The Goddess of Buttercups and Daisies by Martin Millar Page A

discouragement, but for some reason the words struck home. He looked around at Athens, and for the first time it seemed like an unfriendly place. There was something different in the air. He couldn’t say what, but he could feel a great cloud of depression settling over him.
    Luxos the poet trudged home, to the abandoned shack behind the great dockyard where triremes were constructed. There he sat and played his lyre. This cheered him a little, but he kept hearing Aristophanes’ words:
You don’t come from the right class. You weren’t educated like a gentleman. You never had a proper teacher. You don’t have a patron, or any influential friends.
It was all true. The sons of the wealthy citizens of Athens were schooled in literature, philosophy and rhetoric from a young age. Luxos wasn’t. Those same wealthy young men had influential friends to call upon should they ever wish to see their lyrics or poetry performed in public. Luxos knew no one influential.
    His shoulders slumped. For as long as he could remember, he’d dreamed of striding out onto the stage at the great theatre and performing for the whole of Athens. Now he wondered if that would ever happen. Perhaps Aristophanes was right. Perhaps no one would ever be interested in his poetry.

Aristophanes
     
    Aristophanes knew that Philippus wasn’t happy. He was a good actor but he’d never been able to reconcile himself to being successful only in comedies. He could put a funny line over like few others in Athens, but somewhere in his mind there was the thought that, really, he should have been a serious dramatic player, taking the leading role in one of the great tragedies of Sophocles or Aeschylus. Aristophanes found it difficult to sympathise. It wasn’t as if being a successful comic actor hadn’t brought Philippus success. He’d won plaudits on numerous occasions, in his plays, and in others’. People still talked of his hilarious performance in Aristophanes’ production last year,
The Wasps
. He had plenty of admirers, and a good reputation throughout the city. It should have been enough, in Aristophanes’ opinion.
    Actors. They’re never satisfied with what they have.
 
    It was no surprise when Hermogenes told him that Philippus was complaining.
    ‘He’s always complaining. What’s wrong this time? Not enough olives in his dressing room?’
    ‘It’s the dung beetle. He doesn’t like it.’
    Aristophanes followed Hermogenes across to the rehearsal stage where Philippus, in mask and costume, was sitting astride a giant dung beetle. This beetle was one of their few successful props, constructed to look rather humorous. It was brightly painted, with a smiling expression and a fat, funny body. By means of the stage crane, it could be hoisted into the air and made to fly over the stage. It could even be swung over the front rows of the audience, which was quite a spectacular effect. When Philippus used his giant phallus as a rudder to steer the flying beetle, it was going to get a huge laugh. Even the stagehands found it funny, and they were generally a hard group to please, having already seen most things.
    Philippus slipped his mask up over his head. ‘Aristophanes! Are you sure this scene is necessary?’
    ‘It’s our big opening.’
    ‘I don’t like it.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘It’s undignified.’
    ‘I wouldn’t say that.’
    ‘I’m flying a gigantic dung beetle!’ cried Philippus. ‘How much more undignified could it be?’ He glared down at the playwright. ‘I am a serious actor, you know.’
    ‘You’re flying up to heaven to ask the gods to end the war. What could be more serious than that?’
    The scene was a parody of the well-known story of the hero flying to heaven on the winged horse Pegasus. Aristophanes’ play started off with Philippus feeding the beetle more and more dung, till it was large enough for him to mount. His family questioned his sanity, but Philippus claimed to be the sanest person in Athens. He was sick