Death of Kings by Philip Gooden

time Martin was required once more as
Viola-Cesario and so left us. Shortly afterwards Jack and I were due to appear together for our first scene.
    As I have said, Master Shakespeare was the guider during rehearsals for this royal performance. He took no player’s part in the production (indeed, the last role I had seen him in had been
as the Ghost in
Hamlet)
but as the author he was obviously in the best position to oversee the fleshing-out of his words.
    If I were asked about Master WS’s method in guiding us Chamberlain’s men in one of his own plays, I would find it difficult to answer. With someone like Dick Burbage, the business of
guiding – or, as one might term it, the direction – was firm and emphatic. If he was the tillerman and the players the vessel, then Burbage kept a strong, steady hand on the
boat’s progress. You would always be aware of his presence, sitting up aloft in the stern, one eye on the crew, the other on the waters ahead. But with Master WS it was different. To maintain
the analogy: if he was the tillerman, then he was one who did not make an exhibition of himself up there; indeed, he might sometimes seem to be absent altogether from his post (though I do not mean
to imply by this that he was negligent). Tiny, infrequent touches on the tiller seemed to suffice. And yet all went sailingly enough. I did not understand the trick of it.
    After I had delivered my first lines as Antonio and had promised to follow Sebastian to the court of Duke Orsino of Illyria, perilous as it might be, because
    come what may, I do adore thee so,
    That danger shall seem sport, and I will go
    Master WS drew me to one side as I exited from the playing area, which was marked out in chalk on the uneven boards of the great chamber.
    “Nicholas, you have a moment?”
    His large, open face tilted confidingly towards me as he placed a cupped hand under my right elbow. He ushered me towards a clear corner. I thought that he was going to say something about the
quality of my playing, either in compliment or complaint (though with Master WS the balance was always tilted most indulgently in favour of the former).
    Anyone observing us must have thought that we were discussing something to do with the play. But it was not so, or at least only in the beginning.
    “Nicholas, I heard what you said just now about friendship, about Damon and Pythias.”
    “Oh, you did,” I said, as though half regretful at being overheard – when really I was not. In fact, I own up to wanting him to overhear me.
    “I have often thought that the history of those two would make a good argument for a play.
The Two Friends from Syracuse.
What do you think? Or simply
Damon and Pythias.
The
one stood surety for the other and was ready to die in his place, when the tyrant Dionysius demanded it. Is that not true friendship?”
    “But it ended happily, did it not?”
    “Yes,” said WS. “Dionysius was so struck by Pythias’s readiness to lay down his life for his friend that he pardoned both of them.”
    “Would that all rulers showed a like mercy,” I said piously – and emptily.
    “We would surely say
merci
if they did,” said WS.
    “What? Oh yes,” I said, catching the pun before it disappeared round the corner and out of sight. Even by WS’s standards it was a particularly feeble one – and, had I
been inclined to contest with him, I would have pointed out that one should not trespass outside one’s own tongue to make a play on words.
    “In that case,” he continued, “a ruler’s mercy was prompted by the honourable friendship of two young men. Even a tyrant may be infected by goodness – though he
must catch it by stealth. It will not do to have designs on him.”
    I said nothing, because I could think of nothing to say. When Master WS talked, one generally listened.
    “I have always been moved by these ancient tales of friendship,” he said.
    “Like Antonio and Sebastian in your
Twelfth Night?
” I