“Yes?” He looked at me oddly.
“We’re about to do something like that. You understand how the god machine works, don’t you?”
“I think so.”
“I need a machine.” I explained what I wanted.
Socrates said excitedly, “Sure, Nico! I can design that.” Then he looked worried. “But Nico, who’s going to build it?”
“Leave that to me.”
“Captain Kordax!”
“Nico! What are you doing here?” I had found him on Salaminia, inevitably. I had the impression Kordax never willingly stepped ashore. The captain was stripped bare but for a loincloth, as he and his men crouched over some detail of his boat. He stood up and wiped his hands.
“Captain, last time we spoke, you said, ‘Give us a harder problem.’ ”
“So I did. Yes?”
“Well, here it is …”
“Hello, Mother.”
“Diotima? What are you doing here?” Euterpe was plainly astonished. Diotima never visited her mother if she could avoid it. But my wife had insisted that this request must come from her and not me.
“Mother,” Diotima said through gritted teeth, “we were wondering if-maybe, don’t feel as if you need to-that you might like to help us with a job we have in mind.” Diotima paused, then added, hopefully, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to-”
“I accept,” Euterpe said without hesitation.
“You haven’t asked what the job is yet,” Diotima pointed out.
“Do I need to? Whatever it is, dear, if you two are involved, it’s bound to be intriguing. I think you should thank me for choosing you such an interesting husband.”
“I chose him.”
“You’re going to love this, Mother-in-Law,” I said, before that could turn into a fight. Then I explained.
I was right. Euterpe loved it.
SCENE 38
It was the twelfth of Elaphebolion.
The final day of the Great Dionysia had arrived. The people had been assured by the archons that the impiety had been cleansed. Theokritos had stood beside them as they spoke. The hypocrisy had been enough to make me gag, though in truth it would have looked strange if the High Priest of Dionysos had not been present for that announcement.
The Dionysia had proceeded, and it had been as fine as any in recent memory. The choral performances had been well received, and the comedies had everyone laughing and repeating the best jokes.
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.