As he reached the top of the stairway he noticed graffiti scratched into the stone of the archway leading to the street. No doubt the work of a bored mariner waiting for a companion, the simple drawing showed a beast with a fish tail and the snout of a rat, floating above several triangular waves. It reminded him immediately of Zeno’s deadly mechanical whale. As John walked briskly away from the docks, he wondered what the garrulous Egyptian captain with whom he had just been in conversation would think if he knew that his minor stroke of good fortune arose from the death of a child.
***
“Kill you? You’ll wish for death before I’m done with you, you pitiful excuse for a donkey!”
The shout echoing from inside the theater distracted John from reading the inscription near its entrance:
Donated by the goldsmith Achelous and built in the ancient style so that the cultural lives of his fellow citizens may continue to be enriched by the classics, as they are enriched by the products of his workshop, to be found near Forum Bovis
John looked away from the brass plaque and through the theater’s entrance, down the corridor leading to the seating and the stage beyond. He suspected that the goldsmith would not have been pleased to hear the profane uproar spilling out into the square. It was certainly not from a classical play if, in fact, it was dialogue from a play at all.
He strode down the corridor and soon found himself in the topmost tier of the building’s marble seating, the theater having been built into the side of one of Constantinople’s seven hills. An awning overhead shaded the seats, while the wide stage below, backed by a tall painted façade replete with windows, doorways and several niches occupied by statues, was bright with late morning sunlight.
The overheated scene unwinding onstage would not have disgraced a rustic celebration of the grape harvest, he thought as he walked down to the stage.
He could not identify the production being rehearsed. What manner of circumstances could possibly call for three men fitted with extremely long donkey ears to be engaged in violently pummeling each other with suspiciously realistic vigor? The trio were too engrossed to notice him until he had made his way through the orchestra and up onto the stage itself.
“Fools!” bellowed the shortest actor, a swarthy man with long dark hair, extracting himself from the fray. His voice was recognizable as the one John had just heard from outside.
“What’s this about?” the man shouted at him, turning and noticing their intruder. “More complaints about the noise, is it? We’re just rehearsing, can’t you see? There’s no problem here so you can go away.”
Despite his reassurance, the other two actors continued beating each other with their fists while yelling lurid curses at the top of their lungs.
“I would have thought you’ve rehearsed enough,” John observed mildly, “for it would be hard to imagine a more realistic depiction of a brawl.”
The short man grunted, “We’re perfectionists!” and then turned and directed at his companions a stream of curses which John judged to be less creative than those commonly uttered by laborers at the city’s wharves. The actor was a somewhat larger and more rotund version of Barnabas, short enough, no doubt, to attract ridicule but not so short as to qualify for description as a dwarf.
He turned back to John. “My name is Brontes,” he said in a more normal tone of voice. “I apologize for the abysmal ineptitude of my colleagues, who cannot follow even the simplest of directions.” He jabbed a long-nailed finger at John. “However, I don’t think I need to speak to you about the rigors of comedy since you appear to be a man of culture. A lover of Euripides, perhaps?”
“I fear I don’t have much interest in Euripides,” John admitted. “In my experience real tragedy has no eloquence at all.”
Brontes let out a booming laugh. “Well put! Your taste is execrable but at least you speak well!”
The two combative donkeys abruptly ceased fighting and now sat down, panting, their legs dangling over the edge of the stage. Brontes turned to harangue them again at the top of his voice.
“You are supposed to be acrobatic, not rusty-jointed,” he shouted. “Remember, you’re playing lascivious old crones disguised as beasts of burden. If only he was here, Barnabas would put you both to shame!”
“That’s not what you said the last time the two of you traded blows,” retorted one of the donkeys, embellishing his comment with a rude gesture.
Brontes gave a great despairing shrug.
“You see how it is,” he remarked to John. “The theatrical profession has been moribund so long that there are no great actors left. Polus, they say, could reduce audiences to tears of sympathy for his travails. This pair just induce tears of despair. To think that I once aspired to play Agamemnon. But then, where is the audience? With ours, the works, of Aeschylus are not popular, alas.”
John refrained from pointing out that such a short, rotund actor would have made an unlikely Agamemnon, no matter the audience involved.
Brontes shook his head sadly. The gesture, being scaled for the stage, made his hair swing back and forth. “Yes, Polus would rather have been whipped the length of the Mese than undertake to play an old crone, lascivious or otherwise.” He gave a snort of disgust.
“You remarked on Barnabas’ absence,” John said. “I was hoping to find him here as there’s an urgent matter we need to discuss.”
“I haven’t seen him for a few days now.” From the sour expression that passed over Brontes’ face, John judged this to be a sore point. “He had an engagement on a country estate belonging to some old madman, from what he said. Apparently it involved something to do with a huge whale and children. It all sounded very unlikely to me, I must say. We have the most advanced stage machinery in this theater. Even so we’d be hard-pressed to present our audience with a whale. Anyway, he hasn’t returned yet even though he’s supposed to take the main role in this play.”
John remarked that it seemed a lively enough presentation even without the presence of the famous mime.
Brontes’ expression brightened. “Are you from the palace, by any chance, sir? You might mention A Stepmother and Three Donkeys around the court if you are. I can assure you that it’s highly entertaining. The plot involves a young noblewoman who has taken a romantic fancy to her husband’s slave because of his beautiful poetry, but as it turns out, the slave is only pretending to be a eunuch.”
John changed the subject. “Do you have many visitors inquiring for Barnabas?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You seem unconcerned by my visit.”
One of the listening donkeys called out, “There’s always high-born folks coming around looking for Barnabas’ services. Mostly young ladies. They just can’t get enough of Barnabas.” Both actors sniggered loudly.
Brontes’ fists clenched and he directed a thunderous look over his shoulder, silencing the pair. “The fool exaggerates, but he’s right, Barnabas is much sought after-for his talents as a mime, I mean. He has so many private engagements that he can barely honor his contract with the theater although he’s managed to do so, despite his popularity. Or at least until now.”
“And you say he hasn’t returned?”
“No.” Brontes looked thoughtful and then grinned. He let out a bellowing laugh. “Perhaps he’s found a high-born lady who wants to be more than just a patron! Ha! Well, I’ve always liked his lodging. Perhaps he won’t be needing it any more and I can get the lease!”
John asked where the mime lived.
“Just across the square. That’s why I’ve always liked it.”
The donkeys began quarreling again. One of them removed a long ear and flung it at the other, narrowly missing his target. John stepped nimbly aside as the flapping appendage flew past him. He asked Brontes to point out where Barnabas resided.