawned. ‘But I’m too tired to wash right now. Besides, it deprives the skin of all those natural oils that make for a healthy complexion.’

‘You’re no better than a pig,’ she said. ‘Do you ever wash when you’re in the country?’

‘Never.’

She let down her hair over her shoulders, like new wine pouring into an ivory bowl. ‘You looked a complete idiot standing there in the doorway waving that sword,’ she said. ‘Honestly, I was ashamed of you, in front of those people. It’ll be all round the City in the morning.’

‘It’s the morning already,’ I said, ‘and I’ve got to go and see Philonides the Chorus-trainer first thing.’

‘Well then,’ she said, letting the tablecloth fall around her ankles. ‘You’d better get some sleep.’

‘Why bother?’ I replied. ‘It’s too late now.’

CHAPTER TEN

Now I suppose you will get the idea that that was a reconciliation, and that henceforth all was well within the house. Not so. I don’t think we hated each other any less; but I believe we started to enjoy fighting. For a start, we were no longer afraid of each other, and our marriage developed into a sort of running Contest Scene, which is, of course, the heart of any good Comedy. Certainly, I found myself spending more and more time at the house, though that was at least partially because I needed to be in that part of the City, to work with Philonides on the play. Phaedra and I fought all the time, day and night; and yet it was a strange sort of conflict. In fact, it reminded me of those two Spartan hounds of hers, who were always at each other’s throats; blood and broken crockery and no end of noise. But when one of them was run over by a cart in the street, the other one refused to eat and died soon afterwards, leaving me thirty drachmas worse off. I don’t understand what people see in dogs.

Nicias son of Niceratus was formally appointed as my producer, and I worked out the costings for the production and took them over to him. He was virtually a neighbour, and he lived in one of the best houses in the whole of Athens. His wealth came mostly from the mines, which made some people look down on him, but there was nothing of the silver-king about Nicias. He didn’t smell of money, like so many people who make their own fortune; in fact, he didn’t smell of anything much. Of all the men I have met in my life, I can think of few that I have admired more and liked less; for Nicias was without question the most boring man in Athens.

He was the sort of man who thinks everything through, slowly, sensibly, carefully, and does nothing until he has satisfied himself that it is prudent (and morally right) to do this particular thing in this particular way. You could see him going through a sort of checklist in his mind, and he was a terror for long, thoughtful silences. Of course, he was a martyr to kidney trouble, but he never let his illness get in the way of his responsibilities (everything in his life was a Responsibility); and although he was obviously in a great deal of pain, he never mentioned it unless he felt it his duty to confess that he would not be capable of doing such and such properly, because of his infirmity. He regarded the production of Comedy (which he could not begin to understand, and found generally distasteful) as a religious as well as a civic duty, and since he firmly believed that he held the bulk of his personal wealth as a trustee for the Athenian people — I am convinced that he enjoyed paying taxes, in so far as he ever enjoyed anything — he was determined that no expense should be spared, and that my Chorus should be equipped and trained to the highest possible standard. But then his prudence and sensibleness came into play; there must be no stinting or false economy, but there must be no waste. Waste is an affront to the Gods, who provide for us. Waste is morally wrong.

The result was that my triremes had genuine Tyrian purple cloaks; but when the cloaks were made, he sent a slave round to gather up all the off-cuts and sell them in the market. The Chorus was rehearsed over and over again, on full pay; but his instructions were that anyone who was late was to be fined one obol, and the accumulated fines used to pay for a sacrifice to Dionysus on the eve of the play. As for the actors; the rules said that they were to be paid by the hour, and so every rehearsal was timed with a water-clock, which was stopped as soon as the rehearsal was finished, and the water left in the clock was carefully measured to work out what each man was owed, down to the last obol.

This was insufferable enough, and caused more bad feeling among the company than the usual miserliness and late payment would have done. But Nicias held that his responsibility to the production did not end with regular disbursements of silver. Although he hated speaking in public, he felt it was his duty to make regular speeches of encouragement (with the water-clock running, of course). These speeches never lasted more than a few minutes, and he had a good, polished turn of phrase; but I have never been so bored in all my life.

I can picture him to this day, standing by the altar in the middle of the stage, leaning on a stick, since making speeches always made him feel ill. He would clear his throat, wait for silence, and then tell us how we should always strive to do our best for our City, since between Athens and ourselves there was a perfect harmony of interest. In helping Athens, he would say (over and over again) we were acting both altruistically and selfishly —which, of course, is morally right; a man must do what is good but must also always do what is prudent, so long as he observes that Godlike balance of moderation in both. And he would always end by saying that it is men who make up a city, not walls and houses and temples, and that without good men, all the silver and triremes in the world are nothing but trouble and sorrow. He would then turn quietly away and walk painfully home, leaving us, thoroughly depressed, to try and rehearse a Comedy.

A marked contrast to Nicias’ homilies were the addresses of Philonides, which the company dreaded even more. I have heard Sicilian gang-masters, and the foremen in the stone quarries and the silver mines, but even they do not speak to slaves in the way that Philonides spoke to the free citizens of Athens who made up my Chorus. The actors had all worked with him before, but that did not stop them bursting into tears at times and even running out of the Theatre; but when I begged him to stop for fear of jeopardising the whole production, he didn’t seem to hear me. During those rehearsals, everything about the play — not least the words themselves — seemed to fill him with unbearable physical pain. Yet when I went to see him at his house after a particularly agonising day in the Theatre, he would smile and pour me wine, and assure me that it was the best play ever written, and that it would be a crime against Dionysus to alter a single word, and how was my lentil crop coming on in Phrearrhos now that I had taken to using seaweed as fertiliser?

During our rehearsals, the doors to the Theatre were firmly barred and slaves with wooden clubs were stationed outside to make sure that nobody got in. But some people did manage to slip past, pretending that they Were messengers from Nicias come to count the oil-lamps, or even guests of the author. It was generally known, too, that the other playwrights had their spies in the Chorus, while there was nothing that anyone could do to stop the actors selling whole speeches. I firmly believe they did it more out of hatred of Philonides than for the money; but whatever the reason, I became aware that my rivals, and Aristophanes in particular, were taking a considerable interest in the production.

All playwrights do their best to sabotage the work of their rivals. It is a mark of respect, if you choose to see it in that way, and I do it myself. Even the great Aeschylus used to try and get his rivals’ actors drunk on the day of the performance, and everyone knows the story of how Euripides kidnapped the actor Gnatho when he was waiting for his cue in Agathon’s
Perseus,
and how Gnatho escaped by wriggling through a hole in the floorboards of Euripides’ house, and ran back through the streets in his Tragedy boots, and entered on his cue as if nothing had happened. But somehow, during the rehearsals for
The General,
I had got it into my head that nothing like that would ever happen to me. Of course, Philonides dealt with most of the attempts to disrupt the play, and retaliated with all his characteristic ferocity. It was Philonides who ordered the attack on the poet Phrynichus, which left him with a broken collar-bone; while he nearly killed one of our actors with his own hands for trying to set light to the costumes. But he didn’t tell me any of this, of course, and what I heard from other people I dismissed as silly rumours.

But I really should have begun to suspect something was up when Phaedra seemed to undergo a sort of transformation. At first, it was nothing more than a smile instead of a glare when I went home in the evenings, and I was probably too preoccupied to notice. But then the statue of Clytemnestra disappeared, and in its place was a fat leather purse full of coined silver; she knew how I hated it, she told me, and Philander’s wife had liked it so much. The pet monkey had a mysterious accident at about the same time, and Phaedra began to talk quite seriously about coming to Pallene with me, since, deep down, she felt more at home in the country. She also definitely confirmed that making my will could wait for as long as I liked.

Being young and foolish, I rationalised all this as being just another aspect of my good luck, which appeared for the moment to be unstoppable. Also, Phaedra was shrewd and careful, or perhaps the strain was too much for her; anyway, we continued to have spectacular battles over nothing in particular, only rather less frequently. For my part, I was beginning to feel, at the back of my mind, that it would be no bad thing if they stopped altogether. It was becoming steadily harder for me to work up a good froth of hatred towards her, and in my soul I was afraid that our contests in future might be a little one-sided.

Then she started asking me about how the play was going. This really did shock me, for if she had ever mentioned it before, she spat the name out as if it were a bad olive. At first, it was only a casual, slightly scornful enquiry, just as you might ask a small child how its pet worm was doing, or if it had made any more of those little frogs out of mud and pomegranate-rind. But then she wanted to hear about the costumes for the Chorus (if my Chorus could have purple, why the hell couldn’t she?), and was it true that I was saying horrible things about Cleon, who was the only honest man in Athens? From there it was only a short step to asking me to recite some of the speeches; and although she pretended to fall asleep, I could see that her eyes were ever so slightly open, and following me about the room as I went through the moves. In the end, I promised to take her to next week’s rehearsal, and she said that would be nice, since she had just been sent a copy of the
Thebaid
by her father and when else was she going to find time to read it, with all the housework she had to do?

As we walked home from the Theatre, I asked her what she had thought of it. She wrinkled her nose, as if she could smell rancid oil.

‘What’s it supposed to be about?’ she asked.

I ignored her. ‘What did you think of the Chorus costumes?’ I asked.

‘I was going to talk to you about that,’ she said. ‘I thought you said they were meant to be triremes. Or is that another Chorus which comes on later?’

I smiled affectionately. ‘I think it’s Semonides,’ I said, ‘who says—I think it’s in his
Malignity of Women
—that there’s no greater gift a man can have than a stupid wife. Did you like their little wheels? That was a stroke of genius, if you ask me.’

‘How long will it be before they can stand up without them?’ Phaedra replied. ‘Once you’ve taken those off, they might look quite realistic.’

I stopped and kissed her. ‘You’ve been eating parsley again,’ I said. ‘If you want to drink in the afternoons, you go right ahead. I can smell it through the parsley, so you needn’t bother in future.’

‘I wouldn’t drink that wine from Pallene if I was dying of thirst in Egypt,’ Phaedra said, and she breathed heavily into my face as she kissed me back. ‘No wonder people don’t come to our house any more. I heard that Amyntas was ill for a week the last time he came to see me.’

‘So you’re still seeing Amyntas, are you, even though he stole your Phoenician mirror with the ivory handle?’ I shook my head sadly. ‘And after it cost you so much to get it back from his boyfriend. You’re such a bad judge of people, Phaedra, I don’t know what’s to become of you.’

‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I haven’t seen Amyntas for weeks, or anyone else for that matter. Can we go home now?’ She yawned. ‘I had a good sleep during your play, but I’m still quite tired.’

‘It’s drinking in the afternoons that does it,’ I replied. ‘If you’re a good girl, I’ll show you where I keep the proper wine.

‘Under the figs in the storeroom, and most of it’s turned to vinegar,’ she said drowsily. ‘One of these days I’ll get my brother to show you how to seal a jar properly.’

I have just been reading over what I have written, and I notice to my horror that I have been so carried away with my own story that I have said nothing at all about what had been happening in the war. If I were a conscientious man, instead of being naturally frivolous, I would tear the roll across and start all over again. But if I am to be honest for once, I must confess that I remember that part of the war no better than any other Athenian; as a nation we have remarkably poor memories for things that have happened in our own lifetime. We are rather better at the deeds of our fathers and grandfathers; but since we get our information about those times from men who were equally negligent and forgetful in their own day, it stands to reason that if any part of our historical tradition is accurate, this can only be by pure chance, or because we have asked men from other cities what they can remember.

But you have been counting through the years on your fingers, and are sitting there like men at Assembly waiting for the good news about whitebait prices, in the hope that I will say something about Mitylene and Pylos. So I had better say something about that, or you will despair of me and my History, and sell my book to the men who scrape down paper to be used again. Very well, then.