The Walled Orchard (14 page)

I had been visiting Phaedra and her family ever since the night of the Serenade, so that my intentions by now were plainly obvious. Her family seemed to welcome the idea of me as a son-in-law, which I put down to my wealth and, I fear, my wit and magnetic personality. In fact, they seemed quite happy to do without some of the required stages of courtship and get straight on to a betrothal.

But Philodemus, who was conducting the negotiations for me, seemed unwilling to press on so quickly, and insisted on formal discussions about the dowry, even though they seemed quite happy to pay what we asked. I found this infuriating, and we quarrelled about it.

‘But don’t you see, you young idiot?’ he told me. ‘If they’re so keen to offload the girl on you, there must be some reason…

‘Offload?’ I replied angrily. ‘What do you mean offload? She’s beautiful and accomplished, they’re offering ten acres…

‘Exactly,’ said my uncle. ‘And still, at nearly sixteen, the girl is unpromised. What’s your explanation?’

‘Simple,’ I replied, trying desperately to think of one. ‘She was promised to a man who suddenly lost all his wealth or was killed in the war.’

‘Don’t you think they’d have mentioned something like that?’ he persisted.

‘Since the subject has never come up,’ I replied grandly, ‘no.’

‘If the subject has never come up,’ said my uncle despairingly, ‘all that proves is that you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.’

I decided to attack. ‘All right, then,’ I said, ‘what do you think the reason is? Like I said, she’s beautiful and accomplished, and the dowry is marvellous, and I’m absolutely sure she doesn’t have any deformities or diseases. That doesn’t leave much, does it?’

Philodemus shook his head. ‘I don’t know either,’ he said, ‘and neither does anyone else. But all the people I know are Infantry; they don’t mix in Cavalry circles. And Callicrates says he thinks his army friends know something but won’t say.’

‘You’ve been asking?’ I said furiously.

‘Of course I have,’ said Philodemus. ‘It’s my duty to ask, or why do you think marriages are arranged this way? It’s so that young idiots like you with stars instead of eyes don’t end up marrying girls with Thracian grandmothers or only one leg.’

I decided to be reasonable. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I know you’re doing what you think is for the best and I appreciate it, really I do. But there’s nothing wrong with Phaedra. I swear there isn’t’

‘Then why,’ said Philodemus, ‘don’t you ask some of your new Cavalry friends we hear so much about in this house, and see if they know anything?’

This made me very angry. ‘So that’s what it’s all about, is it?’ I shouted. ‘You think I should be marrying some Infantry girl with red hands and a few goats on Parnes. Got someone in mind, have you, with a nice little commission in it for yourself from her grateful father?’

For a moment I thought Philodemus was going to hit me, and I backed away. He turned bright red in the face and grabbed his walking-stick; then with a visible effort he calmed down and became as cold as ice.

‘If that’s the way you feel,’ he said, ‘I shall conclude the negotiations on the terms as offered, and then you can go to the crows for all I care. And I hope your damned Phaedra turns out to have two club feet and leprosy.’

I tried to apologise but he was offended, so I made my excuses and left. As I walked up to the Market Square I thought over what he had said, and it occurred to me that the only person I knew who seemed to know something about Phaedra was Aristophanes. Hadn’t he said something about her ‘habits’ on the night of the Serenade? But how could I go and ask him for help, when I had made him look a fool in front of his guests? True, I had only been paying him back in advance, so to speak, for what he was going to do to me; but I doubted whether he would see it in that light. And then a horrible thought struck me. What if Theorus, who had a grudge against him, had lied to me about Aristophanes’ motive in inviting me? What if he had invited me so that I could meet Philonides the Chorus-trainer and all those other important people? My blood seemed to freeze in my veins. Supposing the great Comic poet had been extending the hand of friendship, as one craftsman to another, and I had repaid him by wrecking his Victory celebrations? The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that Theorus had been lying — he was not, after all, the sort of man you would believe if he told you your name — and that I had made the most terrible mistake.

As I wandered through the anchovy stalls, feeling as if I had just murdered my host, who should I bump into but Aristophanes himself? He was arguing heatedly with a fishmonger about an eel he had bought the day before, and which he swore blind was off. The fishmonger was adamant that a real Copaic eel, smuggled through enemy lines at the risk of the courier’s life, was bound to smell a bit hooky, that that was what gave them their flavour, and a proper gentleman would know Copaic eel when he tasted it. Aristophanes replied that he knew perfectly well what Copaic eels tasted like, that he had eaten them in the company of the richest men in Athens, and that a proper Copaic eel doesn’t make you throw up like Mount Aetna half an hour later. The fishmonger, who obviously never went to the Theatre and so didn’t know the risk he was taking, replied that even the best-behaved Copaic eel is likely to get a bit frisky when a man of dubious citizenship like Aristophanes son of Philip gobbled it up like a starving dog, instead of chewing it like a gentleman, and then washed it down with half a jar of unmixed wine.

Aristophanes gave up the unequal struggle and retired to a neighbouring stall to buy a crab. I came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped.

‘What in God’s name did you do that for?’ he snapped. ‘I nearly swallowed my change.’

I apologised, feeling that I had not begun this vital interview in the best possible way. Aristophanes fished an obol out of his mouth, paid for the crab and started to walk away.

‘Please, Aristophanes,’ I said humbly, ‘I want to apologise for spoiling your party.’

‘So I should think,’ he said cautiously. ‘That’s the last time I try to help a young poet.’

‘Someone told me a dreadful lie about you,’ I explained, ‘and I got so drunk that I believed it.’

‘You didn’t seem very drunk when you were spewing up those anapaests,’ he said. ‘Honestly, I didn’t know where to look. And can you think of a worse omen than that for a Victory party? I’ll be lucky if I get a Chorus at all next year.’

I had forgotten how superstitious he was, and I blushed. ‘I really am sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘It really was a stupid thing to do.’

‘Never mind,’ he said, forcing himself to smile. ‘After all what could be a better omen than to be mentioned in a
parabasis?
Means I’m bound to get a Chorus, or why am I being mentioned at all? Forget it, Eupolis. Set it off against that confounded goat.’

He slapped me, hard, on the back and I smiled. ‘I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out, then,’ I said, ‘because I want your advice.’

‘Certainly,’ he said warmly. ‘Got a scene you’re having trouble with?’

‘No, it’s not that.’

‘Oh.’ He looked disappointed, and I saw that he really was taking an interest in my career.

‘No, it’s about my marriage. You remember that girl you…

‘At the Serenade?’

‘Yes.’

‘Phaedra. Nice girl. What about her?’

‘That’s what I wanted to ask you, actually. I’ve been wondering why a girl like that, with everything going for her, is still unpromised.’

A smile crossed Aristophanes’ face, and he put an arm around my shoulders. ‘I thought you might wonder that,’ he said.

‘Do you know something then?’

‘As it happens, I know the whole story. Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you all about it.’

We went across to a wine shop and I bought a jar of the finest Pramnian. We exchanged healths, and he told me the story. It was just as I had guessed. Phaedra had indeed been promised, and to a truly marvellous man called Amyntas. I had heard of him, vaguely.

‘Wasn’t he killed in the war?’ I asked.

‘It was a tragedy,’ said Aristophanes sadly. ‘Friend of mine, actually. Died defending a wounded comrade. Phaedra was heartbroken.’

‘I can imagine,’ I said.

‘Of course, the family hadn’t announced a formal betrothal — there was some problem with the dowry; apparently Amyntas’ family were asking seven acres, when the girl would be a bargain without any dowry at all. What are they offering you, by the way?’

‘Ten acres,’ I said. Aristophanes whistled, and went on:

‘I imagine they haven’t mentioned it because of the bargain they had to strike with Phaedra after she heard the news. Apparently she was so upset that she was all for running away and becoming a priestess of Demeter. They only stopped her by promising never to mention his name again. You know what girls are like.’

‘Of course, I see,’ I said. ‘Well, thank you, you’ve taken a great weight off my mind.’

‘If I were you,’ said Aristophanes, drinking off the rest of the wine and wiping his chin daintily, ‘I’d get the betrothal all sealed and concluded as quickly as possible, before she starts thinking about her lost love and changes her mind. You may have noticed that her parents are a bit anxious to get her married off; you can see their point, can’t you?’

‘Absolutely. Thank you.’

‘Not at all, not at all,’ said Aristophanes. ‘After all, considering how I insulted the poor girl that night, the least I can do is make sure she gets a suitable husband.’

‘And what you said about her habits…

‘I forgot to mention that,’ said Aristophanes. ‘She’s a lovely child, but she’s a terror for accidentally knocking over vases. It’s the only thing that can be said against her, so far as I know. Is that the time? I’ve got to rush.’

I thanked him again, and set off for home to make my peace with Philodemus. Not only, I reflected, had I found out the truth about my beloved Phaedra; I had also made a good and worthwhile friend.

CHAPTER SEVEN

In Tragedy, of course, there is a convention that the action — the battles and the murders and so on — always happens off-stage. Orestes drags Clytemnestra off into the wings and we hear horrible screams, while the Chorus turn to face the audience and make their breathtakingly profound comments, like ‘All is not well within the house’; then the playwright treats us to five minutes of metrical lamentation and the proceedings are adjourned. When I was young I always felt cheated by this squeamishness, and I remember one year slipping out of my seat (I think it was an Agamemnon of some description) and sprinting round to the wings to see if I could see the King getting his skull split. I found a little tear in the painted backcloth and looked through, but all I saw was the actor frantically pulling his mask and gown off to change into the Messenger costume.

So now I am tempted to follow the Tragic convention, and let my wedding take place behind the curtain. Flutes. The torchlight procession winds its way round the orchestra and in through the left-hand door, the door closes, all is not well within the house. But there; any fool can be a Tragedian. It takes courage to compose Comedy.

Actually, I remember very little of the wedding itself.

It was a mild evening, not too warm, and I had the sort of headache that makes everything else seem entirely irrelevant. It was obvious from the start that the whole thing was going to be complete and utter disaster, but that was only to be expected, considering that I had seen my name posted in the Market Square that morning on the Three Days’ Rations list.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked the man standing next to me.

‘Samos,’ he said, ‘just for a change.’ He spat out a mouthful of chickpeas. ‘You ever been there?’

I said no, I hadn’t.

‘Samos,’ he said gravely, ‘is the armpit of the Aegean.

The goats are all gristle and the people pee in the wells.

The west coast is all right if you’re not prone to catching fever, but we’re probably going to be over on the east.

This time of year, of course, it’s worse than usual . .

‘I’m getting married this evening.’

He scowled at me, and spat into the fold of his tunic. ‘Get away from me,’ he said. ‘I don’t want anything to do with you if you’re unlucky.’

That, I think, is when my headache started. I spent the rest of the morning cleaning my armour, which had gone green up in the rafters, and putting a new plume in my helmet. Little Zeus tried to help, but his contribution consisted of putting his foot through my shield. I sent him out to get it mended, and poured myself a large cup of neat wine, which was a mistake.

‘Cheer up,’ Callicrates said, as we tried to force the plume into the socket. ‘After all, you’ve got your wedding to look forward to, don’t forget.’

My hand slipped and came down hard on the sharp bronze of the socket, splashing blood on to the white horsehair. ‘I’m not likely to forget,’ I replied. ‘Have you seen my sword-belt anywhere?’

‘Borrow mine,’ he said, ‘it’s about your size. It’s just a tax-collecting expedition, apparently. I was talking to a man who’d heard the debate. You’ll be back in a month or so, I expect.’

I shrugged. ‘I couldn’t care less,’ I said.

‘The important thing to remember about Samos,’ he went on, ‘is not to eat the sausages. A friend of mine — you know, Porphyrion who has that dog with the stunted tail —he was in Samos a year or so ago when there was that trouble, and he says they don’t boil the blood properly before pouring it into the skins. Otherwise it’s not a bad place, except that the women throw stones a lot.’

‘Why?’

‘They don’t like Athenians, I guess. Has anyone been across to tell Phaedra?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Will you go?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘If you want,’ he said. ‘I promised to take the cooks around some time this morning.’

I had forgotten about the cooks. We had hired five of them for the wedding, but one had gone down with dysentery. It made me wonder about the other four.

In the afternoon, I went to the baths and had my hair cut and scented. The barber talked about nothing but the war, and how it was not going well, and how someone had seen a really horrible omen.

‘What I heard,’ he shouted over his shoulder, ‘was that when the watch were handing over the keys last night, this great big snake appeared out of nowhere — thick as your wrist and a sort of olive green was what they told me — and curled all round the key. Now if you ask me…’

‘Bollocks,’ said a man at the back of the shop. ‘Now if the key had curled all round the snake, that would be an omen.’

The barber ignored him. ‘The key’s obviously this lot they’re sending off to Samos. Stands to reason.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Don’t show your ignorance,’ said the barber, picking a spot of verdigris off the blade of his razor. ‘The top man in Samos these days is called Draco — “The Snake” —right? This Draco’s going to surround our boys and squash them fiat.’

‘There’s an oracle about that,’ said someone else. ‘The snake is going to bite the feet of the owl, and the wedding-torches will light a hundred funerals.’

‘What wedding-torches?’ said the barber. ‘I think they just put in any old thing to make it scan.’

When I got home, the torch-bearers were having a fight with the flute-girls and Little Zeus was back with my shield. It had a great big plate of new bronze riveted over the tear, which was apparently the best they could do at such short notice.

‘It’s all for the best, if you ask me,’ he said cryptically. ‘Do you want your sword sharpening, or can I get on with my packing?’

‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

‘With you, of course. Shield-bearer. You’re entitled to a shield-bearer, being Cavalry class. I asked about it down at the smithy.’

For a split second I was touched; then I remembered the five acres. ‘Get the rations packed,’ I said wearily, ‘and put in plenty of cheese.’

About an hour before sunset I started to shiver, and I drank another cupful of neat wine. I had discovered that my left greave was too tight, and in trying to open it up I buckled the clips. While I was wrestling with it, Philodemus came in and asked me if I had made a will.

Not long after, I heard the flutes in the street; they were bringing in the bride. Suddenly I felt a sort of blind terror. They were singing the wedding-hymn, but for some reason it sounded flat and mournful, and I remember hoping that they would pass on to the next house.

Callicrates put his head round the door. ‘For God’s sake,’ he said, ‘aren’t you ready yet? I’d better tell them to slow down. Get your garland on, will you? And try to look interested.’

I pulled on my new sandals, fumbling with the straps. There were little Cyclopes forging thunderbolts in my head, and I felt sick. The thought of dancing made my blood run cold. I could hear Philodemus arguing with the women in the inner room, something about some idiot sprinkling the wrong flower-petals on the marriage-bed, and whose brilliant idea was it to put out the coverlet with Pentheus and the Bacchae on it? I stood up and splashed cold water on my face. ‘Get that fool of a nephew of mine out here this instant,’ Philodemus was shouting. ‘I wish to God I’d stayed in bed this morning.’

The smell of burning resin from the torches made my stomach lurch, and I wanted to hit somebody, but there is a time and a place for everything. I made my way to the front door and jammed a smile on to my face. It didn’t fit. I think my teeth were in the way.

‘With just such a song hymenaean

Aforetime the Destinies led

The Master of Thrones empyrean

The King of the Gods, to the bed

Of Hera, his beautiful bride.

I had made a point of asking them not to sing that particular wedding-ode; but perhaps it was the only one they knew. Something with a bit of a
tune
to it, they must have said to themselves, something that everyone can join in…

‘And Love, with his pinions of gold, Came driving,

all blooming and spruce, As groomsman and squire,

to behold The wedding of Hera and Zeus…

Which, as any child will tell you, has never exactly been a success, what with Zeus turning himself into swans and showers of gold, and Hera sending plagues of sores down on all her husband’s favourite cities. I adjusted my garland; but I felt more like a sacrifice than a bridegroom. Who gives this lamb to be slaughtered? And why, in God’s name, was I feeling like this?

Then I saw Phaedra being led along by her father, and she looked like that painting of Galatea by Scythines in the Temple of Hephaestus, on the left as you go m. You know how she’s just turning her head to look at Pygmalion, who’s standing there with his mouth open, obviously feeling a complete fool; and her head is just slightly tilted, as if she’s just noticed him, but she knows who he is; and she’s just about to say something, and you stand there for minutes at a time in case she opens her lips. I’ve been in love with that painting as long as I can remember, and that was how Phaedra looked; and my head was hurting so badly I could hardly stand up straight. Perhaps it was the way she seemed so still, with all the wedding-guests lolloping about around her; or perhaps it was the glow of the torches, which seemed to make an unofficial sunset, with her as the setting sun. Certainly she looked very young indeed in the torchlight, but not a bit nervous, wrapped up like a parcel in all her wedding finery; and I thought of the old story of how the dictator Pisistratus got back into Athens after his exile by dressing up a woman as Athena, with gold dust sprinkled in her hair, and sending her in front of him in a golden chariot, so that all the City guards threw away their spears and fell flat on their faces, thinking that the Lady was bringing Pisistratus home.

The flutes stopped, and I stepped forward, feeling rather as I used to feel when it was my turn to recite at school and I couldn’t remember beyond the third line. I reached out and made a grab for her hand. I think I got about three fingers. Her father was saying his lines, and I smiled idiotically. I couldn’t remember mine to save my life. In fact, I believe we would all be there still if Callicrates hadn’t whispered them in my ear.

Phaedra raised her head and looked into my eyes. Her face seemed as bright as the sun, and I suddenly felt much better. I drew her towards me into the house. She stumbled.

‘Oh my God,’ someone said, ‘she’s touched the threshold.’ That is, of course, the worst possible omen.

‘Shut up,’ hissed someone else. ‘For God’s sake, somebody, sneeze.’

‘It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?’ said the first voice. There was a trumpeting noise, which I took to be somebody feigning a sneeze.

‘Oh well,’ said Phaedra’s father, ‘it can’t be helped now, I suppose.’

‘Now,’ she said archly, ‘we’re alone at last.’

The thong of my left sandal had resolved itself into an impenetrable knot, and the little miners inside my head had found a new lode. I mumbled something like ‘How nice’, and sat down on the floor. Things were not going well. My armour, spear and three days’ rations were propped up against the wall, all ready for the morning, and I knew that two or three of the Thracian housemaid’s children were listening at the door, for I had heard them sniggering about a quarter of an hour ago. Phaedra, apparently, had gone deaf.

‘How’s your poor head?’ she cooed. ‘Does it hurt awfully?’

‘No,’ I said sullenly. The sandal-thong broke, and I kicked it away.

‘Would you mind putting something over
that,’
she pointed to the pile of armour with the helmet perched on top of it. ‘It looks like somebody watching us.’

She had a point. I looped my cloak over it, and sat down on the bed.

‘Shall I put the light out?’ she whispered. I nodded and pulled my tunic off over my head. She licked her fingers and there was a tiny hiss as she pinched out the lamp. For some reason, I felt utterly miserable. ‘Come on,’ she said.

I crawled in beside her. She smelt, very faintly, of sweat.

‘My cousin Archestratus went to Samos once,’ she said.

‘Oh yes?’

‘He got bitten by something. They had to cut his foot off in the end.’

I took a deep breath and moved my arm, with the general idea of putting it round her shoulders. ‘Ouch,’ she said.

‘Sorry.’

‘That was my ear.’

I moved my arm and put it down on the pillow. ‘Now you’re pulling my hair,’ she said. ‘You really know how to get a girl in the mood, don’t you?’

‘Perhaps we’d better light the lamp,’ I suggested.

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Better not.’

‘All right.’

‘There are rose-petals all over this bed,’ she said after a while.

‘That’s traditional, isn’t it?’

She sniffed. ‘It might be in your family,’ she said. ‘Can’t you brush them out or something?’

‘I’ll light the lamp.

‘Please yourself.’

I always have been a fool with flints and tinder, and by the time I had the lamp going I could sense a distinct atmosphere of hostility in the room. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘let’s see about these rose-petals.’

‘Forget it,’ she said, and she threw her arms around me, like a swimmer nerving himself to dive into cold water. I had my mouth open at the time, and I felt her chin connect with my teeth. She unravelled herself and said, ‘God, you’re so clumsy. What do you think you’re doing?’