Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

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.

I walked down the Panathenaic Way toward the Acropolis, checked out a few lamps from a dealer, then decided to walk over to the tent of Aphorus. He deals in flute girls, and one of them, a pretty girl named Phryne, had once been of some help to me in solving the murder of a lovely young woman. I wanted to see how she was.

I threaded my way past the tanners and cobblers, but before I reached Aphorus’ tent, I saw some friends by the street of the blacksmiths and forgers. It was Phidias, our great sculptor; Sophocles; and Tidius, the actor who was working with Sophocles for the festival.

“By Zeus,” Phidias said, “Kleides with a fresh haircut. Must be intending to worship Aphrodite tonight. Hardly recognizable, right, Sophocles?”

“Hardly, except for the glint of wisdom in the sophistic eye.”

Sophocles was always as charming and kind as Phidias was satiric and irreverent.

“Looking for the lovely young Selkine?” Phidias asked. “I thought I saw her and a servant heading for the fountain house at the South Stoa. Or, let me see, was it Aspasia you were looking for?”

“But,” I said, “why do you assume I was looking for either of them? Perhaps they heard about my handsome new haircut and were looking for me. Socrates and I have warned you again and again to watch your assumptions.”

Phidias laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. “I assume you’ll go to the theatre with Pericles and myself tomorrow. Sophocles will, of course, be driving poor Tidius mad with frantic last-minute instructions on how he wants his plays presented.”

Phidias turned to Sophocles and Tidius. “Are you really going to shock us all by presenting a suicide enactment on stage?”

Tidius shook his great graying head and glared at Phidias. “I hope you aren’t telling everyone about this. The audience, of course, will know the story of Ajax going mad and killing sheep he thought were his enemies because he lost the honor to Odysseus of being declared the most valuable warrior in the Trojan War. Everyone knows the story of Ajax committing suicide over his disgrace, but how Sophocles and I will present that suicide should remain unknown until we actually perform it at the theatre.”

Phidias clapped his hand over his mouth in mock horror. “May the god of theatre and wine, great Dionysus, forgive me for this trespass.” He waved his hand about. “But if everyone in the agora knew exactly what you were going to do on stage, Tidius, they’d come eagerly anyway. We all remember your great performance, many years ago, in Aeschylus’ play about the Persians. We’ll never see its like again.”

I noticed Tidius stiffen and his head pull back. I was sure that Phidias had meant to mollify Tidius, but instead he had offended the great actor. Tidius’ age, I suspected, had become a sore spot. Our open-air theatres where actors had to project their voices to over fifteen thousand people required stamina and good, strong lungs.

“I count myself blessed by the gods indeed to have Tidius assigned to my play,” Sophocles said. “We shall, I think, Phidias, see a performance as great as Tidius gave in The Persians. And now that our actors are also given prizes in competition, Tidius shall receive his just recognition.”

“Persians? More talk of Persians?” Nicias came up behind Phidias and myself. He slipped between us and sidled up to Sophocles. “I do not understand this obsession some people have with our former enemies. After all, those days are over. Most of us have no further interest in the Persians or even in plays about them. The performances of old Aeschylus are gone too,” he said, turning to Phidias. “We have young and imaginative playwrights like Sophocles here. With the help of young actors, Sophocles will climb to glory. I myself think it is inevitable.”

Sophocles blanched.

Phidias made a choking sound. “Do pardon me,” he said. “I seem to have something stuck in my throat. Perhaps a bit of bad bread oversweetened with honey.”

I thought for a moment that Nicias might swing at Phidias, but the actor was too clever for that. He wouldn’t want to offend either Sophocles or Pericles by attacking their friend. “Well perhaps,” Nicias sneered, “the honey will help. They say it has curative powers for that which is sour.”

I laid a restraining hand on Phidias’ arm. “Well there you are,” I said, looking Nicias in the eye, “even drones with their honey are good for something then.” I considered ducking behind Phidias then but, like the quail, decided to hold my ground. Of course, I was more broad-shouldered than Nicias, so I can’t claim the honor, as the quail could, for standing up to an enemy larger than myself.

Phidias grinned at me, then announced that he had come to the agora in search of some talented artists to help with the sculpture for the Parthenon. “Since the only talents I see here,” he said, “are Kleides’ sophistic wisdom, Sophocles’ writing, and Tidius’ acting, I shall have to seek elsewhere. Unless, my dear Nicias...” He paused. “Unless you know some talented men among your Persian friends?”

Phidias turned and strode off.

I thought I heard Nicias mumble something about the taste of rotten eels. He turned to Sophocles. “You’ve been in the public eye ever since you were chosen to lead the dance of victory after we defeated the Persian navy at Salamis. You’ve been chosen for public offices in the democracy and are likely to be chosen for more. You know, as well as I do, the importance of forging ties to achieve victories. It is hardly a crime to see the Persians as possible allies, perhaps against Corinth. Why, we all know that one of the judges for the play and actor competitions is quite friendly with one of the Persian ambassadors.”

“You indeed have more knowledge than I have,” Sophocles said.

“Yes, well I believe that you know several of the judges just as I do,” Nicias said, “and Kleides here knows how important knowledge is.”

I considered decking the sniveling boar for his nasty implication about Sophocles. While I was debating the wisdom of that action, Nicias reached out to put an arm round my shoulder, but I sidestepped away rather neatly.

This didn’t bother Nicias at all. He went on smoothly. “I would certainly like to act in one of your plays soon, Sophocles. I think we could be successful together. You know the plays of Ion, even though I am acting in one this year, are increasingly dull.”

Sophocles had had enough. “I doubt that we could work together at all. Our principles are entirely different. Perhaps you might appeal to the Persians. I know that they do not practice our Greek invention of theatre, but they do have spectacles into which you might fit.”

I smiled. This was very sharp talk for the normally polite and charming Sophocles. Phidias would have been pleased.

“You will pardon me now,” Sophocles said to me. “Tidius and I must go the forgers’ area to secure a sword for the play.”

I was still thinking about leveling Nicias for his insidious implication about Sophocles. Sophocles was thoroughly honest and his talent too great to need influence with the judges. Reluctant to risk a black eye or bruised chin, since I intended spending the night with the nubile Selkine, I settled for a comment. “Cheer up, Nicias, perhaps at the next Great Dionysian Theatre Festival you can serve as Sophocles’ prop man. A man of talent like Sophocles shouldn’t have to waste his time securing props.”

Nicias glared. “Well, I must go now to the animal vendors in the agora to purchase a weasel. There are too many mice about in Athens, and I’d like to have the weasel get rid of a few.”

I stepped up to Nicias. “Waste of a drachma for you to buy a weasel. You could just catch the mice yourself.” It wasn’t that clever, but I was angry.

His long, sharp nose quivered. I figured that I’d have to deal with a bruised chin after all. But I’d be able to inflict some pretty good damage myself.

Nicias stepped back. His weasel nose twitched.

I smiled.

Behind Nicias, I saw Sophides and the man who’d left Tysander’s with him walk by, glaring at the two of us. I was in bad company.

“Kleides,” someone to our right said. We both turned. It was my friend Phryne, the flute girl, looking rather pretty, her full breasts nicely outlined by her light white chiton, the flowing dress draped fetchingly over her body. Nicias promptly forgot about me.

“I need an escort over to Aris’ villa. Accompany me, please.”

“Aris?” I said. “A handsome aristocrat. You are moving up in the world, Phryne.”

“Not as handsome as Alcaon, but wealthy. That’ll do for now.”

I took her arm. “Give Alcaon time,” I said. I knew she was in love with the young man who had been the lover of the beautiful flute girl who had been murdered a year ago. We walked away, leaving Nicias staring.

“What are you doing with that weasel, Kleides?”

I laughed.

“Kleides, Nicias is unprincipled. He goes about disparaging everyone’s reputation, thinking it is the way to win. Someday, somebody is going to drown him like the rat he is.”

“Weasel,” I said, thinking that our Greek penchant for competition in everything could be dangerous.

As we walked away, I saw Sophides and his companion still staring at Nicias’ back.

The rising sun shone brilliantly on the Pentalic marble columns of the unfinished Parthenon on the second day of the Great Dionysia.

The population of Athens streamed down the Panathenaic Way, past the entrance to the Acropolis and down toward the theatre. Anticipation ran high. The statue of Dionysus, the patron god of the festival, had been brought to the theatre yesterday. Here and there in the street were discarded masks and satyr tails from yesterday’s great phallic procession. Most of the young men of Athens would watch the plays today with throbbing hangovers. Phidias and I had shared two bottles of top-notch Chian wine. Even old Sophides seemed to enjoy himself, though he argued again with a drunken Nicias who gestured and sneered in his usual bragging way. Phidias and I, amused, had watched from a distance.

I walked to the theatre with my half brother, Lamicus; Phidias; Socrates; and my aging father, Almenias, who leaned heavily on my arm. Pericles had gone to the theatre before sunrise, anxious that all was well organized and that Athens would be at its best. In his youth, he had sponsored Aeschylus’ play The Persians. I wondered if Nicias knew that.

Around us, tongues buzzed about the play Sophocles was to present today and about the young, iconoclastic Euripides, and the now conventional Ion, needing a victory to maintain his reputation. The general opinion was that the real competition would be between Sophocles and Euripides. Yesterday, the urns containing the names of the possible judges had been carried to the theatre, and ten names had been pulled out. The judges had taken the oath to judge honestly. We all knew that the the wealthy producers of the plays, the choregos, tried to get friends’ names put into the urns, but we also knew that after the festival a committee would meet to make sure that no impropriety had taken place. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder if Nicias’ cynical opportunism were not a built-in part of our democratic ways. The Spartans would say so.

We paid our two obols for a theatre token, got in line behind a group of prisoners released for the festival, attendance being a civic and religious duty, and filed into the great semicircular seating area, spreading our cloaks onto the wooden benches. Some people wrapped themselves in their cloaks, as the early morning air was still chilly. Some of the audience were already playing games whose boards were scratched into the wood. Sounds filled the theatre: people coughing, greeting each other, laughing. Some were already arguing over the merits of the playwrights and actors. Phidias threatened that if Nicias won the acting award, he’d call for an ostracism next year. Socrates was about to launch into a discussion of what excellence really meant when the day’s festivities began.

Young men carried into the theatre the tribute money from our allies, and we all cheered. Our generals, including Pericles, poured libations to the god Dionysus and drank wine in his honor. Pericles summoned in the children of Athens who had been orphaned by war and led them to seats of honor.

Once the opening festivities were over and the priests had taken their seats in the front row, the audience quieted. An occasional cough or murmur drifted over the audience to dissipate into the green cypress tree grove and the pale blue sky beyond the theatre. Behind us, the great rocky cliffs of the Acropolis rose majestically, and the red tiled roof of Pericles’ Odeon, the music hall that incorporated the spars of Persian ships, stretched out to our left.

I turned to ask Socrates for a drink of his water.

“Look,” breathed Phidias, “at what is on the skene. It is Sophocles’ innovation.”

I looked at the skene. On the wooden stage building, the skene, men had unrolled a canvas. On it was painted the scene of an army camp and behind it great towers. Already Sophocles had managed to transport us to that great walled city the warriors of the Greek army had destroyed: Troy. Sophocles intended today to stage three plays about the warriors of that great Greek army that had leveled that city.

From the middle double doorway of the skene, a group of fifteen men, dressed in long blue chitons with black stripes running from the shoulders to the hems of the flowing robes, emerged, swaying and walking slowly to the great circle below us. The chorus.

The double doorway opened again, and a figure emerged, on his mask a look of stoic concentration, his red chiton unsleeved and checked with gold at the chest, as if he wore armor. From the top of the skene, a second figure emerged, a gold chiton fluttering. It was Athena. The actor spoke, his voice booming through his mask:

The play had begun.

We watched mesmerized, all of us. Sophocles had our minds and hearts. We watched Tidius, in a black chiton, his mask a twisted face of madness and tragedy. He took us back to that long ago war at Troy, with its tragic aftermaths, and to Ajax, the great warrior, mad with dishonor, killing sheep he thought were his enemies.

As Tidius spoke, the audience leaned forward to catch the aging actor’s once-great voice, a little weaker now, intoning Ajax’s despair:

No one coughed.

We watched Ajax come to realize that all things change and pass: enemies become friends and friends become enemies. His fellow warriors had not given him honor. Even the gods had turned against him, making him mad. We watched, our eyes big, as Sophocles showed us something seldom seen on our Athenian stage, violence: Ajax committing suicide, falling on his sword before our eyes, the glory of his days gone. We watched, wondering, as Sophocles showed us Odysseus refusing to laugh at his old enemy Ajax, and giving him, like a friend, an honorable burial.

When the chorus spoke the last words of the play, “No human can know his future,” we did not move. No one left to relieve themselves; no one reached for a piece of bread or fruit. We sat, pity and fear filling our hearts. We were all Ajax. None of us knew our future. None of us knew then that a murder awaited us.

As the day wore on, we put on our hats for protection against the sun, the azure sky now holding a warm spring sun, ate our honeyed bread and goat cheese, our olives and radishes, and roared at the satyr play, a drunken Heracles persuading an angry Amazon. But when the day was over, we all walked home, talking only about Ajax. Even Phidias was solemn. In front of us, Sophides walked, his head bowed in thought.

I took my father and half brother home with me, and before they fell asleep on their pallets, my father cried.

“The old days are gone,” he said. “Our glorious victories against the Persians. Now we do not act as one. We argue and discuss. We disparage and mock. Then we come to a compromise.”

“It is the way of democracy,” I told him. “It is better than old rigid codes of honor and hatred. They were murderous.”

But I don’t think he was convinced.

The next day Nicias gave a surprisingly good performance in Ion’s play, and the day after, Euripides shocked us all with biting irony. It was the fifth day of the festival that we learned about the murder. We had all gathered in the theatre again, most of us arguing that Sophocles would win first prize easily. He did. A thunderous cheer rose from the theatre as the ivy crown was placed on Sophocles’ head. The prize ram was led out to him. We cheered too when Tidius took first prize for acting.

It was only when the second prize for acting was announced that we all realized that Nicias was not in the theatre to receive his reward.

The judges consulted with each other; the priests looked annoyed.

“Well, he was here late last night,” Phidias said.

“You saw him?” I asked. “Where? And when?”

Phidias nodded. “I was out very late. I’ve already studied the effects of the sun on the angles of the new pediments on the Parthenon, so I wanted to see exactly how the moonlight would touch the front pediment. I saw Nicias going into the theatre.”

“Alone?”

Phidias looked back at the center circle of the theatre where the playwrights, judges, and actors were standing. He shrugged. “Alone? Who’s to say if he was or wasn’t? What I can say is that I saw Nicias going into the theatre.”

Phidias was no sophist or politician. He was an artist. His attempt at dissembling was weak. I knew he was lying.

The awarding of the prizes went on, but I was not surprised to see Pericles send two men into the skene. Nor was I surprised when, sometime later, one of the men made his way up the wooden seats and whispered to me that when the ceremony was over Pericles wanted to talk with me.

I waited until most of the audience had filed out of the theatre, some talking of Sophocles’ victory, some of the criticism of the old warrior code in his play, and some of Nicias’ absence. Not a few people kept on eye on me as I made my way toward the skene. Some of them knew that I was in Pericles’ small circle of trusted friends and that I had previously helped with some homicides.

Inside the skene, Pericles and two of the city magistrates who had charge of organizing this year’s festival of Dionysus stood talking quietly.

“Kleides,” Pericles said as I approached, “Nicias has been murdered. I need your help. You must discover who did this. It is imperative.”

I frowned. “Of course, I’ll do what I can. But what is the urgency? When and if the perpetrator is known, Nicias’ relatives can bring the charges to the homicide court.” That was our Athenian procedure. Pericles usually asked me to investigate only if the murder posed some danger to the democracy. Aspasia, of course, once asked me to solve a murder because of danger to Pericles himself.

Pericles turned to the magistrates. “Perhaps you would go out and relieve the Scythians who are guarding the body at the foot of the Acropolis. I will explain to Kleides what we have found and then send him out to see.”

The magistrates looked at each other, apparently as puzzled by Pericles’ actions as I was. But they obeyed, and left by one of the side entrances.

Pericles held his chin in his hand and looked as thoughtful as he did when he was about to address our assembly to persuade them to vote for a policy he favored. He usually got his way. We all knew that much of the glory of our city was due to his wisdom in making Athens a place where art, philosophy, and literature thrived.

I waited. He seemed to be struggling with a decision.

Finally he looked at me directly, his dark, intelligent eyes brooding beneath his high, broad forehead. “I do not hesitate because I do not trust you with this information, Kleides. I know your discretion and your fairness. I hesitate because what I need to tell you is not easy for me to say.”

This was most unusual. Pericles was known as “The Olympian,” not only for his intelligence and his aloofness from the more garrulous and dionysiac social life of the city, but for his ease and beauty of expression. I waited.

“Kleides, last night Sophocles spent part of the evening with Aspasia and myself. An hour or two after dusk, he said that he wanted to go to the theatre for some scrolls he had left at the skene. He came to and left from my house by himself.”

“So,” I said, “he has no witnesses to swear to where he was last night or when. I take it that Nicias was killed here in the theatre.”

“Indeed, he was.” Pericles pointed to a dark stain on the floor. It looked newer than the other myriad stains from paint, slain animals, the gods only knew what. The new stain spread toward one of the side entrances as if what or whoever had bled had been pulled along toward the door.

“Were more people than you and Aspasia at your house to hear Sophocles announce that he was coming to the theatre?” I asked.

“Yes. One or two of those people are not known for holding their tongues in check. So this murder must be solved.”

I nodded. “And were there some at your house who would bite their tongues rather than implicate Sophocles?”

Pericles raised his thick eyebrows.

“Phidias,” I said. “He let slip that he was out late last night and saw Nicias going to the theatre. He dissembled when I asked if he saw only Nicias. It was quite easy to see that he was protecting someone.”

Pericles shook his head. “Phidias is a supreme artist. But his mastery of clever rhetoric is, ah, incomplete, let us say. But Sophocles must be innocent. By all the gods on Olympus, what reason would he have for killing Nicias?”

“I’m afraid there might be one. Nicias’ relatives, at least, might well devise one if they hear gossip. Yesterday in the agora, Nicias implied that Sophocles might try to influence some of the judges. Nicias took no pains to speak low. He could easily have been overheard. If he were, well then word will fly round Athens in very little time.”

Pericles pushed back on his head the helmet he wore in public, releasing some graying curls round his temples. He was aging. I wondered if Athens’ great glory could survive without him. “Nicias’ charges are absurd,” he said. “Sophocles’ genius is quite sufficient to capture first prize.”

“Of course,” I said. “He is most likely innocent. It would take much provocation to bring him to brutal violence.”

Pericles smiled. “Ever the Sophist, Kleides. You will not concede that one of such beauty, honesty, and charm as Sophocles could not kill.”

“Beauty, honesty, and charm are indeed his virtues, as is great intelligence and talent. But these do not constitute the whole of human nature for any man.”

“Well, I persist in believing in Sophocles’ innocence. But I am happy to have your open and inquiring mind to which I can trust this matter. Go out, Kleides, to where Nicias’ body lies and put that mind to work.”

I made my way out of the skene, went down the steps of the stone retaining wall, across the drainage channel, and behind the theatre to the rocky foundation of the Acropolis. As I approached, one of the magistrates tossed his head, indicating something behind him. I noticed that his olive complexion looked particularly green. I walked behind the greenish magistrate and looked down. I may have turned a little green myself. I swallowed, willing the barley porridge I’d eaten this morning to stay down where it belonged.

I turned back to the magistrates and told them to return inside and have Pericles send the Scythian police back to collect the body.

The magistrates left with, I thought, a look of gratitude on their faces.

I took a moment or two to make sure that the porridge remained below, then turned back to Nicias’ body. He’d been stabbed. In the bowels. The blood had flowed freely and caked in dark brown streaks down to his knees. His eyes were open and his features distorted into a grimace.

He had met a painful and violent end.

I swallowed again and knelt for a better look at the wound. It was too large to have been made with a knife. Someone had thrust a sword into him.

I rose and looked around. But there were no footprints. The terrain here was too rocky to have taken any.

I looked at Nicias again and noted that a gold ring still encircled a finger on his left hand. No thief had done the deed. I hadn’t thought so anyway. A thief would have struck from the back. A clean blow to the head. This crime spoke of rage.

I directed the Scythians to wrap the body and take it to the prison house near the South Stoa until Pericles could send someone to notify the dead man’s relatives.

I left the area, circling round to the hill of the Pnyx. No one would be at our assembly site. The democracy had no meetings set for today. The festival was not officially over until the end of the day. Most Athenians would be celebrating in the agora, at local taverns, or at their own homes. I would be left alone to think.

Like Pericles, I did not wish to think Sophocles guilty of homicide. But like Socrates, I knew that human nature was possessed complete by all men, with all its virtues and evils. I knew, too, that popular opinion that good resided in the fair and evil in the ugly, was wrong. The surface did not necessarily reflect the interior.

Thus I steeled myself for questioning Sophocles. I would have to reveal honestly to Pericles whether his answers tended to his guilt or innocence.

I returned to the theatre, and in inquiring of those who remained milling about, discovered that Sophocles had declared his intention of returning to his home to prepare for an evening’s celebration to which I was, of course, invited.

I dug in the hem of my cloak and found an obol to pay a disheveled water boy to go to Sophocles’ home and request that he meet me back at the theatre on an urgent matter.

I returned to the skene, not wanting to leave the place where I believed a key piece of evidence might still lay.

I looked around for the sword upon which Ajax, in the person of Tidius, had fallen. It was, I suspected, the sword that had killed Nicias. It would have hung upon the wooden wall of the skene, where the props were kept for ease of access during performances. It could conveniently and easily have served another function: murder.

I didn’t see the sword. The murderer would have taken it away, stained with blood as it no doubt was.

I thought of all who had a grievance against Nicias and would have easy access: Sophocles, of course; Phidias; Tidias; anyone else who had business at the theatre, including Euripides and Ion of Chios; all the other actors and members of the choruses. For that matter, I thought, if the skene had not been padlocked, anyone offended by Nicias could have entered to take and return the sword. I found myself relieved and glad to have suspects other than Sophocles. This, for a Sophist, would not do. I had to bring my emotions into check.

I heard the wooden door open and turned to see Sophocles outlined against the bright air outside.

He blinked. “Kleides?” he said, glancing round.

I stepped away from the wall where I had just tried to open a firmly latched chest. “I’m over here, Sophocles. Thank you for coming so promptly.”

“The messenger boy said it was urgent.”

“Indeed, it is. Have you not wondered where Nicias was for the ceremonies this morning?”

“I did, Kleides. I fear he may be gravely offended by his second place, though surely all recognize that Tidius deserved the first prize.” Sophocles moved into the skene, still blinking to adjust his eyes. “Have you news of him?”

I moved toward him, taking a deep breath. In the light that came through the open door, I saw that the forehead of his handsome face was furrowed in genuine or pretended concern. His brown beard, a little longer than Pericles’, was as well groomed as the curved eyebrows above his large, wide-spaced eyes. Not one’s idea of a murderer.

“Nicias has much to be offended at,” I said. “He has been murdered. Probably here at the theatre.”

Sophocles did not move. He stared at me. “Kleides,” he said finally, “surely you are... but no, how could you be mistaken about such a thing.” He shook his head. “How? Who?”

“And why?” I said. “Pericles has asked me to inquire into the matter.”

“Of course. You are best at such work. But why did you send for...” He paused again. “Oh, yes. Of course.” He nodded, his quick intelligence understanding. “I did announce last night that I was coming over to the theatre for some scrolls. In fact, Nicias had sent a message that he wanted to meet me here. And so he did. But when I left him, he was most alive. Angry, but alive.”

“What did he want?”

“He urged me to select him as my main actor for next year’s Great Dionysia.”

“Well, I know...”

Sophocles held up his hand, stopping me. “More than that, Kleides. He threatened that if I did not announce the choice soon, he would spread the rumor that I had influenced the judges this year, worked to get those I knew on the selection lists.”

I nodded. “You didn’t, of course.”

“A statement, Kleides, or a question?”

I smiled. “I am a Sophist, Sophocles. I distinguish between what I know and what I believe. I know that you influenced the judges by the brilliance of your plays. But I don’t know that you didn’t use other influences, though I believe that you did not.”

“I did not, Kleides.”

“What did you say to Nicias?”

“Very little. I laughed and told him to lock the skene when he left. He is an actor. He has a key. Then I left.”

“Leaving him behind, angry but alive?”

“Yes. I swear. That is true. But then, you Sophists, above all, know that language can be used in the service of truth or lie.”

“Yes. As a sword might be used to imitate a death, as in your play, or to truly kill someone.”

“By all the gods, Kleides. Are you saying that the sword I used in the play was the murder weapon?”

“Perhaps. It is not here now.”

“But who has taken it?” He held up his hand again. “A stupid question. The murderer, of course. But you are sure it is gone?”

I gestured at the walls. “Wouldn’t it be hanging on the wall?”

“Normally,” Sophocles said, “while we are rehearsing. But once the festival is over, we put the props in a chest and retrieve them when we have opportunity.” He moved to the left side of the skene, bent over, and yanked open a chest. He pulled out a sword and turned to me.

I am ashamed to say that, for a moment, I measured the distance to the open door, wondering how fast I could run out and up the wooden seats to safety.

Sophocles held the sword out to me.

I took it. “I need to see it in the light,” I said, moving toward the open door, Sophocles following.

I stepped out and onto the little slope that led to the great circle of the theatre. I lifted the sword and examined it in the sunlight. I could find no stain upon it. It would have been wiped clean by the murderer, but blood tended to leave traces on metal no matter how vigorous the rubbing. I turned to Sophocles and showed him the sword. “No blood. This was not the murder instrument.” I felt immensely relieved. It was unlikely that Sophocles had come to the theatre last night armed against Nicias. He would have had no knowledge of what Nicias wanted. Unless Nicias had said so in his message.

“Sophocles,” I asked, “was anyone else at the theatre last night?”

“No,” he said. “I saw no one. Only...” He stopped.

“Who? You must tell me.”

“I saw friends. But they were not in the theatre. They stopped me nearby to tell me that Nicias had on the evening of the procession bragged that he would act in my plays next year and that we would win, guaranteed.”

“Who?” I asked again, already knowing who might have warned Sophocles of the slanderous tongue of Nicias.

But Sophocles did not answer at first. “Sophides,” he said finally. He was staring at the sword.

“Let me see it,” he said.

I took a deep breath, assured myself that I could run faster than Sophocles, as I did at the gymnasium, and handed him the sword.

He ran his hand over the handle. “I just noticed. This isn’t the sword I bought at the forger’s shop for the play. The one I bought had rings of gold down the entire handle. I wanted the gold to gleam in the suicide scene. This handle has the rings only partway down and they are not gold. It was made by the same forger. You see his mark here, and it is close to the one I bought, but not exactly. I never noticed during the performance, so commanding was Tidius.”

I thought carefully about the suicide scene I had watched. I had seen no gleam of gold from the sword handle. I knew then who had murdered Nicias. Had it been Sophocles, he would not have told me that this sword was not the one he had purchased for the play.

Sophocles was staring at the sword again. “By Hades,” he said, “I had not thought, but... but I must go to him.”

“He is not at your house?”

“No. I must find him.”

“No. Go home, Sophocles. Let me do my work.”

I turned and hurried out of the skene, leaving by the front double door. I glanced back as I exited. Sophocles had his head in his hands.

I wasn’t sure exactly where to head, so I paused a moment to think. Something caught my eye, and I raised my head. Gold. Rings of gold.

Tidius rose, sword in hand, from the first of the wooden tiers. He stepped down and walked across the circle of the theatre toward me. He stopped in the middle.

“Sophocles is not to blame,” he said.

“I know.” I considered backing up, but stood my ground.

“I was on my way to Sophocles’ house. I heard that you asked him to meet you here. I knew why. It was quite obvious.”

The whole matter was becoming obvious. “You were here last night too, weren’t you? You heard Nicias’ threats to blacken Sophocles’ reputation. But then you must also have heard Sophocles dismiss the threats with a laugh. So your motive was not to protect Sophocles.”

Tidius shook his great head, the one that had worn the mask of tragedy for so long. “Partly, perhaps, but in truth, I killed him because he laughed at me, as Ajax’s enemies laughed at him. My voice is weakening, as is my strength. Neither will last much longer. My day is over, as was Ajax’s. When Sophocles left, I berated Nicias for his evil. He brushed me aside, called me ‘a dried leaf.’ I crumpled against the wall and my hand found the sword. I struck him in rage. I had come to the theatre to relive the glory of this great festival.” His voice cracked. “I ended up killing a man.” He shook his great head again.

I began to move forward, knowing what was coming.

“Stop,” he called out, his actor’s voice loud and sure again.

I stopped.

He raised the sword and pointed it downward toward his gut. “I stopped him. But I cannot stop time.”

“No, Tidius, no!” Sophocles came running out of the skene.

“My day is over. Better to end in triumph.” His voice rasped over the last three words.

The sword rose higher, catching the sun on its gold rings.

Tidius plunged it into himself. He stood for a moment, like a magnificent warrior of old, then tumbled down the wooden stairs.

I did not go to Selkine that night. I stayed with my ailing old father. He listened with sadness as I explained why Tidius had done what he had done.

“He’d taken the sword with which he’d killed Nicias,” I said. “After he killed Nicias, he went to the forger’s early in the morning and bought another, as close to the original as he could to replace the one he had taken. I knew when Sophocles told me that the sword in the theatre was not the original that the murderer had to have been Tidius. He was the only one besides Sophocles and the forger himself who knew exactly what the original one looked like, who would know that the forger had made the original sword.”

My father stared into the smoke that rose from the terracotta lamps. He pulled his chiton closer round his stooped shoulders. “A great actor,” he said. “He had played the defeated Xerxes in Aeschylus’ great play The Persians with such dignity and compassion that we who saw the performance could almost feel sorrow for our defeated enemy. But all that is past,” he said, rising to go up to his bed.

I watched him climb the stairs slowly, the olive oil burning in the lamp, leaving its pungent odor and smoke lingering on the stair.

I sighed and reached for the scroll of Herodotus’ history of the Persian War. I had been a child then and was a young man now in our democracy. The old warrior glory had indeed passed. I wondered if under Pericles’ guiding hand Athens would rise to such heights that her glory would never pass from men’s minds.

I was young enough to hope so.