by J M Alvey
The first rehearsal wearing masks is always a test for a chorus, however well drilled they might be. Familiar moves become newly challenging, now that a singer’s hearing is muffled and his vision’s reduced to a narrow focus straight ahead. Since this chorus hadn’t even had four days of rehearsal, we might as well be starting again from scratch.
I had to focus on my own performance in a way I hadn’t needed to before. Wearing a mask means conveying your mood with gestures instead of expressions, stretching your whole body and lengthening your neck and arms. Extra care and effort is needed to control your breathing, and to project your voice clearly through the barrier of linen and plaster between you and the audience. All this comes as second nature to the likes of Menekles, Apollonides and Lysicrates, but it was several years since I’d last performed in a chorus. I’d forgotten how demanding it could be.
At least the need to concentrate took my mind off everything else going on down in Corinth today. Add to that, our singers had evidently performed in a theatre far more recently than me, and coped with the demands of wearing masks far better.
By lunchtime, we had mostly smoothed out our new missteps and stumbles. Fewer of the chorus were heading off to find food with each passing day. Everyone was keen to make the best use of our dwindling time before the performance. I spent the break discussing the finer points of the play’s different songs and dances with a succession of the Corinthian singers. It wasn’t until Telesilla arrived with a basket of food for me, Zosime and the actors that I was able to escape them.
‘Arion says Tromes has been asking questions among our neighbours’ slaves this morning,’ she said quietly as she handed me a cheese pastry.
‘Good.’ Last night’s distasteful pretence had been worthwhile. ‘Have you seen Kadous?’
She shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
So either everything was going to plan, or something had gone horribly wrong, and we would have no way of knowing until our sunset meeting out on the Sikyon road.
There was nothing I could do but turn all my attention to the afternoon’s rehearsal. As a result, I became so ferociously intent on the play that it took Hyanthidas interrupting a dance with an uncharacteristic squeak of his twin pipes’ reeds to break my concentration.
‘So sorry.’ Hyanthidas raised an apologetic hand.
Realising how late in the day it was, I called a halt. ‘Thank you, everyone. We’ve made excellent progress. Let’s continue tomorrow.’
I could only hope that we Athenians would be here tomorrow, and not locked up for defaming some noble Corinthian citizen, or for profaning a sacred site with our lies.
Chapter Fifteen
Hyanthidas made a swift departure, barely pausing to say his farewells. That was essential if our scheme was to succeed. He couldn’t be seen with us this evening. He mustn’t be seen heading out of the city. I could only trust his assurances that he knew how to lose anyone following him in Corinth’s back alleys. Though I couldn’t stop worrying that anyone working for our enemies would be just as well versed in the city’s byways.
For the moment, I didn’t think anyone in the chorus had even noticed the musician was gone. The singers were swapping observations and compliments as they returned their practise masks to Zosime. She thanked them politely as she stowed the battered and flaking caricatures back in their basket.
As the last Corinthian departed, she snapped her fingers to get my attention. ‘Notice anything?’
She smiled sunnily, turning her face this way and that. That would normally be my cue to admire a new belt or some jewellery adorning her dress, or to comment favourably on the way she’d pinned and curled her gorgeous, raven-black hair. Try as I might, I couldn’t see anything different. She looked exactly the same as she had this morning.
‘Not particularly,’ I said cautiously.
Her grin widened. ‘I’ve been sitting in here wearing one of The Builders’ masks all through your last two songs.’
‘Really?’ I stepped closer and ran my fingertips over her soft cheek, to convince myself my eyes weren’t lying. Truly, there was no trace of the hellebore’s venom searing her skin.
‘A layer of clay and the extra linen did the trick,’ she said with understandable satisfaction.
The actors had heard this good news.
‘That’s another head cut off the hydra, and the stump seared,’ Apollonides said.
‘Let’s go and deal with a few more.’ Lysicrates had a vengeful glint in his eye.
‘You are as wise as you are beautiful.’ I drew Zosime close and kissed her, long and deep. From dawn to dusk, in sunshine and in darkness, under the moon or beneath the stars, I hoped she would always see how utterly I adored her.
We locked up, Menekles returned the keys to the priestess, and we headed down the sloping road. Arion was waiting for us in the agora as previously arranged, sitting on the steps of the Peirene Fountain. I kissed Zosime again before entrusting her to his care. We’d agreed she’d be much better off with Telesilla if this evening ended with Perantas’ men tearing apart our lodging to search for some clue that might lead them to Tromes.
She kissed me back. ‘Good luck.’
We took the road that led past the theatre. I picked up the pace and the others fell into step with me. Once a soldier, always a soldier, in Athens or in Corinth or any other Hellenic city. I knew the actors and I were thinking the same, after so many frustrating days beset by enemies hiding in shadows and using other people to attack us. We all relished the prospect of meeting at least one of our opponents face to face. We might not have been wearing armour as we marched through that gate, but this was a fight we intended to win.
We passed out of the city proper and went by the burial ground where Eumelos had been laid to rest. I promised the guardians of the dead libations of oil and wine poured onto his grave, to console his restless spirit. I silently prayed to the gods below that we would learn who had murdered him before this night was out. Then the divine and fearsome Furies could pursue those villains through endless, sleepless nights until Corinthian justice exacted revenge on Eumelos’ behalf.
Some way further down the road, Apollonides interrupted my dark thoughts. ‘We’re not too late, are we? What if they’ve got there before us?’
We were passing smallholdings and scattered houses by now, and there were only a few other people on the road.
‘If they have, there’s nothing we can do about it.’ Lysicrates strode onwards faster all the same.
We soon arrived at the ruined temple, left alone amid a scatter of olive trees. The fire-scarred walls of the roofless inner sanctum were surrounded by blackened pillars, as broken and irregular as rotten teeth. The place had an ominous air as the dusk gathered around it.
‘What happened here?’ Menekles looked around, apprehensive.
‘I wonder whose temple this is.’ I couldn’t see any indication on the long-abandoned altar.
A voice made us all jump. ‘That depends on who you ask.’ Hyanthidas appeared from behind a gnarled and ancient tree. ‘Some say it was dedicated to Apollo, but Pyrros, son of Achilles, burned it down on his return from Troy, in revenge for the god killing his father. Others say it was a temple raised to Zeus, but a lightning bolt set it ablaze so he must have had some objection.’
Either way, this was an ill-omened place. I prayed fervently to both Zeus and Apollo that any misfortune lingering here would strike down our enemies, and not us. We had come to see justice served, and surely that deserved divine protection.
‘Let’s get out of sight,’ I suggested.
No one made a move towards the ruined sanctuary. Instead we found hiding places among the olive trees, within sight of each other, and of the road. Birds tweeted and flitted in the branches. A few darted down to the ground to snatch up some morsel. Others wheeled above us, plucking insects from the luminous evening sky.
Apollonides was standing beside me. He chewed his lower lip. ‘How long do we wait before we decide no one’s going to come?’
My stomach hollowed as I realised that was one possibility we hadn’t even discussed. We had been so certain that Tromes would take our bait, whatever he might do after that. I looked westwards to assess the sinking sun.
‘Who’s that?’ Menekles shifted to get a clearer view past his chosen tree.
‘Hard to say, at this distance.’ Hyanthidas sounded hopeful all the same. ‘Not the whole Council, obviously, but enough of them for our needs.’
Peering through the olive leaves, I saw a substantial group round a curve in the road. Broad-shouldered youths carrying vine staves flanked a knot of older men whose noble birth and civic dignity were suitably draped in voluminous cloaks.
‘I can see Perantas,’ Apollonides said quietly as the delegation drew closer.
I swallowed but my mouth was as dry as the scorched stones of the temple.
Hyanthidas had equally sharp eyes. ‘There’s Philolaos Kypselid.’
The Heirs of Hephaistos’ paymaster. I wondered if the man who financed the Sons of Heracles was among the approaching Councillors, still confident that his plot to poison our masks remained undetected.
I recognised a couple of the others, from that day when Hyanthidas and I were hauled before Philolaos’ selected members of the Council. Remembering the musician’s impromptu lie about going to Sikyon had sown the first seed of our plot. With that suspicion already planted, we could hope that sufficient Councilmen would insist on coming to see for themselves, once Tromes had reported to his paymaster and our unknown enemy had slandered us to all and sundry.
I breathed a prayer of thanks to Athena, to Apollo, to Zeus and any other deity inclined to look favourably upon us. Then I reminded myself that we still had to bring this scheme to fruition.
The Councillors were still walking along the road but their escort was beginning to spread out among the tamarisks and juniper bushes scattered on either side of the highway. A small group were advancing on the temple, clearly intent on getting a look inside the ruined sanctum within the pillars.
‘I’m not going to be hauled out to face them like some sneak thief.’ Lysicrates strode forward, forcing the rest of us to follow.
His instincts were sound. Our unexpected appearance knocked these new arrivals onto the back foot. The Council members shuffled uneasily while their henchmen rallied around them.
We walked forward to stand beside the abandoned altar. I was in the centre of our battle line, flanked by Menekles and Hyanthidas, and with Apollonides and Lysicrates poised on each wing.
Corinth’s elders warily advanced towards us. Their escort kept pace, their eyes darting from side to side in case we had allies hidden among the olive trees or lurking behind the ruined temple.
One of the Councilmen stepped forward as the rest halted. ‘Who else is here?’ he barked.
I recognised his bald head and weathered face. ‘No one,’ I said mildly.
‘Who were you expecting?’ Hyanthidas asked.
I searched the Councillors’ faces for any sign of surprise at seeing the musician. Whoever had heard Tromes’ tale today should be convinced that we were at each other’s throats. If they’d had someone spying on us this afternoon, they’d know Hyanthidas had gone straight home. They should have no reason to think he’d slipped out again, climbing over his neighbour’s walls to depart unobserved.
Philolaos Kypselid’s expression betrayed him. So this was the man who thought it was his birthright to rule Corinth. I sincerely hoped this day’s work would hole that ambition below the waterline, as well as frustrating his immediate plans to stop our performance.
He glared at Hyanthidas with barely suppressed fury. When he saw my grin, he spun around, beckoning to a heavyset minion. It looked as if he was about to leave. I wasn’t having that.
I raised my voice. ‘You were expecting to find us negotiating with men from Sikyon, perhaps?’
If the stocky man hadn’t betrayed himself with a glance over his shoulder, the way the other Council members looked at him would have told us what we wanted to know.
‘Honoured sir,’ I addressed the leather-faced man. ‘We never had any such intention, as you can see—’
‘The Sikyonians must have already come and gone.’ Philolaos Kypselid wasn’t beaten yet. He gestured away down the road. ‘These Athenians must have proved too greedy, asking a price they were unwilling to meet.’
I ignored him, keeping my gaze fixed on the bald Councilman. ‘By all means, ask your business partners and trusted friends in Sikyon. They won’t have heard so much as a whisper on the wind of us insulting your city so crassly.’
The weather-beaten man narrowed his eyes, as suspicious of me as anyone else here. ‘Then what is the purpose of this farce, dragging us out here?’
‘We have had a spy in our midst,’ I said bluntly. ‘He has been serving another master, one who wanted to put an end to our play. That man is out to serve his own interests, with no thought for the greater good of Corinth. He’s a man heedless of your city’s peace and prosperity. We have brought you here to unmask him.’
Perhaps I was exaggerating. A play can offer great insights alongside its entertainment, encouraging the audience towards moral and upright behaviour, and comedies can do that just as effectively, if not more so, than blood-soaked tragedies, whatever the gore-peddlers claim. But I grant you, sealing a city’s fate is a lot to ask of any drama.
That didn’t matter, out here on the Sikyon road. These Corinthian elders were looking at Philolaos with increasing suspicion and anger. I must find time to ask Hyanthidas what the Kypselid had done in the past to make these men so ready to believe his bad faith. For now though, I’d paused long enough.
‘He is willing to entice another man’s slave to serve him, whether through threats of violence or the lure of silver, I cannot say.’ I shrugged before addressing Perantas Bacchiad for the first time. ‘The only person we gave any reason to believe that we would dishonour you by abandoning our performance in Corinth is your slave Tromes. Believe me, it grieves me to tell you he is the only person who could have carried word to whoever made these accusations to bring you here.’
The flash of utter fury in Perantas’ eyes came and went as swiftly as lightning. The contemptuous expressions of the assembled elders were more eloquent. Those standing closest to Philolaos edged away from him with sideways glances of disgust.
He glared at me, red-faced and irate in the fading light. Though I only saw his anger at being tricked. There was no hint of regret for what he’d done.
‘You dare accuse me, Athenian?’ He spat on the ground. ‘Bring your proof before a full session of Corinth’s Council, you scum! I will see you beggared—’
‘You will see yourself censured if this ever comes before the whole Council,’ snarled a man I didn’t recognise. ‘If you’re not subject to worse retribution for humiliating us all like this. Your own words condemn you, fool.’
He waved a hand as though he wished he could wipe away the very sight of Philolaos. He turned for the road, shoving someone’s hesitating henchman aside. ‘Out of my way!’
Our unknown ally’s departure prompted the rest to follow him as hastily as sheep hurrying after their bellwether. That left Philolaos Kypselid standing and glaring at me with his fists clenched. He was surrounded by ten or more burly men armed with vine staves. These must be the self-declared Heirs of Hephaistos.
Perantas Bacchiad hadn’t moved either, and familiar figures flanked him. Thettalos and a dozen or so of his Brotherhood looked delighted at the prospect of a bloody brawl. Several had already unbuckled their belts, threading the leather through their hands, or winding the straps around their knuckles.
Wasn’t that marvellous? All our subterfuge would be wasted if the day ended
with broken bones and split heads littering the ruined temple, convincing the Council that our play was more trouble than it was worth. The Kypselid might still get his way, if he was prepared to shed enough of his henchmen’s blood.
Perantas strode forward to demand Philolaos’ attention. ‘Don’t. Just don’t.’
Whatever the Kypselid was contemplating, the struggle was plain on his face. A few tense moments later, his shoulders slumped and he settled for sneering at us before turning towards the road.
Thettalos and the Brothers watched the Heirs go, as alert as dogs seeing unwelcome visitors safely away across their master’s threshold.
As I breathed a quiet sigh of relief, I realised Perantas was looking at me, his expression unreadable.
I walked forward to meet him, to try and steer the conversation. ‘Can we hope that Philolaos will draw in his horns, at least until we’ve performed the play?’
‘Where is Tromes?’ Perantas hissed, venomous.
‘I have no idea.’ I was close enough to the desolate altar to lay a hand on the weathered stones. ‘I swear it, by Apollo and by Zeus and any other god here present.’
That was absolutely true. I had no way of knowing for certain whether the next act of our plan had succeeded.
Chapter Sixteen
I was telling Perantas the truth, though not the whole truth. I couldn’t tell if he suspected some deceit.
He looked at me, contemplative, for a few long moments. ‘Let’s hope this evening’s little performance sees an end to such nonsense, and we can all enjoy the play.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ I agreed, ‘though we’d be foolish to be complacent. Our storerooms should still be guarded until we’ve had our day in your theatre.’
