by Marie Savage
Menandros barked a laugh and nearly spilled his wine. “By the gods, Theron, you’ve ruined me for life. I’ll never get the vision of fat old Kleomon and wily Philon naked, oiled up, and circling each other in the gymnasium. That’s a wrestling match I would pay to not see.”
“I may not sleep for weeks,” Althaia added.
“You certainly will not sleep tonight, I fear,” Theron said. “I say our time spent with Philon will be useful because it will provide a distraction from the body in the temple storeroom. A murder in the Sacred Precinct is no trifling matter, and Philon must be concerned about the consequences and about any uproar in the community from having the precinct so defiled.”
“He better be,” Menandros interrupted. “My theater must be purified and re-sanctified immediately.”
“The sooner things return to normal the better. There are always some who look for opportunities to cause trouble, and an open rift between the priests of Apollon and the priestesses of Gaia may provide just such an opportunity. Our job tonight is to keep Philon’s mind off of Charis.”
“He didn’t seem all that interested in her in the first place,” Althaia interjected. The way Philon, Kleomon, and even Heraklios, dismissed the girl’s body as if she were a mere nuisance angered and disappointed her. Who should mourn the taking of a life if not the priests and enforcers of the law?
“True,” Theron said. “That, in and of itself, is interesting. But he must be concerned about the possible fall out, and it is obvious you—the educated daughter of a wealthy man—intrigue him. So tonight you must distract him. Impress him. Charm him. We don’t want him sending any servants over to check on the body in the middle of the night.”
“Charm him how?” She cocked an eyebrow at Theron. “I am no hetaira practiced in the arts of entertaining drunken men. It sounds like you want me to pluck the lyre while standing on my head.”
“I’m asking you to use your wits, my dear.” His voice was edged with exasperation, but he offered her a please-forgive-me smile. “If you have any left,” he added under his breath and then ducked as Althaia whipped a pillow at his head.
“I wish Praxis would return soon.” She sighed. “I would feel much better about the evening if I knew our plan before we left for Philon’s.”
“Of course.” Menandros reached over and patted her hand like she was a little girl. “If Praxis doesn’t return before you leave, I’ll send my houseboy to Philon’s with a message as soon as he gets back.”
“What sort of message will allow us to abandon our host in the middle of a meal?” Althaia asked.
“Don’t you worry about that. I’ll think of something that is sure to work. I’m a playwright after all! In the meantime, you tell Philon to get my theater re-sanctified.”
Althaia shuddered. “I don’t think people tell Philon to do anything. He seems the sort to give commands, not take them,”
“Philon is more bark than bite.” Menandros appeared to dismiss the entire idea of Philon with a wave of his hand. “I need my theater back. We had just started rehearsing my new play.”
“A new play? What is it about?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” Theron said with an exaggerated groan and pushed himself away from the wall. He sat down, reclining his long frame on an empty couch. “Make sure you’re comfortable, Althaia. We’re going to be here for a while.”
“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Menandros said with a laugh. “Theron is a frustrated poet himself and is tormented with jealousy.”
“Tormented. Yes, I keep forgetting.” Theron said.
“Keep quiet, old man. I have a beautiful woman asking about my work.” Menandros turned to Althaia. “Your tutor and I have lived very different lives, but we have similar goals. Every time he thinks he has stumbled on an answer to one of life’s vexing questions, he finds himself tripping over yet another problem, yet another unanswered question which bores into his mind like an awl into wood, leaving holes in his logic and gaps in his understanding. In other words, my dear, it seems the more he learns—whether about this old world or the people who populate it—the littler he knows.” Menandros stopped to take a long drink.
“Go on, old friend, I am anxious to learn the inner workings of my mind.”
“I’m sure you are, but I’m getting to my point, so be quiet.” Menandros turned his attention back to Althaia. “We are, unfortunately, kindred brethren in this respect. Every answer seems to spontaneously generate a new question, and answering those questions is like embarking on a journey. We think we know our destination—let's say we want to climb to the top of a mountain. We can survey the path from a distance and even guess how long it might take. But we cannot know what we will encounter along the way. And then, once we arrive at the top, once we achieve our goal, what will we see but a whole new vista, a whole new landscape to explore. A whole new question. For Theron, answering those questions has been a life-long journey. He has traveled farther than I can even comprehend. But for me, a playwright, answering those questions requires putting words on the page. In the past, I concentrated on tragedy, on the anguish that arises from never having your questions answered. But these days, I’m concentrating on comedies because they are more tragic than tragedies.”
“More tragic than tragedy?” Althaia asked, her brows knitted in confusion. “How can that be?”
“Reflecting the human condition and making the audience laugh at themselves in the process is much more difficult than writing a tragedy. Life itself is tragic. To write a tragedy is simply to be a copyist. There is no true creativity involved. Oh, I’ve cried and drunk my way through many a tragedy.” He was quiet for a moment, staring off into the distance. “With tragedy there is pain, to be sure. Deep pain. Timeless pain. But comedy is something else entirely. Indeed, the act of writing a true comedy is a tragic endeavor for the playwright. He struggles with each line. He pours his deepest insights onto the page. He crafts them and molds them and tortures them into witticisms that must make the audience laugh—lest he be laughed at. He invests the essence of his very being in the turn of a phrase, in the timing of each poisoned dart. And all the time, he is stripping himself bare, naked, flagellating himself before the eyes of everyone he has loved—or wanted to love. With each word, his soul dies a little more. Sooner or later, he wastes away until there is nothing left.…”
Menandros’ trailed off into an anguished whisper. He dabbed his eyes with his sleeve and Althaia, deeply moved to see a man so affected by the toll of his work, reached out to comfort him.
Theron laughed and raised his cup in a toast. “Bravo! That is tragic indeed, Menandros. You’re going to have to write many a comedy before you waste away to nothing.”
“Thank you for reminding me why I like you much better when you live far away.”
“Lest you’ve forgotten, Althaia,” Theron said, “Menandros was an accomplished actor before he picked up his pen and unrolled his first scroll.”
“You are a spoilsport. Can you not allow me the enjoyment of the comforting touch of a beautiful woman—even if for but a brief moment?”
“Enjoy, my friend. And while we wait for Praxis, go ahead and tell her about your play. I need a nap anyway.” Theron laughed as the playwright cleared his throat and threw his arms wide, ready to deliver a soliloquy.
Chapter Nineteen
“Sir, I am sorry to interrupt.”
“What is it, Basileios?
“A messenger has come from the playwright’s. Your guests are to return immediately.”
Althaia jumped up so quickly Philon was taken aback.
It was still early in the evening, but to Theron time seemed to be slipping away. He’d had to shoot Althaia several dark glances to warn her to stop fidgeting. As Philon interrogated them both, they grew increasingly anxious that there had been no message from Menandros, no news from Praxis. And there seemed to be no escape from Philon who, while maintaining a façade of genteel hospitality, treated them both with condescension and b
arely concealed arrogance.
“Return? Whatever for? We’ve barely begun our repast,” Philon said, waving at a servant to refill his glass of wine.
“It seems your guest’s handmaid has taken ill,” Basileios said.
“What an unfortunate turn of events.” Philon looked up at Althaia. “You do not seem surprised.”
Althaia held his gaze. “I fear she was overly tired from our travels and has not recovered,” She looked to Theron for help, and he rose to stand at her side. “She is new to my service, but I have grown quite fond of her,” she continued.
“I see,” Philon said. “In that case, Basileios, fetch the physician and take him to the playwright’s house.” He waved the guard away and turned back to Althaia and Theron. “Sit, please. There’s no question of us cutting our evening short. Basileios will see to it that my own personal physician examines her. She will receive the finest care Delphi has to offer,” he said with a self-satisfied smile.
Althaia sank back to her couch with a forced smile painted across her lips, but Theron remained standing. “We thank you, of course, but I’m sure the handmaid would be more comfortable being treated by someone she knows.”
“Your concern for this poor girl does you justice, but her comfort will be better ensured by seeing to it that she is healed. My physician has read every treatise written by Hippokrates of Kos. I’m sure even you, in all your travels, cannot boast that accomplishment.”
No, Theron thought, I have not read every damn thing Hippokrates wrote down, and I am no physician, but then again we have no patient. And I’ve actually been to Kos and toured Hippokrates’ Asklepieion and my patience is running thin. “She speaks little Greek, I’m afraid,” Theron said. “She’s Egyptian.”
“Ah!” Philon clapped. “All the better. Sit now and drink up. My physician speaks Egyptian like a native.”
****
As slaves brought out the next course, a thick lentil stew with spiced sausage served with warm brown bread, Philon pressed Theron on his travels and Althaia on her political views. Theron tried to keep himself calm by studying their host, watching how he interacted with his servants, and trying to gain a measure of the man who was one of the most powerful priests in all Greece. But eventually, he could think of nothing else but getting Althaia out of Philon’s dining room and into the temple storeroom.
“I have been truly delighted by your conversation, Althaia of Athens,” Philon said at last. “I can now report back to my friends in your fair city that you are indeed as educated and self-possessed a young woman as I am ever likely to meet. Your father, and your tutor,” he raised a glass to Theron, “clearly spared nothing in your education.”
“I thank you for the compliment,” Althaia said as her knee jittered up and down.
“But the evening cannot end, before—”
“Sir, I am sorry to interrupt again.” Basileios stood in the doorway.
“What news? Have you returned with the physician? Has he treated the slave?” Philon asked.
“He has concluded the examination and is concocting a medicinal draught for her now.”
“Excellent. That will be all.”
Basileios didn’t move from the doorway.
“What?” Philon demanded.
“The playwright is complaining of a bad case of the unwalkable disease and insists Theron return to look at his toe.”
“His toe?”
“His toe, sir. He is sitting there in his andron with his foot up on a cushion moaning and groaning about his toe.”
“Isn’t the physician still there?”
“Yes, sir.”
Then by the gods, man, have him look at the playwright’s toe.”
“But Menandros wants him.” Basileios cast a disdainful look at Theron.
Theron and Althaia stood, but Philon motioned them to sit back down.
“I daresay the playwright’s toe will not fall off before our dinner is concluded.”
“His humors must be out of equilibrium again,” Theron offered, “I’ve treated his gout before, and I know it can be quite painful.” He wanted to wring Philon’s and Menandros’s necks. He and Althaia needed to escape, but they couldn’t raise Philon’s suspicions and this excuse was ridiculous. If they left because of Menandros’s damnable toe, Philon would surely suspect something odd was going on.
“Painful or not, no one dies of the gout. Now sit down and let us at least finish our meal.”
****
Even as Theron and Althaia parried Philon’s queries about his travels and her education, Theron searched for ways to extract themselves from the grip of the priest’s wearying hospitality. Though the whole evening had probably lasted no more than two hours, time seemed to pass as slow as Aesopos’s tortoise on the race course, while ideas for new excuses to take their leave flitted through his mind like the fleet-footed hare. The conversation finally turned from politics and petty gossip to philosophy and Theron tried his best to answer quickly without betraying his frustration and eagerness to be done with the whole wretched evening.
Where do you stand on his theory of universals? Are you with Plato or Aristotle? What do you think about causation and the idea of a prime mover? Do you agree with Democritus, Plato or Aristotle on the nature of matter and the elements? Are you a follower of Pythagoras and do you know why he is afraid of beans? Do you believe the earth is round and that the face of it changes dramatically over time? That the sun is larger than the earth and far enough away to shine even on the Milky Way? What do you think of Protagoras’s belief that man is the measure of all things? Philon’s questions went on and on until Theron felt he might truly strangle the man. He is playing with us, Theron thought. We are nothing more than entertaining diversions on an otherwise tedious evening Finally, just as he feared they would grow old in Philon’s company, the priest suddenly stood and motioned for servants to clear the tables.
“I’m afraid our delightful evening must come to a close,” he said. “I have obligations to attend to, and I’m certain you are eager to check on your handmaid and make sure Menandros’s toe is still attached to his foot.”
The torture was over.
Chapter Twenty
Althaia held the kylix to her nose, sniffed, and made a face. She handed it to Theron who smelled it and then took a sip.
“What is it?” Nephthys asked.
“Most likely crushed iris and rose mixed with vinegar,” he said.
“The physician mixed it up and made a poultice for my head. I moaned a bit and then pretended I had fallen asleep.” Theron handed the drinking cup back. “It smells sickly sweet,” Nephthys said.
“Perhaps we should make Menandros drink the rest,” Theron said, casting a dark look at the playwright.
“It all turned out well enough,” Menandros said, a trifle defensively.
“Well enough? Is that what you call it?” Theron laughed. “The one thing you accomplished is that Philon believes you are an idiot.”
“Oh, that’s nothing new,” Menandros declared. “He thinks everyone is an idiot. Now shut up and let’s hear the news from Praxis.” Menandros unlatched a wax tablet and took out a sharpened stylus.
Praxis looked up from where he reclined, finishing his late dinner. “Everyone’s talking about it. News of a murder in the Sacred Precinct is spreading across Phokis like a gale, and apparently Philon now fears the news will incite a mob.” He tore off a piece of bread from a long loaf, smashed it in a bowl of shimmering olive oil, mushed it into a soft lump of goat cheese and stuffed it in his mouth.”
“A mob? Why?” Althaia asked.
“Tensions between the priests and the priestesses, I gather. And because locals are upset the body is being kept so near the temple. The body is polluting all Delphi, some are saying.”
“I presume Heraklios posted guards outside the storehouse?” Theron said.
“He did and they remain at their posts although there is nothing to guard.”
“Nothing to guard?�
� Althaia said. “I don’t understand.”
“The body is no longer in the storehouse. Philon had it moved and neglected to inform Heraklios. Palamedes only found out about it because he ran into a couple of Philon’s bodyguards deep inside the temple complex. Down where the slaves’ quarters are. Suspicious, Palamedes poked around after the guards left. Once he found the girl’s body, he went back to his quarters where he had a little visit from Basileios, Philon’s personal bodyguard.” Praxis tore off another piece of bread, dipped it in oil and popped it in his mouth.
“We met Basileios this evening at Philon’s,” Theron said.
Praxis nodded as he took a long drink of water.
“Get on with it, man,” Menandros cried, tapping his stylus against his wax tablet. “This is better than any play I could write.”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t eaten since up at the cave. Basileios urged Palamedes to keep quiet about the girl’s body,” Praxis continued. “He said Philon fears that Kleomon’s gang of ‘rabble rousers’ will make trouble. According to Palamedes, Kleomon fancies himself some sort of Sokrates with a group of young men as his acolytes, and since Kleomon despises the followers of Gaia, Philon suspects that the young men will break in and try to desecrate the body—just for entertainment—or to impress Kleomon with their bravery.”
“I know Kleomon’s group,” Mendandros said. “They’re a bunch of rich, privileged sycophants who would rather fawn over the old man than do an honest day’s work, but they don’t seem violent. They gather at the inn right up the road. The Dolphin’s Cove. It’s owned by a man named Diokles. Now there’s an interesting character.”