. . . But Comedy is Hard
Kate Daniel

It wasn't my fault I stumbled. Blame the slob who threw his melon rind on the pavement instead of in the gutter where it belonged. These big city-state modern Greeks have no graces left, no culture. The great days of Athens are long past. Which in a way is where the whole affair started, not just with Citizen Melon-dropper.

But start with the stumble. It was embarrassing enough . . . 
* * * 
"Hippolyte! What're you . . . be careful . . . Hades, will you watch where you swing that sword?"

I didn't answer, being somewhat preoccupied with staying on my feet, a normally easy task made difficult by melon rinds underfoot. I'm no acrobat, but I felt like one as I twisted, righted myself, overbalanced once more, and finally steadied myself with my new sword. Called into service as a crutch, the tip of the blade plunged deep into the piece of melon, skewering it neatly.

My impromptu dance had drawn laughter around the agora, which rose to scattered cheers and applause at this point. I hammed it up for the gawkers, bowing and holding up the rind-topped sword as if it were laurel awarded a victor. After a moment I dropped the pose, lowered my sword, and pushed the garbage off the blade with my foot. Traffic in the agora resumed as I examined my pretty new toy for damage. Bronze is hard, but it can still be nicked.

Then a familiar voice spoke behind me. "Brava, my dear. I haven't laughed so hard in ages, certainly not at my own poor efforts. Now that is comedy!" It was a musical voice, pitched to carry.

"No, it's clumsiness." Glycera, my fellow Amazon, came forward once my blade no longer posed a threat to nearby eyes, ears, and limbs. She's a square-built older woman, tough as a boot, who wears her armor as easily as an Athenian housewife wears her chiton. "Hippolyte, I don't know what your mother was thinking of, naming you for the Old Queen."

"She probably thought she could get back at her own first sergeant by giving another one a headache in the ranks. Don't you just love being a part of the great Amazon tradition?" I sheathed the sword, and turned to face the man who had spoken, doing my best to smile charmingly. Given how embarrassed I was by my awkward salute to Terpsichore, I don't think it worked. "You're Nicomachus, aren't you? I loved your Silenus last year."

"Did you?" The grin widened. "I'm glad somebody did. The judges weren't too happy with it."

"But . . ." Before I could say more, another man took Nicomachus by the elbow and steered him away. The borders on the newcomer's robe were wide and purple, embroidered with gold; probably the sponsor, who wouldn't enjoy waiting while an actor discussed the art of comedy with an Amazon warrior-girl. The actor in question directed a helpless smile back at me over his shoulder, confirming my guess.

So did the sergeant's next words. "That's Timaeus, the shipping king. You don't keep that sort waiting."

"But what did he mean about the judges? That was the funniest Silenus I've ever seen!"

"You know that's not how the world works. That Silenus almost cost Nico the prize last year; way too old-fashioned an interpretation. Only reason the judges didn't give the wreath to someone else was because he did such a terrific job on the part of the god and, well, he is Nico."

"But it was funny!"

"So it was funny. That and half an obol will buy you a cup of wine. Goddess, Hippolyte, sometimes you act as if you've never been out of the Caucasus before."
* * * 
I hate to admit it, but Glycera was right. This was the fifth year I'd been sent to Athens with the tribute party. Some year Athens will get so involved with its own politics they'll forget that old business between Theseus and my namesake, but don't look for it to happen any time soon. My first year I had to miss all the plays in order to stand guard over the offering, especially the gold sheepskin. (No, not that golden fleece. That one's just a myth. Ours is real wool, dyed gold because of some prophecy or other.) Standing guard is just for the symbolism. The money's real enough, though, and a heavy tax it is on our people, too.

It's always the junior members of the tribute delegation that pull guard duty, and by my second trip to Athens I had enough seniority to get to the opening comedy. The tragedies are the big show, even at a Dionysia, but I had no real interest in them. Especially not after the first time I saw Nicomachus. On stage, of course, all you can see is the mask, but the actors take their bows barefaced, and I memorized his. By the second show, I was in love. Well, theoretically in love; I didn't have enough rank for a pregnancy, and I doubt if the Mothers would have approved a comic actor as a father in any case. But he was good.

Good, however, wasn't enough, as Glycera had pointed out. (Goddess, what a name for a sergeant. It means Sweet One in the old tongue.) There are fashions in theater as in everything else these days. The current trend in comedy is political humor; select the right target and you can name your own price to the sponsors. But don't expect me to laugh with the crowd. Call me old-fashioned if you want to, but I prefer traditional humor, with the protagonist whacking prune-faces over the head with a stuffed sausage phallus.

You might wonder what a country girl, even one who's also a seasoned warrior, could possibly know about the theater. Sure, every apprentice sandal maker in Athens thinks he's an expert, and the haeteras really are (they have time to study, during the day), but an Amazon from beyond the Hellespont? Most of my sisters, I'll admit, regard theater as unimportant, something to kill time when winter keeps us close to our fires. But you see, I had an oracle once. Not from the Pythia, a private one. Thallia, Muse of Comedy, spoke to me. She told me to make people laugh.

See? You're laughing already.

But we didn't laugh when word came that the god's favorite comic actor had gone missing.

"Missing? You mean he missed a rehearsal or something?"

"I mean he's missing," Glycera said. Grimly, she pushed through the marketplace crowd, with me following in her wake. "Gone. AWOL from his sponsor and his play and his house. And it looks like it wasn't his idea to walk out."

"But . . . but the dedication was held yesterday! He belongs to the god for as long as the festival runs."

"Yeah. So?" Glycera stopped in front of an attractive house at the edge of the agora. A crowd had gathered in front, spilling into the garden and staring curiously in at the open door. Everyone was busy expressing their own opinions on what had happened at full volume. It sounded, in other words, like any normal gathering of Athenians.

I shook my head. In my opinion, a dedication should mean something, but times have changed. Judges accept bribes, hired claques make more noise than the audience, playwrights trim their poetry to the latest rabble-rousing breeze. With Nicomachus as protagonist, Anaxis was almost guaranteed the laurel. Personally I thought his poetry limped in every foot, a centipede of bad verse. But he was popular, and the sponsor was Athens's latest political darling. It's enough to give democracy a bad name.

The shipping magnate stood in the doorway, a sick expression on his face. Most likely he was picturing his expected crown on another's brow. He caught sight of us and, to my surprise, motioned us forward.

"Thank you for coming. It was kind of your captain to offer your services." He mopped at his brow, although the day was unseasonably cool. "Not that I expect it to do much good. He's probably dead already. Poor darling Nico."

I felt a pang. Peering over his shoulder, I saw why he'd said what he did; there was enough blood in the front room to supply an altar, or even a small battlefield. But no corpse. Most likely the killers had carried off the body. Or bodies; from experience I know even a small person holds a surprising amount of blood, but there were amphorae-worth of the stuff here.

Glycera entered the room and, after a slight hesitation, I followed. There was no reason to go in, since the entire room was visible from the doorway, and I didn't want blood on my best sandals. But Glycera was the boss. "So why are we here?" I whispered.

"Captain thought it'd make a good impression on the locals. Called it an offering to Dionysus, for the Festival." She poked with her sword tip at a chiton, dyed red by the puddle it rested in. The fabric dripped when she lifted it from the floor, and she let it fall again. "I thought you'd want to help, seeing as how you've been mooning over the guy for four years. We probably won't be able to rescue him, but if we're lucky we may be able to avenge his shade. You should appreciate that."

A soft golden light dawned in one corner, wrapped around a graceful feminine form. It wasn't the first time I'd seen this. My mouth gaped open like a fresh-caught fish, and I gasped more than said "Thallia!" The figure within the cloud of light giggled and nodded.

"Hmmm?" Glycera glanced over at me, apparently unable to see the apparition. "Oh, you mean Nico served the Muse of Comedy. Well, yeah, but a god trumps a muse. It's Dionysus's festival, after all." She bent to examine a gore-caked dagger without touching it. "Strange, the furniture isn't even broken. Just knocked over. You'd expect more damage, with this much blood."

"But . . ."

Thallia giggled again, her finger raised to her lips. The words I had intended to say wedged in my throat, almost choking off breath. It seemed the muse wanted to keep this visitation a secret between the two of us.

"Timaeus is probably right." Glycera dropped to one knee, examining a red streak where something had been dragged through the mess. "Problem is, I don't see how we can find out what actually happened. My guess is Lycus is behind it. With Nico dead, he finally has a change at beating Anaxis."

"But Lycus is nice!" Now that I wasn't trying to draw attention to Thallia's presence, I could speak. "Everyone raved last year about the victory party he gave for Nico, and Nico wasn't even his protagonist."

"Hippo, you're so naive."
* * * 
I may be naive, but I couldn't believe Lycus was behind Nico's disappearance. For one thing, he really was a sweetheart. A lousy poet, but a nice guy. You'd think verse that cutting would come from a venomous tongue, but oddly enough you'd be wrong. He's just got an overdose of humor in him; give him any subject and he'll find the funny side. Give him a politician, and . . . well. He may not be much of a poet, but he knows how to hit the funny bone. Timaeus's political career would sink faster than a leaky trireme if Nico wasn't there to offset the effect of Lycus's new play.

But even if Lycus were as nasty as his most cutting jokes, he couldn't be behind Nico's disappearance. If it were that obvious, why the private visitation from a deity, even a minor one? He was already the chief suspect; Glycera was as reliable as a lodestone in reading public opinion.

Thallia pointed to some footprints leading through the bloodiest part of the room. A small table was overturned beside them, but not one crimson drop marred its smooth surface. It felt staged, like a tragedy, if theater ever dealt with common people rather than gods and heroes. The footprints glowed with a ruddy light of their own. Thallia pointed to them again, demanding, then faded from sight. 

The luminous footprints remained. No one but me noticed them, just as no one else had noticed Thallia. And it seemed like no one in the room, not even my own sergeant, could see me. I'd gone as invisible as the Muse herself. Glycera didn't look up even when I spoke to her. I'm certain she couldn't hear me.

The Muses aren't Olympians, but they swing a lot more weight than a mortal. The Muse of Comedy wanted me to find her comedian, that was obvious, so I followed the footprints out the door. No one took any notice. To this day I wonder when Glycera realized I was gone. Sometimes I miss the old battle-ax.

The tracks led away from the door, away from the agora. I had only had the basic course in tracking, but even a six-year-old male-child could have followed these. Here the tracks halted, there they went to tiptoes, a bit further they widened into a lope. Whoever had left them had taken care not to be seen. I didn't have to worry about that; I wasn't on the run. Besides, Thallia's magic still shrouded me. At least I thought it did.

At one point, I looked back. Behind me, the footprints had vanished. I retraced my own steps, searching, and they reappeared, ahead of me. Only ahead of me. I went back and forth a few times, confirming my deduction: the tracks lead forward but not back. Thallia, it seemed, really wanted me to follow the guy who'd left them. I had a hunch about who it was, but my hunch didn't make any sense.

The spoor led to the edge of town and past it, away from Athens. At first the trail followed the road to Corinth, then it turned down a series of country lanes, each less traveled than the one before. When darkness overtook me, I made a rough bivouac for the night. The footprints glowed, in one direction only, all night long. At dawn I resumed my deity-inspired quest, down another country lane. By this point, I didn't need the glow. There were no tracks on the rough path other than the ones I followed.

It ended at a small tumbled-down farmstead. The war god has plowed this section of the Attic plain time and again; there are dozens of such places to be found, abandoned to chance comers and wild animals. The traveler I sought was here, sitting under an olive tree, plunking idly on a lyre. The lyre was badly in need of new strings. In the end, finding him was rather anticlimactic.
* * * 
"Nicomachus." He looked up when I spoke.

"Yes? I . . . oh, I remember you! The Amazon girl from the agora, the one who appreciates comedy." He grinned, the grin that had charmed me years before, the unmasked grin that invites the observer to share his delight in his own clever performance. I just stared back at him, hand on the hilt of my weapon. A few minutes of this made him nervous.

"Well? I assume Timaeus hired you. All right, you've found the runaway. What now, march me back at sword's-point to Athens? I warn you, I'll just run again. Timaeus is wasting his money; I won't go on."

By this point all I wanted was answers. "Why, Nico? You're the greatest comic actor alive. You've taken the crown repeatedly at the Dionysia, at Corinth, even at Delphi. Sponsors beg you to be in their productions. So what's to run away from?"

"Have you heard this year's play?" I shook my head. "It stinks. Anaxis has always pandered to whoever pays his bar tab, but this goes way beyond that. It's digusting. Pure hubris. I couldn't be part of it."

"So why not just go to a different playwright? Lycus would have been delighted to get you, I'm sure."

Nico banged his hand against the strings of the lyre, a frustrated sound with no music in it. "I had a contract. I agreed to it before I read the new play, but you don't break contracts with Timaeus. Besides, I doubt if Lycus's play is any better. His sponsor this year is Castor of Piraeus."

"But he's not even a politician!"

"I know. He's a boat builder, a shipper. Timaeus's real rival, not for power but for the gold that buys power." Nicomachus dropped his gaze to the lyre in his lap and he started to play a beginner's exercise, not looking at me. "He tried to bribe me to wreck the play. I could do it. Change the timing here, slur a line there, wear a different mask, re-write the part the way I did with Silenus—"

At this he looked up. "That was mostly my own writing, you know. Anaxis wanted to kill me for changing his verse, but since he got the laurel he couldn't very well say so."

I bit my lip to keep from speaking and interrupting the flow, but I felt vindicated. I knew that Silenus was too good to have been Anaxis's work.

"Be that as it may," Nico went on, "my life won't be worth a broken sandal strap if I play it straight, and I don't want to play the part anyway. So I bought some pig's blood and set my scene. I should have known it wouldn't fool a real warrior."

"You'd be surprised," I said, thinking of Glycera. "So you ran. Dedicated to the god, and you ran."

"Not from the god! From Castor, yes, from Timaeus, even Anaxis, but never from the god." He got up, lyre forgotten in one hand, and began to pace. "Look, I know you won't believe me, no one else does, but I've seen the god. He appeared to me, Dionysus himself. Nico, he said, Nico, go make people laugh. It was an oracle. But it's not fun any more, not when I'm just doing political jokes."

I'd gotten a good grip on my sword hilt when he stood up, but now my hand fell away as my mouth fell open. "Make . . . people . . . laugh . . ."

"I can, you know. I can make people laugh at anything if I want to. But let it be worthy of laughter!" He waved his arms, a broad actor's gesture meant to reach the back rows. "Give me decent material, a revival, one of the old satyr plays, something to work with! I'm sick of doing topical humor, I want comedy."

I looked at Nico as if he were my own oracle come true, which in a way was exactly the case. "I believe you."

"Yeah, we're dying with laughter over here, funny man. Too bad Castor don't have a sense of humor."

Neither of us had heard them approaching. Now we turned to find four men facing us, swords drawn. The leader grinned as they advanced. I didn't much care for the expression. Cutting humor is one thing, but not when it involves real cuts from real swords.

"The two of you planning to run off to Thrace or something together?" The man leered at me. "Can't blame you; she's kind of cute, even if she does wear armor. But Castor wants you dead, comic, and he don't pay us till you are. Sorry to spoil your plans." He didn't look sorry. He looked like a man who enjoyed his work.

The quartet of swordsmen spread out slightly. I shoved Nico behind me, up against the olive tree, and drew my own weapon. "We hadn't made any plans, but that sounds like a good one. We'll send your shades a nice souvenir."

"You think one little Amazon chick'll be able to stop us? They don't teach you girls much sense, do they?"

"No one taught you anything, that's obvious." Before the final syllable left my mouth, I was moving, feinting left, drawing the end swordsman out of position, then whirling right as I drew my long knife with my left hand, catching the leader's sword with it while my own sword slid past the guard of the man next to him and on through his body. That one wore no armor. The rest would be more difficult. But common thugs are no match for a trained warrior; they'd made a serious tactical error in speaking at all.

The Amazon sword-and-knife technique seemed unknown to them. Nicomachus, safe behind me, yelled like a spectator at the Olympics. I feinted, ducked, whirled, jumped, keeping myself always between the swordsmen and the actor. A second swordsman fell back howling, upper arm opened almost to the bone. But it was still two against one, and a lucky stroke by the chief thug sliced through the right shoulder strap of my breastplate. I hadn't fastened the side straps securely that morning, convinced I faced only an actor. Glycera would have blistered my hide for such carelessness, and she would have been right. Now the armor sagged sideways, hampering my sword-arm and leaving my right side vulnerable.

Behind the two thugs, a familiar golden light took shape along with a graceful feminine figure. I called out her name, "Thallia!" and I'm still not sure if I meant it as a prayer or invocation or curse. The two hired swords pressed forward, the second man hacking at my head. I parried the blow, turned, took a step, and my right foot came down on something slippery.

Desperately I tried to keep my balance, aware as I did so that the Muse was laughing, merry as a child. My sword almost lopped an ear off the second thug as it swung around wildly. It felt as if I'd done all this before. Behind me, Nico shouted, "Yes! By all the gods, yes, comedy! Dionysus!"

And he brought the lyre down on the second swordsman's head. The strings parted with an unmusical thwang, leaving the instrument around the man's neck like a halter. Nico ducked under my sword and grabbed one dropped by the first casualty. His opponent, intent on pulling his head free, failed to notice until Nico poked him in the backside. The man limped away at high speed, still wearing the lyre.

I only caught glimpses of the action, as I repeated the same involuntary dance I'd performed a few days before in the agora. Nico laughed like a fool, apparently under the impression it was intentional. I wanted to tell him there was nothing funny about it, as once again I twisted, righted myself, overbalanced, and caught myself with the sword. This time the point sank through the foot of the man facing me, just as his blade found the gap in my armor.

"And that finishes him!" Nico said, as he followed up with an inexpert cut at the man's neck. The man reeled backwards. Nico's paean broke off as I collapsed.

"Hippolyte! What . . . you can't be hurt!" He dropped to his knees beside me. "Come on, that's not funny. Please, get up. This is comedy. The protagonist can't die in a comedy, the god would never allow it. You can't die, you can't."

Behind Nico, I could still see the golden form of the muse, smiling at me. I managed to draw a breath past the fire in my lungs. "Oh, dying is easy. Comedy . . . now, comedy is hard . . ."

My eyes lost focus, but I could hear Nico calling my name. It almost sounded like a sob. "Hippolyte!"
* * * 
I didn't die, of course. I came to before Nico had lugged me half a league, his shoulder pressing the edge of my breastplate into my gut. I doubt if he could have carried me much further; he'd spent enough time at the gymnasium to know how to move, but he didn't have much endurance. I've got him on a serious training program now.

He hadn't bothered to take my armor off, which was a good thing as that stanched the wound. It should have killed me, but Nico was right; that wouldn't be funny, and the Muse herself was our sponsor. I healed, quickly and without pain. I've had more trouble with wounds taken in practice.

Since we'd both had an oracle, we decided we should stay together. We turned our backs on Athens and, taking the joke for omen, headed for Thrace. Nico's understudy was a great hit at the Dionysia, we found out later. Castor of Piraeus was so enraged he walked out, slipped (Thallia does love her melon rinds), and fell down the marble steps almost all the way to the stage. I hear the physicians think he may walk again someday. It doesn't do to annoy a deity, even a minor one, and especially not one with a sense of humor

It turned out Nico didn't remember my name after all; Hippolyte was just the only Amazon name he knew. Ah well, he knows me now. We make good partners. Of course in Athens women aren't allowed to perform, but this isn't Athens. Besides, we Amazons have never allowed Greek notions to keep us from doing what we want to do. Anyway, this really isn't theater, just a refit of an old satyr play, done right here in the agora. You'll enjoy it, I'm sure, and so will your customers. Like they say, a little song, a little dance, a little vino down your chiton. Comedy, and a headliner from Athens, and all for just two drachmas apiece. Your merchants' association won't find a better bargain. What do you say, eh? Do we have a deal?

You really wouldn't want to annoy Thallia.