by Ben Kane
‘The champion I beat?’ Kimon was smirking.
‘One and the same.’ Antileon glanced at Demetrios, clearly hoping he’d react.
With a roll of his eyes, Demetrios shoved past. ‘Come on then, you pair of dusty feet.’
As time passed, he was forced to agree that Kimon’s choice had been a good one. The tavern was old and run-down, but the wine was acceptable, and the food – fresh-baked bread, olives and a nutty, flavoursome sheep’s cheese – better than that. A pair of musicians, one playing the lyre, the other a double flute, played tune after merry tune. In the centre of the room, the tables had been cleared away, allowing those who so wished to dance. Kimon and Antileon had been quick to take the floor, drawn by the half-clad whores in the dancers’ midst. Demetrios, who was clumsy even when sober, stubbornly resisted every demand to join them, but in the end, could hold out no more.
‘This song I love to live and sing, and when I’m dead, put my lyre at my feet and my pipes over my head. Pipe away!’ Arm in arm, they roared the words with everyone else.
When the musicians stopped for a rest, the red-faced, perspiring friends were glad to take a seat. They hammered their empty cups on the table to get the serving girls’ attention. ‘More wine!’ roared Antileon at the first one to look in their direction.
She sauntered over, all hips and bosom, and Antileon pulled her onto his lap. She protested, but with a smile. At once Kimon sidled closer.
Here we go, thought Demetrios, jealousy gnawing at him. Rather than join in the flirtation with his friends, he began to eavesdrop on the conversation at the next table, which was occupied by four workmen, carpenters and builders from the look of their weather-beaten faces, calloused hands and grimy chitons.
‘Theatre?’ The nearest man, who sported a bushy beard, snorted. ‘Who wants to sit on his arse for hours, listening to actors spout rubbish?’
‘Barbarian,’ said his neighbour. ‘Life’s rich tapestry is all there on the stage. Tragedy and comedy, politics, love, sex and humour.’
‘The jokes are awful,’ said the bearded man, smiling as the others agreed.
‘Some are funny.’
‘Not many,’ declared the bearded man.
‘Drink enough wine, and they’re hilarious,’ countered the first speaker. ‘I hear the old comedy that’s on this afternoon is very good. Frogs is meant to be one of Aristophanes’ best, or so they say.’
Surprise filled Demetrios, whose only experience of theatre had been seeing a production of this exact play in his village, put on by a band of itinerant actors. It had mesmerised him, and his spirits soared at the idea of watching it for a second time.
‘Even if we wanted to go, there won’t be a spare seat in the place,’ said the third man. ‘The king is attending today’s performance.’
‘People don’t last the pace. By the afternoon, there are always a few spots up the back,’ replied the bearded man.
His companions laughed off his suggestion, but Demetrios’ interest quickened. Seeing the comedy appealed hugely; the opportunity to see Philip made it irresistible. Herakleides could also be at the theatre; it might be possible to spy on him. Demetrios leaned towards his friends. Antileon had just released the serving girl, who was loudly declaring that if she didn’t get back to work, the landlord would turn her out on the street. Kimon told her to send him over.
‘We’ll put the dog right, won’t we, brothers?’ he cried.
‘Let’s go to the theatre,’ said Demetrios. ‘There’s a comedy on.’
Antileon looked at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses.
‘And leave this nice, warm tavern?’ Kimon jerked his head at the serving girl, who was glancing in his direction. ‘She likes me. Give me a couple of hours . . .’ He winked. ‘She’s got a room.’
Imagining another night where Kimon vanished and Antileon headed back to the camp early, Demetrios decided he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. It took him a while – they managed to down another jug of wine – and he had to promise his friends the first round of drinks in whatever hostelry they found after the performance, but he won them over.
Reaching the theatre, the three friends found that the second act of Frogs had just ended. Knowing that the musical interlude from the chorus afforded a chance to find a seat, Demetrios beckoned to his comrades and slipped through the corridor that fed into the orchestra, the circular space before the stage. He peered around the corner, soon spotting Philip in the lowest, front row. His pulse quickened as he spied Herakleides sitting right behind. Following convention, Philip’s guards were positioned by the entrance where Demetrios stood, and at the one opposite. None were particularly near the king.
‘Move along!’ hissed the doorman, who had followed them in. ‘And make it quick – the chorus won’t last much longer.’
Demetrios checked his friends were ready, and then ducked into the orchestra. The best place to sit with a view of Philip would be up and to his right. Ignoring the disapproving looks and hisses from members of the audience – as Antileon had repeatedly told him on the way, it was regarded as the height of bad behaviour to enter a play, comedy or tragedy, in mid-performance – Demetrios took the steps to the back of the theatre two at a time.
The Fates were in fine humour. Close to the top, he found three seats, right beside the stairs. Muttering apologies to those around them, Demetrios settled down with his friends. The third act soon began, and the chorus reintroduced the main characters to the stage. Cheers met Dionysos’ arrival, and Demetrios chuckled. The actor portraying the god of wine had a huge paunch; under his stained chiton jutted a massive erect penis. His bearded mask had a huge, lascivious grin. The audience booed the black-clad, evil-faced Hades, and jeered at Euripides and Aiskhylos as they came out last, accompanied by an ironic cacophony from the chorus. Silence fell.
‘What’s the story?’ Kimon asked in a none-too-quiet voice.
A man in the row behind tutted.
Demetrios leaned forward so both his friends could hear, and whispered, ‘Dionysos has gone down to the underworld—’
‘That’s a fucking stupid thing to do,’ said Antileon.
Demetrios glowered. ‘As I was saying, Dionysos enters Tartaros to bring back Euripides—’
‘The famous playwright?’ asked Kimon.
‘One and the same,’ agreed Demetrios.
‘Shhhh,’ said a voice.
Antileon looked confused. ‘What’s he doing in Tartaros?’
‘The reason isn’t important,’ said Demetrios from between gritted teeth. ‘Euripides is there. So is Aiskhylos. The two are having a poetry competition; the winner will be crowned king of the poets. Dionysos ends up judging the contest, but he can’t decide who—’
‘Zeus, will you be quiet?’ muttered the man who had tutted. ‘Some of us came to watch the play.’
A burst of laughter from the audience came to the friends’ rescue; Demetrios used the noise to sketch the rest of the plot before settling down to enjoy himself. The production was of a far higher standard than the rough-and-ready version he’d seen as a boy. There were more lines too, and he realised that the itinerant actors probably hadn’t known the entire script. The best gags were there, however, and as funny as he’d remembered, and the irreverent music played by the chorus was a perfect foil to the buffoonish Dionysos and the glowering, malevolent Hades.
His friends were enjoying themselves too. For reasons unknown, Kimon had taken a shine to Hades; every time the god spoke, he descended into a fit of giggles. Antileon had become more serious than normal, and was listening to every word with great concentration.
Demetrios kept an eye on Philip, who was in excellent humour, laughing throughout. The cutting political comments, which the play’s director had daringly changed to reflect on the king, appeared to amuse him; one satirical comment had him slapping his thigh and sharing the joke with the noblemen on either side. Herakleides remained reserved, his expression implacable, which perturbed Demet
rios.
The light had begun to leach from the sky by the time the comedy ended. Deafening applause rained down on the four actors, who capered about the stage, bowing to the audience. Dionysos bared his phallus in thanks, which almost brought down the house. As the cheering and clapping died away, the king beckoned to the actor who had played Euripides. A hush fell – it was he who had made the biting comments about Philip.
‘Is he going to reward him or cut his head off?’ whispered Kimon.
Antileon sniggered. ‘Philip has a good sense of humour. A purse of silver is coming that actor’s way, or I’m no judge.’
Antileon was right, thought Demetrios, remembering Philip’s generosity of spirit when he’d been caught by the slingers. His mind was turning to which tavern might be best to seek out afterwards, when his gaze drifted to Herakleides. The admiral had a curious expression on his face, like a man who cannot quite decide on something. Abruptly, it changed, hardening. Herakleides’ eyes searched the crowd gathering around the king and Euripides, and he nodded.
Demetrios was on his feet and pounding down the steps before he even realised. His friends’ confused shouts followed him as he shoved and pushed through. It was impossible to move with any speed – everyone was leaving at the same time – so in frustration he clambered into the central bank of seats and began jumping from row to row. He saw Herakleides already making his way towards the passageway on one side of the orchestra, which cemented his suspicion that the king was in danger. He was about to shout a warning, but thought better of it. The guards, who were strolling towards the king, might take him for the assassin. He had to get closer.
Demetrios leaped across two rows and almost fell, but didn’t. Confident now, he hurtled down the last half a dozen and landed on the sandy surface of the orchestra. Curious looks were thrown his way, but no one stopped him.
His heart pounding, he studied those closest to the king. Philip was having an animated conversation with the actor who had played Euripides. Most of the surrounding crowd appeared to be nobles – their faces were interested, those of men listening to every word, not bent on murder. Demetrios edged around the circle, but could see no one who looked out of place. He began to wonder if he’d made too much of Herakleides’ nod. The whoreson might have been doing nothing more than greeting a friend or ally.
He was about to give up and find his friends again when his attention was taken by a figure close to the king. The man’s head was down, and unlike the listening nobles, who were stationary, he was moving towards Philip. Panic seized Demetrios – maybe he hadn’t been wrong. The man was perhaps five steps from the king, while he was twice that distance away. Dropping his shoulder, he barged forward. He ignored the startled faces, and the angry comments.
Three paces in, he cried, ‘You are in danger, sire!’
His shout brought the creeping figure’s head up and around. Cold eyes met Demetrios’, who knew at once that he was right. The man spun back towards the king. Desperate now, Demetrios heaved a skinny noble aside. He saw Philip’s startled face, and a blade held low by the man’s side. Lunging forward, Demetrios seized the assassin around the waist and, with his other hand, grabbed at the weapon.
‘Beware, sire!’ he managed to shout before they fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
His leap had been clumsy; the assassin ripped his knife hand free the instant they landed. Slashing wildly, he cut backwards at Demetrios. Stings, like those made by wasps, erupted along his side, but Demetrios paid them no heed. He tightened his grip on the man’s waist and tried to wrap his legs in a pankration move, but the assassin writhed like a serpent, and managed to half-throw him off. The knife flashed above Demetrios, and he thought, I’m a dead man.
Others in the crowd suddenly came to life.
Someone cried, ‘Guards!’
Men swarmed in.
Two grabbed the assassin’s arm; another ripped the blade from his grasp. A vicious struggle ensued, but within a dozen heartbeats, the would-be killer was lying with a sandal on his neck and a bodyguard’s sword point resting just below one of his eyes. Demetrios tried to get up, but a kick to the face sent him sprawling onto his back. Remembering the slingers’ beating, he curled into a ball and prepared for the worst.
‘Stop, you fools! This is the man who saved me!’ The raging voice belonged to Philip.
No more blows landed. Demetrios opened his eyes to find the king bending over him, his handsome face concerned. They stared at one another; recognition flared in Philip’s eyes. ‘By all that’s sacred! It’s you.’
Demetrios had to spit out a gobbet of crimson phlegm before he could answer. ‘Sire.’
Philip extended a hand and heaved him to his feet. His eyes moved down. ‘You’re hurt.’
Finally, Demetrios felt the pain. He reached down, and his fingers came away sticky with blood. ‘It’s nothing, sire. I . . .’
He fell away into blackness.
Demetrios floundered to consciousness, as if swimming to the surface from the bottom of a deep pool. Breaking the surface, he gasped in a lungful of air.
‘Steady,’ said a calm voice.
Demetrios opened his eyes. He was lying in a strange bed. Fine linen met his probing fingertips. Above, a frescoed ceiling told him he was far from his tent. Throbs of sweet agony from his side reminded him he hadn’t dreamed the assassination attempt on the king. He turned his head, finding a grey-haired man sitting alongside him.
‘Where am I?’ he croaked.
‘In the palace.’
Confusion filled Demetrios. ‘The palace? I . . .’
‘Drink this.’ The surgeon held a cup to his lips. ‘It will ease the pain, and help you sleep.’
Demetrios obediently swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of the bitter liquid. Drained by the small effort, he lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes.
The next time he woke, the king was standing over him. Demetrios struggled to sit upright, to bow.
‘Sire. Forgive me . . .’
Philip held up a hand. ‘Peace.’
Demetrios sagged back onto the mattress. ‘Are you hurt, sire?’
‘Me?’ Philip smiled. ‘No, thanks to you.’
Demetrios couldn’t help but grin. ‘That’s wonderful news, sire.’
‘You acted when no one else did. I was surrounded by my courtiers, who saw nothing. I should be dead. Truly, the gods sent you, Demetrios – I am told that is your name?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘The shepherd who became an oarsman. The oarsman who became a phalangist. The phalangist who saved a king.’
Demetrios flushed to the roots of his hair.
‘Your injuries are not life-threatening, I am glad to say. It’s fortunate you leaped on the assassin’s back – he couldn’t reach to stab you properly. The surgeon has stitched the worst of the cuts. You might lose a front tooth, thanks to the fool who kicked you. The fine I imposed on him – a large sum – is yours.’
‘Sire, I—’
‘I will have it no other way,’ said Philip. ‘What else would you have of me?’
Demetrios flailed for words, and found only, ‘I need nothing, sire. Serving you in the phalanx is enough reward. It was always my dream.’
‘If only all men were so modest,’ Philip said, chuckling. ‘I’m told you stand near the end of the file, and that you have little equipment.’
Demetrios was filled with shame. ‘Yes, sire.’
‘My armoury is at your disposal. At the least, you shall have the kit and weapons of a front-ranker.’
‘T-thank you, sire,’ said Demetrios, delighted. ‘I am in your debt.’
‘I have sent instruction to your file-leader. When you return to the speira, it shall be as a sixth-ranker. I considered placing you further forward, but you lack combat experience – is that not right?’
‘It is, sire.’ Demetrios’ voice had gone hoarse. ‘Your promotion – it’s . . . well – I don’t know what to say.’
A faint frow
n. ‘Are you displeased?’
‘No, sire! This is beyond any reward I could ask, but I . . . I don’t feel worthy of the promotion.’ He could already hear Empedokles’ caustic comments; others in the file would also have something to say, he had no doubt.
A snort. ‘There are veterans aplenty who haven’t done what you did. I say your reward is merited.’
Demetrios bowed his head, a fierce exultation filling him. He would show himself worthy of the king’s trust, no matter the price. ‘Thank you, sire.’
‘It’s incredible that you saw the assassin, when no one else did. You thought Herakleides was behind it?’ Philip saw Demetrios’ questioning look. ‘Menander told me of your suspicions.’
Here it was, thought Demetrios, fear clutching at him. It had been frightening enough approaching Menander. ‘I-I think he was, sire.’
‘Tell me everything,’ Philip ordered.
Demetrios’ story tumbled out: how he had overheard Herakleides and Kryton talking; confiding in Simonides; how he’d eavesdropped at the games; bringing his suspicions to Menander at last, and finally, what he had seen in the theatre.
‘That’s when I got as close to you as I could, sire.’ Demetrios hesitated, realising how it must sound to say he’d known that Herakleides’ gesture had meant the king was in danger. ‘It sounds ridiculous, sire, I know—’
‘Your story makes sense to me, and it has been confirmed by the would-be assassin.’ Philip’s eyes were hooded. ‘It seems I must thank you again.’
‘I am at your service, sire.’ Demetrios hesitated, then asked, ‘The assassin, sire – he confessed?’
A merciless smile. ‘Before the end, he was singing like a bird.’
It wasn’t surprising the man was dead, thought Demetrios with grim satisfaction. Drained of energy, he lay back on the bed.
‘Rest now.’ Philip rose, lithe as a cat.
Demetrios was wondering what would happen to Herakleides and Kryton when sleep took him.
Two days later, Demetrios was sitting in the courtyard nearest his chamber, still amazed to be quartered in the palace. The surgeon came morning and evening to check on him, and the food and drink was better than he’d ever had, yet he was missing his comrades.