Gary Corby: Death Ex Machina

“Extra rehearsals,” Sophocles said. He sweated freely. “Also every morning and evening for the next three days I’ll be sacrificing to Dionysos. A little divine intervention wouldn’t hurt at this stage.” He clapped his hands. “Onwards!” he announced to the actors.

Two men appeared, one from each side of the stage. The first wore a tragic mask and kingly robes threaded in gold. The second wore the mask of a supplicant and a bright formal chiton. The first I guessed must be Lakon, playing Sisyphus. The second must be Phellis. Beneath the masks and robes it was impossible to recognize them, though I had seen both actors only moments before. They must have changed clothes and masks in an instant. Each character announced who he was in his first lines-I had guessed correctly-and the play went on. Both actors stumbled over words from time to time and Sophocles had to prompt them.

“I wasn’t joking about the chains, Pythax,” I said quietly, as the actors declaimed their lines. “Wait and see what happens in the play. Sisyphus tricks the god of death into chaining himself. Thanatos escapes, eventually, and when he does he carries Sisyphus off to Hades. That’s the first time he dies.”

“The first ?”

“Sisyphus talks the Queen of the Underworld into letting him come back to Earth. He says he has to arrange his own funeral.”

“And she believed that, did she?”

“Apparently so. Then Sisyphus refuses to return to Hades. Eventually Zeus, the king of the Gods, gets tired of all the mistakes. That’s when Sisyphus dies for the second time. Zeus personally carts Sisyphus off to Hades and arranges the boulder scheme.”

The play went as I’d outlined to Pythax. Sisyphus the crafty king of Corinth managed to offend everyone. When Zeus had had enough, he sent Thanatos to collect the miscreant king.

The god of death was about to descend from Mount Olympus.

In the background, the long arm of the machine rose. It was painted to match the background. The rope that hung below had been painted sky blue; it was almost invisible in the daylight.

The God appeared above the skene, suspended from the machine. I gasped.

I’d expected Thanatos to be a shining, fearsome god, but Sophocles had done something else, something quite innovative. Sophocles had given the god of death the appearance of a corpse. The actor seemed to hang from a noose. His neck was slumped over at an odd angle. His body was flaccid.

I’d seen men hanged, and this was so like the real thing that I could have sworn a corpse had risen. Diotima grabbed my arm.

The dangling corpse crossed over the skene into the air above the stage.

The neck, which I could have sworn was snapped, suddenly jerked up. The eyes within the mask opened. They stared at us. First at Diotima and Pythax and me, for that was how he faced. Then the direction of his gaze lowered until he saw the playwright. He opened his mouth to speak.

“Sophocles, this harness hurts like Hades,” the god of death complained. “There’s something wrong with it.”

“You only wear it for a few moments, Phellis,” Sophocles said in patient, soothing tones. He was obviously used to dealing with actors. “You’re a professional. You can do it.”

For a moment there they’d had me completely fooled. The actors might be behind on their lines, but if this was to be the standard of the play, it might very well win the contest.

“It doesn’t feel right, Sophocles,” Phellis said. “I honestly think something’s wrong with the harness.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” the stage manager shouted. “I made that harness myself.”

“I’m sorry, Kiron, but there is,” Phellis shouted back. “The harness is pressing under my armpits, and it’s not in the right position at my back. Look!”

Phellis twisted to show those of us on the ground what he meant.

At that moment, we all heard a loud snap.

The god of death hung in mid-air. Then he fell.

Phellis screamed.

The bone had broken through the skin of his right leg. It poked out at an unsightly angle. He lay crumpled upon the stage where he had hit feet first. Phellis wanted to roll, but he couldn’t because of the leg. He was reduced to rocking back and forth in agony.

“Hold him down!” the stage manager shouted. He’d heard the thud of the falling body and emerged from behind to see what had gone wrong.

Pythax, Diotima, and I rushed to the middle of the stage. Lakon stood there in shock.

Pythax used his immense strength to hold down Phellis.

I said, “Diotima, that poppy juice you fed to the goat, is there any left over?”

Diotima nodded. She ran to the backstage area to collect the bag she brought with her.

Sophocles stood over us. He had gone dead white.

The stage manager said, “I don’t understand it. The harness was perfect.” He sounded stricken.

Diotima returned with her pouch. From it she produced a flask that was half full. Phellis had reduced himself to sobbing. Diotima poured all the poppy juice she had into Phellis while the stage manager and I inspected the rope that dangled from the machine.

Kiron said, “There should be a metal ring. It goes through the loop of leather strap on the actor’s harness.”

Indeed there was no ring. Nor was it still attached to the harness. I said, “Where is it?”

One of the slaves pointed at the ground, a few paces from the stage. “Here it is!”

There lay a metal ring, of the sort you might see in a boat, through which lines could be run.

I picked it up. The metal on one side had broken away. The leather strap must have fallen through the gap. No wonder Phellis had fallen.

I held it up to show the stage manager.

“Let me see that.” He snatched it from my hand, turned it this way and that. “This has been filed,” he said.

“You’re only saying that to avoid responsibility for your incompetence,” said the third actor. He had joined us as we searched.

“That’s not true, Romanos,” said the stage manager angrily. “I checked everything personally.”

Romanos snorted. “A likely story.” He pointed at the machine. “Any one of us could have been up there when that thing snapped.” Then he pointed at the shattered leg of Phellis. “That could have been me!”

I took back the ring. I held it this way and that, and stared at it closely. There were striations that, had I seen them on marble in my father’s workshop, I would have said was the work of a hard metal file.

I said, “This is evidence.”

“Evidence of what?” the stage manager demanded.

“I don’t know yet.”

Diotima had finished feeding poppy juice to Phellis. He lay quieter, but his terrible wound was still there.

Diotima asked, “Where’s the nearest doctor?”

“I know of one,” said Kiron. “There’s a healer who lives in Collytus.”

That was the deme directly south of us.

“They say he’s very good,” Kiron added.

He would need to be.

“Take us there,” I said.

Kiron gave instructions to a slave, who nodded. That slave and another lifted Phellis, who rose from his stupor to scream again when his shattered leg was grabbed by thigh and calf. But there was nothing else the slave could have done. The leg couldn’t be left to dangle while they carried him.

The slaves struggled to carry the actor to the nearby doctor, who people said was good. Phellis passed out on the way.

“Will he live?” I asked.

“How in Hades should I know?” the doctor said testily.

We had been admitted to the doctor at once. He kept a large house in a busy street. The house slave opened the door to my insistent knocking. The first thing we saw within were twelve children playing together in the open courtyard. Six boys and six girls of different sizes. They took no notice of strangers carrying a wounded man.