by Gary Corby
The doctor said, “As long as his leg isn’t allowed to move, the two ends will stay joined. They might even heal, if he stays immobile for long enough, and if he’s lucky.”
“That’s why you have the machine,” I said.
“Yes.”
The doctor pushed the flaps of torn skin back over the wound. He took up a sewing needle and thread and then, to my astonishment, sewed the skin together as if he was a woman sewing clothes. Of all the sights I’d seen, this for some reason turned my stomach the most; even more than the shattered bone exposed.
Melpon gave the thread a final tug. Then he bandaged the lot.
Throughout this I strained at the wheel.
“Can I let go?” I asked.
“No!”
Melpon hurried to my end. He inspected the wheel. He placed a chock so that it could not turn. He took chains from the floor and anchored them to the wheel. He tested these with great care before he said, “Now you can let go.”
I did, and the wheel didn’t move. The chock and the chains held it in place. Melpon didn’t have the most inspiring manner, but I had to admit he knew his business.
“The two ends of bone must remain close together,” Melpon explained. “If they do, there’s a chance they will heal back together. But for that to happen they must be held in place. Only the machine can do that.”
“It’s like an instrument of torture,” I said, gazing at the ropes and pulleys.
“You’re not the first person to suggest it,” the doctor said. “Most of my patients say the same thing after they’ve been released.”
“So this machine has worked before?” I said.
“Of course.”
It was ironic that one machine had hurt Phellis so badly, and another was going to heal him. These machines seemed like strange things.
“How long must he stay there?” I asked. “A few days?”
“Oh, he’ll have to stay for the next month,” the doctor said, matter-of-fact. “The only way this man has any hope of walking again is if we keep him immobile. Sometimes the bones heal back together. Sometimes they don’t.” He shrugged. “As I said, it lies with the Gods, and the flesh-eating illness might still get him, and even if he does heal, I guarantee this leg will come out shorter than the other one. Of course, that’s assuming he has the money to pay for the machine.”
“What?” I said, confused. “What does money have to do with this?”
The doctor pointed to his convoluted stretching device. “While your man is in this machine, no one else can use it. This is the only one in Athens. If a rich man needs it, I’ll have to swap them over.”
To our combined looks of stunned contempt, the doctor held up his hands and said defensively, “Look, I’ll keep Phellis in there as long as I can, but if someone else comes by with another broken leg—someone who can pay—then your friend’s got a problem.”
“You could build another machine,” Diotima said coldly.
“Using what for money?” the doctor asked. “These things are expensive. After I’ve paid all my costs, I barely have enough to support my family. Lady, I don’t have the money to build another.”
I looked about the comfortable house in which we stood. The courtyard was spacious. But a doctor in a shabby, poor house wouldn’t inspire confidence. His furnishings were modest, but he had a lot of children.
“You’ll get the money,” I said.
Diotima looked at me in surprise. She knew what I knew. We didn’t have such wealth.
“Very well then,” the doctor said. “Your friend stays in the machine if the money arrives. I’ll expect to see you later.”
SCENE 9
THE TRITAGONIST
“WHERE ARE WE going to find the money to help Phellis?” Diotima asked, as we returned to the theater. “We don’t even have enough money to fix the house.”
“Maybe Phellis is rich,” I said. “Perhaps he doesn’t need help.”
Diotima laughed. “You said it yourself. He’s an actor.”
“Or maybe the choregos will provide it,” I added. “After all, Phellis was injured while working for him.”
“Maybe,” Diotima said, in a tone that told me what she thought of that idea.
“Well we couldn’t leave Phellis to be discarded in the street, could we?” I said.
“No, we couldn’t, Nico, you’re right,” Diotima conceded. “Let’s ask Sophocles what he thinks.”
We arrived back at the theater in time for the end of an argument. The crew was still bickering over the failure of the god machine. Everyone stared malevolently at the stage manager.
They turned as we entered.
“How is he?” Sophocles asked at once.
I told them what the doctor had said of Phellis and his prognosis, that he would be a cripple for the rest of his life. If he lived.
The stage manager buried his head in his hands at these words. Sophocles merely nodded. Others of the crew mentioned the ghost.
“No ghost,” I told them. I held up the metal ring, which I’d taken with me. “This is the ring that held the harness to the rope. It was tampered with.”
“I told you,” said Kiron.
I nodded. “Kiron said as much when the slave found the ring. I looked, and he’s right. A segment of the ring snapped off when Phellis was in the air. But if you look carefully at the broken ends, you can see where they’ve been filed halfway through.”
That news was greeted with silence and obvious skepticism by the entire crew.
“Ghosts don’t use a metal file,” I added.
Someone muttered something about the ghost being real, unlike fanciful stories of metal files.
A long pause ensued. Then Lakon asked, “Where do we go from here, Sophocles? I suppose we replace Phellis?”
“Yes,” Sophocles said.
The crew exclaimed.
“You can’t be serious,” I said, astonished. “We have incontrovertible proof that someone is setting dangerous traps. One of you tripped over the broom—Romanos, wasn’t it?—someone poisoned the water, someone made the floor slippery. Now Phellis is crippled. You can’t continue until we catch whoever is doing this.”
Lakon answered. He said, “This is the biggest show any of us will ever play. Would you turn away from the most important job of your life?”
“No, of course not,” I said.
“Nor will I.” Lakon paused, then added, “Besides, think of the shame to Athens if we behave like cowards. We cannot abandon.”
Lakon spoke with the conviction of an actor who believed his lines. Even the crew seemed moved, who only moments ago had muttered about the ghost. Every man present had at one time or another stood in the line of battle for this city. Not one of them wanted to be called a coward by his fellow citizens. I saw several heads nod.
Sophocles saw his chance to strike. “Lakon is right,” the playwright said. “Our duty to the God and to Athens is clear. We must recast. We can’t win the contest—not now—no actor could learn the lines in the two days we have left—but we must try.”
Lakon glanced at Romanos, with an expression of calculation. Then he said with authority, “I know casting is your decision, Sophocles, but I have a suggestion.”
“Yes?” Sophocles said. “Speak up, Lakon. I’ll hear any idea that gives us a chance.”
“Then hear me now. You should cast Romanos as second actor. If you do, we can still win.”
Every head turned to Romanos. The younger actor stared at Lakon in surprise. He said, “Me?”
“Why? How?” The stage manager asked the two questions the rest of us were thinking.
“Romanos knows the second actor’s lines,” Lakon said. “I heard him once when we were practicing.”
“Is this true?” Sophocles asked.
Romanos said, “Lakon flatters me, but it’s true that I know the second actor’s part. If it will save the play, I’ll do my best.”
Sophocles shook his head. “I admire your willingness, Romano
s, but that would only leave us with two actors forced to learn new lines in a hurry. You know your own lines so well, Romanos. I cannot credit you know the second actor’s part as well.”
“As it happens, Sophocles, yes I do.”
Romanos began to speak the second actor’s lines. He spoke quickly, but confidently, and he didn’t stumble. In fact, it seemed to me that Romanos spoke the lines better than Phellis himself had during the rehearsal.
Sophocles looked impressed.
“I didn’t know you had those lines so well. How do you come to have another actor’s part?” the writer asked.
“Phellis spoke them. I have an excellent memory.” Romanos made an attempt to look modest. He failed. Instead he looked confident.
Lakon said, “The third actor is easier to replace, is he not?”
We remained silent while Sophocles considered.
“Lakon’s plan is a good one,” Sophocles said after a long pause.
Heads nodded all about the theater.
Sophocles saw agreement. He said, “Then here is our plan. Romanos becomes the second actor. We replace his third actor role with a quick study. And if Dionysos grants us favor then we still have a chance. I must see Thodis the choregos for his approval—it’s his money we’re spending, after all—but he’ll agree. Thodis no more wants to bring shame to Athens than do we. Perhaps he’ll also know of a third actor we can hire on short notice.”
Lakon snorted. “All the good ones have already been hired.”
That made sense, even to me. Anyone not already cast in one of the tragedies or the comedies must have been judged second rate by experts. The glum looks of the stage manager and his crew told me they agreed.
“Does anyone know of a good actor who’s free?” Sophocles asked the assembly.
Silence.
Then Romanos raised his hand, hesitantly.
“I might know of someone,” Romanos said. “He’s a good actor.”
I could hear the “But” in his voice. So could everyone else.
“But?” Sophocles prompted.
“Well sir, he’s never played in an Athenian theater.” Romanos said it hesitantly.
Almost everyone looked dubious. I could understand their reaction. A man who had never worked the world’s most important theater was hardly the man to walk into this crisis.
“What’s his name? Do you vouch for him?” Sophocles asked.
“He’s called Kebris. He’s not protagonist material, sir,” Romanos said. “Kebris spent his life as a touring player, going from town to town.” He spoke almost apologetically. “I worked with him once. He’s very quick to learn lines. Well, you have to be, on tour. You all know that. He’s not the world’s best actor, sir, but he’s reliable.”
Sophocles smiled ruefully. “My first actor chooses my second, and my second chooses my third. I’m fairly sure that’s not the way things are usually done. Well, reliable is what we need around here. All right, as long as your friend can stand and deliver lines, he’s in.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Maybe we can survive this disaster after all.”
SCENE 10
THIS IS BECOMING A HABIT
MEN SCATTERED IN all directions. The crew moved to repair the machine and also, at Kiron’s stern command, to check everything in the theater all over again, to make sure all was in order. Akamas muttered darkly that he’d lost track of how many times they’d done that in the last few days, and yet still men were being hurt.
Sophocles and Romanos departed to interview the actor Romanos had recommended.
Diotima and I walked over to Kiron after he finished barking out orders. He stood there with hands on hips, glaring at the working buzzing about him.
I said, “Kiron? We need to know, did anything unusual happen when Phellis was attached to the machine?”
“Akamas does that job,” Kiron said. He waved to the stagehand. Akamas sauntered over, wiping his grimy hands on his tunic. I was struck by what a large and strong-looking man he was. The cloth of his exomis bulged slightly over a belt made of rope. Akamas was a man who didn’t miss meals. I repeated my question.
Akamas said, “I reach down the back of the actor’s neck for the leather strip. I pull it up and clip on the rope. That’s it. And before you suggest it, I didn’t make any mistake with Phellis.”
“So everything was the same as normal?”
“Yeah, just like any actor, except when Phellis goes on as Thanatos I got to put the noose around his neck.”
I’d forgotten about the noose. “That’s a good point. Wouldn’t Thanatos choke to death on the noose?”
“Funnily enough, we thought of that,” said Kiron. “The noose is loose. It looks like solid rope—it is solid rope—but the rope that makes up the noose doesn’t go anywhere. See here …”
Kiron held up the noose for Diotima and me to inspect. The noose ended only a few hand lengths from its loop. Thin threads had been sewn and looped around the thicker rope. The threads had clearly been torn apart.
Kiron said, “The noose is attached to the rope of the machine with only this thin piece of sewing thread. We bind it carefully to make it look like one piece from afar.”
“I see,” said Diotima. “When Phellis fell, the sewing thread broke. That was all that held the noose in place. It fell with him. That’s why he didn’t strangle.”
Kiron dismissed Akamas back to his work, then beckoned Diotima and me to follow him. “There’s something you ought to see,” he said.
We followed him to the wall that backed the stage. Kiron gestured at the scene on the skene. “What do you think of it?”
The skene had been painted to portray the city of Corinth. In the middle was an agora. Tiny figures were going about their business. Buildings surrounded the market. The buildings became smaller the further they were from the agora, so that it was like looking down on the city from a high place. Off to the side was the Acrocorinth, a high hill fort like our Acropolis. Everything was painted in bright, vibrant colors.
“Ah, it looks very nice,” I said. I wasn’t sure what Kiron expected of me.
“Look here.” He pointed at one of the figures in the agora. “See this one?”
I peered closely. So did Diotima. The tiny figure wasn’t upright. It seemed to be flying across a brown line, or about to sprawl on the ground.
Diotima said, puzzled, “Is that a picture of someone tripping?”
“I think it is,” Kiron said. “And see this?” He traced the thin brown line that I’d noticed. “There’s a tiny dab of light yellow paint at the end of this line. I think it’s supposed to be a broom.”
A man tripping over a broom, like happened to Romanos.
“It has to be a coincidence,” I said.
“That’s what I thought. Then, after the incident of poisoned water, I looked again. I noticed this …”
Kiron’s finger traced the outline of one of the stalls in the agora. It showed a typical wine vendor. Men stood about drinking from cups.
Amongst the crowd, one man was doubled over. He appeared to be vomiting.
“He wouldn’t be the first man to throw up after drinking too much,” I said.
“But painting it for decoration?” Diotima said in disbelief.
She clearly hadn’t been to the same parties I had. Among my acquaintances were several with party-ware decorated with the figures of men who had drunk too much of the bounty of Dionysos. I recalled one particularly detailed decoration on a wine cup, of a slave girl holding up a bowl while a man vomited into it.
I made a mental note never to introduce my wife to that particular friend.
I said, “The point Kiron’s making is that the figures in the skene painting seem to presage the accidents at the theater.”
“Or maybe they were drawn in afterward?” Diotima suggested. She looked to Kiron. “Do you know? Were the figures there before the accidents?”
Kiron shrugged. “I didn’t notice them until afterward. But then, I wouldn’t, would I? A
s your husband says, they’re not so remarkable on their own.”
Diotima looked closely at the figure of the man throwing up. She shook her head “I can’t tell if he was painted in later. Maybe an expert could tell.”
“There’s something else,” Kiron said. He looked worried. “After you left with Phellis, while everyone around here was arguing, I had a close look at the skene. And …”
He pointed at a spot below the Acrocorinth. “Right here, see this building? It was always there, but I never noticed before how much it resembles a theater.”
Diotima and I leaned forward. It did indeed look like a theater, and in the middle, on what would be the stage—
Diotima gasped.
I turned to Kiron.
“I’ll swear it wasn’t there before,” he said. “I’ll swear it.”
In the middle of the theater upon the skene wall was the god machine. And falling from it was the tiny figure of a man.
“What do you think?” Kiron asked.
“I think we need to speak to the artist,” I said. “Who painted your scenery?”
“Stephanos of Vitale. Everyone uses him.”
“Vitale? Where’s that?”
“Some place among the islands of the Cyclades, I think. He’s a metic.”
Athens is full of metics. Their numbers increase every year as people from poorer cities flood in to enjoy our wealth and success.
Kiron told us where to find this Stephanos. The artist lived in Outer Ceramicus. It was one of those places where rich and poor mingled together. We arrived at his home—a small artisan’s house, neat and tidy—only to be told by the house slave that Stephanos wasn’t in. He was painting a mural for a client at a house close to where my family lived … in the exact opposite direction, back past the theater.
As we walked all the way back I realized, too late, that I should have sent a runner ahead to inquire if Stephanos was in. But then, knowing the way my luck ran, if I had sent the runner, he would have returned to say Stephanos was at home and I would have wasted my time waiting.
We finally found Stephanos at work in a house in the deme of Agryle. There was no trouble getting in to see him. The front door was wide open. Tradesmen streamed in and out with their tools and materials in hand.
