by Gary Corby
The greatest excitement had been the day before, when Aeschylus had put on his final play, the last Aeschylus original that anyone would ever see. The theater had been packed to overflowing and beyond. Aeschylus had outdone himself. The chorus in his play had been made up to look like the Furies, with real snakes writhing in their hair. The effect had been so overwhelming that when the Furies rushed onstage one heavily pregnant young woman in the audience had screamed and gone instantly into labor.
It might have ended in disaster had not my own mother been nearby. Four men carried the woman away, even as Phaenarete tended to the rapidly arriving babe. Phaenarete reported later that night that mother and child were both doing well.
Now on the final day it was the turn of the ill-fated Sisyphus, or as I was supposed to call it these days, The Corinthian Play. Many people had turned up for what everyone knew was going to be a disaster. They had probably come to enjoy the wreck.
All about the amphitheater, people shifted on their backsides and tried to pretend that no one could see them doing it. The anticipation of the play wasn’t enough to overcome the discomfort of the cold stone seats or, in the cheaper rows at the back, the temporary wooden benches.
I wished I could have gone to the very back, where the poorest people had to stand. But that would have been unthinkable. This was the Great Dionysia, the greatest arts festival of the greatest city in all the world, and a citizen of Athens has standards to maintain, whether he likes it or not.
So instead I sat on the hard stone bench beside Pythax. I noticed with some surprise that Pythax was developing a paunch. On this festival day he wore a formal chiton dyed in bright reds and greens and blues. I had to assume this was his wife’s idea, because Pythax was a man whose workday clothing was the leather armor of his guards. After work he invariably chose the sort of plain, simple chiton that was favored by the most conservative of citizens.
Yet throughout the Dionysia he had worn colored ribbons hung from his belt, and the bright chiton covered him from neck to ankles and wrist to wrist. A flowery Dionysiac wreath sat askew atop his meaty brow. The overall effect was to make him look like a giant walking flower. The only reason he didn’t appear out of place was that the rest of us looked like walking flowers too.
I pushed back the circlet of blossoms upon my own head, sat up straighter and looked about the audience to see what had become of Diotima. I found her in the stalls reserved for women, where she sat toward the front. She caught my eye—she’d been searching for me as I had her. We waved nervously at each other. We had a lot to be nervous about, but didn’t dare show it.
An elbow jabbed me so hard that I almost fell into the stranger to my left. Pythax wanted my attention.
“Here, lad,” he whispered. He reached under the material of his chiton and pulled out a bag. This he offered to me. The bag dripped red.
So that was the reason for his sudden paunch. Pythax had smuggled a wineskin into the theater.
I whispered back, “I knew I’d married into a good family.” I took the wineskin from him and squeezed the contents for a good mouthful. I handed it back to Pythax so he could do the same.
The play began. The chorus walked on, singing the opening song. They stopped before the city’s statue of the god Dionysos, to whom they bowed in homage.
The play went as planned, with fewer stumbles than might have been feared. Sisyphus the crafty king of Corinth managed to offend everyone. When Zeus had had enough, he sent Thanatos to collect the miscreant king.
The audience was hushed. The god of death was about to descend from Mount Olympus.
In the background, the long arm of the crane rose. It was painted to match the background. The mechanism by which the God would descend was quite difficult to see, even if you knew it was there.
As the arm rose, the rope that was attached to it also rose. It was like a giant fishing rod. Only at the end wasn’t a lure, but an actor. Any moment now we’d see him appear over the top of the scenery.
The God appeared, suspended from the machine. It was Thanatos, as Sophocles had designed him. His neck was slumped over, his body flaccid.
Everyone gasped at the realism.
Then the head of Petros, who played for his brother-in-law, suddenly perked up. He spoke.
THANATOS
I, Thanatos, god of death,
Bringer of doom to mortal man,
Have been sent by mighty Zeus
to bring to justice King Sisyphus of Corinth,
whose crimes of murder and
worst of all, impiety,
have infuriated vengeful Zeus.
Hades awaits this miscreant king with open arms.
I bear these chains of oh dear Gods what in Hades is that …
Someone behind me said loudly, “That doesn’t rhyme.”
Sophocles almost jumped up, but I pulled him back down. The playwright scowled angrily and said, “Those words aren’t in the play. I hope that fool isn’t about to improvise.”
Petros on the god machine pointed over and above and, rather strangely, behind the audience.
Everyone seated in the audience looked behind them.
Every man, woman, and child in the theater gasped at the same moment.
Descending from atop the Acropolis, two hundred paces behind the audience, and a hundred above their heads, was a figure swathed in bright light.
The figure was walking through the air.
As she approached—for it was definitely a she—the reason for the aura became apparent. The lady was dressed in gold: gold helmet, gold shield, and in her right hand she held a spear tipped in gold.
It could be none other than Athena the goddess of War. Athena, the patroness of our city, for her home was atop the Acropolis, and it was from the Acropolis that she descended through the air.
The name Athena was whispered here and there amongst the audience, until it became louder and everyone was speaking it. Such a thing had not happened since the days of King Theseus. The more fearful stood and ran away in the opposite direction. Most stayed to see what was about to happen.
The Goddess stopped in mid-air before the people of Athens. She spoke these words:
ATHENA
Do not seek to flee, mortals,
For you are fleeing one who is not an enemy,
But gracious to all who inhabit Athens.
I, Athena Pallas, have come to you,
Entreated in this course by my father’s son, Dionysos,
God of the harvest and of the theater,
For he does not think it fit to come into your sight,
When impiety has been committed against him.
The god of the theater sends me to tell you this:
That there is one among you who has murdered
Within his sacred precinct.
The audience looked at one another. They all knew of the impiety that the Goddess meant. The murder of Romanos had been sacrilege because of where it took place. But the people had been told the impiety had been cleansed. Here was a goddess who begged to differ.
Athena raised her bright spear high. Its golden tip flashed in the sunlight.
ATHENA
Raises her spear.
See this spear? It is my spear of war,
Destroyer of men,
But today I carry not a weapon of war, but the spear of vengeance.
Every man and woman knew what that meant. If Athena declared her spear to be one of vengeance, it meant someone was about to suffer for the crime.
The chattering became loud.
ATHENA
Points spear at a member of the audience.
You it was, who murdered Romanos,
You desecrated this holy place.
You of all mortals should have known better,
You, Theokritos,
High Priest of my brother Dionysos.
Gasps from across the theater. Every eye turned to Theokritos, who as High Priest sat in a position of honor in the front row. It made him v
isible to everyone. Theokritos was already standing, like everyone else in the theater. Now he jumped up upon his seat.
THEOKRITOS
Shakes his fist.
That’s not true!
I deny your charge.
You can’t prove a thing.
ATHENA
Ignoring his interruption.
Let all Athens hear this.
You it was, Theokritos, who lured the actor to his death.
You ordered your men to wait
Outside the secret room he rented.
They met him with false cheer.
A LANDLORD
Jumps up from among the audience.
Hey, that’s true!
I was the landlord of Romanos.
A group of men did meet Romanos outside my house.
I saw it with my own eyes.
The people of Athens looked to the man who had suddenly spoken. They saw that he was a man just like them. More than that, he was known as the most honest landlord in Athens.
This ordinary, honest man had confirmed the words of the lady who floated in the air above them. They were all thinking the same thing: how could she have known about a secret room?
ATHENA
These men fed Romanos a drugged drink.
They led him to the theater and there,
While the actor was comatose,
They hanged him upon the god machine.
A double impiety.
Gasps from many across the theater. Someone in the audience called out, “The Goddess will make it right!”
ATHENA
I have had a chat with Sabazios,
The Phrygian god has agreed
That the making of beer will cease
And in return
The children of Sabazios will go unmolested
In my city of Athens.
There were groans from the crowd at this news. Many in Athens had acquired a taste for beer.
At that moment Maia leapt to the stage, from where she spoke with perfect projection, so that all of Athens heard her.
MAIA, A PRIESTESS OF SABAZIOS
I am Maia, a priestess of Sabazios,
I have heard the Goddess.
The Phrygians shall no longer make beer.
The point had been made. There was imbalance in the world. The Gods were putting it right. There had been impiety, committed by mortal men, led by Theokritos. Now it was only a question of who were these other men. Was the Goddess about to reveal them? Of course she was. She was a goddess. She knew everything.
A WINEMAKER
Jumps to his feet in fear.
It’s true!
I confess!
Theokritos said we must stop the beer!
Theokritos said we should do it!
THEOKRITOS
You idiot!
Theokritos bolted. Not through the audience; he wouldn’t have gotten ten steps. Theokritos turned and ran across the stage. As he passed by, Lakon put out his foot in an exaggerated motion that, had it occurred in a comedy, would have had the crowd laughing.
Theokritos sprawled.
The stagehands fell upon Theokritos. So did Petros, in the guise of Thanatos, and in his hands were the chains intended in the play for Sisyphus. When the men rose, Theokritos was in the stage chains. They were strong enough to hold one fat priest.
Exit Theokritos, chained, led away by Thanatos.
The winemakers who had joined Theokritos were rapidly making their confessions, before anyone could charge them with anything. Every man of them pointed at Theokritos who had told them, in his role as High Priest, that what they were doing was divinely inspired.
The murder of a metic hardly warranted a fine and exile. But the crime of impiety was invariably fatal. Theokritos was on his way to Hades.
The Goddess spoke one last time.
ATHENA
The Gods are always late, but in the end they are just.
With those words the Goddess turned and walked through the air back to the Acropolis.
The chorus had stood silent upon the stage. Now they sang.
CHORUS
Those who have a troubled house
Should place their trust in the Gods.
For in the end, the good shall get what they deserve,
But the bad by nature can never fare well.
SCENE 39
A HAPPY ENDING!
SOPHOCLES, AESCHYLUS, AND I joined the actors and crew backstage. Pericles and the archons were explaining what had just happened to the visiting dignitaries. I wondered what lies they were making up. The archons would be furious with me. I consoled myself with the knowledge that they would only be in power for a year. They had that long to make my life miserable.
Sophocles was not entirely pleased with me either. I and the others had hijacked his play. But, since he was expecting total disaster anyway, he conceded that not much had been lost. Mostly he was impressed by our staging.
“How did you get the actor to walk through the air?” Sophocles asked. “I might have a use for that effect.”
“You’ll have to ask Captain Kordax,” I told him. “He and his men strung the lines overnight. The lines were painted blue of course. He and his men were atop the Acropolis, controlling the machine. The machine was designed by … er … I must admit it was Socrates.”
“He seems a bright lad.”
Two women entered. One of them was Diotima.
“How did I do?” Euterpe asked breathlessly. She took off her mask to reveal that the goddess Athena was in fact my mother-in-law.
Sophocles turned to me. “A woman?” he said, shocked. “You allowed a woman to act?”
“She did a good job,” I pointed out. “She fooled everyone.”
Sophocles considered that. “It’s true,” he admitted. “Even I was taken in for a moment.” He said to Euterpe, “I must say, madam, that had you been a man you might have made a fine actor.”
Euterpe glowed with the praise. She said, “Did you really like it? I can also do a fake orgasm—”
“Thank you, Mother,” said Diotima firmly.
“Congratulations, young man,” Aeschylus said to me. “You’ve joined the ranks of theater people.”
“I didn’t do a thing,” I said. “I only arranged for everyone else to play their parts.”
“Yes,” Aeschylus clapped me on the back. “That’s what a choregos does, you know. By the way, who wrote those lines?”
“A fellow named Euripides.”
Aeschylus looked blank. “Who?”
“A wannabe,” Sophocles explained. “You might have seen him around. He’s a little weird. You know the type.”
“Ah,” Aeschylus said, and nodded. Apparently he did know the type.
“What happens to Theokritos?” Petros asked.
“Trial for impiety,” Aeschylus said. “Followed by death. He can’t avoid it now. Not with every man, woman, and child in Athens present at the confession of the winemakers.”
“What of them?”
“They’ll get off,” I said. “Nobody wants to run out of wine. The vintners did it to kill the competition. But Theokritos led them into it because he’s a religious fanatic.” I turned a hard look to Maia. “That’s not a good idea around here.”
Maia looked solemn and said, “I understand you, Nicolaos. Sabazios will no longer attempt to convert the Athenians.”
SCENE 40
DENOUEMENT
I SURVIVED THE WRATH of the archons better than I hoped. Which was to say, they didn’t actually draw their daggers and knife me where I stood. But if words had edges then I would have died a thousand times. Pericles admitted to me later, as the people brought down the decorations and prepared to resume normal, post-Dionysia life, that it had been easy to placate the official visitors.
“They enjoyed your show,” Pericles told me. “Several of them asked if we could do the same again next year.”
That left Pericles happy. He was satisfied as long as nothing disturbed h
is grand strategy. What he had in mind I didn’t know, but whatever it was, the psyche of the Great Dionysia hadn’t interrupted his plans.
There were only two last points to see to. I went to talk with Lakon.
I FOUND HIM in his courtyard, where he quietly celebrated a triumph. Not of the theater, but of his personal survival. Lakon invited me to sit and offered me wine. I accepted both and got to the point.
“Lakon, you’re not a murderer, but you’re guilty of the crime of fraud. You’ve lived off the name of the real Lakon for decades, and never given his family a thing in return.”
He sipped his wine and said, “I could hardly do that, could I?” He leaned back in his dining couch. It was clear he felt comfortable now that the crisis was over.
I said, “I didn’t reveal your secret to the others, when I accused Theokritos.”
“I will be forever grateful, believe me.” Lakon sounded sincere. I believed him.
“There’s to be no official trial for you, Lakon, so I must be your judge,” I said. “My judgment is this: that there is restitution to be made. I sentence you to play the part of Lakon to his mother. That poor old lady is in a terrible state. Her mind is gone. When she sees her son returned, she’ll be overjoyed. You will make her last days restful. You will be the most dutiful son a mother ever had.”
“I see.” Lakon toyed with his wine cup. “You know, I’m not the monster you think I am.”
“Prove it.”
“I will.”
“And another thing. There’s a girl there named Lysine. She will inherit the family’s farm.”
“Fine. I don’t want it.”
“You will treat her like a cherished sister. You will spend whatever it costs to fix up the place. You will give her slaves to work the farm. If she wants to marry, you will dower her. You will scrupulously check over her choice of husband like a brother should.”
He held up his hands in defeat. “I’ve got the idea. You’ll have no cause for complaint.”