|
|
It wasn’t my fault I stumbled. Blame the slob who threw his melon-rind on the pavement instead of in the gutter where it belonged. These big city-state modern Greeks have no graces left, no culture. The great days of Athens are long past. Which in a way is where the whole affair started, not just with Citizen Melon-dropper.
But start with the stumble. It was embarrassing enough...
#
"Hippolyte! What’re you...be careful...Hades, will you watch where you swing that sword?"
I didn’t answer, being somewhat preoccupied with staying on my feet, a normally easy task made difficult by melon rinds underfoot. I’m no acrobat, but I felt like one as I twisted, righted myself, overbalanced once more, and finally steadied myself with my new sword. Called into service as a crutch, the tip of the blade plunged deep into the piece of melon, skewering it neatly.
My impromptu dance had drawn laughter around the agora, which rose to scattered cheers and applause at this point. I hammed it up for the gawkers, bowing and holding up the rind-topped sword as if it were laurel awarded a victor. After a moment I dropped the pose, lowered my sword, and pushed the garbage off the blade with my foot. Traffic in the agora resumed as I examined my pretty new toy for damage. Bronze is hard, but it can still be nicked.
Then a familiar voice spoke behind me. "Brava, my dear. I haven’t laughed so hard in ages, certainly not at my own poor efforts. Now that is comedy!" It was a musical voice, pitched to carry.
"No, it’s clumsiness." Glycera, my fellow Amazon, came forward once my blade no longer posed a threat to nearby eyes, ears, and limbs. She’s a square-built older woman, tough as a boot, who wears her armor as easily as a Athenian housewife wears her chiton. "Hippolyte, I don’t know what your mother was thinking of, naming you for the Old Queen."
"She probably thought she could get back at her own first sergeant by giving another one a headache in the ranks. Don’t you just love being a part of the great Amazon tradition?" I sheathed the sword, and turned to face the man who had spoken, doing my best to smile charmingly. Given how embarrassed I was by my awkward salute to Terpsichore, I don’t think it worked. "You’re Nicomachus, aren’t you? I loved your Silenus last year."
"Did you?" The grin widened. "I’m glad somebody did. The judges weren’t too happy with it."
"But..." Before I could say more, another man took Nicomachus by the elbow and steered him away. The borders on the newcomer’s robe were wide and purple, embroidered with gold; probably the sponsor, who wouldn’t enjoy waiting while an actor discussed the art of comedy with an Amazon warrior-girl. The actor in question directed a helpless smile back at me over his shoulder, confirming my guess.
So did the sergeant’s next words. "That’s Timaeus, the shipping king. You don’t keep that sort waiting."
"But what did he mean about the judges? That was the funniest Silenus I’ve ever seen!"
"You know that’s not how the world works. That Silenus almost cost Nico the prize last year; way too old-fashioned an interpretation. Only reason the judges didn’t give the wreath to someone else was because he did such a terrific job on the part of the god and, well, he is Nico."
"But it was funny!"
"So it was funny. That and half an obol will buy you a cup of wine. Goddess, Hippolyte, sometimes you act as if you’ve never been out of the Caucasus before."
#