by Gary Corby
Zeus, or Apollo, or Dionysos, or whichever god had caused this rain, it was like he had an Olympus-sized bucket and had turned it upside down over Athens.
I said as much to Diotima. She considered the downpour for a moment and said, “The amount of water that’s coming down, I think it must be Poseidon.”
“We could stay here for the night?” I suggested.
Diotima hesitated. “I’d rather not …”
This old house had some terrible memories for Diotima. That was the other reason we didn’t live here.
“Then we run for home.”
We ran.
It was immediately obvious that this was a bad idea. Diotima tripped over her chiton and landed face first in the mud. She was still wearing the bright Dionysiac festival chiton that she planned to wear throughout the festival. The material covered her arms to the wrists and her legs to the ankles, and that was her downfall. She picked herself up at once and I wiped her down. The rain helped by washing off a lot of the street muck.
Diotima lifted the skirt of her chiton. Together we splashed our way to the agora.
We were so saturated now that it didn’t matter, but the rain was unpleasant enough that we wanted to get out of it.
As we hurried, we passed by people who also looked for shelter. Most of them did the same thing we did. We ran up the steps of the nearest stoa, the covered, colonnaded porticoes that surrounded the agora of Athens. This stoa was already crowded with people sheltering from the rain. We didn’t let that stop us, we pushed our way in.
“This is the curse of Dionysos,” an anonymous man amongst us said.
It had become surprisingly cold. The chilly wind didn’t help. Other men, new arrivals, all soaked, tried to make their way under cover, but there was no more room and the men on the outer edge pushed away the latecomers. Diotima and I had wriggled our way to the middle where the mass of bodies created some warmth and our clothing began to steam. I put my arm around Diotima to make it clear she was my wife, so that no man thought to grope her. An Athenian would never take liberties with another man’s wife—not if he wanted to live—but if there were any slave girls in this press of people then they were probably getting more attention than they wanted. Come to that though, no slave girl would risk the wrath of her mistress by tarrying under cover. She would run for home.
We stood like that for a long time. I thought about our farm. There was nothing I could do about the olive trees—either the fruit would drop too early in the wet or it wouldn’t—but I hoped the slave we left to mind the farm would at least make sure the chickens were safely in the henhouse.
Another man raced across the agora, coming from the south, head down and hands raised in an ineffectual shield against the downpour.
He saw the crush under the stoa and that there was no more room but he shouted. “Make way!”
He didn’t stop to see if anyone made way. He ran in.
Men moved back because they had no choice.
The new arrival raised his head. It was Romanos.
He shook his hair, which was unnaturally long. Droplets sprayed the men beside him. That caused more complaints, though these were perfunctory since we were all damp anyway.
Romanos caught my eye. I waved to him, and motioned for him to join us. The actor pushed his way through with polite, muttered apologies.
“What are you doing out in this weather?” I asked him.
“I was at the theater,” he said. “I was rehearsing the new third actor in his lines.”
“Isn’t that Sophocles’s job?” Diotima asked.
Romanos shrugged. “Our director and playwright is a busy man, and it was I who recommended Kebris. I feel responsible. Besides, I know the lines better than anyone, even better than Sophocles, perhaps, since I’ve practiced their delivery.”
“How’s Kebris working out?”
“Very well indeed. I am confident.”
I could only admire his dedication. I said as much to him.
“I do what I can,” he said modestly. “And I got drenched for my effort. There’s no shelter at the theater. Kebris ran the other way to his home. I ran this way to mine.”
“You came to Athens to be an actor, didn’t you? You’re not from here.”
“I come from Phrygia. It’s a very rustic place. You wouldn’t know what it’s like. You two grew up in Athens, the most sophisticated city in the world.”
“Diotima and I have been to Ionia,” I told him. Ionia is the province next to Phrygia and, though the city of Ephesus on the coast was the height of civilization, when you got into the back country it was endless farms and tiny villages.
“Then perhaps you do know what it’s like,” he said. “There’s no work there for an actor. Most people barely know that plays exist. Or if they do, they think it’s a child’s game, not fit for adults.”
“How did you discover acting, may I ask?” said Diotima.
“A mime came to our village one day. He danced out a story while his wife played the flute. The people in my village laughed and threw him a few coins, but I followed the whole story and was entranced. From that day on, all I wanted was to tell stories too.”
“Acting seems a difficult profession,” I said. “What do you do when you don’t have work?”
“What do you do when you don’t have work?” he countered.
It was a good point.
“So no plans to return to Phrygia?” I said.
Romanos laughed.
I tried to estimate the age of Romanos, but it wasn’t easy. He was one of those men who could be an old-looking twenty-five or a young-looking thirty-five. There were lines of experience about his eyes, but I guessed that he’d had a hard life and he could have acquired those at an early age.
Romanos looked out from our shelter, into the pouring rain.
He said, “I would like to be a citizen of Athens one day.”
That made sense to me. Who wouldn’t want to be a citizen of Athens? Yet Phrygia was a long way away, and I couldn’t imagine a man willing to abandon his homeland without a good reason.
I asked, “Would it help you?”
Romanos looked surprised. “Of course it would. Citizens get all the best parts.”
“You’re second actor now,” I pointed out.
“Because Phellis had his accident.” Romanos frowned. “And before that I was only third actor because Aeschylus and Chorilos had already snapped up the two best third actors who happen to be citizens.”
“Sophocles seems to like you,” Diotima said. “I heard him say Romanos is a good actor.”
Romanos said in a harsh voice, “Romanos is the man Sophocles calls for when he’s run out of other good options.” Then he shrugged, an actor’s expressive shrug of despair. He said, “The fact is, if I’m to get ahead in my profession, then I must become a citizen.”
“My father became a citizen,” Diotima said. “And he used to be a slave.”
“He was? He did?” Romanos looked down at Diotima in some surprise. “How? How did he do it?”
“Through his enormous merit,” I said. Because I was proud to be the son-in-law of Pythax, though some might call him a barbarian.
Romanos said, “Your father is that impressively large barbarian whom I saw with you, once or twice at the theater?”
“Yes.”
“What did a barbarian do to deserve such elevation?”
“Have you noticed how little crime there is on the streets of Athens?” I asked.
Romanos thought about it. “Now that you mention it, Athens does seem safer than most cities.”
“You have Pythax to thank for that,” I said.
“Oh, I see.”
Romanos questioned Diotima closely as to how Pythax had come by his citizenship. What the process had been and whether anyone had objected. It was an odd place for such a conversation, the three of us all facing each other, squeezed together, other men pressed against us in every direction. But the sound of the rain was loud in o
ur ears; from where it bounced off the tile slate roof above our heads, I could barely hear the words of the men talking right next to us. Our conversation was essentially private.
Pythax had been made a citizen by acclamation of the ecclesia, the Assembly of the People of Athens. When Diotima explained this to Romanos, he looked despondent and said that no assembly of citizens would ever vote for him to join their number.
“Is that really so, Romanos?” I said. “You’ve been a great help to Sophocles. You’ve become instrumental in saving the Dionysia. If men see that you do great service to Athens, might they not think you also worthy of citizenship?”
He brightened. “Yes, I suppose that is possible. I wonder who might sponsor me for citizenship?” He went into a reverie, no doubt contemplating his future, and said little else.
THE MOON WAS high in the sky by the time the rain slackened and a few gaps in the clouds appeared. Men scattered from under cover like ants from a nest. It was very late when Diotima and I made it home, so late that my parents and even the slaves had gone to bed, leaving only one slave awake to open the door for us. This he did, grumpily pointing out how late it was, then he too shuffled off to his bed out the back.
Our clothes were a disaster. We dropped them on the floor by the door. It was too dark to do anything else. This left us naked, standing at the front of the house, with Socrates snoring not twenty paces away.
We tiptoed up to the women’s quarters, where Diotima had a private bedroom. When Diotima had joined the family I’d built her a separate room so that she and my mother would have some privacy from each other.
We closed the door behind us.
“There’s no point waking your mother for some ointment,” Diotima said. “The rain will have cleaned the bite anyway … but perhaps some light massage.”
“Good idea.”
Diotima felt below.
“Nico, it’s swollen from the bite.”
“Diotima, that swelling is for a different reason.”
She felt again.
“Oh, so it is.”
She dragged me down onto the bed.
SCENE 11
CROWDED HOUSE
DIOTIMA AND I had barely slept, but for all that we felt refreshed. We ate a hearty breakfast, of yesterday’s bread dipped in wine, lentils and eggs from our farm. The eggs were a luxury few could afford. The whole family was present: my father and mother and Socrates, who was still puzzling over the machine.
Socrates had reached the age where he ate everything he could grab, and then some. As he filled his bowl with third helpings he demanded that we tell him what had happened at the theater. Diotima brought him up to date.
Our father, Sophroniscus, listened to Diotima without comment. He had eaten sparingly of his bread and wine. I was happy to see he popped half an egg into his mouth, and then the other half.
My father had never become reconciled to my chosen profession—he had wanted me to follow in his footsteps—and yet it was my work that had brought the farm into the family, small though it was. It pleased me that he enjoyed its produce.
Thought of this raised another point to mind.
“Father, we have a problem,” I said. “There are mice in Diotima’s house.”
“Find a cat,” he said absently. I could tell he wasn’t paying attention. In his mind he was probably planning his day’s work.
“They’re in the roof.”
That made him look up. He knew what mice in the thatching meant.
I detailed the extent of the damage.
“We will have to sell the house,” my father said.
I glanced at Diotima. She looked studiously down at her bowl.
“I’d rather not, sir,” I said, somewhat hesitantly. Father had not been keen for me to marry Diotima in the first place. Having won that major battle and installed her in my life, I hesitated to antagonize my father over a lesser disagreement.
Sophroniscus put down his bowl. “Son, I know you like the place, but a house that doesn’t pay, that we don’t need, that’s costing us money … it’s a drain on the household finances. I’m sure you understand. That old house needs a lot of maintenance, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but—”
“I know you’ve tried to make it pay,” he said. “The renting scheme was a good idea—”
“Yes, but—”
“But it hasn’t worked out, has it?”
“No, but—”
“Sometimes the best thing to do is accept a defeat and move on. You’ve done well with this career of yours, I admit it. I’m proud of you.”
Father was being reasonable. I hated that.
For so long as he lived, my father was responsible for our family, and I was a child in the eyes of the law. If he’d simply ordered me to sell the house, I could not have refused. But Father wasn’t going to order me. Instead he was going to make me see reason.
My mother, Phaenarete, had listened to all this in silence. Phaenarete never questioned her husband in front of us. She had other ways of expressing her viewpoint, typically by failing to offer an opinion whenever Father said something of which she disapproved. Phaenarete’s silence could be more devastating than other wives who threw plates. I hoped that she would keep a studious silence, or perhaps even say a few words in my support.
Now she crushed my hopes by saying, “Your father is right, Nico.”
That ended it. We would have to sell the house.
SCENE 12
TIME PASSES
WE ALL THREE of us traipsed to the Theater of Dionysos. Socrates wanted to see the god machine.
We found the stage manager there, though it was still early in the morning. Other than him, the theater was deserted. I noticed at once that on the back wall, someone had added a line below the No Whistling sign. The addition was in a different hand. Now it said:
NO WHISTLING!
and watch your feet—don’t trip or fall
I felt it was good advice, but hardly needed saying.
Or did it? Romanos had tripped over the dangerously placed broom. That could have broken his leg. Lakon had almost fallen from the sabotaged balcony. That could have ended with a broken limb, or a broken neck. Phellis had fallen heavily and now his leg was crippled.
“You back again?” the stage manager said when he saw us. He held an actor’s mask in his hands.
“There’s a criminal assault to avenge,” I said.
He grunted. “I visited Phellis last night.”
“How was he?”
“Tied up in that machine in the doctor’s house, but he wasn’t screaming. Doctor said the leg was as good as you could expect. He also said Phellis can never act again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too. All right, I can’t say I like having you amateurs behind the skene, but I guess I got no choice.”
“You’re here early,” I said.
“It occurred to me nothing got put away properly last night,” he said. “After all the rain I thought I better check the damage. Look at this.” He swore as he held up the mask that had been in his hands. “Someone left it lying on the ground. It’s ruined now.”
It did indeed look the worse for wear: muddy, and the material was splotched.
The stage manager tossed the mask onto the bench beside him.
“Can I have a look?” Diotima said, and before the stage manager could object she picked it up.
“Here, you’re a woman—”
“Yes, I’d noticed.” Diotima spoke through the mask. There were eye holes to see through and a mouth through which to speak. She looked very strange to me with the rigid mask covering her face.
“Acting’s not for women,” the stage manager said. “That’d be immoral.”
“Sir? Then who plays the women characters?” Socrates asked.
“The men do. That’s moral. If a woman was on stage, all the men would be ogling her, right?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Well, that isn’t r
ight, is it? Would you want your daughter on stage, and a horde of men eyeing her? Thinking about her because they want to … well, do you-know-what with her.”
When he put it like that … “No, you’re right,” I said. “I definitely wouldn’t want my daughter on stage, if I had one.”
“Well then, there you are. Every woman is someone’s daughter. The only proper thing to do is not allow the ladies on stage.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Diotima said, in an irritated tone. “If women can be priestesses then they can be actresses, can’t they? Priestesses perform in public and everything’s fine.”
“It’s like this, young miss—”
“I am Diotima, the wife of Nicolaos.”
“If you got up on stage, a lady who looks the way you do—” He looked her up and down, then said, “If you were up there, we’d have to beat back the audience with shovels.” He shook his head. “It just wouldn’t work out. No one would pay attention to the play.”
THE CAST SPENT the next two days in intense work. And so did I. I didn’t take my eyes off the actors, the stage or the backstage area for a moment while the crew were there. Of course I couldn’t see all those things at once. I had to constantly run from the back to the front and then back again. I felt like a parent with twenty children. My constant movement irritated the actors and everyone who supported them, yet no one complained. They knew as well as I did that whoever was set to sabotage the play was still out there, waiting for an opportunity.
But I couldn’t be there all night as well. I went to see Pythax, to beg the loan of two of the Scythian Guard. There are three hundred of these guards, all of them barbarian slaves, their job to patrol the streets and keep the peace. My father-in-law Pythax was their overseer.
Pythax was good to me, as he always is. He arranged for two of his men, Euboulides and Pheidestratos, to be detached to my service. I ordered them to protect the theater at night. I specifically wanted two guards so that they would keep each other awake. A man on his own can easily doze. They took the moonlight shift and I relieved them each dawn.
Throughout the rehearsals, Romanos was a workhorse. He was first at the theater every morning. He was last to leave. There was no task too small that he wouldn’t lend a hand. There was no task so large that he was daunted. When anyone expressed doubt that the play could be ready on time, it was Romanos who encouraged them, or cajoled them, or did whatever was necessary to keep everyone at work. He had become friends with Akamas, which I suspected he had done with the assistance of some wineskins. The other stagehands took their cue from Akamas. They volunteered to work longer each day. Sisyphus was being carried by the sheer force of will of its second actor.
