by Gary Corby
My stomach lurched.
“Whose job is that?” the Eponymous Archon asked.
“Er, that would be me. Sir,” I said.
The most powerful city official in Athens turned to stare at me. “I didn’t catch your name. You are?”
“Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus,” I said.
“I’ve heard of you,” the Eponymous Archon said. He didn’t say if what he’d heard was good or bad. Instead he went on, “This is a disaster on so many levels, I barely know where to begin.”
I hoped he didn’t mean me.
“Murder is always a disaster,” I said.
The Eponymous Archon stared at me in surprise. “Murder? That’s nothing. Young man, a dead actor is the least of our problems.”
“It is?”
He pointed to the door, beyond which lay all of Athens. “Have you any idea how many leading dignitaries from other cities are out there? How many wealthy merchants? Dear Gods, we even have a contingent from the Great King of Persia visiting. If word gets out that we can’t hold a play without it going wrong, we’ll be the laughing stock of the civilized world.”
“We need to think about this,” the Basileus said.
“We have to do something,” Aeschylus said. “Can you imagine what the other cities will say?”
“Can you imagine the jokes they’ll tell?” a comedy writer said sadly. “And I won’t be able to use a single one of them.”
“Why don’t we cancel the festival?” the Polemarch suggested.
The reaction to the Polemarch’s suggestion could not have been more horrified had he suggested we eat live babies. When he saw the expressions on our faces he said, “What’s wrong?”
“You’re not an arts man, I can see,” Aeschylus said. “Stop the Great Dionysia? It’s unthinkable.”
“You’re not a religious man either,” the Basileus added. “What would the God think if we canceled his most important festival? The final ceremony is the parade through the city, followed by the crowning of Dionysos. How do you think the god of the harvest will feel if he isn’t crowned this year? Do you want to think about the consequences for the food supply?” Heads nodded at the words of the Basileus. If the God was displeased, we could expect a pitiful crop. It would mean hunger for the city.
“Nor are you a diplomat,” Pericles added. “Did you not hear the words of our Archon, that hundreds of representatives from the most important cities in the world are in Athens right now? They will watch and wait with interest to see how we handle this crisis.”
“And then there are the Athenian people,” the comic writer said. “They’re expecting a party.”
The Polemarch threw up his hands in surrender. “All right, it’s only an idea. Let me know when you have a better one.”
Pericles said, “Gentlemen, Aeschylus is right when he says we must act. If we don’t, our esteemed foreign visitors will soon see a genuine Athenian riot. Could we proceed with the Dionysia, but without the play by Sophocles?”
A man whom I’d not seen before stood beside Sophocles, older, with short, dark hair and a pained expression. Sophocles turned to him now and said, “You’ve been quiet, Thodis. What do you think? It’s your play and your investment.”
So this was Thodis the choregos, the man who backed the play with his money. He had been strangely absent during the troubles. If my money had been at such risk I would have been present every day.
Thodis looked about the assembled company with wide eyes. “We must certainly do as Pericles suggests,” he said. I had rarely seen a man appear so out of place as Thodis did.
“That idea’s not a starter in any case,” said the Basileus, and the High Priest nodded. “The crime of impiety is against the God. Whether Sisyphus opens is of no moment to cleansing the theater. You want to cleanse the impiety? It has to be vengeance. There’s no faster way.”
Sophocles said, “What say then we postpone the Dionysia? Tell the people the plays will resume after the murderer is caught.”
“How long will that take?” someone asked.
Every eye turned back to me. I was the junior man in this company, by a long way. I felt my face go red.
“I don’t know,” I said. “A day? Ten days? Maybe a month?”
“Days?” the Eponymous Archon spluttered, as if I were a handyman who’d just delivered too high a quote. “Can’t you hurry it along?”
I forbore from pointing out that I hadn’t even started.
“You can’t delay that long in any case,” the Basileus said. He seemed to take a morose pleasure in destroying every suggestion. He said, “The crowning of Dionysos is scheduled for the fourteenth of Elaphebolion. It’s a particularly lucky date. If we pushed the crowning ceremony back to an unluckier date—not something that I’d advise in any case—then the festival of Rhea that comes straight after would be delayed by the same amount. It gets worse. Even if you don’t mind offending Rhea, the mother of the Gods, the rites of Pandia come straight after that, and those are in honor of Zeus. The Spring rites for the king of the Gods would land right at the end of the month. You all know what that means.”
The unluckiest day in the calendar. No one in their right mind would schedule anything important to happen then. Every man present contemplated the effect of offending three gods.
“That’s it, then,” the Polemarch summarized. “We’re doomed.”
Pericles said, “The situation is this: we can’t cancel the show because it’s a sacred festival. Nor can we continue the play until the murder is avenged, and if we don’t do something we’ll look incompetent before the whole world. We must complete to schedule because the season is so busy for sacred rites.”
Everyone agreed.
“Then there’s only one solution,” Pericles said with an air of calm logic. “We must suspend the calendar until the murder is solved.”
“Suspend?” I said, confused. From the perplexed looks around the room I wasn’t the only one.
Pericles said, “The calendar doesn’t move forward until the crime is solved to the satisfaction of the Gods. That solves every objection.”
“Except for one. You can’t stop time, Pericles!” I said.
“You’re right, I can’t,” Pericles said. “But he can.” Pericles pointed to the Eponymous Archon.
The Archon nodded unhappily. “I don’t like it, but if I have to, I will.”
“But sir, you can’t stop time either,” I said.
“Yes I can. Do you understand the meaning of my title?” he said.
“Eponymous Archon? It means the leader who gives his name.”
“Gives his name to what?” the Eponymous Archon persisted.
“To the year,” I replied promptly. Everyone knew that. This year would be known forever as the Year of Habron, because Habron was the personal name of this year’s Eponymous Archon. Then it struck me. “Sir … Habron … you own the calendar.”
Habron the Eponymous Archon nodded. “We take our calendar months from divine Selene, who controls the movement of the moon. We take our years from Apollo, who drives the Sun about the Earth. Why Selene and Apollo can’t coordinate themselves better I don’t know; but the two of them never match up at the end of the year.” The Archon shrugged. “Maybe they just don’t get on. But for whatever reason, it means that at the end of every year, whoever holds the office of Eponymous Archon must add a few extra days to our calendar, to catch us up with Apollo.” He thought about it, then nodded. “Yes, I see what Pericles is getting at. I can add the extra days now, and not at the end of the year. Then when you’ve caught this murderer and the plays resume, it will still be … what’s the date today?” asked the man in charge of the calendar.
“It’s the ninth day of the month of Elaphebolion,” Sophocles said.
“Thank you,” the Eponymous Archon said. “When the Great Dionysia resumes, it will still be the ninth of Elaphebolion, and it will be as if none of this ever happened. Yes. The more I think about it, the more I like this plan of Pericles’.”<
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Smiles all round, from everyone except me. I said, “But sirs, what if I can’t catch the kill—”
“Good, that’s settled then,” Pericles interrupted. “Eponymous Archon, would you like to make the announcement to the people?”
Habron the Eponymous Archon hesitated.
“Would you like me to make the announcement?” Pericles offered. There was no hint of modesty in his voice.
Habron accepted. His relief was evident.
“I have an idea how we might get away with it,” Pericles said. He outlined his plan. Heads nodded once more.
When it was clear that he had agreement, Pericles turned to one of his assistants.
“Call for an emergency meeting of the People of Athens,” he said. “Right away. Every citizen to meet at the theater.”
SCENE 19
THE SPEECH
PERICLES STEPPED ONTO the stage, where most of the citizens of Athens had gathered. It was late afternoon, the perfect time to catch men between work and home. The word had gone out that there was to be an important announcement.
Diotima and I hid behind the skene, out of sight, where we could peek our heads around the corner. I wanted to see everyone’s reaction to what Pericles had to say. The archons had followed Pericles into public view. They stood to one side of him. In fact, they looked remarkably like a chorus to Pericles’s protagonist.
Pericles didn’t shout for attention. That would have been undignified. He stood patiently until everyone noticed that the most powerful man in Athens awaited their pleasure. The people fell silent more quickly and effectively than if someone had bellowed at them.
“People of Athens!”
Pericles’s voice was smoother than music. People listened because they wanted to hear more.
“People of Athens, today a murder has been committed within this theater in which we sit. That is bad enough, but the crime was in full view of the god Dionysos himself. This is impiety of the highest order.”
Pericles paused to let the people think about that. The bright ones saw the implications immediately. A low murmur swept across the crowd.
“As long as the city does nothing, this crime reflects on us all. Dionysos will turn his face from us.”
Lakon emerged onstage. He carried a white cloth of some delicate material. This he placed reverently over the head of Dionysos, to obscure the God’s view.
Lakon stepped back from the statue and bowed like a supplicant. The movement was as smooth and elegant as might be expected of a professional actor. Yet the audience had no way of knowing who he was, for Lakon had assumed the mask that the victim had worn, the mask that had covered his face when his corpse hung from the machine.
To the audience it looked as if Thanatos, the god of death—or perhaps it was the murdered man—had returned from the grave to cover the eyes of the God whose most sacred festival had been polluted. I was privy to Pericles’s plan, yet even I felt a shiver run down my back.
Pericles hadn’t even turned to watch. Instead he spoke as commentary to the action, “The impiety must be avenged. The Great Dionysia is suspended from this moment, to resume on the same day when the murderer is brought to justice. Citizens of Athens, when I say the same day, I mean the same date as well. On that day, the cover will be removed and the Great Dionysia will continue.”
In the tense atmosphere the audience thought about the meaning of Pericles’s words. It slowly dawned on them that he had just suspended the calendar. There were murmurs.
Pericles smiled and said in a jocular tone, “In the meantime, we must not forget the God. For this is the time to honor him. We will not allow crime to rule our lives. A public feast will be held in honor of Dionysos, a dionysiac feast, in the agora. The feast will be held five days hence, to give my staff time to prepare. It will be my gift to the people of Athens.”
Pericles managed not to wince as he said this. A public feast was going to cost him a fortune. He was one of the few men in Athens who could afford it, but I’d never known a man tighter with his money. I took some satisfaction in knowing how much Pericles was going to hate this.
There were murmurs of appreciation from all around the theater. Cheers erupted in several places. They merged into one large cheer for Pericles across the entire theater, as people realized he had promised them a free feast. Their minds had glossed over the news that the Dionysia would be delayed.
This was the effect Pericles had predicted when he outlined his plan, as we stood in his courtyard. Somehow Pericles had managed to turn this crisis into an opportunity to promote himself to the people. I wondered if he’d known this would happen when he first suggested his plan.
The speech had been brilliant. Pericles had announced a crisis, had unflinchingly delivered the bad news it implied, had shown the people a solution, and then given them a party to keep their minds occupied while someone else sorted out the details. I could already see some of the women in the audience discussing what they should wear to the public feasts, while the men were probably thinking about the free wine.
Pericles held up his hand. People realized he had more to say, and they fell silent.
“And now I say to you, go from this place of worship to Dionysos. Continue his celebration in the agora. When we meet here again the stain will be washed from the city and all will be well.”
Pericles had once advised me to avoid acting at all costs, because, he said, “No one in their right mind would vote for an actor.” Pericles may have avoided acting, but he had all the talent needed for a theatrical career.
As he walked past me, Pericles said out of the corner of his mouth, “That’s my part done. Now it’s up to you, Nicolaos. Don’t fail us.”
SCENE 20
WRITERS’ CONFERENCE
AS THE ASSEMBLY broke up Diotima and I went straight to Thodis. This was our chance to find out what he knew. “Thodis? Could we speak to you for a moment?”
Thodis looked at me as if I was some spirit raised from the earth.
He said, “You were at the meeting, but I don’t recognize you.”
That surprised me. Had Thodis paid no attention?
“Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus, and this is my wife,” I said. “I’m the investigator on this case.”
“Then you are the one to blame for all the troubles,” he said.
“I think that would be whoever harmed Phellis and killed Romanos,” Diotima said to him.
Thodis looked at Diotima for a moment, plainly considered not answering her, then said, “But your husband failed to prevent it.”
That was an interesting way of assigning blame, but Thodis was right. I had failed to protect his investment.
I said, “I wanted to ask you, sir, what’s your interest in the theater?”
“I’m paying for the play written by Sophocles. I pay for every mask, every prop, every actor.”
“And yet, sir, you never seem to attend the theater. We’ve been there almost constantly for six days, and we haven’t seen you there even once. It seems strange behavior for a man who loves the theater, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I see.” He considered my words. “I must disillusion you. I have no interest in the theater whatsoever.”
“Then why—”
“Why am I spending such large sums on something I care nothing about?” He flicked away a fly that buzzed about his face. “I was advised by my friends to do so. My father died recently—”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. I found it rather convenient actually. You see, I planned a career in politics, but my father wouldn’t permit it.”
“I know that song,” I muttered.
“You too?” he said sympathetically.
“Let’s say I had a similar problem.”
“Did you have to wait for your father to die?” he asked.
“No, I talked him round.”
“Then you were lucky,” he said sourly. “My father was most unreasonable. He insisted I learn to manage ou
r estates. Then he died. As you see I am a man of middle age, yet only now can I begin my true career.”
“Why begin with a play?” Diotima asked.
“My plan is to become the first man in Athens,” said Thodis modestly. “To that end I have studied the career of Pericles most closely. When Pericles entered public life, the first thing he did was provide a play. He was a choregos.”
That was true. Pericles had funded the play called The Persians written by Aeschylus. It was one reason the two were such good friends.
Thodis said, “I reason that if I do what Pericles did, then it follows that I must eventually attain the same position.”
Thodis was fooling himself. He was no Pericles.
“Thus I spent a substantial part of my inheritance on a play to entertain the people. I’m pleased to say that if my father returned from Hades to see what I’m doing, he’d probably have apoplexy and die again.”
I said, “When you said you had no interested in the theater, you really meant it.”
“Yes. My friends advised me that with Aeschylus retiring, Sophocles is the coming man. As Pericles linked his name to Aeschylus, so I should link mine to Sophocles.”
“I see. Then disaster struck. Is this why you’re avoiding the theater?” I asked.
“Yes. I must dissociate myself from the disaster. Don’t take this personally, but I can hardly afford to have my name linked to someone like you.”
“What about the actors in your play?” Diotima asked.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“There’s someone who needs your help: Phellis, the actor whose leg was smashed.”
Diotima explained that Melpon the doctor was demanding payment for his use of the healing machine. “Phellis is an actor, he hasn’t enough money to pay the doctor to save his leg.”
When she was finished, Thodis said, “I will think upon it, and I will take advice from my friends. I must say this is hardly my problem.”
“He was injured working on your play.”
“He was hired for the duration of the play, was he not?”
“Well, yes,” Diotima said.
