by Gary Corby
The guard said, “Have you seen what the inns are charging for a bed?” He spat again. “If it were me, I’d be sleeping on hard ground too, if I had to pay a week’s wages for one night.”
“And then a lot of them will stay for Dionysia.”
I looked back at the crowd entering Athens. The sight of all those happy people made me nervous.
Outside the gates was the deme known as Outer Ceramicus, not as salubrious as Inner Ceramicus, but close enough that it did good business with passersby. Outer Ceramicus gave way to groves of olive trees, sacred to the goddess Athena, and orchards, all within a walled park. The fruit was free for the picking and I didn’t hesitate.
I had arrived at the akademia—the Academy. The Academy housed the city’s third, newest, and most glorious gymnasium. Many years before my time it had been a run-down hovel. Then a nearby stream had been diverted to irrigate the land, and now it had become an earthly vision of the Elysian Fields.
The path to the gymnasium was lined with statues, and fountains fed by the stream. Three of the statues had been made by my father. I stopped to admire them as I passed.
The gymnasium was a thing of beauty, one of the first buildings in Athens to be made of marble and painted in bright reds and blues and yellows to contrast with the fine green grass. In the morning, with the sun at my back, it shone.
The wide entrance opened into a quadrangle lined on all sides with porticoes. Right away the sweet aroma of olive oil hit my nose, barely masking the musky odor of heavy sweat. Which was how the Academy always smelled, because every alcove in every portico about the inner courtyard was filled with naked men, fresh from exercise, all anointing themselves with oil.
Men looked up as I entered to see if I was someone they knew. This was a place where men came to socialize as much as to exercise. I wasn’t a regular at the Academy; the habitués didn’t recognize me and returned to their own affairs. I didn’t see Sophocles, nor did he hail me. I would have to wander around to find him.
I couldn’t walk straight across the sunlit inner yard because it was divided into training patches, each a shallow square pit filled with sand, five paces by five, where a man could exercise or two men could box, or wrestle, or practice the martial art called pankration. At this time of day the patches were all in use.
I didn’t expect to see Sophocles among the trainees and so wasn’t disappointed when I didn’t find him. I did however see my best friend, Timodemus. He stood by one of the patches, where two men fought a practice bout. They traded blows while Timodemus watched them with a jaundiced eye and barked instructions.
Timodemus was one of the best pankration fighters alive, famous for his victories in competition against other cities. He had recently retired from active fighting and moved with his new wife to a house not far from here. Now every day he came to the Academy, where he commanded outrageous fees as a coach.
Timodemus saw me and waved. He shouted, “Chaire Nico! Greetings! Have you come for a practice round?”
I shook my head and called back, “I’m on business. Do you know where I can find Sophocles?”
Timo shrugged and returned his attention to his students. He probably didn’t even know who Sophocles was. My friend had no interest in plays, or philosophy. But he was really good at hurting people.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a wiry old man, shorter than me, with a friendly expression and not much hair. I knew him. This was Lysanias, one of the elders of Athens, who had helped me on a previous case. He was also unbelievably good at throwing quoits.
He said, “I thought I heard you, young fellow. How are you? Have you come to practice your quoit throws?”
This was the way of the gymnasium. As soon as you walked in, everyone who knew you would stop to talk, would demand your attention, if only for a moment, would invite you to stay for half a day or the whole day.
I had to shake my head regretfully, because I liked Lysanias and would gladly have spent time with him. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m here on business. I’m looking for Sophocles.”
“He’s in the next courtyard,” Lysanias said. “I saw him come in. I will show you to him. Then I will sit down with you and listen shamelessly to your conversation.” He led me by the arm. As we walked he said, “I know you, Nicolaos. If it is you who has work, should I take this to mean Athens is in dire peril? Is our city on the verge of destruction?”
“Only our reputation for staging plays,” I said. Somehow Lysanias had managed to miss what had happened, probably because he spent all his time in exercise. Though he was an old man, I would not want to face him in combat. I explained to Lysanias what had occurred, that the theater was polluted by murder, and that the Great Dionysia could not proceed unless the terrible crime was avenged.
Lysanias wasn’t a man to worry about trifles, yet at my words he looked stern and said, “This is more serious than you seem to think, young man.”
“I’m already aware how bad it is, sir.”
“Are you? How many people come from abroad to see our plays?”
“Hundreds?” I guessed. “Perhaps thousands?”
“Certainly more than a thousand,” Lysanias said. “Every bed in every inn is full. Private homes are renting out their spare rooms and people are camping outside the walls.”
“Yes,” I said. “The guards at the gate told me.”
“Have you ever been to the home of a man who proved to be a buffoon?” Lysanias asked. The question seemed to come from nowhere.
“Why, yes, I have,” I said, thinking of some of my father’s friends. Every now and then he dragged me along to visit his cronies.
“And what did you think of those men?” Lysanias asked. “Did you think more, or less, of them?”
“Why, less,” said. “No one respects a buffoon.”
“Precisely. Now what of a man you visit, who proves to be a man of culture and dignity?”
“Then that would be someone I respect,” I said.
“Yes,” Lysanias said. “Now, young man, think of all these people who have come to Athens to be entertained by us, to see our plays, which are the best in the world. If we cannot show the plays because of murder, if everyone sees we cannot keep our own actors alive in our own city, if we must send all those people home having admitted we can’t stage a play, then how will we appear to our visitors?”
“We’ll look like buffoons,” I said.
Lysanias nodded. “You understand. I will add this: that it is easier to attack an enemy whom you don’t respect. But it is harder to feel animosity against someone who shows competence in all things.”
“Surely, Lysanias, this cannot be a matter of war or peace,” I said.
“The entertainment a man provides for his friends says as much about him as how he carries his spear,” Lysanias said, and his voice became hard. I remembered that this was a man who’d carried his spear many times. He added, “The Great Dionysia tells the rest of the world how we wish them to see us. Our poets are as much a function of the state as our diplomats.”
We had passed through to the second courtyard, where we found Sophocles lying face down in the shade, on the cool stone floor. A slave rubbed olive oil into his shoulders and back.
He looked up as we approached, and said, “Join me.”
Lysanias said, “Hello, Sophocles. Don’t mind if I do.” He dropped his clothes and lay down beside Sophocles. His whole body was wiry and thin. A slave appeared with oil flask in hand. The slave began at once to massage the back of Lysanias and pour oil on his skin.
I hesitated. I wasn’t used to enjoying the gymnasium with respectable old men. In fact, unlike most men I rarely visited the gym at all—somehow I never seemed to have the time—and when I did, it was usually to see my friend Timo, who would often be surrounded by young men our own age.
I knew the etiquette though. It would be rude if I stood, or merely sat beside them.
I pulled my chiton off over my head—it saved having to undo the shoulder
knot—and handed the clothing to a slave, who placed it on the bench against the wall. I lay down on the other side of Sophocles.
Another slave appeared, also with a flask of oil. He commenced to massage my shoulders with oily hands. I tried to relax.
I said, “I came to see you, Sophocles, because I must learn about Romanos.”
“He was a metic,” Sophocles said, as if that explained everything.
“Yes, but what was he like?”
Sophocles considered the question.
“As a man, I really can’t say,” he said, after thinking about it. “Professionally, he was a good actor. I had used him before in minor roles. Certainly this play offered him a big chance and I must say he impressed me. It’s unusual for a metic to have a major role in a Dionysia.”
The slave began to massage my legs.
I said, “Did you socialize?”
“As I said, he was a metic.”
It occurred to me that Sophocles preferred the company of his peers.
“What about Lakon?” I asked.
“Lakon’s a citizen,” Sophocles said. “And I’ve known him a very long time.”
“Then how does he come to be an actor?” I asked.
“You have it the wrong way round,” Sophocles said. “Most actors are citizens. The exceptions are the metics.”
I asked, “In the play, with the original cast, was Phellis the only man to use the machine?”
“Both the first and second actors flew on the machine. Lakon played Zeus in a later scene.”
“What about the third actor?”
“Third actors never play a god. They’re not important enough.”
“How does that work?” I asked. “Does importance matter?”
“Not the way you’re thinking, but consider the scene casting,” Sophocles said. “There’s only one machine. There can never be two gods onstage at the same time.”
“Oh, I see. Is there much squabbling over the parts?” I asked.
“Constantly,” Sophocles said.
His tone alone was worth a day of explanation.
“You said you’d used Romanos previously?”
“Several years ago, when another actor failed me—the poor fellow had been beaten by brigands as he traveled the country roads—I needed a quick study. Someone suggested I look at Romanos. Well, I was desperate, I would have hired a donkey if it could speak the lines. But Romanos was everything the recommender had said.”
“Then you knew Lakon first?”
“Citizen actors start when they’re boys. They come up through the chorus. Throughout the year there are festivals and choral performances where we need children to sing. I and the other directors choose from among the sons of respectable citizens.”
I knew that part all too well, because when I was a boy I had volunteered, but had never been chosen. I remembered standing nearby while someone told my father it was because I couldn’t sing. My little brother Socrates had never been chosen because they said he was too ugly.
“Most of the boys are talentless, of course,” Sophocles said, not knowing my own history. “Perhaps a quarter of the boys can sing passably well. We directors notice the ones who sing well. We choose the cream from throughout the year to fill the choruses for the Dionysia. Of the cream, a handful can also dance. From each year, perhaps one or two of the best will like the stage well enough that they stick with it when they grow to men.”
I was astonished. “Do you mean to say you hired Lakon when he was a boy?”
“How old do I look?” Sophocles demanded. I’d insulted him. Lysanias tittered.
“Sorry, Sophocles, but I don’t understand.”
Sophocles rolled over so the slave could massage his front. He added, “That’s something Lakon and I have in common. We both got our start in the chorus.”
“You were an actor, Sophocles?” I said, surprised.
“I was passable, in my day,” he allowed, in the tone of voice a man uses when what he means is that he’s too modest to say he was the best.
Sophocles continued, “I was selected by Aeschylus to perform in the chorus. These days Aeschylus is my friend, but back then he was my director. Lakon too, when he was a boy, was selected by Aeschylus. By that stage I was a young man, serving as an elder member of the chorus. I remember standing in the same chorus line with Lakon.”
“In a sense you grew up together,” I said.
“No. Lakon returned with his parents to their home town, Rhamnus. He didn’t play again until he returned to Athens more than a decade later, as a young but fully grown man. By then I had given up acting. A man can’t be both an actor and the writer, and the writer is of more service to the state.”
“He is?”
“Certainly he is,” Sophocles said. “I’m surprised you even question it. Tell me, young man, why do you like tragedies?”
I didn’t like tragedies. I’d always preferred the comedies. But this didn’t seem the moment to mention it.
“Well,” I said, desperately trying to think of something. “Tragedies are very … er … tragic—”
Lysanias laughed.
Sophocles frowned. “Of course you know the purpose of our plays—”
“To entertain people,” I said at once. “That’s why more people go to see the comedies than the traged …” I trailed off.
Sophocles stared at me openmouthed, and I suddenly realized I’d blundered.
“Er … that is …” I groped for the right words.
Lysanias was rolling on the floor, tears running down his face.
“I’m sorry, Sophocles,” I said.
Sophocles sighed.
“Don’t bother trying to talk yourself out of it,” Sophocles said. “Now listen closely, young man. The whole point of tragedy is to teach people the difference between right and wrong.” He glared at me.
“It is?”
“It is. In tragedy a great man makes a mistake. He does wrong when the Gods gave him the power to do right. Then we see his downfall: the consequences of his mistake. This teaches the people that right might not always be rewarded, but wrong is always punished. A tragic writer has the greatest responsibility to the people, because we are the teachers of morals. If we produced plays that praise bad behavior, then the people would copy the behavior of their onstage heroes and the state would collapse.”
“I see.”
“We must hope that as you grow older you acquire some taste for both the tragedies and the comedies. I despair when I look at the stuff that passes for comedy these days. How anyone could think it’s funny to watch people hitting each other with pigs’ bladders is beyond me.”
Sophocles clearly didn’t frequent the same circles I did.
“Tell me about the noose,” I said.
Sophocles said, “It was my idea to hang the god of death. The noose is joined to the machine’s rope on a stretch that is longer than the remaining rope to the actor’s harness. The difference is only a hand’s length, but it’s enough.”
Sophocles demonstrated with his hands.
“You see the effect?” Sophocles said, warming to his subject. “I thought, since it was impossible to hide the rope from which Thanatos hangs, I may as well make it work as a part of the play. The real remaining length of rope is painted blue to match the sky. The noose seems to be the only rope up there. To the audience they see the god of death appear as a hanged man.”
“It was certainly realistic from where I sat during rehearsals,” I said. “Everyone was terrified.”
Sophocles beamed. “It’s always nice to hear that an effect worked.”
“Perhaps a little too well?” I suggested.
“That’s not my fault.”
I was frustrated. I’d hoped to learn something of Romanos. But other than that he was a good actor, which I already knew, I’d learned nothing. It seemed odd that the man should be such a cipher. He’d seemed perfectly open when Diotima and I had spoken to him in the rain. I said as much to Sophocles, wh
o shrugged.
But Lysanias poked up his head from the massage and said, “Have you talked to his sponsor?”
“Who?” I said. “What sponsor?’
“Didn’t you know? All metics are required to register with the state, and they must have a sponsor.”
“I never knew,” I admitted. It occurred to me, with some surprise, that except for Diotima, who had been a metic before we married, I too had never socialized with metics.
“Who was the sponsor of Romanos?”
“You must ask the Polemarch,” Lysanias said.
“Did the Polemarch know Romanos?” I said.
“I doubt it. But the Polemarch is responsible for all metic affairs. If anyone would know who the sponsor of Romanos was, it’ll be him. You probably need to do it anyway. The sponsor must be informed that his client is dead.”
SCENE 17
THE POLEMARCH
IT SEEMS TO be a rule that every important official in Athens must have a long queue of men outside his office door. I had never been to see an archon who wasn’t overwhelmingly busy. The Polemarch was no exception. The difference was, the men outside the Polemarch’s door spoke with foreign, non-Athenian accents.
The Polemarch’s office was an ancient building called the Epilyceum. It stood just beyond the official bounds of the agora. The Epilyceum showed several centuries of maintenance. The original wooden beams, so old that they’d turned deep black, poked out between the newer stone facade of later renovations.
It was a measure of how long you had to wait to see the Polemarch that supplicants had scratched game boards into the stone of the street outside. Even the game board scratchings were well worn from years of game pieces moving across them. Men were hunched over these boards. Others silently watched the traffic pass by, and many talked amongst themselves.
I listened carefully to the words of the other men, to place their accents. It isn’t always possible, but you can take a guess at a man’s home because most cities have slight differences in the way they say their words. At Diotima’s suggestion I had recently begun to pay attention to such differences.
A handful of accents were northern, from Thebes perhaps. The people of the north spoke with an accent that approached barbaric, and sometimes used words common to the barbarian tribes to the north of Hellas.
