by J M Alvey
My first thought was sheer terror. I’d never seen a pox like this, and it must be lethally virulent to have struck him down so swiftly. Then I realised Apollonides was gesturing at a mask on the floor. I hurried to pick it up before someone stood on it and crushed the shaped and painted layers of linen and gypsum.
‘No!’ Telesilla smacked my hand. ‘That’s what did the damage!’
‘How?’ I was as confused as I was concerned.
Apollonides struggled up to sit up. ‘I was checking the masks,’ he rasped. ‘the ties on that one looked loose, so I put it on—’
He broke off, struggling for breath. His lips were a purplish hue, ghastly against his scarlet face. Now his eyelids were swelling, tears blinding him.
I thought of the dress that Medea gave to Glauke, which burned the poor girl alive. Heracles had burned himself alive to escape the agonies of a robe soaked in Hydra’s blood, after Deianeira was duped into giving that to him by the vengeful centaur Nessus. Corinth had so many tales of poisoned garments.
‘Stay down!’ I pushed Apollonides backwards, then scooped up his legs, forcing him to lie flat on the ledge. ‘Telesilla, keep washing his face. Hyanthidas, fetch more water.’
Frantic, I wracked my brains. I wanted to get Apollonides to a doctor but we were so far from the Asklepion. There might well be doctors up on the Acrocorinth, serving the shrines and the brothels, but I had no idea where to start looking for one who could be trusted. Besides, Apollonides wouldn’t manage the climb to the summit, any more than he could to walk across the city to the Asklepion. His breath was growing laboured and I could see his limbs trembling.
I begged Apollo to save this man named to honour him. I asked the god to curse the villain who’d done this with the worst torments he could devise.
A shadow dimmed the daylight coming through the doorway. Lysicrates swore. ‘This fucking city!’
Hyanthidas was right behind him. ‘Don’t you—’
‘Enough!’ I snapped. ‘What else can we do?’
‘Nothing.’ Telesilla leaned over to study Apollonides’ forehead as best she could in the dimness. ‘I think he’s had the worst of it.’
She didn’t sound nearly certain enough to reassure me. I watched her cross to the closest basket and realised that rag in her hand was the torn sleeve of one of our stage skins; the lightweight, closely woven cloth that covers every actor and chorus member from the neck down.
I swallowed my instinctive protest as she tore off another piece, soaked it in water and laid it on Apollonides’ face. We’d brought a few spares in case of rips and accidents, and her prompt action could well have saved his life.
Menekles appeared in the doorway. ‘Why are we all in here?’
‘The masks have been dosed with something that blisters the skin.’ Mindful of Telesilla’s warning, I ripped the other sleeve from the ruined stage skin and drew it over my hand before picking up the fallen mask. ‘Let me get some light.’
As the others stepped back from the doorway, I turned the mask over to look inside, but could see no sign of anything amiss.
‘All of them?’ Menekles looked over at the basket holding the masks and wigs.
‘Feel free to try them on.’ Apollonides pressed the back of a hand to his mouth to stifle a cough, his chest heaving.
I told myself he must be feeling better, to crack a joke like that. I wished I could believe it. Lying there with wet linen draped over his face, he reminded me horribly of my last sight of Eumelos, shrouded for burial. My blood ran cold. Was this the same poisoner’s work?
From my vantage point in the doorway, I surveyed the chorus men around the courtyard. None of them had noticed anything amiss. Kadous was pouring watered wine for those who wanted a drink, chatting amiably.
‘We don’t want them knowing about this.’ I spoke the thought aloud.
‘No indeed.’ Menekles stood beside me.
Eumelos’ death could be dismissed as an unfortunate coincidence, with Perantas blaming a faithless slave for his murder. Rival hero cults fighting seemed to be a fact of life in Corinth, so the uproar the day before yesterday could be waved away.
Poisoned masks gave those events a different complexion. This was a direct attack. No one could blame our chorus singers for walking away if they learned what had happened.
‘What’s wrong?’ Zosime joined us. ‘Aren’t any of you having some lunch?’
‘See if you can help Telesilla.’ I stood aside to let her enter and find out what was amiss.
‘How can we stage a play with no masks?’ Lysicrates demanded in a savage undertone. ‘We can hardly hand them over to a laundress.’
‘Let me think.’ I silently begged Dionysos to inspire me with some solution. ‘We had better get the costumes all thoroughly washed though, in case they’ve been given the same treatment. Everything, the stage skins and the tunics.’
At least that was in our favour. The chorus of builders that our play was named for wore everyday clothing: ragged tunics smudged with mortar and stone dust. Though the actors’ solo speaking parts were a different matter. My heart sank.
Lysicrates got there ahead of me, literally and metaphorically. He was heading for the furthest basket that held all their props and costumes. He knelt to study the buckled straps and knotted ropes.
‘Well?’ Menekles demanded, tense.
Apollonides forced himself up on one elbow, dragging the wet cloth from his face.
‘No fucker’s tampered with this.’ Lysicrates slapped the woven wicker.
‘You’re sure?’
I wished those words unsaid as he glared at me.
‘I tied these knots myself. I didn’t want anyone nosing through our stuff on board ship.’
‘So the damage is limited,’ Menekles said, bracing.
‘The chorus masks are still fucked,’ Lysicrates spat.
Standing just outside the door, Hyanthidas raised a hand. ‘People are starting to look this way.’
‘Get back to your rehearsal,’ Apollonides said hoarsely. ‘I’ll be buggered if I’m going through this for nothing.’
Menekles looked at me. ‘He can’t leave here in daylight. If anyone sees him, the rumours will fly faster than whatever pox he’s supposed to have.’
I nodded. ‘Saying Apollo’s arrows have struck him down as a sign of the god’s displeasure with our play, no doubt.’
‘As soon as the priestess sees him, she’ll throw us out of here regardless.’
I looked sharply at Lysicrates, unable to tell if he’d welcome Demeter’s handmaid putting an end to our trip here. He wasn’t wrong though.
‘Go on.’ Zosime shared a glance with Telesilla. ‘We can look after him.’
I realised everyone was looking at me. I drew a steadying breath. ‘Very well.’
‘Eat something first,’ Zosime called out as we left the room.
Belatedly investigating the provisions Kadous had brought did at least give me the opportunity to quietly alert him to unwelcome developments. The Phrygian’s eyes widened, but one of the first things a wise slave learns is never to let his face betray him.
The rest of the chorus returned and we resumed our rehearsal. We had no choice. It was either that or abandon the play. The singers were keen and proved as deft at picking up the dances as they were with the songs. By the time dusk closed around our courtyard, I could call a halt to a good day’s work without arousing suspicion.
I even allowed myself a moment of quiet satisfaction. A couple of songs had collapsed in spectacular fashion, as several of the Corinthians couldn’t help laughing at the situations they found themselves in, but that had been heartening in its own way. I prayed to Demeter that it was an augury their fellow citizens would find our play just as hilarious. Hopefully our chorus would start spreading the word among their friends and acquaintances, saying the
y’d be fools to miss the performance.
That brief moment of respite passed. I headed for the windowless dining room. The doorway was ominously gloomy and any lamps within remained unlit. I couldn’t hear anyone talking. Menekles and Lysicrates joined me, visibly apprehensive. Hyanthidas stayed sitting on his stool, tossing his pipe from hand to hand.
Telesilla appeared on the threshold. ‘Has everyone gone?’
I nodded. ‘It’s just us here.’
She stepped out into the evening, and Apollonides followed her, wearing a broad-brimmed floppy straw hat and a cloak. I recognised it as one of his costumes from the play’s marketplace scene. With a fold of the cloak drawn up over the hat, his face would barely be visible to any passer-by.
I felt weak with relief. ‘How are you?’
‘Better.’ His voice was still hoarse though he seemed to be breathing normally. ‘Somewhat.’
As he lifted the hat’s brim a little, I saw that hectic redness had faded but the blisters on his forehead and cheeks were still shocking. A few had already burst to leave raw sores.
‘Do you think you can walk back down to the city, or should we send for a litter?’
‘I can walk,’ Apollonides assured me, ‘and I’m going to the Asklepion. We need to know what did this. Perhaps that can tell us who deserves a kicking.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ I agreed. When we did, perhaps we would have a use for Thettalos and the Brotherhood of Bellerophon after all.
Chapter Nine
Before we left, Menekles secured both dining rooms with a sharp tug on the leather thongs threaded through holes in the wood. Those drew the substantial bolts home across each door’s inner face. He rattled the keys in his hand. ‘I’d better give these back to the priestess.’
‘So she can give them to whoever sneaked in here last night?’ demanded Lysicrates. ‘What will we find tomorrow? Shit all over the costumes? Piss in our wine?’
Hyanthidas scowled. ‘We don’t know that the priestess gave the keys to anyone.’
‘Then how did someone get in?’ Lysicrates challenged him.
‘I wonder how many people have used these dining suites over the years.’ Menekles was studying the keys.
They were the usual Spartan design; a bronze rod as crooked as a dog’s hind leg, and precisely measured to be the right length when it was threaded through the keyhole. The end would engage with the ridges in the top of the hidden bolt, to push it back as the key was twisted. We watched him fit the two keys together. They were identical.
Menekles looked up. ‘What’s the betting every lock in this place is made to the same pattern?’
‘Why shouldn’t they be?’ countered Hyanthidas. ‘When they’re not in use, these doors only need to be locked to keep out animals and vagrants.’
Telesilla nodded, threading her arm through his. ‘Who would imagine someone risking the goddess’ wrath by dishonouring her sanctuary?’
They were both right, but so was Lysicrates, and I couldn’t see how I could agree with both of them without annoying everyone.
‘Shouldn’t we ask the priestess if anyone came asking for access?’ Zosime wondered.
Yet again, everyone was looking at me. I wished Chrysion had warned me that a chorus master is expected to solve every problem. I quailed at the thought of confronting the formidable priestess with what could only sound like an accusation.
‘What would that achieve? Even if she did hand over the keys, whoever persuaded her must have lied. I can’t imagine it was anyone she’d recognise. Whoever did this would hardly send someone she’d know, to lead us straight to their door.’
‘She needs to know these doors need guarding,’ Menekles observed.
‘Until someone bribes a temple slave,’ Lysicrates said sourly.
‘There’s no need for that,’ I said quickly, seeing Hyanthidas was ready to rebuke him. ‘We don’t need Demeter smiting us all because you showed her servants such disrespect.’
Lysicrates had the grace to look abashed and I moved quickly on.
‘But we might well learn something useful if we keep watch on this courtyard ourselves.’ I turned to Kadous. ‘Do you think you could make yourself comfortable out on the hillside? Find a place where you can see without being seen?’
‘Comfortable enough.’ He grinned. ‘Not so comfortable I’ll fall asleep.’
I smiled momentarily despite myself. He and I had shared a wretched scrape in the ground through one long night on campaign in Boeotia. We’d been part of a small detachment sent to reconnoitre the enemy’s position. Snoring from the next hollow on the hillside had kept both of us wide awake.
‘If you see someone making mischief, go and rouse the temple slaves,’ I told him, serious once again. I didn’t want the Phrygian taking on some unknown assailant with Hades only knew what allies hidden in the darkness. ‘I’ll let the priestess know you’ll be on watch, so she can tell her men to stay alert.’ I held out my hand and Menekles gave me the keys. ‘You can all start walking. I’ll catch up as soon as I’m done.’
As Kadous headed out to find some lair on the hillside, we left the courtyard through the alley between the buildings. Out on the broad steps, everyone else headed for the road downhill while I went up to the temple precinct. One of the goddess’ handmaidens directed me up to the altar, where Demeter’s priestess was sacrificing a brace of pigeons.
I’m used to seeing Athenian priests with gore up to their elbows after cutting a sacred bull’s throat, but seeing a holy woman holding a bloody knife was a novel and disconcerting experience. I coughed nervously to let her know I was there.
She turned, carefully holding the dripping blade away from her gown. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Someone has been interfering with our props and costumes.’ As I explained, I did my best to be clear that we weren’t levelling any accusations at her temple or its slaves. ‘Of course, we don’t want to burden your people with additional duties,’ I added quickly, explaining Kadous would be keeping watch tonight.
The priestess wasn’t amused, though I couldn’t tell if she was more irritated with me, or with the unknown bastard who had poisoned our masks. ‘Any intruder will soon regret their folly,’ she assured me tartly.
‘Thank you.’ I only hoped we got a chance to learn who had sent anyone her irate slaves caught, before they beat him senseless.
I bowed, low and respectful, and beat a hasty retreat. The others hadn’t got too far ahead, cautious on the downhill path as the dusk thickened, so I soon caught up.
As we reached the agora, Hyanthidas and Telesilla turned for their own home with barely a word of farewell. As we took the Lechaion Road towards the Asklepion, I wondered how to reassure the musicians that none of us blamed them for some unknown Corinthians’ misdeeds.
We walked on in silence. I guessed Lysicrates and Menekles were preoccupied with their own thoughts and I could hear the breath rasping in Apollonides’ throat, even though our pace was far from strenuous. Now that I was reasonably sure he wasn’t going to die on us, I began to worry that he might not recover fast enough to manage his taxing role in the play.
As the lead, Menekles only had the one part to play, though Meriones’ presence was substantial, on stage from the first scene to the last. Lysicrates had the third principle speaking role, as well as a bevy of characters coming on for two lines and a laugh.
In between, Apollonides bore the burden of playing Thersites, the second largest part. His banter with Meriones relied on immaculate timing for my jokes to work. He also had his own roster of minor characters, demanding swift entrances and exits, with quick changes of mask and costume behind the scenes. Back in Athens, the effort had left him sweating and breathless, and no one had poisoned him there.
More than that, back in Athens, if some misfortune had struck down any of our actors, Chrysion could have stepped i
nto any of their parts. In case of a second disaster, I could have taken to the stage. Any one of our Dionysia chorus could have taken on the leader’s role, and we knew enough experienced singers who could learn the steps to make up our numbers inside a day or so. We had no such resources in Corinth.
We reached the Asklepion eventually. With the first stroke of divine favour that we’d had since reaching Corinth, the doctor supervising the sleeping patients was Chresimos, the Cycladean who’d examined Eumelos.
‘Good evening.’ He looked at us with mild curiosity, recognising me and Lysicrates. ‘How can I help you tonight?’
Apollonides stepped forward, pulling back the fold of his cloak and taking off the floppy straw hat.
‘He was trying on a mask.’ Menekles explained what had happened.
Chresimos pursed his full lips. ‘Let’s take a closer look.’
Once again, he led us through the hall of pallets, down the staircase, and out through the door to the lower courtyard. This time we could see the glow of lamps here and there, and hear low voices and a hiss of pain from other cubicles along the colonnade.
As Chresimos led us to the closest examination table, I couldn’t help a shiver of apprehension. This was where Eumelos had died. Zosime slid her arm around my waist, and I hugged her close, grateful for the comfort.
‘Up on the table,’ Chresimos said briskly as he lit the lamps.
Apollonides obliged, doing his best not to flinch as the doctor brought the flame frighteningly close in order to study his blisters.
‘Breathe for me.’ Chresimos set down the lamp and stood with his ear close to Apollonides’ mouth. He listened intently for a few long moments.
‘Well?’ Menekles asked, tense, as the doctor stepped away.
‘By my guess?’ Though the Cycladean sounded wholly confident. ‘Someone smeared the inside of the mask with hellebore sap.’
He smiled at Apollonides. ‘Thankfully, you took it off at once and washed your face quickly. I can give you an ointment to soothe those blisters and there’s every reason to think you won’t be badly marked. As for your throat . . .’ He walked to the shelves at the end of the cubicle and found a yellow-glazed pot with a lid pierced by a hole.