Read an extract from The Heroines

THE BARD

‘Gather round, welcome guests and good citizens of Athens, gather round. I have a tale to tell you, one close to your heart. It’s about your brave king, Theseus, and the evil monster he slew for you. A beast with the torso of a man and the head of a bull: the Cretan crime against nature they called the Minotaur.’ The little man played a couple of notes on his whistle, then sat back on his stool as he waited for the rumblings.

Sure enough, the crowd responded. ‘We know this one already, foreigner. Why would we want to hear it again, and from you?’ The citizens of Athens, predominantly young men in their prime, began to trickle away.

The bard allowed the tiniest of smiles to flicker across his face, and began to croon his tale. He started, of course, with the foreign princess. Not the one who was giving evidence in the trial, but the older one, Ariadne of the beautiful hair. And many other beautiful places, he began to imply. Seduced by their very own king, Theseus, a man who’d never spoken a word to any of them, but who featured often enough in the bards’ songs to make him as familiar as a regular drinking companion. The Cretan princess had barely begun to disrobe before Theseus when the crowd shuffled back again, sheepishly at first, then more exuberantly as the wine started flowing. By the time the promiscuous princess had bared her breasts, they were whooping.

The story the bard sang wasn’t the truth. He had no idea what the truth was. He wasn’t from Athens, and he’d been passed on the song by another travelling minstrel in exchange for his last piece of bread. But he observed the crowd jeer when he sang about the princess, and cheer when he mentioned Theseus’ son, Hippolytus. He began to tailor his story to their liking. Tentatively at first, then more confidently, he shifted his story to topical news: the trial that was taking place in the palace the very next day. It was a risk, but he saw his crowd growing. He plumbed the depths of his memory for every shred of information he’d picked up about the trial, both on the road and in Athens. The princess was bewitched by Aphrodite. The prince was abandoned by Artemis. His audience lapped it all up. Because he was a more observant man than most, he noticed the shadowy figures on the edge of the assembly, hoods pulled over to conceal their faces. Unlike the others, they were not whooping and cheering for the young prince and his heroic father. The bard noticed their disapproval, but he didn’t care. He didn’t sing for women. They couldn’t pay for his songs.

He would inform other singers he met on the road of the Athenian preferences, too, provided they weren’t too stuck up to share food and information with him in return. But he might stay in Athens a little while yet. The trial was just beginning, and while Athens itself was a poor hole of a palace, men had come from far and wide to view it, bringing the smell of money with them, more than enough to attract a man who lived by his wits.

As the sun began to set, causing the newly built temple, higher on the hill than any of its predecessors, to glow like a beacon, the little man brought his tale to a close. He looked upon his audience, barely able to stand, hugging one another and shaking their fists at the Cretan princess. A good day’s work. No one would run him out of the court now. He stood up and sauntered towards the kitchen to enquire about the dinner he had earned, and perhaps even a maid to accompany it. 

ACT 1

The men of Athens are muttering to one another under their breath; the normal boisterous shouts have given way to the silence reserved for a sacred ceremony. The room, the same one used for meals, has been cleared of tables. The long benches have been repurposed for the jurors, as they are being called. The maids have done their best, but there was little time between breakfast and the start of the trial. One man is sitting in a pool of meat juices. His clothes will reek of it later, but for now he hasn’t noticed, and when he does, well, there’s a maid for that, too.

Some of them think to last night, when they saw the defendant cheering and drinking with the others, stretching out his legs at the table as if he had not a care in the world. And what should he have to fear from this court of men? There is only her word against his. What man has not witnessed the malice of a jealous woman?

And she is not a woman like other women. Daughter of a king, sister of a monster, a princess of Crete. All have heard stories of the women of Crete.

Outside there is a shuffling of feet. The men straighten in their seats, nudge their neighbours. Heads turn expectantly towards the door. She is coming.

It begins . . .