As Hyperbolus carried on, Aristophanes nudged Hermogenes, who sat beside him in the open-air assembly.
‘Is this oaf ever going to stop speaking? We’ve got work to do.’
‘I don’t see us getting to rehearsals any time soon,’ whispered Hermogenes. ‘Nicias is going to make a reply.’
Aristophanes groaned. ‘The dignified but stumbling oratory of Nicias. We’ll be here all day.’
‘He’s not such a bad orator,’ said Hermogenes. ‘Not many laughs, but he makes his point.’
‘Eventually, I suppose.’
Aristophanes yawned. With the sun blazing down, and the effects of last night’s wine still not fully out of his system, he was finding the assembly more than usually irksome.
‘It’s not like we’re going to come to any sort of decision today anyway.’
Hermogenes nodded. There was no clear majority either way, and neither the speeches of Hyperbolus nor Nicias would dramatically change things. Eventually the assembly came to an end without taking a vote, and the citizens trooped back down the hill, dissatisfied. Aristophanes and Hermogenes headed towards their rehearsal space.
‘I hate Hyperbolus.’ Aristophanes sounded bitter. ‘I’d write another scene attacking him if it didn’t make me feel cheap even mentioning him. Kleon was despicable, but at least he was coherent. Vaguely intelligent too. Hyperbolus is just a loud-mouthed thug.’
Hermogenes shrugged. Aristophanes looked at him suspiciously.
‘Did you just shrug?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Why?’
‘No reason.’
They walked on. Aristophanes felt a nagging unease. ‘I really don’t see why you shrugged. Did you just shrug again? What’s with all the shrugging?’
‘Nothing.’
‘There must be something. No one keeps shrugging for no reason.’
‘Maybe I don’t view Hyperbolus quite as badly as you.’
Aristophanes came to an abrupt halt. ‘What?’
‘Maybe I don’t think he’s all bad. All right, he is a loudmouth. Probably a thug, too. That doesn’t mean everything he says is wrong.’
Aristophanes was aghast. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You mean you support him?’
‘Not exactly. I just don’t think he’s as bad as you make out. So he accuses some of the wealthy citizens of being Spartan sympathisers. That’s not that hard to believe, is it? It’s not like they’ve got the best interests of the common oarsman at heart, is it?’
‘I’ve never heard such nonsense!’ cried Aristophanes. ‘These people aren’t trying to prolong the war because they’ve got the best interest of the common citizen at heart! They’re just after profit and glory.’
‘Some of them, perhaps. But the democrats were the ones who got decent pay for the oarsmen, and my father was in the navy.’
‘What use is decent pay if everyone’s farm is destroyed, and all the young men die in battle?’
Aristophanes and his assistant glared at each other for a few seconds. They’d worked together for several years. Normally, it was a good working relationship.
‘We should get to rehearsals,’ said Aristophanes.
They walked on. Aristophanes fumed briefly over the argument, but quickly forgot about it while considering the problems he’d been having in rehearsals. His new play was called Peace. Aristophanes was keen for it to entertain the audience at the festival, and even keener for it to win first prize.
It didn’t take long for things to go wrong. Aristophanes was telling his lead actor, Philippus, that he’d rewritten the opening speech — largely due to Philippus’s inability to deliver the original properly — when his assistant Hermogenes bustled up, looking worried.
‘Aristophanes! There’s a problem with our penises!’
‘What?’
‘They’re too floppy!’
Aristophanes took a step backwards. So did Philippus.
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Aristophanes.
‘I’ve never had any problem,’ said Philippus.
‘I mean our onstage phalluses! Look!’
He pointed to the small rehearsal stage, where the chorus was assembling, some already wearing their masks, some still carrying them. Each was wearing a simple rehearsal robe but they all had on the standard comedy phallus, an obligatory accessory for the Athenian comic chorus. Some hung down about twelve inches, others eighteen.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The big ones won’t erect properly!’
Aristophanes hurried over to the chorus. They already had problems with just about every aspect of the production. The last thing they needed was a phallus malfunction.
‘Let me see.’
The actors in the chorus pulled the internal drawstrings that made their penises go erect. It was a classic move in comedy. All playwrights used it. A good Athenian comedy needed huge penises going up and down at regular intervals.
Aristophanes frowned. The twelve-inch phalluses were standing up fairly well, but the eighteen-inch models were drooping hopelessly. It made for a sorry sight. There were times when a droopy phallus was the right thing for your comedy, but they had to be able to stand up when required. Everyone knew that.
‘What’s the matter?’ Aristophanes was irate. ‘Who made these?’
‘Normal prop workshop. But they say they can’t get the correct materials. The war…’
Aristophanes clenched his fist. ‘Damn these Spartans. And damn these politicians who won’t make peace. Now they’re ruining my chorus’s phalluses.’
‘Well,’ said Philippus, ‘the smaller ones’re not too bad, they’re standing up all right.’
Aristophanes waved this away. The smaller penis was only twelve inches long.
‘I can’t send my chorus out with only twelve inches dangling in front of them. The audience will jeer them off the stage. I’d be ridiculed. Did you see the size of Eupolis’s last year? When his chorus turned round they almost decapitated the front row. Look, Hermogenes, these just won’t do. Tell Leon in the prop department we need them bigger and better. And harder.’
‘We don’t have any money for materials. The props department is already scavenging around for scraps.’
Aristophanes could feel his fists clenching tighter. His production had been starved of money from the outset, thanks to the Dionysian drama committee giving him the producer from Hades.
‘Dammit! A soon as Antimachus was assigned to us, I knew there’d be trouble. He hates me. Eupolis gets Simonides as his producer, and Simonides is rich. My rivals are awash with money and I’m struggling with inferior phalluses!’
By now he was shaking with anger. ‘If I don’t win first prize for comedy this year there’s going to be trouble. Tell our so-called — our prop designer —’
Aristophanes was interrupted by a tug on his tunic. As he turned round his face fell.
‘Luxos? Who let you in here?’
‘Hello, Aristophanes. Would you like to hear my new poem?’
Aristophanes sighed. Luxos was nineteen, the son of an oarsman. He wanted to be a poet. Zeus only knew why.
‘I don’t have time right now, Luxos.’
‘But it’s my new poem about the Battle of Salamis!’
‘What would you know about Salamis?’
‘My grandfather fought there.’
‘Did you consider following him into the navy?’
Luxos looked a little downcast. He was a pretty young boy, but he wasn’t athletic.
‘They said I was too weak to pull an oar. Won’t you listen to my poem?’
‘I’m too busy.’
‘But I want to be a lyric poet.’
‘Where’s your lyre?’
Luxos looked embarrassed. ‘It’s… being repaired.’
Aristophanes glared at Luxos. It wasn’t the first time the putative young poet had interrupted his work. Aristophanes would have thrown him out of the theatre if they hadn’t both been members of the Pandionis tribe. That did bring certain obligations. You were meant to be civil to fellow members, and help them out if possible. However, while Aristophanes did occasionally farm out some lyric writing to his staff, neither he nor anyone else was ever going to trust Luxos to write poetry for them, with his effeminately long, tousled hair, his obvious poverty, and his lack of training. He was wasting his time.