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He knew he wasn’t really supposed to be back here. He was supposed to be out front, with his father and mother, and most especially, Grandmother, who’d said she’d take charge of him for the day, and teach him what was what. She’d looked quite stern when she said it; it hadn’t sounded fun at all. So he’d slipped away, drawn to the excitement behind the scenes. Alexander climbed inside the front half of a horse and sat quietly, looking out through the eyes, absorbing events.
There was Hermippos in his costume; he was sitting before a mask, looking intent. Father had tried to explain the play to him last night – how Dikaiopolis made peace with the Spartans. “But isn’t it more honourable to go to war?” he had asked. “Surely you’re not supposed to make secret treaties with the enemy.” But Father had said it was a comedy, and not meant to be real, so that was all right.
A regal woman in golden robes swept past him, paused, and turned. Her eyes blazed; her gaze searched. Alexander shrank back inside his disguise. She looked quite – menacing.
“There!” Ariadne pointed at a tall statue of the god tucked away in one corner. “And give it a good dusting first – and a fresh laurel wreath.” Acolytes scurried to set the heavy Dionysos on the litter; it would be carried in front of the ceremonial procession that started the festival. Behind crouched a small boy, his hiding place revealed as the god was moved. He looked up at the priestess and her retinue, startled, like a fox cub caught by hounds. Ariadne made a low growling sound and pounced on Hippolytos, pulling him forward.
“You!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here? Don’t you realise you are dedicated to another god? Do you mean to bring disaster on us all?”
In ignominy the younger boy was escorted back to his nurse, as, trumpets blaring and cymbals crashing, the procession formed in order and marched smartly out into the amphitheatre. Shivering, Alexander crept unnoticed from his hiding place. Maybe Grandmother wasn’t so frightening after all.