Gary Corby - Death Ex Machina

Someone put a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see the Polemarch.

“I know how you feel, Nicolaos,” the Polemarch said. “I warned you before, it is very hard to obtain justice for a metic.”

“I understand,” I said. The Polemarch was a good man, trapped by circumstances.

He said, “The fine that Theokritos is paying is the same as a court would have ordered. It comes to the same thing.”

“Yes.” There was no point arguing.

It wasn’t fair. Not only was Theokritos going to get away with it, but when he donated to the temple it would enhance his reputation.

Diotima and I stood forlornly in the street outside Pericles’s house. We were joined by Petros and Maia, Kiron and Lakon.

The Polemarch departed, to be replaced by Aeschylus and Sophocles. Both men looked very unhappy.

“The decision is a bad one,” Aeschylus said at once. He was a stickler for proper behavior. “But, Nico, the word of the archons in this matter is law. I want you to know, you did a good job.”

“I would refuse to proceed,” Sophocles apologized. “Except that honor requires otherwise.”

“Can you go on?” I asked.

“ Sisyphus will be a disaster,” Sophocles admitted. “At this stage all that matters is we do our best. Kiron told you how Romanos once carried on when the stage fell in on them. That’s what honor is to an actor.” He turned to Petros. “I can offer you condolences and the place of second actor, if you wish to accept. You will be well compensated from my own funds. It’s the best I can do.”

“I accept,” said Petros.

Aeschylus and Sophocles departed.

The others who had been present passed us by without a word. Theokritos gave me a good long stare, but he said nothing. Petros took a step toward the departing murderer. Kiron, Lakon, and I held him back.

Maia said, “I know my brother was prepared to leave us, but he was still my brother.”

“It is hard,” Kiron said to Maia. “I can make sure the other theater people know what happened but …” He shrugged. “It will mean nothing. Theokritos is a powerful man.”

“If it’s any consolation, this is manifestly unfair,” Lakon said to the Phrygians. “I can say that, and I was one of his victims.”

“Thank you,” Petros said.

“I may not be a good man,” Lakon said. “But I’m not a bad one either.”

I made a decision. It was an idea inspired by something Socrates had said a few days ago.

I said, “Would you be willing to embarrass Theokritos?”

“Yes.”

“All right, this is what we’re going to do.”

I explained my plan to Diotima, to Petros and Kiron, and to a somewhat reluctant Lakon.

When I finished, heads nodded.

“Socrates, I have a job for you,” I said. I’d found him at home, reading.

Socrates said, cautiously, “Another? The last one wasn’t much fun, Nico.”

“I think you’ll prefer this one. Do you remember a few days ago, you talked about characters not knowing they’re in a play?”

“Yes?” He looked at me oddly.

“We’re about to do something like that. You understand how the god machine works, don’t you?”

“I think so.”

“I need a machine.” I explained what I wanted.

Socrates said excitedly, “Sure, Nico! I can design that.” Then he looked worried. “But Nico, who’s going to build it?”

“Leave that to me.”

“Captain Kordax!”

“Nico! What are you doing here?” I had found him on Salaminia , inevitably. I had the impression Kordax never willingly stepped ashore. The captain was stripped bare but for a loincloth, as he and his men crouched over some detail of his boat. He stood up and wiped his hands.

“Captain, last time we spoke, you said, ‘Give us a harder problem.’ ”

“So I did. Yes?”

“Well, here it is …”

“Hello, Mother.”

“Diotima? What are you doing here?” Euterpe was plainly astonished. Diotima never visited her mother if she could avoid it. But my wife had insisted that this request must come from her and not me.

“Mother,” Diotima said through gritted teeth, “we were wondering if-maybe, don’t feel as if you need to-that you might like to help us with a job we have in mind.” Diotima paused, then added, hopefully, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to-”

“I accept,” Euterpe said without hesitation.

“You haven’t asked what the job is yet,” Diotima pointed out.

“Do I need to? Whatever it is, dear, if you two are involved, it’s bound to be intriguing. I think you should thank me for choosing you such an interesting husband.”

“I chose him.”

“You’re going to love this, Mother-in-Law,” I said, before that could turn into a fight. Then I explained.

I was right. Euterpe loved it.

It was the twelfth of Elaphebolion.

The final day of the Great Dionysia had arrived. The people had been assured by the archons that the impiety had been cleansed. Theokritos had stood beside them as they spoke. The hypocrisy had been enough to make me gag, though in truth it would have looked strange if the High Priest of Dionysos had not been present for that announcement.

The Dionysia had proceeded, and it had been as fine as any in recent memory. The choral performances had been well received, and the comedies had everyone laughing and repeating the best jokes.

The greatest excitement had been the day before, when Aeschylus had put on his final play, the last Aeschylus original that anyone would ever see. The theater had been packed to overflowing and beyond. Aeschylus had outdone himself. The chorus in his play had been made up to look like the Furies, with real snakes writhing in their hair. The effect had been so overwhelming that when the Furies rushed onstage one heavily pregnant young woman in the audience had screamed and gone instantly into labor.

It might have ended in disaster had not my own mother been nearby. Four men carried the woman away, even as Phaenarete tended to the rapidly arriving babe. Phaenarete reported later that night that mother and child were both doing well.

Now on the final day it was the turn of the ill-fated Sisyphus , or as I was supposed to call it these days, The Corinthian Play. Many people had turned up for what everyone knew was going to be a disaster. They had probably come to enjoy the wreck.

All about the amphitheater, people shifted on their backsides and tried to pretend that no one could see them doing it. The anticipation of the play wasn’t enough to overcome the discomfort of the cold stone seats or, in the cheaper rows at the back, the temporary wooden benches.

I wished I could have gone to the very back, where the poorest people had to stand. But that would have been unthinkable. This was the Great Dionysia, the greatest arts festival of the greatest city in all the world, and a citizen of Athens has standards to maintain, whether he likes it or not.

So instead I sat on the hard stone bench beside Pythax. I noticed with some surprise that Pythax was developing a paunch. On this festival day he wore a formal chiton dyed in bright reds and greens and blues. I had to assume this was his wife’s idea, because Pythax was a man whose workday clothing was the leather armor of his guards. After work he invariably chose the sort of plain, simple chiton that was favored by the most conservative of citizens.

Yet throughout the Dionysia he had worn colored ribbons hung from his belt, and the bright chiton covered him from neck to ankles and wrist to wrist. A flowery Dionysiac wreath sat askew atop his meaty brow. The overall effect was to make him look like a giant walking flower. The only reason he didn’t appear out of place was that the rest of us looked like walking flowers too.