Gary Corby: Death Ex Machina

The party was in full swing. People were sitting at the long benches to eat. We grabbed food from the stalls. Then I elbowed room at one of the benches for Diotima and myself. We’d seen Pythax and Euterpe on the other side of the agora, but it was too hard to get across in the press.

The conversation at our bench was all about the festival and the plays to come. Then one man said, “Hey, have you heard about the psyche?”

“What psyche?” I asked.

“The psyche at the theater. They say the psyche of Thespis is haunting the place. They say he’s really angry.”

“I’m not surprised, with the quality of plays we get these days,” said a critic. “Someone pass me that ox meat?”

“I heard they tried to expel the psyche, but they failed,” a woman said. She appeared to be the wife of the first man. She clutched a piece of lamb in one hand and an onion in the other. “It was the ghost that came back and killed the actor.”

“Shoddy work on the expelling rite, if you ask me,” said the critic.

“Excuse me, it was an excellent rite,” said Diotima, deeply offended.

“How would you know, lady?” the man scoffed.

Diotima was angry now. “Because I’m the one who -”

I jabbed her with my elbow. Diotima glared at me but wisely said nothing more.

The critic said, “Well I say we can expect more of this sort of thing if the plays don’t improve. Psyches haunting theaters.”

I was amazed that people were still talking about the ghost. People would believe anything.

“Are you sure there’s a psyche at all?” I said.

“Of course there’s a psyche. They tried to expel it, didn’t they?”

“Well, yes,” I admitted.

“They wouldn’t try to expel something that wasn’t there, would they?”

Heads nodded up and down the bench.

“You don’t think there might be some other cause?” I inserted into the conversation.

“Like what?” someone asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe some insane person is hanging about the theater.”

They all laughed. They thought a ghost was a better idea. Cups were upended and wine was drunk.

A voice spoke from behind us. “Hey, can I join you?”

Diotima and I turned to see the honest landlord. He stood at our backs, holding a bowl of hot food in one hand and a cup of wine in the other. His breath blew over me. This wasn’t his first cup of wine, but he was steady on his feet.

Beside him juggling four bowls was a woman who was obviously his wife, and three small children who in the crowd held on to their mother’s chiton as if their lives depended on it.

Diotima grabbed some of the bowls to help. I made room to one side and they squeezed in. The landlord said, “I saw you sitting here. I wanted to thank you for letting me know about Romanos, and your great idea.”

“What idea?” I asked.

“You said I should get some of the Dionysia crowd to rent my room. Would you believe there’s a whole family living in there? They were camping outside the city, you know. They wanted to escape the heavy rain we’ve been having. They’re paying me well above rate to get under cover.”

“I’m pleased for you.”

He put a chunk of meat in his mouth and talked around it as he chewed. “Still and all, it’s a pity about Romanos. He seemed a nice guy.”

“Er … yes.”

“You never know when you’re gonna go, do you?”

“I guess not.”

“Goes to show how important is to enjoy your time. A man needs to enjoy his time, doesn’t he, Dora?”

Dora looked up from feeding their children. She said, “Yes, dear.”

“That’s why we rent our spare room,” he confided. “It means I don’t have to work so much. Landlording is easy.”

“I should imagine,” I said. The honest landlord was also a talkative one when he was in his cups. I desperately cast about for some question that might end the dialogue.

“Especially when the renter is someone as quiet as Romanos,” I said.

“Don’t know about that,” the landlord said, to my surprise. “He came and went at odd times. Not many visitors though, I’ll say that for him.”

It had never occurred to me that Romanos might have had visitors to his secret room.

I asked, “Did he by any chance have visitors on the night he died?”

The honest landlord spat the gristly part of his meat onto the ground. “Nah. He was off to a party somewhere else. I wouldn’t let a renter have a party on my property.”

I thought about my own experience renting Diotima’s house, and could only agree with him.

The landlord was still speaking. “So Romanos went out. Late at night it was, after all the rain. Saw him run into some friends. They were happy to see him. Isn’t that right, Dora?”

Dora looked about and said, “Yes, that’s right, dear. I saw them. Hugs all round.”

At these words Diotima’s eyes lit up.

“Can you describe his friends?” Diotima asked.

“Tipsy,” said Dora. “They were carrying wineskins. One of them passed his skin to Romanos. Poor fellow.”

Everyone at the table had been listening in. The tale of men with wineskins had inspired the revelers. There were cries of, “More drink! More drink!”

A man with an amphora under each arm came over to fill cups.

“Would you like some beer?”

I looked up to see the man with the amphorae. I knew him. “Petros, what are you doing here?” Unfortunately I had a fair idea.

He smiled. “Did we not tell you that we want to show Athens what beer is like?”

“Here? Now? Is that a good idea?”

“Why not? No one has to drink the beer if they don’t like it. We merely offer. The Athenians might decide beer isn’t so bad after all.” Petros grinned. He was a happy man. “Already many Athenians have drunk our beer and called for more.”

“Does Pericles know you’re doing this?” I asked, worried.

“You think a metic ever gets to speak to Pericles?” he said. “If Pericles can donate food and drink to the people, so can we.”

“Petros, I have to tell you, if what happened at the clearing last night happens here, it’s not going to be good.” I had visions of the people of Athens descending into one enormous orgy. What would the children say?

Petros shrugged. “Our beer maker Marinos says it will be fine.”

It wasn’t the most reassuring answer, but it was too late to do anything about it. Half of Athens was already drinking beer. In fact, if the rapidly increasing merriment was anything to go by then the Athenians had drunk an awful lot of beer, and an equal amount of wine.

The landlord put down his cup and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Say, this beer is pretty good. Do you have more?”

“Desecration! Abomination!” A voice shouted above the crowd, so loud that everyone heard it. The shouting came from the other side of the festivities, close to where Pythax and Euterpe sat. The speaker was Theokritos. I had a feeling he’d just discovered beer on the premises.

Theokritos mounted the steps of the Painted Stoa, beside a startled Pericles. Whether he knew what was coming, or simply didn’t want to be associated with anything controversial, I don’t know, but Pericles quickly disappeared from view.

Theokritos stood with his arms raised. Behind him stood the assembled vintners of Athens, with their arms crossed and stern expressions.

“People of Athens!” Theokritos spoke. “I remind you that this is the festival of the Great Dionysia. Today we worship the god of the harvest, Dionysos, who is also the god of the theater and of wine. Wine is his sacred drink. We praise the God when we drink it. We dishonor him when we drink anything else. It has come to my attention that there are people here drinking beer. This is a sin against the God. Think what you are doing. This is his festival. Beer is impious! Spurn it!”