The Walled Orchard (52 page)

About a week after Demeas proclaimed the summons, I went down to the Market Square to see if I could buy a thrush and a brace of pigeons. Because of the War it wasn’t easy to find such things, but I was determined to eat pigeon at least once more before I died. Men on their deathbeds have so many regrets; so many things done that should not have been done, so many things not done that should have been done. My leading regret, at that time, was that I hadn’t eaten nearly enough pigeons, and I was so busy searching for some that I didn’t look where I was going, and I bumped into a fellow shopper with considerable force.

The shopper turned on me angrily. ‘You clumsy fool,’ he said, ‘you nearly made me swallow two obols …’

It was Aristophanes the son of Philip. He fell silent and stared at me.

‘Hello, Aristophanes,’ I said. ‘Buying poultry?’

Since he had a bundle of pigeons under his arm and four quails in his left hand he could scarcely deny it. ‘Yes,’ he replied defensively. ‘What’s that to you?’

‘Throwing a party, I see,’ I said. ‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘You’re going to eat all those birds by yourself?’ ‘No law against it, is there?’ Just then, his slave caught up with him. The slave was carrying six partridges, another two quails, a duck and a pheasant. He looked like a fletcher’s shop.

‘Hungry, are you?’

‘So I’m throwing a party,’ said Aristophanes. ‘I can throw a party if I like, it’s a democracy.’

‘Am I invited?’

‘No.’

I sighed. ‘Be like that,’ I said. ‘I’ve just got some fresh cheese and sausages from the country which I could have brought, so it’s your loss. And how are things with you?’

People were starting to point at us and whisper, and Aristophanes looked extremely embarrassed. ‘Same as usual,’ he said. ‘Why shouldn’t they be?’

‘Just a friendly enquiry, that’s all. I haven’t seen very much of you since we got back from Sicily.’

‘Well, I’ve been busy,’ said the son of Philip. ‘Which reminds me, I must—’

‘I was meaning to drop in and have a chat,’ I said. ‘I wanted to make sure you’d got over the effects of that fever.’

‘Absolutely, yes.’

‘You remember, don’t you? When you were dying in the mountains and I got you to safety.’

‘Look, it’s lovely to see you again,’ said Aristophanes, ‘but I’m meeting this man and—’

‘I was a bit concerned,’ I said, ‘that you might still be a bit weak, after all that time in the olive-jar. You remember the olive-jar, don’t you? The one I hid you in when I got you safely past the enemy cavalry?’

‘Yes. Look—’

‘And there was that bump on the head, too,’ I continued. ‘The one you got when I saved your life on Epipolae. When you were running away. Without your shield.’

‘Goodbye.’ He tried to get away, but there was a substantial ring of giggling Athenians round us now, and he couldn’t.

‘You know,’ I went on, ‘a soldier looks so ridiculous running away without a shield. I remember all those jokes of yours in your plays about poor old Cleonymus, when he dropped his at that battle. Let me see— That was enough for Aristophanes. He started to push his way through the crowd, and the pigeons fell from under his arm. I stooped and picked them up. ‘Aristophanes,’ I called out after him, ‘you dropped your shield — sorry, your shopping. Don’t you want it?’

There was no reply; Aristophanes was hurrying away. I shrugged my shoulders, brushed the dust off the pigeons, and went home. Outside my door, the little statue of Hermes had been smashed to pieces, and on the trunk someone had scratched ‘Death to the traitor’. That deflated me after my little triumph over the son of Philip, and I went in and threw the pigeons down in front of the fire.

‘Oh, well done,’ said Phaedra, who was sitting carding wool. ‘I knew you’d be able to get some from somewhere.’

‘A present from Aristophanes,’ I said, and I told her about the scene in the market. She laughed.

‘We won’t be hearing any more shield-dropping jokes from him for a while,’ she said.

‘I won’t,’ I replied. ‘Not ever. Remember?’

I reflected immediately that this wasn’t a particularly cheerful thing to say. But Phaedra arranged her face so that it resembled a smile.

‘Aren’t you the lucky one?’ she said. ‘Think of it. No more Aristophanes Comedies where you’re going. No more funny slaves getting hit with sausages. No more moronic puns on place names.’

‘No more parabases by Phrynichus,’ I added. ‘Don’t forget that.’

‘No more Teleclides,’ she went on. ‘No more Choruses invoking the Gods when he can’t think of anything else to put in.’

‘No more houses being set on fire when he can’t think of a way to end the damned thing.’

‘No more automatic food scenes by Crates.’

‘No more Aristomenes.’

‘And never again,’ said Phaedra, ‘will you have to suck a pebble to stop you throwing up when Ameipsias does the scene with the old man with diarrhoea. God, you’re lucky, Eupolis. I wish I were coming with you.’

I smiled. ‘So do I,’ I said. ‘You know your Comedy, Phaedra.’

‘Well I ought to,’ she replied. ‘I’m married to a Comic poet, remember?’

‘You never used to take any interest at all.’

‘I couldn’t help it,’ she laughed. ‘God, do you remember that time when Hermippus won the prize with that thing with the whale in it? You came home with a face like mustard, hurled your stick at the wall and nearly burst into tears.’

‘I call that perfectly reasonable behaviour, in the circumstances,’ I said.

‘I couldn’t get a word out of you for a week,’ she said. ‘You didn’t even shout, you just sat there. And then you got drunk and recited the whole of his opening Chorus in a silly voice.

‘It sounded better that way,’ I remembered.

She leaned forward, putting down her wool. ‘And do you remember that time when Aristophanes came third, and you held a victory party even though you hadn’t even entered anything?’

‘You weren’t here, were you?’

‘Yes I was,’ she said, ‘but I was sulking and wouldn’t come out. And that idiot Critobulus was sick all over your new cloak.’

‘God only knows what he’d been eating,’ I said. ‘I had to throw it away in the end.’

Phaedra was really smiling now. ‘And do you remember when you won with
The Flatterers,
when you’d been expecting to be wiped out, and Aristophanes paid those men to start a fight in the audience, and you found out and paid them more? I was proud of you.’

‘That was before we got back together, wasn’t it?’

‘I was still proud of you,’ she said. ‘I really wanted to be at the party, too, but of course I couldn’t go. In fact, I’ve never been to one of your victory parties. You’d better hurry up and write another play, so I can—’

She didn’t finish the sentence. I looked away.

‘We’ve wasted each other, haven’t we?’ she said. ‘We could have had a good time.’

‘Will you get married again?’ I asked.

‘At my age, with a face like mine? You must be joking.’

‘You’ll have money,’ I said, ‘and besides, looks aren’t everything. You could marry Hermocrates; his wife died last year and he’s due for a victory soon.’

‘Hermocrates?’ she almost spat. ‘Give me credit for a little taste.’

‘Picky, aren’t you?’ I said. ‘He’s quite good-looking, if you go for that type.’

‘Hermocrates,’ she repeated, ‘the man who presented
The Aeginetans
under the impression that it was a Comedy! I’d rather sell myrtle in the market.’

‘It needn’t be a Comic poet, then,’ I said. ‘You could marry a Tragedian. You’ve got the right name for a Tragedian’s wife.’

‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘a Comic poet or nothing.’

‘Comic poets make very bad husbands, so they say.’

‘There you are, then,’ she said, ‘stick to what you know. I could even try writing myself.’

‘You!’ I said. ‘Don’t make me laugh. What in God’s name do women know about poetry?’

‘What about Sappho, then?’ she said quickly.

‘Grossly overrated,’ I replied, ‘even for a foreigner. And half her stuff was actually written by Alcaeus. And who would you get to produce it for you?’

‘Philonides,’ she replied. ‘I’d pretend it was one of yours.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘There’s nothing to it,’ she said. ‘It’s a craft, like painting pots. All you have to do is study the techniques for a while and any fool could do it.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘No we won’t. I forbid it.’

‘You forbid it, do you?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Well in that case,’ she said, ‘we’d better get these pigeons plucked.’ She picked them up and called for Thrax. ‘We can have some of that new cheese with them, and those sausages.’

On the very next day the date for the trial was announced; it would be in six days, at the Odeon, third case of the day. The Odeon wouldn’t have been my first choice, if it had been up to me; the Archon’s court has better acoustics, and the water-clock there runs noticeably longer. However, being third was a good omen, since I had led out my Chorus on the third day when I won with
Maricas,
and also with
The Flatterers.
I was mentioning this to Phaedra and she was saying that all I needed now was a good producer, when there was a knock at the door. Thrax opened it, and in came a man whose face I recognised, though I couldn’t put a name to him. But as soon as he opened his mouth to wish me good morning I remembered who he was.

His name was Python, and he was a professional speaker. I had seen him scores of times, either in the Market Square hanging about with Socrates and his crowd, or at the Baths or the Gymnasium. He was one of those people who call themselves philosophers but who make their living teaching people how to speak, either in the Assembly or in court. That’s another trade that’s dying out, I’m delighted to say; not because it’s intrinsically odious, like informing, but because it seems to attract such repulsive people.

I asked him what I could do for him, and he replied that it was more a case of what he could do for me. I think he was delighted to be able to introduce a Figure of Speech into the conversation so early, like a salesman eager to display his goods. He said that, for as little as fifty drachmas, he would undertake to prepare for me a speech of defence that would get me acquitted by a unanimous vote of the jury.

Of course I was very interested in this proposition, and I asked him to sit down and have a cup of wine. He accepted the seat but not the wine (which impressed me tremendously; here was a man who believed in keeping a clear head) and I asked him if he was sure he could get me off.

‘Undoubtedly,’ he said. ‘Failure is unthinkable, success is guaranteed.’

I asked him if he knew what I was charged with. He said that he had gathered that it was to do with the statues.

‘And what particular facet of the case makes you feel so confident?’ I asked. ‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t much idea of what they’re going to say.’

‘Such knowledge would be no help but a hindrance,’ said Python. ‘It would clutter the mind when it should be clear. You should be not on the defensive but the offensive. That is what I generally recommend to clients.’

‘So what sort of thing would you say in this speech?’

‘A successful speech,’ he said, leaning back in his seat and putting the tips of his fingers together, ‘combines clarity and elegance, persuasion and passion, subtlety and sincerity. There must be reason with emotion, but emotion within reason. A guilty man may protest his innocence; but an innocent man must concern himself with guilt. The guilt of his accuser, for example; ought we not to consider that? I have heard that Aristophanes is to testify against you. Ask yourself this. Is it the case that this is a case where the accuser should himself be the accused? Suppose we establish your antagonist’s involvement in the escapade of which he indicts you; will that suffice? No; we must then proceed to paint a pretty picture of him, to gild his guilt, so to speak, in order that the jury may see with their own eyes how brazen he patently is. Thus not only will his sword be blunted but his shield turned aside; the lamb will leap upon the lion. On this reversal of roles we cannot unreservedly rely; but already we have unburdened ourselves of the burden of proof, and condemned our enemy to plough a double furrow.’

‘And what about witnesses?’ I asked.

‘Witnesses?’

‘Witnesses.’

He seemed offended. ‘I will, of course, undertake to provide all the necessary witnesses.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘You mean professional witnesses.’

‘Of course.’ He frowned. ‘Tell me now,’ he said, leaning forward, ‘if your plough broke, would you hire a potter to mend it?’

‘No.’

‘Or a farrier?’

‘No.’

‘Or an armourer, or a basket-weaver, or a wreath-maker?

‘No.’

‘You would hire a carpenter, would you not?’

‘Very probably, yes.’

‘And if your roof leaked you would consult a builder, and if your sandals wore out you would visit the shoemaker’s shop.’

‘I would indeed.’

‘So you would seek the services of a professional, not an amateur?’

‘I think we’ve established that, yes.’

‘Yet whereas you would not entrust your roof to an amateur builder, or your foot to an amateur cobbler, you would entrust your life to an amateur witness?’

‘Yes,’ I replied. It was not the answer he expected. ‘Do you know why?’ I went on.

‘Why?’

‘Because the juries know all the professional witnesses by sight,’ I said, ‘and it plays merry hell with their credibility.’

He scowled at me. ‘All my witnesses are credible,’ he said angrily.

‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘you’re a tremendously eloquent man, really you are, but I think I can manage to get killed on my own.’

‘Oh.’ He looked terribly disappointed. ‘You’re making a great mistake, you realise.’

‘Python,’ I said, ‘it was very kind of you to offer to help, but your stuff is strictly for civil trials — debts and minor assaults and that sort of thing. You stick to that and you’ll go a long way.’

I had offended him, but that couldn’t be helped. ‘Well, in that case,’ he said, ‘I must regretfully withdraw my offer. That will be five drachmas, please.’