Death Ex Machina by Gary Corby Page B

Romanos in low whispers as we sat in the stalls, out of earshot of the cast and crew.
    “He took your advice,” I said to Diotima.
    “What advice?” Diotima asked.
    “Don’t you remember? Under the stoa in all that rain. You advised him to become as indispensable to the Athenians as your father. Well, he’s doing it. If he goes on like this, Sophocles will be insisting that they make Romanos a citizen,” I said.
    Diotima nodded. “He deserves it.”
    THE MORNING BEFORE the Great Dionysia wasn’t a rehearsal day. Instead every single act—not only the play of Sophocles, but the other two tragedies as well, and the comedies, and the ten choral performances— everyone was due toarrive to set up their pieces. The Dionysia was held over five days. The people today would organize the logistics of moving their acts in and out in order.
    Diotima and I arrived at the theater with Socrates in tow, just as Apollo’s light peeked over the east. We found both guards slumped against the back wall, sound asleep and snoring.
    I kicked them awake.
    “Get up, you idiots. What do you think you’re doing?”
    They opened their eyes, but they were still sleepy. They stared up at me in confusion for a moment. Then their state of confusion turned to horror when they realized it was me staring down at them, and that they had fallen asleep.
    They scrambled to their feet and stammered, “We’re sorry, master, we don’t know what happ—”
    “Don’t bother,” I interrupted. “Pythax will hear of this.”
    They trembled. Pythax was a stern disciplinarian. One of the toughest men in Athens, he expected every man he commanded to be his equal in application to duty. I foresaw many long disciplinary marches for these two, in full armor, through the day and night without rest, so that they could learn how not to fall asleep.
    I myself had once drilled with the Scythians, at the insistence of my future father-in-law, so that he could teach me how to stay alive in a street fight. The memory of Pythax’s brutal training still haunted my nightmares, but I had never forgotten his lessons, and I hadn’t been killed yet either.
    “Come with me,” I said. “We’ll have to check every tiny thing backstage, to make sure nothing’s been tampered with. And when the stage manager arrives, he’ll have to check it all again , because he might spot something that we’d miss.”
    We did that, the two guards and Diotima and me. We picked up every prop and every mask. Not only the ones for Sisyphus , but the props and masks for the comedies and the other tragedies. I had to stop Euboulides and Pheidestratos from playingwith the pig’s bladders that the comedians used. They made a farting noise that the guardsmen thought was hilarious. I thought it was funny too, but Diotima didn’t. Nor did I want the guards to be caught playing with the props when the actors and crew arrived, which would be at any moment.
    I crawled across every part of the backstage floor in search of booby traps. There were none.
    I stood up and dusted off my hands and knees.
    “All right, that’s about it. You two can think yourselves lucky nothing went wrong.”
    “What about that thing, sir?” Euboulides pointed at the machine.
    We all stared at the mechanism, but none of us had any idea how it worked. There was a chock between two of the cogs, but it was easily visible and for all I knew it was supposed to be there.
    “It looks all right to me,” I said hesitantly. “We’ll have to have Kiron check it before anyone uses it.”
    Socrates said, “Nico, the machine’s not in rest position.”
    “What?” I said, startled. “That’s impossible. Nobody’s holding it.”
    Socrates pointed to the machine’s arm. “It should rest level. But the arm’s up and over the skene.”
    So it was.
    I walked over to the mechanism. It looked the same as always. Yet the short end was pressed down as far as it could go.
    I found the answer at the hinge. Someone had pressed