by Gary Corby
I stood over him as I spoke.
“Many years ago, there was a talented young metic actor who belonged to a touring company. We don’t know his name, nor where he came from. But we do know his company stopped at a small city called Rhamnus. It’s just the sort of place where a small, struggling touring company would play.”
Lakon said nothing.
“This young actor, while he was at Rhamnus, heard the tragic story of a local lad. The lad’s name was Lakon. When he was a boy, Lakon had gone to the Great Dionysia and played in the chorus. When he grew to be a man Lakon killed his father and slit his own throat, all because the father wouldn’t let the son be an actor.”
I paused. But Lakon made no reaction. His face was studiously blank.
I said, “The people of Rhamnus still talk about the tragedy to this day. Certainly they must have been talking about it when our young actor, the protagonist of our story, played there so many years ago.”
Lakon said nothing.
I said, “Our protagonist probably drank at one of the local taverns after his performance. Actors like to drink, don’t they?”
Lakon nodded.
“What more natural thing than to tell every visiting actor about the boy who once played in the chorus, and then slaughtered his own father?”
Lakon said nothing.
“So our talented young actor had an idea. He would go to Athens and say his name was Lakon. Nobody in Athens would question his identity,” I said. “Everyone knew that Lakon of Rhamnus had served in the chorus as a young lad. What could be more natural than that he return in adulthood to take up acting? It was no different to what Sophocles himself had done. The fake Lakon was entirely safe, he had made himself a citizen of Athens with a fine career … until Romanos discovered him.”
“He would be found out,” Lakon said quietly.
“Would he?” I asked. “Rhamnus is about as far away as you can get and still be a deme in Attica. What were the odds that someone from that distant town would come to Athens? If he did, would he even notice that there was an actor in Athens named Lakon? Nobody notices the actor beneath the mask! And if by bad luck a townsman did learn of this Lakon, they would probably assume it was someone else of the same name. He certainly wouldn’t connect a famous Athenian actor with a young man who he knew for sure died two decades ago.”
Lakon said nothing.
“How did Romanos find out? Probably the same way you did. Romanos had served in touring companies. The stage manager told us so. However he heard, Romanos connected you with the story.”
I paused.
“You can imagine his surprise when he found, as I did, that the man he thought he knew had died twenty years ago; that the man he did know was a thief.”
Lakon said, “I stole nothing from that unfortunate young man.”
“You stole his name!”
“And you stole his citizenship,” Diotima added.
“It’s all very well for you to talk,” Lakon snorted. He pointed at Diotima. “You married into citizenship. A man can’t do that.”
“What I did is legal,” Diotima said. “What you did isn’t.”
“Is it not?” Lakon raised an eyebrow. “Show me the law that says I can’t name myself anything I like.”
He had me stumped on that. As far as I knew there was no law about changing your name.
“You’re a fraud,” Diotima said. I was relieved that she had a ready answer. “You let everyone believe you were something that you’re not. You accepted the benefits of citizenship.” She let that sink in, then added, “The fact is, Lakon, or whoever you are, if this goes to court, even if they don’t find you guilty you’ll be finished as a citizen of Athens. You’ll be run out of town, exiled forever.”
Lakon blanched.
“Please don’t,” he whispered. “I’ll do anything. Anything.”
“Including kill Romanos?” I asked.
“I don’t deny I’m relieved to see him dead. You have no idea what a burden he was for me. But I didn’t kill him.”
“Can you prove that?”
“No.”
His first honest answer. He’d said it defiantly.
“All right then, Lakon—I suppose we’ll have to keep calling you that—tell us everything you know. And I mean everything.”
“If I could think of anything that would exonerate me, don’t you think I’d mention it?” he said angrily. “I know full well how bad my position looks.”
I had nothing to say.
Diotima tapped her foot. “Well?”
“All right, yes, it’s as you say,” Lakon said miserably. “Romanos came to me several years ago. He accused me of … ah … pretense.”
“You mean fraud,” Diotima said.
“Romanos was more polite. For my silence he required me to promote his career.”
“Was he polite about that too?”
“Rather forceful. He pointed out that since I’d won my position by foul means, that I could help him do the same.”
“What did Romanos want you to do?”
“Oh, introduce him to men of influence, such as that ghastly choregos, Thodis.”
“Anyone else?”
“Almost everyone who was anyone. He was particularly interested in men of a commercial nature. I presume their money was the attraction.” Lakon waved his hand airily. He was regaining confidence. “And now I have told you everything.”
Diotima and I turned without a word and made for the door.
“Wait!”
Diotima and I both stopped.
Lakon said, “What are you going to do about my … ah … indiscretion?”
“I don’t know,” I said coldly. “We haven’t decided yet.”
SCENE 31
THE HAND OF SABAZIOS
SINCE WE WERE in the area we decided to see how Petros, Maia, and the other Phrygians were settling into Diotima’s house. I wanted to make sure they hadn’t done any damage.
Diotima’s birth father had lived in one of the more salubrious demes to the north of the agora. The people there had gone to some trouble to prettify the street for the Dionysia. Chains of flowers hung along the walls. The hermae—the busts of Hermes placed outside every door to bring good luck to those who passed—were scrubbed clean. A few keen home owners had even washed their front walls and swept the road beyond their doors.
Diotima’s house was presentable on the outside, which was a relief. What was disconcerting was the amount of loud bashing emanating from inside. I instantly had thoughts of the last tenants, who had trashed the place and then run off to their home cities. Diotima and I shared a worried look. I flung open the door and walked in unannounced, the better to catch them at whatever they were doing.
“Nicolaos!”
Petros stood in the courtyard. He was dusty and sweaty, wearing nothing but a loin cloth.
“We weren’t expecting you,” he said.
I walked in, with Diotima right behind.
“What’s happening?” I said.
Three men behind Petros were crowded about the wall, the one the previous tenants had damaged.
“We’re only doing a few small renovations,” Petros said.
At that moment the courtyard’s back wall crashed to the ground. One of the men shouted in triumph. They stepped back. I saw then that they’d torn down the smashed surface that the rich man had kicked in.
Another man walked over. He carried pine panels that were pristine and straight. One of the first three checked the peg holes in the uprights. He declared them good for reuse and they proceeded to hammer in the new panels.
Yet another man was bent over a pot which he stirred, brushes beside him. He was ready to repaint the repairs.
“I hope you like the color.” Petros pointed. Diotima and I turned to see they had already repainted the rest of the courtyard walls, in a pastel blue with a red key pattern on the top and bottom. “It’s not fancy,” Petros apologized.
“It’s lovely,” Diotim
a said. “Do you know, the place looks quite different.”
Yes, it did. Every bit of damage from the previous tenants had been fixed. The destroyed furniture had disappeared, to be mysteriously replaced by newly built tables and chairs.
“Where did you get the timber for this?” I asked.
“Oh, odds and ends, from carpenters who didn’t need it,” Petros said with a straight face, as two men walked past carrying a thick beam of naval quality. That beam had probably been intended for the keel of a trireme. On the other hand, it would be the perfect structural support for the wall in the kitchen, the one where the second storey above had begun to sag.
“We metics have to be quite resourceful,” Petros added.
“So I see.”
I wondered if I could be charged with theft. But no, of course I couldn’t. I hadn’t asked the Phrygians to steal all this material.
Or had I? I’d said to Petros that the house was rent-free as long as they maintained it. Perhaps the Phrygians had interpreted my terms with a wink and a nod. Which I certainly hadn’t intended.
Then I wondered if I should order Petros to put it all back. But if I did that, they would have to tear it out of Diotima’s house.
They had done such a good job. It was far better than I could have done.
If I pretended not to have seen what I’d seen, would that make me complicit in their theft? At the very least I would be in their debt, and like it nor not, these people were suspects.
It occurred to me that Petros was smarter than he looked.
“Would you like to see the roof?” Petros asked.
“Will I have to close my eyes while I see it?” I asked.
He laughed.
The stairs up to the women’s quarters didn’t creak. The treads had been replaced with new boards of thick pine. The Phrygians must have worked non-stop to have done so much so quickly.
Petros opened the door. It swung quietly. Someone had oiled the hinges.
The women’s quarters looked like a village had camped there. Where the rooms had once housed four women, now there were nine separate spaces set out on the floor with bed rolls around each.
“I hadn’t quite appreciated how many of you there were,” I said.
“Nine families,” Petros said briefly. “I thought you knew.”
In the middle was the ladder I had climbed. It reached up into the thatching. Though there were no visible feet upon it, yet the ladder wobbled from time to time.
Petros peered up. “How are you two doing up there?” he called.
“It’s gonna take a while, Petros,” an invisible voice called back from above the thatch. “Whoever looked after this place was an idiot.”
Petros turned bright red. “Merely our banter,” he explained.
“I’m sure,” I said, still looking up. “Is that new thatch?” I asked. Because it didn’t look the same as it had the other day.
“Thatch is hard to come by,” Petros said.
I could imagine. The thatch’s previous owners would probably notice their roof was missing.
“What happened to the mice?” Diotima asked.
“We have lots of pets,” Petros said. “Some of them eat rats and mice.”
There was more swearing from above.
“Does he know how to fix the roof?” I asked.
“Melidoros is the man up there. He worked as a builder, back in Phrygia. Here in Athens, he is a common laborer for hire.”
“Not all of you are actors then,” Diotima said.
“Most are. A few of us are builders, one is a painter. We all work as mourners.”
“Was it that bad in Phrygia?” Diotima asked.
“No, it’s not,” Petros said honestly. “The Persians rule there. It is a place of great stability. It’s not a good place for anyone who wants to … to …”
He struggled for the words.
“To change things?” I suggested. “To change your life?”
“Yes, precisely! We wanted more. You understand.”
I did. Athens was the place where things changed. Diotima and I had been to Ionia, which was ruled by the Persians. The Persians loved stability and order above all things; not the sort of place for a man who wants to improve his lot. Likewise the Spartans loathed change more than anything, and the other Hellene cities clung to tradition.
We walked downstairs as we talked. Diotima was interested in everything about the Phrygians. She asked several questions about their customs, as might a guest. She seemed to have forgotten that she was the mistress of this house. I was pleased to see that Diotima was more relaxed in her house than she had ever been since her birth father died.
We returned to the courtyard, to inspect the back of the house. Standing in one corner was a stone plinth, and upon the plinth was a statue of a hand. It was like a normal bust, but where a bust shows a head, usually of a god, this was a statue of a hand. I’d never seen anything like it. Maia stood beside it.
“What is it?” I asked, before Diotima could get in the same question.
“It is the Hand of Sabazios,” Maia said lovingly. I could hear the reverence in her tone.
“What happened to the rest of him?” I asked.
“Sabazios is our god,” Maia said.
“I thought you worshipped our gods,” I said.
“No,” Maia said shortly.
“I’ve seen a thousand busts of someone’s head, never of someone’s hand,” Diotima added.
The Hand had been covered with white dust from all the nearby carpentry. Maia wiped the Hand clean with a piece of linen. The Hand of Sabazios was right-handed. The thumb, index and middle fingers pointed straight up at the sky. The other fingers were folded in to his palm.
“It is the sign of his benediction,” Maia said. “Sabazios blesses us, and so we are fruitful in the harvest and in all other things.”
“Sabazios is Dionysos then,” Diotima said. “He is also the god of the harvest.”
“We would say Dionysos is Sabazios,” Maia pointed out. “But it all comes to the same thing.”
“Yes, of course,” said Diotima politely. “I myself am a priestess of Artemis. Artemis of the Hunt is our goddess in Athens; yet Artemis as she is worshipped at Brauron is a goddess of young womanhood; and the Artemis at Ephesus where I once served is a goddess of fertility. Different aspects, but they’re all the one goddess. Of course your Sabazios and our Dionysos can be the one god.”
“You served at the Artemision at Ephesus?” Maia said, amazed. Ephesus wasn’t all that far from Phrygia.
“Briefly, but yes,” Diotima said.
Maia and Petros glanced at each other. There was communication in that look, the communication between a couple that no one else can read. But I knew they had reached some conclusion because Petros said, “You have been very good to us, Nicolaos and Diotima.”
“You’re welcome.”
“We would like to invite you to one of our services,” Petros said.
I didn’t have to ask what Diotima thought of that idea. She was always ready to learn something new.
“Thank you, we’d love to come,” I said.
As we spoke there was an odd smell wafting in from the backyard.
“Are you making bread out back?” I asked. Because the smell reminded me of bread, but was somehow different.
“Not bread,” said Petros. “Come see.”
Like most large houses, beyond the courtyard was an open space surrounded by back wall. On one side was the kitchen, on the other was the midden, and in between was a space to park your cart, with a back gate that opened onto a narrow lane.
In that middle space, where I expected the cart, was an enormous wooden vat filled with liquid. Standing over it was a man with dark ringleted hair and a black, bushy beard. He stirred the contents with a stick so large that he had to hold it in both hands. The smell out here was strong. I hoped the neighbors didn’t complain.
“It’s a drink we make,” Maia said. “It’s called bee
r. Try some.”
Petros handed me a piece of straw. It was dry and quite stiff, as old straw is.
I looked at it blankly. What was I supposed to do with a straw?
“Dip the other end of the straw in the vat,” Petros said. “Put your lips on the top end and suck through it.”
“Suck through a piece of old straw?” I said.
“Like this.” He took a straw of his own and demonstrated. With one end in the liquid and his lips on the other. He sucked and his cheeks made a funny shape. Petros seemed to enjoy this.
I had worried that these Phrygians could be violent. It had never occurred to me that they might be insane.
I put the straw in the vat and stuck my mouth on the other end. I was sure that nothing much could come through that tiny hole, so I sucked hard.
Liquid spurted into my mouth, lots of it. I tried to swallow by reflex. I couldn’t, there was too much in my mouth. I clamped my mouth tight shut to spare myself the indignity of the beer coming back out my mouth.
The beer squirted out of my nostrils.
“Perhaps a bit more gently?” Petros suggested, as I coughed and snorted.
I sucked again, this time determined to get it right.
A trickle of the drink flowed into my mouth. I sucked cautiously harder. The beer shot into my mouth and I had to swallow. The taste was like nothing I’d ever experienced. It wasn’t wine, but it wasn’t water. One thing was immediately obvious: this beer was alcoholic. It was stronger than the watered wine that Hellenes drink. I knew that Egyptians drank beer, but I’d never put any thought to what it might be like.
I asked, “What sort of grapes do you use to make this?”
“Not grapes,” said the man stirring the vat.
To my blank look Maia added, “Beer is made from barley.”
I couldn’t imagine how anyone crushed barley to get enough juice to make anything. But obviously someone had managed, because here was the beer to prove it.
Maia handed a straw to Diotima. She managed to drink from it more elegantly than I had.
I dipped the straw back in and drank more of the strange liquid, then offered my considered opinion: “It’s awful. Don’t you have any wine?”
Maia laughed. “Beer is the sacred drink of Sabazios, just as wine is sacred to Dionysos. In the land we come from, the men prefer beer.”
