I had arrived at the akademia-the Academy. The Academy housed the city’s third, newest, and most glorious gymnasium. Many years before my time it had been a run-down hovel. Then a nearby stream had been diverted to irrigate the land, and now it had become an earthly vision of the Elysian Fields.
The path to the gymnasium was lined with statues, and fountains fed by the stream. Three of the statues had been made by my father. I stopped to admire them as I passed.
The gymnasium was a thing of beauty, one of the first buildings in Athens to be made of marble and painted in bright reds and blues and yellows to contrast with the fine green grass. In the morning, with the sun at my back, it shone.
The wide entrance opened into a quadrangle lined on all sides with porticoes. Right away the sweet aroma of olive oil hit my nose, barely masking the musky odor of heavy sweat. Which was how the Academy always smelled, because every alcove in every portico about the inner courtyard was filled with naked men, fresh from exercise, all anointing themselves with oil.
Men looked up as I entered to see if I was someone they knew. This was a place where men came to socialize as much as to exercise. I wasn’t a regular at the Academy; the habitués didn’t recognize me and returned to their own affairs. I didn’t see Sophocles, nor did he hail me. I would have to wander around to find him.
I couldn’t walk straight across the sunlit inner yard because it was divided into training patches, each a shallow square pit filled with sand, five paces by five, where a man could exercise or two men could box, or wrestle, or practice the martial art called pankration. At this time of day the patches were all in use.
I didn’t expect to see Sophocles among the trainees and so wasn’t disappointed when I didn’t find him. I did however see my best friend, Timodemus. He stood by one of the patches, where two men fought a practice bout. They traded blows while Timodemus watched them with a jaundiced eye and barked instructions.
Timodemus was one of the best pankration fighters alive, famous for his victories in competition against other cities. He had recently retired from active fighting and moved with his new wife to a house not far from here. Now every day he came to the Academy, where he commanded outrageous fees as a coach.
Timodemus saw me and waved. He shouted, “Chaire Nico! Greetings! Have you come for a practice round?”
I shook my head and called back, “I’m on business. Do you know where I can find Sophocles?”
Timo shrugged and returned his attention to his students. He probably didn’t even know who Sophocles was. My friend had no interest in plays, or philosophy. But he was really good at hurting people.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a wiry old man, shorter than me, with a friendly expression and not much hair. I knew him. This was Lysanias, one of the elders of Athens, who had helped me on a previous case. He was also unbelievably good at throwing quoits.
He said, “I thought I heard you, young fellow. How are you? Have you come to practice your quoit throws?”
This was the way of the gymnasium. As soon as you walked in, everyone who knew you would stop to talk, would demand your attention, if only for a moment, would invite you to stay for half a day or the whole day.
I had to shake my head regretfully, because I liked Lysanias and would gladly have spent time with him. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m here on business. I’m looking for Sophocles.”
“He’s in the next courtyard,” Lysanias said. “I saw him come in. I will show you to him. Then I will sit down with you and listen shamelessly to your conversation.” He led me by the arm. As we walked he said, “I know you, Nicolaos. If it is you who has work, should I take this to mean Athens is in dire peril? Is our city on the verge of destruction?”
“Only our reputation for staging plays,” I said. Somehow Lysanias had managed to miss what had happened, probably because he spent all his time in exercise. Though he was an old man, I would not want to face him in combat. I explained to Lysanias what had occurred, that the theater was polluted by murder, and that the Great Dionysia could not proceed unless the terrible crime was avenged.
Lysanias wasn’t a man to worry about trifles, yet at my words he looked stern and said, “This is more serious than you seem to think, young man.”
“I’m already aware how bad it is, sir.”
“Are you? How many people come from abroad to see our plays?”
“Hundreds?” I guessed. “Perhaps thousands?”
“Certainly more than a thousand,” Lysanias said. “Every bed in every inn is full. Private homes are renting out their spare rooms and people are camping outside the walls.”
“Yes,” I said. “The guards at the gate told me.”
“Have you ever been to the home of a man who proved to be a buffoon?” Lysanias asked. The question seemed to come from nowhere.
“Why, yes, I have,” I said, thinking of some of my father’s friends. Every now and then he dragged me along to visit his cronies.
“And what did you think of those men?” Lysanias asked. “Did you think more, or less, of them?”
“Why, less,” said. “No one respects a buffoon.”
“Precisely. Now what of a man you visit, who proves to be a man of culture and dignity?”
“Then that would be someone I respect,” I said.
“Yes,” Lysanias said. “Now, young man, think of all these people who have come to Athens to be entertained by us, to see our plays, which are the best in the world. If we cannot show the plays because of murder, if everyone sees we cannot keep our own actors alive in our own city, if we must send all those people home having admitted we can’t stage a play, then how will we appear to our visitors?”
“We’ll look like buffoons,” I said.
Lysanias nodded. “You understand. I will add this: that it is easier to attack an enemy whom you don’t respect. But it is harder to feel animosity against someone who shows competence in all things.”
“Surely, Lysanias, this cannot be a matter of war or peace,” I said.
“The entertainment a man provides for his friends says as much about him as how he carries his spear,” Lysanias said, and his voice became hard. I remembered that this was a man who’d carried his spear many times. He added, “The Great Dionysia tells the rest of the world how we wish them to see us. Our poets are as much a function of the state as our diplomats.”
We had passed through to the second courtyard, where we found Sophocles lying face down in the shade, on the cool stone floor. A slave rubbed olive oil into his shoulders and back.
He looked up as we approached, and said, “Join me.”
Lysanias said, “Hello, Sophocles. Don’t mind if I do.” He dropped his clothes and lay down beside Sophocles. His whole body was wiry and thin. A slave appeared with oil flask in hand. The slave began at once to massage the back of Lysanias and pour oil on his skin.
I hesitated. I wasn’t used to enjoying the gymnasium with respectable old men. In fact, unlike most men I rarely visited the gym at all-somehow I never seemed to have the time-and when I did, it was usually to see my friend Timo, who would often be surrounded by young men our own age.
I knew the etiquette though. It would be rude if I stood, or merely sat beside them.
I pulled my chiton off over my head-it saved having to undo the shoulder knot-and handed the clothing to a slave, who placed it on the bench against the wall. I lay down on the other side of Sophocles.
Another slave appeared, also with a flask of oil. He commenced to massage my shoulders with oily hands. I tried to relax.
I said, “I came to see you, Sophocles, because I must learn about Romanos.”
“He was a metic,” Sophocles said, as if that explained everything.
“Yes, but what was he like?”
Sophocles considered the question.
“As a man, I really can’t say,” he said, after thinking about it. “Professionally, he was a good actor. I had used him before in minor roles. Certainly this play offered him a big chance and I must say he impressed me. It’s unusual for a metic to have a major role in a Dionysia.”