“It’s okay, with you and Victor then, right? If there’s no more taping?”
His nod was almost imperceptible, but it was there.
“One question,” I said. “Just out of curiosity. What’d she want? Money for the church, for Our Lady of Fatima?”
Tiago didn’t exactly smile. He was the kind of guy you probably never wanted to see smile anyway. But there was a twitch at the corners of his lips as he said, “She’s a tough old woman, that grandmother of yours. Smart too.”
“Didn’t give you much time before she said she’d go to the cops with her copy?”
“She’s a smart woman,” he said again, but I already knew that anyway.
“Well, if she ever asks you to come pose for a picture at her shrine,” I said as I turned to leave his office, “tell her no.”
Death at the Theatre
by Marianne Wilski Strong
The winter storms had ended and two days before the beginning of the Great Dionysian Theatre Festival, Tysander, in his barbershop in the agora near the law court, was doing a brisk business.
I watched closely how his sharp razor was moving round the neck of Sophides, an old fellow whose exploits against the Persian fleet at the Eurymedon River twenty-three years ago still gave him somewhat of a hero status, at least among those like myself, who although only eight years of age at the time remembered those heady, victorious, and glorious days.
Sophides’ old head bobbed up and down, but his neck remained unnicked by Tysander’s razor. Tysander was in good form, having apparently, in anticipation of the day’s business, stayed away from cheap wine yesterday evening at one of the preliminary celebrations of the theatre festival. I was glad to see this, as I’d on occasion received a few nicks from Tysander, especially when he got steamed over some topic like the price of eels in the agora.
“Done, Sophides,” Tysander said, and looked at me. “You next, Kleides.” He grinned. “I always enjoy you Sophists. Any late theories on what the earth is made of? I hear this fellow — what’s his name? Anaxagoras, the one they call ‘Brains’ — says that everything is made up of little bits of stuff: seeds or something.”
“That’s right, Tysander,” I said. “Atoms. Even you might be made of them.”
The crowd laughed heartily, except for young Euripides, who looked at me and smiled knowingly. Euripides wasn’t a particular friend of mine, but I did admire him. He had courage. His plays went against standard Athenian beliefs in the gods and in prophecies. I wondered what the subject of his play would be in the current festival. I knew that he had been chosen to compete with Sophocles and Ion of Chios. A festival with three such great playwrights, each presenting three tragedies, some of them bound to promote heated controversy, promised much excitement.
I didn’t know then that the festival would incite murder, nor did I know whom it would strike.
“Well, Sophides,” Tysander asked, “do you think the Persians were made of little bits?”
“They were when we got through with them.” Sophides grinned a toothless grin. “Thanks to Athena. Now, may the great Poseidon of the sea rot their ships and send them all to the bottom of the Ionian Sea.”
“And deprive us all of Persian beer, spices, and cloths?” a tall, thin man said. “The war ended over twenty-five years ago. Or do you think we should kill every damn Persian till not one is left?” It was Nicias, the actor. Nicias jumped up and began slashing about as if he wielded a sword. “By Zeus, once an enemy, always an enemy.” He sat down, laughing loudly, his upper lip almost meeting his nose, long and sharp, rather like a weasel’s.
I regarded this performance as overdone, like most of his performances. To his acting faults, I added the personal fault of insincerity when he walked over to Sophides and slapped him on the back.
“Times have changed, Sophides,” Nicias said. “Even Pericles said that the Peace of Callias with the Persians meant that we no longer had to keep the oath never to rebuild the temples they burned.”
Sophides brushed Nicias’ hand off his shoulder as he might a troublesome gnat.
Nicias shrugged. “Look, Nike Athena gave you fellows at Marathon a victory. She was top deity then, but times have changed. Now it’s Hermes’ turn. That right, Kleides?”
I hated to agree with the likes of Nicias, but I admit that I did think that Hermes’ attributes of compromise, persuasive talk, and even tricky bargaining were far more useful in our Athenian democracy, thriving with building projects, commerce, and marketing of goods, than the uncompromising strength and fierce sense of honor useful and necessary in a time of war. But, aloud, I reminded Nicias that Athena’s wisdom was always a desirable quality.
“Look, you’re a Sophist, Kleides, you and your friend Socrates. Don’t you philosopher types agree that what’s wise on one day might not be wise on another? We don’t all admire stubborn killer heroes like Homer’s Achilles any more, do we? These days a strong voice is worth a lot more than a heavy sword. Of course, some of us have stronger voices than others. Heavy swords are Spartan trash, the tools of the dumb.”
I would have had to agree again, but I noticed that three of Tysander’s waiting customers were looking angry.
Sophides’ eyes flared. “Those heavy swords once saved your worthless hide from Persian treachery,” he said, then stomped out.
Another man mumbled something about prancing, shouting fish dealers, which I took as a metaphor for actors of whom he appeared to have a jaundiced opinion. Another, an old fellow with silver hair and a nose as majestic as the cliffs of Delphi, rose from his webbed stool, his back straight as a temple column. He cast at Nicias a look that bespoke of contempt and followed Sophides out of Tysander’s shop.
Nicias began to laugh again, but Tysander, angry at having lost a customer, cut off any comments by remarking loudly that I always waited too long to get my hair cut, making his job as difficult as engaging a Spartan in conversation.
I have to admit that Tysander was right. I get involved in reading my scrolls, in arguing with Socrates, or discussing atoms with Anaxagoras and Pericles, and forget about my appearance. On the other hand, Pericles’ lovely new mistress Aspasia never seems to mind, and since I am really in love with her, despite my own young mistress, Selkine, who perhaps not coincidentally resembles Aspasia, I don’t worry too much.
Tysander grumbled and sheared away. I sat sheeplike answering his questions about whether or not Pericles would be at the theatre and about whether Sophocles would ever act again, now that he’d gained such fame as a playwright. Finally, Tysander declared he’d done the best he could so that I’d look at least presentable for the theatre festival.
I paid him a full obol instead of the usual half. Tysander is a fountain of information when one needs it, and since Pericles often asks me to solve knotty crimes, I like to keep on Tysander’s good side.
I left and decided to wander round the agora to see if I could get a cheap lamp, as mine was turning rather black from my burning so much olive oil well into dusk to read the latest piece of Herodotus’ scrolls. His material on Egypt is fascinating. I have promised myself to hook a ride on one of my half brother’s merchant ships to see the pyramids.
I passed a group of rather scruffy-looking peasants betting on a quail-baiting game. They had drawn a circle in the dust and were about to rap the quail on the head, half of them betting that the quail would back out of the circle, the other half betting that the creature would stand its ground. I hoped the quail had enough brains to back out. It’s a good strategy when your enemies are numerous and larger than you are, but I guessed that Sophides and his friend, part of the nine thousand Athenians who defeated the massive twenty thousand-man army of Persia at Marathon, would have disagreed. The quail held his ground.