A Day at the
Dionysia
πολίτης
Four illustrated panels following a single citizen — Kleon of the Kerameikos — through the festival that taught Athens how to feel together.
Before the Sun
Kleon left his workshop in the Kerameikos while the city was still dark. His wife had packed olives, bread, and a small flask of unwatered wine — the Dionysia was the one day a year an Athenian drank without apology.
"Three tragedies, a satyr play, and a comedy before the moon rises. A man cannot eat that much grief and laughter on an empty stomach."
The Procession
By mid-morning the priests had carried the wooden statue of Dionysus through the Agora and set it in its place at the orchestra. War orphans paraded in armour the city had bought for them. Tribute from the allied cities was stacked, in silver, in the open.
"The god has come. Let no quarrel between citizens be raised inside these walls for five days. The play begins."
The Chorus Enters
The chorus came in through the parodos singing in a voice Kleon could not believe was made by men he knew — his neighbour the fishmonger, his cousin the cobbler. The mask did something to a face. The unison did something to a city.
"Count no man fortunate who is not dead. The final day must end the strife— the long, the toiling life."
The Long Walk Home
Kleon did not speak the whole way home. He had watched a king blind himself with a brooch. He had wept openly in a crowd of strangers. Tomorrow he would vote in the Assembly on whether to send a fleet to Sicily. He was no longer sure of his own opinion.
"We watched a man kill his father without knowing. Then we voted. I do not know which is the play."