by J M Alvey
‘I’m sorry, no.’ I glanced at the others, but they both shook their heads.
Chresimos looked down, regretful. ‘If he has a family, they should be told, especially if he proves likely to die.’
I wondered if the stricken youth had heard the doctor. He started whimpering, and his wandering gaze fixed on something none of us could see. As his fists clenched like a man ready to fight, we all took a step away from the bed, apprehensive.
‘He will suffer for some hours,’ the doctor observed, dispassionate. ‘Some men see enchanting visions, apparently. Others are besieged by horrors.’
‘How did he get here?’ Lysicrates asked.
‘He was found wandering the streets by the agora by two men well known to the Asklepion. They had no idea who he was, but they could see he was in distress. They brought him here.’
I looked at my fellow Athenians, who were as clueless as me. ‘Who is the Sons of Heracles’ patron? Presumably someone in that household might know who he is.’
‘No one here can tell me whose silver currently funds that particular fraternity and their foolishness.’ The doctor sighed. ‘As a devotee of Asklepios, I steer clear of the hero cults, as do most of my colleagues.’
I raised a hand. ‘Listen.’
The young man’s thrashing had slowed to restless tossing, and his frantic whimpering had faded to a whisper. For the first time, I could make out words.
‘Mother, help me. Help me, Mother. Mother, help me.’
Lysicrates moved swiftly to kneel by the bed. He stroked the matted curls from the youth’s forehead with gentle fingers.
‘I’m here, my poor boy, I’m here.’ The actor spoke with the soothing tones of a loving matron. ‘What’s happened to you?’
The young man’s wondering gaze fixed on Lysicrates but whatever he was seeing, it wasn’t our friend’s bearded face. ‘Oh Mother, I’m so sorry.’
‘I know, don’t worry, but please, tell me what has happened.’
‘They said not to drink the wine, but they didn’t say why,’ he babbled. ‘They should have said it was dangerous. We had no idea . . .’ His face twisted with concern. ‘Don’t drink the wine, Mother.’
‘What wine, dearest heart? I don’t understand.’
‘At the theatre. Don’t drink the wine,’ he begged.
‘I won’t, don’t worry, but what’s wrong with the wine?’
Glassy-eyed, the boy stared. ‘We’re going to mix it with the wine for the theatre. They won’t be laughing then. But you mustn’t drink it, Mother, promise!’
‘I promise, but tell me, where is this wine being kept?’
He smiled, lop-sided, as if the answer was obvious. ‘At Demeas’ house.’
I looked at Chresimos but the doctor answered with a shrug. He had no more idea than we did.
The boy was whimpering again, clutching Lysicrates’ hand and begging his mother to save him from unseen terrors. The rest of us retreated. I don’t know about anyone else, but I didn’t want any malevolent spirits taking an interest in me.
Lysicrates stayed where he was as he hushed and comforted the youth. After a few unnerving moments, the frenzy subsided and the lad lay still, insensible.
Chresimos grunted inscrutably and drew the blanket down to uncover the young man’s bony chest. He pinched a fold of skin between finger and thumb and twisted it viciously. Even though Lysicrates and I had seen him do the same to Eumelos, we still exclaimed as loudly as Menekles.
This time, so did the patient. His eyes opened and he moaned in wordless protest, trying to twist away from the pain, before sinking into unconsciousness again.
Chresimos grunted with satisfaction. ‘That is a promising sign.’
‘He’s not going to die?’ I hated to think of the bruise he’d wake up with.
The Cycladean raise a cautionary hand. ‘It’s far too soon to be certain. Most likely, according to that scroll, he will linger for three or four days, until he either regains his senses or succumbs.’
Menekles shook his head. ‘We can’t wait that long to know what he knows.’
‘We can wait until the morning to see if he’s awake.’ I stifled a yawn as I spoke.
‘We’ve got to be at the Sanctuary for tomorrow’s rehearsal,’ Lysicrates reminded us.
‘I suggest you take your discussion elsewhere.’ Chresimos ushered us away from the bed and along the colonnade.
I stopped as we reached the stairs up to the hall of sleeping patients. ‘Will you let the Sons of Heracles know he’s here?’
The Cycladean looked at me. ‘I take it you would rather I didn’t?’
‘We stand a much better chance of frustrating their plans if they don’t know they’ve been betrayed.’ I gestured back towards the lamp’s glow. ‘What do you suppose they’ll do to him, if they realise he spilled the beans? Do you think they’ll care that he was out of his mind?’
Chresimos nodded. ‘Far better to wait and see how he fares. If he comes to his senses and can tell us his name, we can send for his family then. Of course, whoever he was with tonight must be wondering what’s become of him. When someone goes missing, this is one of the first places people come to look.’
I remembered the boy had said ‘we didn’t listen’. Hermes only knows how many of his friends were stumbling around the streets, raving.
‘Could you . . . ?’ Menekles hesitated.
Chresimos looked sternly disapproving. ‘I will not lie and deprive this boy’s family of a last chance to see him. He may still die.’
‘That’s only right and proper,’ I said quickly.
The Cycladean nodded, his face a little less severe. ‘I will not share anything he has said in his delirium. That can help no one.’
‘Thank you,’ I said fervently. ‘We’ll leave you to your duties.’
We walked quickly out and I glanced at the god’s sanctuary to offer a prayer for the boy’s recovery after a protracted sleep. Having him lie unconscious until the day after our performance would suit us. Though of course, that was in Apollo’s gift, or Asklepios’ and I dared not second-guess either deity’s wisdom.
As we went out through the arched gateway, Menekles stopped abruptly. ‘Does anyone really think the Sons of Heracles would try to poison our audience? To kill hundreds of Corinthians?’
Lysicrates glanced over his shoulder. ‘Believe me, that lad wasn’t faking.’
‘I don’t suppose they actually intend to kill anyone,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Remember what he said about mixing the dangerous wine with the wine meant for the theatre? That would dilute this sweet madness to something less deadly, wouldn’t it?’
‘Getting the audience drunk against their will.’ Menekles began walking again.
‘More than drunk,’ I pointed out as we all went with him. ‘Feeling euphoria that can slip into mania.’
‘The usual drunks in an audience are bad enough,’ growled Lysicrates. ‘Shouting and throwing things. Laughing like jackals in all the wrong places.’
I recalled my first play staged at the Lenaia festival in Athens. Finding courage in the bottom of too many wine cups, a couple of men in the upper seats had revived some old quarrel and began throwing punches. A handful of friends dragged them apart, adding to the cacophony as other audience members voiced their objections to such disruption. My whole chorus was distracted and their next song had been a ragged, feeble effort.
That chorus had been rehearsing for months, even though the Lenaia was only a city winter festival, nowhere near as prestigious as the Dionysia. After a mere eight days’ practice, I wouldn’t give a sixteenth of an obol for our Corinthian singers’ chances of staying in tune and in step, if everyone in the theatre succumbed to this tainted wine. Whether the audience got ebullient or argumentative, The Builders’ performance in Corinth would be remembered for all the wrong reasons.<
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‘Where’s the city’s shrine to Dionysos?’ I wondered aloud. ‘We should ask the god to avenge this vile insult to his divine gift.’
If this was a play, I’d write a scene where the bastards responsible were strangled to death by grape vines. I didn’t care that it wouldn’t get a laugh.
As we reached the bottom of the ramp, two figures loomed out of the darkness. Thettalos was with a tall, heavyset man I recognised as one of the Brotherhood.
‘So this is where you’ve hidden him.’ Thettalos grinned unpleasantly at me.
It took a moment before I understood his meaning. It was hard to believe our trip to Lechaion had been earlier this same night. ‘Tromes? Don’t be an utter fool.’
‘You’re saying we won’t find him tucked up in there?’ the bull-necked man challenged me.
I spread my hands. ‘Go and look for him, by all means. Go and insult another temple by starting a brawl. How many priests do you want complaining about your behaviour to Perantas Bacchiad?’
‘You must know why we’re here.’ Menekles slipped instantly into the role of the voice of reason, counterpart to my antagonism. ‘Whoever told you we’d been summoned to the Asklepion must have said someone had been poisoned.’
‘Not just one idiot boy.’ I gave Thettalos no chance to interrupt as I outlined this new threat to our performance. ‘There’s every chance his friends are still stumbling around the city, their heads filled with delights and nightmares. Make yourselves useful and go and find them. Someone called Demeas is behind this scheme apparently.’
‘You’d like that,’ Thettalos retorted. ‘Sending us chasing shadows instead of looking for Tromes and finding out what he says about you.’
That had already occurred to me but I’d made sure no one could read such thoughts on my face.
‘You must know who Demeas is, surely?’ Menekles was either genuinely puzzled or putting on the best performance I’d ever seen from him to provoke Thettalos. ‘One of the Sons of Heracles?’
‘Never heard of him,’ Thettalos sneered, ‘and we haven’t heard a whisper of any plot to mess with the theatre wine.’
I suddenly realised why he was so confident. ‘You’ve got your own spies, haven’t you? Someone inside their patron’s household is reporting to you. Who is behind the Sons of Heracles?’
Thettalos hesitated, but his desire to get the better of me won out. ‘Alypos Temenid keeps that band of losers in cheap wine, and feeds their fantasies of being cocks of the dung hill. He’d be happy to see Perantas Bacchiad humiliated, but he threw his javelin when the Sons tried to smash up your auditions.’
‘I’m sure he’d be delighted that you think so,’ I countered. ‘That’ll make this scheme to wreak havoc so much easier.’
I saw a flicker of doubt in Thettalos’ eyes. Menekles followed up our advantage.
‘Why would we lie about this, when you can so easily check for yourself? Ask for a doctor called Chresimos. See what he has to say.’
I wished the actor hadn’t said that. I reckoned Thettalos was perfectly capable of dragging that helpless boy out of his bed and trying to beat some answers out of him. Though it was hard to believe they’d get anything out of the young Son without Lysicrates to play his doting mother.
Still, the Asklepion’s slaves must be used to dealing with raving patients. I guessed they could easily deal with Thettalos and his hanger-on. That wouldn’t do anything to stop this plot to dose our audience with madness though.
‘Believe what you like. I’m going to bed.’ I tried to walk around Thettalos but he sidestepped to stop me.
‘You’re lying about something, I know it.’ He stared at me, before his gaze switched to Lysicrates. ‘You sobered up fast, I see.’
Lysicrates met his gaze, glare for glare. ‘Call me a liar, and you’ll get a smack in the mouth.’
This time Thettalos stayed where he was as the two actors strode away. I quickly followed. No one said anything until we reached the main road to the agora.
Menekles spoke first. ‘What are we going to do now?’
‘We already know who peddles herbs to the Sons of Heracles,’ I said grimly. ‘We’ll go and see Zopyros first thing tomorrow and find out whatever he knows. Meantime, we don’t breathe a word of this where anyone can hear us. There’s no way to know if Tromes was the only spy among Perantas’ slaves. Someone could be carrying our every word to Alypos Temenid.’
The others murmured agreement and we continued on our way. We eventually reached our house, no longer the safe haven we had thought it, and found Kadous guarding the entrance with a club, which I guessed the Brotherhood had left. I saw the silent question in his eyes.
‘Let’s get to bed.’ I headed for the steps to the upper storey as the Phrygian bolted and barred the gates behind us.
Zosime was under the blankets, though she was still awake, stirring drowsily in the light of an oil lamp on the table as I opened the inner door. ‘What happened?’
I waited in the doorway until Kadous appeared and closed the outer door to the stairs. I told them both what we’d discovered at the Asklepion, keeping my voice low to make sure my words didn’t slip through the cracks in the floorboards to any slaves listening below.
‘What are you going to do?’ Zosime’s eyes were dark and anxious in the dim light.
‘I’m going to sleep.’ I licked my finger and thumb and walked over to quench the lamp’s wick. ‘I’ll tell you the rest tomorrow.’
Chapter Nineteen
I slept deep and dreamlessly, and woke still weary. The pale daylight told me it was still early morning, and I considered going back to sleep. Zosime had woken earlier still though. Dressed in a pale green dress, she was sitting at the table beneath the open shutters, diligently writing.
‘Is that a letter home?’ I didn’t particularly want these past few days’ events committed to papyrus.
There was no telling who might intercept a letter passing from hand to hand all the way to Athens. Such a document would be damning evidence for anyone accusing me of defaming a Corinthian noble.
Zosime’s mischievous smile lifted my heart. ‘I’m making some notes about the rewrites for the play that Telesilla and I discussed last night.’
‘Oh, thank you, my beloved,’ I said fervently.
Her tone was light, but as she sat there, pen poised, I saw concern in her eyes. ‘I take it you have another busy day ahead of you?’
‘I do, and I want you and Kadous to spend it with Telesilla and Arion. Take those notes with you,’ I added.
Kadous had heard us talking. He knocked on the inner door just as I heard familiar voices down in the courtyard. Apollonides and Lysicrates were awake.
Zosime stood up to peer out of the window. ‘Time for breakfast.’
I threw back the blankets as she crossed the room and opened the door to let Kadous enter with a jug of washing water. By the time I was dressed and downstairs, Menekles had joined the others, and two subdued slave girls were setting out our breakfast on the courtyard table.
We ate in silence, apart from brief requests for someone to pass the fruit or some bread. No one needed reminding not to say anything that might be reported to hostile ears, and that list now included Wetka and Thettalos as far as I was concerned. We didn’t tell any of the slaves where we were going and none of them dared ask.
On the plus side of the ledger, Apollonides’ face was healing nicely, beneath the sheen of Chresimos’ ointment.
As we reached the agora, people barely spared us an incurious glance. These Corinthians had their own concerns. I reminded myself how many ordinary citizens had no interest in the hero cults’ rivalries. These were the people we’d come to entertain. These were the allies we were here to enlist, to join the Athenians founding the new city at Thurii. I mustn’t lose sight of that, for Aristarchos’ sake, if no longer for Per
antas’.
‘Are we all going to see Zopyros?’ Menekles asked.
‘Yes,’ Lysicrates replied.
That was our sole conversation until we reached Hyanthidas’ house, where only the briefest explanation was necessary. I told the musician how we’d uncovered yet another attempt to disrupt our play. Leaving Kadous with Telesilla and Zosime, the five of us headed up to the Acrocorinth.
Passing the Sanctuary of Demeter and Persephone reminded us that we needed to be back in time to greet our hard-working chorus. It wasn’t only that we had no time to waste rehearsing our performance, we didn’t want any awkward questions from our singers wondering where we might have been. There was still the possibility of a spy or merely some unwitting tattle-tale among their ranks.
The guards at the Acrocorinth’s ever-open gates were lounging idly as usual. ‘You won’t find many places open for business just yet,’ one called out.
Lysicrates acknowledged him with a casual wave. The rest of us soon saw that the guard was right. This fabled citadel of carnal delights had a mundane air in the morning. Gaggles of children were being escorted to their lessons. Household slaves were busy carrying baskets of charcoal, heavy jars of water, and the day’s provisions from some market up here or down in the city.
Above our heads, women who could have been anyone’s mother, sister or wife were opening shutters and shaking out bedding.
Tavern and brothel doors stood open as floors were swept and mopped. A couple of gangs in the uniform tunics of temple slaves were clearing up shattered pottery and more noxious refuse clogging the streets’ gutters.
As we reached the small square overlooked by close-packed houses, we saw Zopyros sitting on his doorstep. The herbalist was sharing a jug of something and a loaf of barley bread with his brother. He looked far from sleek this morning, wearing a homespun tunic and with his hair yet to see a comb, never mind scented oils. His brother was tossing crumbs to drab little birds pecking about in the cracks of the paving. There was no one else around, though various windows were unshuttered and a door opposite stood ajar.