Death Ex Machina (6 page)

Melpon glanced up at Diotima beside him. “You seem to be interested in medicine, young lady.”

“Yes,” Diotima said.

“Then I will show you something. Do you see here?” The doctor poked his finger inside Phellis’s leg. Diotima didn’t turn a hair; instead she watched with interest.

“The bone sheared away,” the doctor said. “Like a stick that breaks when you push from both ends. I suppose he fell feet first.”

“That’s right,” Diotima said. “How did you know?”

“The sharp end of the broken half pierced his skin. Here.” He pointed just above the knee. “Once the bone had come through the skin it was like a knife ripping through soft fabric. That’s why the wound’s so long. It wasn’t helped by the muscles pushing the bone along. The muscles are these bits here, here and here.” The doctor pointed out these parts to Diotima, who leaned closer.

The doctor said, “Often when that happens the patient bleeds to death and there’s nothing anyone can do. Your friend was lucky.”

The doctor had an interesting idea of what constituted luck.

“So we put the bone back in place?” Diotima asked.

“Yes, and then we must hope it heals. But there’s another problem that will stop us.”

He touched various parts of the inside of the leg. Diotima leaned closer.

“These muscles contract,” the doctor said. “They’ll stop us from putting the broken bone back where it should go.”

“Then we can’t save him?” Diotima said.

“Yes we can, or I would have said so. You don’t credit me with knowing my business. Take a good look at the table he’s lying on. It’s a healing machine. I had this specially constructed at enormous expense.”

The doctor busied himself with the machinery about his bench. It was a wide table, longer than a man, upon six sturdy legs; two at each end and two in the middle. The surface was planed smooth and oiled, which hadn’t prevented various dark stains of a depressing nature from seeping into the wood up and down the length of it. At the foot end of the healing machine were various ropes and chains. At the other end, above Phellis’s head, was a barrel round which was wound rope. The purpose of all these things I could not guess.

Melpon stood at the foot end. He tied one of the thick ropes that hung there about the broken leg, now padded. He made sure this was tight. At the other end he tied more rope—I recognized it now as the sort found on ships—looped under Phellis’s armpits and about his chest. This rope was wound about a barrel at the head end of the table.

“You,” Melpon pointed at me. “See that wheel near the patient’s head? Turn it on my command.”

I positioned myself. Melpon stood by the leg. He held thread in his hands.

“Turn,” he said.

I pulled on the wheel. It rotated the barrel, which wound the rope, which pulled the body of Phellis along the table.

The upper half, that is. His broken leg was tied to the other end.

Despite the poppy juice Phellis woke. His eyes rolled and he said, “What are you doing?”

Melpon said, “Harder.”

“No!” Phellis shouted.

The broken leg of Phellis was being stretched. One of the slaves who had carried him gagged.

“If you must throw up, do it outside,” Melpon ordered. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the bones under his hands.

Phellis begged for mercy.

“Harder!” the doctor ordered me.

I had to hope the doctor knew what he was doing. I pulled as hard as I could.

The broken shard of leg aligned with its other half.

“Hold it there!”

Melpon pushed the broken ends together. Phellis sobbed. Melpon ignored his patient’s moans.

Phellis fainted again.

Melpon said, “Thanks be to Apollo. At least now we can work in quiet.”

He pushed the distended tendons back in place. This he did with care, taking time about it.

The doctor said, “As long as his leg isn’t allowed to move, the two ends will stay joined. They might even heal, if he stays immobile for long enough, and if he’s lucky.”

“That’s why you have the machine,” I said.

“Yes.”

The doctor pushed the flaps of torn skin back over the
wound. He took up a sewing needle and thread and then, to my astonishment, sewed the skin together as if he was a woman sewing clothes. Of all the sights I’d seen, this for some reason turned my stomach the most; even more than the shattered bone exposed.

Melpon gave the thread a final tug. Then he bandaged the lot.

Throughout this I strained at the wheel.

“Can I let go?” I asked.

“No!”

Melpon hurried to my end. He inspected the wheel. He placed a chock so that it could not turn. He took chains from the floor and anchored them to the wheel. He tested these with great care before he said, “Now you can let go.”

I did, and the wheel didn’t move. The chock and the chains held it in place. Melpon didn’t have the most inspiring manner, but I had to admit he knew his business.

“The two ends of bone must remain close together,” Melpon explained. “If they do, there’s a chance they will heal back together. But for that to happen they
must
be held in place. Only the machine can do that.”

“It’s like an instrument of torture,” I said, gazing at the ropes and pulleys.

“You’re not the first person to suggest it,” the doctor said. “Most of my patients say the same thing after they’ve been released.”

“So this machine has worked before?” I said.

“Of course.”

It was ironic that one machine had hurt Phellis so badly, and another was going to heal him. These machines seemed like strange things.

“How long must he stay there?” I asked. “A few days?”

“Oh, he’ll have to stay for the next month,” the doctor said, matter-of-fact. “The only way this man has any hope of walking
again is if we keep him immobile. Sometimes the bones heal back together. Sometimes they don’t.” He shrugged. “As I said, it lies with the Gods, and the flesh-eating illness might still get him, and even if he does heal, I guarantee this leg will come out shorter than the other one. Of course, that’s assuming he has the money to pay for the machine.”

“What?” I said, confused. “What does money have to do with this?”

The doctor pointed to his convoluted stretching device. “While your man is in this machine, no one else can use it. This is the only one in Athens. If a rich man needs it, I’ll have to swap them over.”

To our combined looks of stunned contempt, the doctor held up his hands and said defensively, “Look, I’ll keep Phellis in there as long as I can, but if someone else comes by with another broken leg—someone who can pay—then your friend’s got a problem.”

“You could build another machine,” Diotima said coldly.

“Using what for money?” the doctor asked. “These things are expensive. After I’ve paid all my costs, I barely have enough to support my family. Lady, I don’t have the money to build another.”

I looked about the comfortable house in which we stood. The courtyard was spacious. But a doctor in a shabby, poor house wouldn’t inspire confidence. His furnishings were modest, but he had a lot of children.

“You’ll get the money,” I said.

Diotima looked at me in surprise. She knew what I knew. We didn’t have such wealth.

“Very well then,” the doctor said. “Your friend stays in the machine if the money arrives. I’ll expect to see you later.”

SCENE 9

THE TRITAGONIST

“W
HERE ARE WE going to find the money to help Phellis?” Diotima asked, as we returned to the theater. “We don’t even have enough money to fix the house.”

“Maybe Phellis is rich,” I said. “Perhaps he doesn’t need help.”

Diotima laughed. “You said it yourself. He’s an actor.”

“Or maybe the choregos will provide it,” I added. “After all, Phellis was injured while working for him.”

“Maybe,” Diotima said, in a tone that told me what she thought of that idea.

“Well we couldn’t leave Phellis to be discarded in the street, could we?” I said.

“No, we couldn’t, Nico, you’re right,” Diotima conceded. “Let’s ask Sophocles what he thinks.”

We arrived back at the theater in time for the end of an argument. The crew was still bickering over the failure of the god machine. Everyone stared malevolently at the stage manager.

They turned as we entered.

“How is he?” Sophocles asked at once.

I told them what the doctor had said of Phellis and his prognosis, that he would be a cripple for the rest of his life. If he lived.

The stage manager buried his head in his hands at these words. Sophocles merely nodded. Others of the crew mentioned the ghost.

“No ghost,” I told them. I held up the metal ring, which I’d taken with me. “This is the ring that held the harness to the rope. It was tampered with.”

“I
told
you,” said Kiron.

I nodded. “Kiron said as much when the slave found the ring. I looked, and he’s right. A segment of the ring snapped off when Phellis was in the air. But if you look carefully at the broken ends, you can see where they’ve been filed halfway through.”

That news was greeted with silence and obvious skepticism by the entire crew.

“Ghosts don’t use a metal file,” I added.

Someone muttered something about the ghost being real, unlike fanciful stories of metal files.

A long pause ensued. Then Lakon asked, “Where do we go from here, Sophocles? I suppose we replace Phellis?”

“Yes,” Sophocles said.

The crew exclaimed.

“You can’t be serious,” I said, astonished. “We have incontrovertible proof that someone is setting dangerous traps. One of you tripped over the broom—Romanos, wasn’t it?—someone poisoned the water, someone made the floor slippery. Now Phellis is crippled. You can’t continue until we catch whoever is doing this.”

Lakon answered. He said, “This is the biggest show any of us will ever play. Would you turn away from the most important job of your life?”

“No, of course not,” I said.

“Nor will I.” Lakon paused, then added, “Besides, think of the shame to Athens if we behave like cowards. We
cannot
abandon.”

Lakon spoke with the conviction of an actor who believed his lines. Even the crew seemed moved, who only moments ago had muttered about the ghost. Every man present had at one
time or another stood in the line of battle for this city. Not one of them wanted to be called a coward by his fellow citizens. I saw several heads nod.

Sophocles saw his chance to strike. “Lakon is right,” the playwright said. “Our duty to the God and to Athens is clear. We must recast. We can’t win the contest—not now—no actor could learn the lines in the two days we have left—but we must try.”

Lakon glanced at Romanos, with an expression of calculation. Then he said with authority, “I know casting is your decision, Sophocles, but I have a suggestion.”

“Yes?” Sophocles said. “Speak up, Lakon. I’ll hear any idea that gives us a chance.”

“Then hear me now. You should cast Romanos as second actor. If you do, we can still win.”

Every head turned to Romanos. The younger actor stared at Lakon in surprise. He said, “Me?”

“Why? How?” The stage manager asked the two questions the rest of us were thinking.

“Romanos knows the second actor’s lines,” Lakon said. “I heard him once when we were practicing.”

“Is this true?” Sophocles asked.

Romanos said, “Lakon flatters me, but it’s true that I know the second actor’s part. If it will save the play, I’ll do my best.”

Sophocles shook his head. “I admire your willingness, Romanos, but that would only leave us with
two
actors forced to learn new lines in a hurry. You know your own lines so well, Romanos. I cannot credit you know the second actor’s part as well.”

“As it happens, Sophocles, yes I do.”

Romanos began to speak the second actor’s lines. He spoke quickly, but confidently, and he didn’t stumble. In fact, it seemed to me that Romanos spoke the lines better than Phellis himself had during the rehearsal.

Sophocles looked impressed.

“I didn’t know you had those lines so well. How do you come to have another actor’s part?” the writer asked.

“Phellis spoke them. I have an excellent memory.” Romanos made an attempt to look modest. He failed. Instead he looked confident.

Lakon said, “The third actor is easier to replace, is he not?”

We remained silent while Sophocles considered.

“Lakon’s plan is a good one,” Sophocles said after a long pause.

Heads nodded all about the theater.

Sophocles saw agreement. He said, “Then here is our plan. Romanos becomes the second actor. We replace his third actor role with a quick study. And if Dionysos grants us favor then we still have a chance. I must see Thodis the choregos for his approval—it’s his money we’re spending, after all—but he’ll agree. Thodis no more wants to bring shame to Athens than do we. Perhaps he’ll also know of a third actor we can hire on short notice.”

Lakon snorted. “All the good ones have already been hired.”

That made sense, even to me. Anyone not already cast in one of the tragedies or the comedies must have been judged second rate by experts. The glum looks of the stage manager and his crew told me they agreed.

“Does anyone know of a good actor who’s free?” Sophocles asked the assembly.

Silence.

Then Romanos raised his hand, hesitantly.

“I might know of someone,” Romanos said. “He’s a good actor.”

I could hear the “But” in his voice. So could everyone else.

“But?” Sophocles prompted.

“Well sir, he’s never played in an Athenian theater.” Romanos said it hesitantly.

Almost everyone looked dubious. I could understand their reaction. A man who had never worked the world’s most important theater was hardly the man to walk into this crisis.

“What’s his name? Do you vouch for him?” Sophocles asked.

“He’s called Kebris. He’s not protagonist material, sir,” Romanos said. “Kebris spent his life as a touring player, going from town to town.” He spoke almost apologetically. “I worked with him once. He’s very quick to learn lines. Well, you have to be, on tour. You all know that. He’s not the world’s best actor, sir, but he’s reliable.”