The Goddess of Buttercups and Daisies Read Free

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