by Gary Corby
“If you hired an artisan to paint your house, and a third party came along and injured the painter as he worked, you wouldn’t be responsible, would you?”
“Well, no,” Diotima admitted.
“I feel sure the actor’s correct course of action would be to sue the man who injured him.”
“That would be the man who also killed Romanos.”
“Then perhaps you should catch him?” Thodis suggested. “Then you could put your request to the correct source.”
I asked, “Is there anyone you do want to associate with?”
He puffed out his cheeks. “Well, naturally I’ve entertained Sophocles.”
“Naturally,” I said.
“My friends suggested I should also entertain the lead actor. What do they call themselves? Protagonists, yes, that’s right. They tell me that protagonists are important people.”
“I like to think so,” I said.
“Lakon proved to be an entertaining companion, a most charming man. Sophocles less so. He seemed a trifle uncomfortable. All he wanted to talk about was plays and writing.”
“Sad.”
“I thought so. There was no such difficulty with Lakon. He’s a man I could introduce to my friends with no risk of embarrassment.”
I made a mental note to discover who these friends were, so I could avoid them.
Thodis was still speaking. “In fact, I invited Lakon to dine with me on more than one occasion. He has a collection of amusing stories that he tells very well. My other guests were in stitches of laughter. He and his friend Romanos are valuable companions—”
“WHAT!” Diotima and I roared simultaneously, so loudly that Thodis staggered backward. He looked ready to run.
“I’m sorry, Thodis,” Diotima said quickly. “You startled us with your last comment.”
“And you startled me with yours!”
“Thodis, did you say Romanos was a friend of Lakon?” I asked carefully.
Thodis blinked in surprise. “Lakon arrived at one of my symposia arm in arm with Romanos. Of course to receive a guest of a guest is a time-honored tradition. This is how one enlarges one’s circle of connections. I had no objection. I’m not sure why you ask.”
“I ask because I was given to understand that Lakon never socialized with Romanos. You heard Lakon say so himself, at the noon meeting.”
“If he did, I missed it. I was … ah … preoccupied.”
Thodis meant he hadn’t followed events during the meeting. I said, “I distinctly heard Lakon say he didn’t socialize with Romanos.”
“Then you must have misheard, or misunderstood.”
“WHAT DO YOU think?” I asked Diotima as Thodis strode off.
“He’s not going to help Phellis,” she said.
“No. It looks like we’ll have to catch the killer and make him pay.”
“But Nico, what if we can’t do it in time to save Phellis?”
“Banks lend money. Maybe we could get an interim loan to cover the costs?”
“A loan where the only surety is our promise to capture a killer? Does your banker do deals like that?”
“Maybe not,” I said, rubbing my chin. “All right then, what do you think of Thodis as a murderer?”
Diotima said, “Thodis is the last man on earth who would want to ruin his own play.”
“Or at least, he should be,” I said. “I agree.”
“Logically we should cross him off the list of suspects,” Diotima said.
“Right.”
“Then why do I feel like he should be top of the list?” Diotima said.
“Me too,” I said. “We’ll have to keep him in mind.”
“He might have something to hide,” Diotima said. “He has a connection to Romanos that we didn’t know about.”
“Maybe,” I said, though I felt dubious about her theory. “Thodis admitted he knew Romanos without being asked. That looks innocent. The more important news is that Lakon lied when he said he never saw Romanos outside the theater.”
Diotima’s brow furrowed. “Why would he lie about that?”
“Good question. We’ll have to find out.”
Most of the men backstage had disappeared as quickly as they could, but three remained: Sophocles, Aeschylus, and Chorilos. The three tragic writers for this year’s competition were in earnest conversation.
Diotima and I decided to interrupt.
“Excuse me, sirs,” I said. “We have some urgent questions.”
“Hello, Nicolaos. Yes?” Aeschylus said. He and I had become friends during a previous case. The difference in our ages was almost fifty years, yet we got on well. He also had a high regard for Diotima.
“It’s about casting,” I said. “How do you do it?”
“The Eponymous Archon selects who will be the writers, who will be the choregoi, and who can be cast for protagonists,” said Aeschylus.
“Not you, Aeschylus?” Diotima said, surprised. “I thought you simply volunteered your services for the year and then chose your actors.”
All three men laughed.
“If only it were that simple,” said Chorilos. “Take me, for example. I applied to the Archon’s office six months ago. I was one of thirty men. We were all applying for only three slots in the schedule.”
Aeschylus added, “Every writer in Athens is desperate to see his work at the Great Dionysia. It’s a wonder there isn’t a bloodbath every time the authors apply.”
“How does the Archon choose?” Diotima asked.
“Exactly the way any sane person would,” Chorilos said. “The Archon chooses the most popular writers first.” Chorilos glanced at his two colleagues. “I said before that I was one among thirty for three positions, but that wasn’t quite accurate. We all knew that Aeschylus and Sophocles had applied this year. That meant the other thirty had to fight for one slot.”
“Is that fair?” I asked. “Shouldn’t everyone have a chance?”
“Would you like to be the Archon who rejected Sophocles?” Aeschylus asked.
“I understand,” I said. What Chorilos had said was clearly true. Sophocles accepted the tribute deadpan. He knew his own worth and saw no point in denying it.
“The protagonists are declared using the same system,” Chorilos continued. “For protagonists the Archon declares a pool of suitable actors. The protagonists must not only be skilled, but men of the highest character, because they’ll be called upon to portray the great heroes of Athens to young men and impressionable children.”
Sophocles and Aeschylus nodded.
Aeschylus said, “The writer is paired with a choregos, who funds the play. The choregos and the writer between them choose a protagonist from among the available pool.”
“That’s how you chose Lakon?” Diotima asked Sophocles.
“Yes,” said the playwright. “The trick is to match the actor’s personal style with the play’s main character. Lakon has a fine reputation, and like all great tragic actors, he has a flair for portraying powerful men with a fatal flaw. I felt he’d be good for Sisyphus.”
“I see,” I said. “Sophocles, at the meeting in Pericles’s courtyard you seemed upset at one point.”
“I did?” He raised an eyebrow. “I was probably thinking of poor Romanos.”
“This seemed more specific,” I said. “It was when Lakon questioned why Romanos was a member of the cast.”
“Oh, that,” Sophocles said. “Yes, his words did annoy me.”
“Why?”
“Because it was Lakon who recommended Romanos for third actor. The protagonist must come from the Archon’s list. The deuteragonist and the tritagonist are at the discretion of the management. After he’d been cast, Lakon had brought Romanos to my attention. It’s quite usual for the protagonist to propose men he likes to work with. I was under no obligation to pay attention, but I had worked with Romanos before and knew him to be reliable.” Sophocles paused. “I must say I had no idea Romanos would prove to be so outstanding.”
/> “Yes, he was,” I agreed.
“I underestimated him,” Sophocles admitted. “If he’d lived, and if he hadn’t been a metic, he would have made a fine protagonist one day.”
“Would you have proposed him for citizenship, Sophocles?” Diotima asked.
“It crossed my mind,” Sophocles said. “But of course that would have depended on the outcome of the play.”
The sky had darkened as we spoke, and Diotima and I had exhausted our questions. The three tragedians made their way into the night.
There was no point in pursuing the investigation into the evening. Everyone involved had departed for home, or for dinner at the homes of their friends. None would agree to see us. Our only option was to go home and worry about how we were going to solve this crime.
It was going to be deeply embarrassing if we failed. All of Athens would know that it was I who had failed them, and not only brought shame to the city before visiting dignitaries, but, even worse, would deprive the people of the best party of the year.
SCENE 21
A NEW DAY DAWNS
THE PREVIOUS DAY DAWNS AGAIN
APOLLO’S RAYS WOKE us as the God peeked over the horizon. It was still the ninth of Elaphebolion, and it promised to be a long day.
“Halting the calendar is very convenient,” my father said over breakfast. “I’m contracted to a client to deliver a new piece on the first of next month. If you could delay finding this killer, I could get in an extra ten days of polishing.” No sculpture could ever be smooth enough to suit him.
“That might not be convenient for the rest of the city, Father,” I said.
“Oh well. Did Pericles mention whether we’d all stop aging while the calendar is stopped?”
“I’m afraid not,” Diotima said.
“A pity.” He ate another egg.
“Let’s list our suspects,” Diotima said. “Lakon has to be first.”
“Lying about his friendship with Romanos looks dubious,” I agreed. “What about the family of Romanos? His sister, Maia, her husband, Petros, or someone else in that crowded house. Any one might have hated him for some reason.”
“How would we ever find out?” Diotima asked. “They’re metics,” she added, forgetting that she too had been a metic, though she’d lived her entire life in Athens. “Foreigners to the city aren’t about to open up to us.”
“We’ll have to think of something,” I said. “Who else?”
“A crazy person,” Diotima said.
“We can’t go back to that theory,” I complained.
“But it’s consistent with what happened,” Diotima argued. “Remember, there’s been not only the murder of Romanos but all the disasters during rehearsals, and they weren’t directed at the murder victim.”
“There was the broom he tripped over,” I pointed out.
Diotima snorted contemptuously. “That hardly rates with Phellis’s leg, or with Lakon almost falling off the balcony.”
“The broom was the first attempt, though, if what we’re told is true,” I said. “It makes sense it would be the mildest attack.”
“Like an escalation of hostilities?” Diotima said.
“Right. Each failed attempt to stop the play resulted in a stronger attack.”
“The only problem is, I don’t believe it. You still haven’t answered why anyone would want to stop the most popular festival in Athens.”
“Which brings us back to the crazy person,” I groaned.
“Yes,” said Diotima happily. “I like that theory.”
“Maybe there’s someone else with a motive we don’t know about?” I said. “I can’t get past the fact that there are three different victims. The actor, the play, and the man.”
There were so many unanswered questions, it was hard to know where to start.
Socrates had listened with close attention as Diotima and I discussed the different theories we might follow. (I had allowed him out of the records room for sleep and occasional meals.)
Now Socrates said, “Nico, I’ve been thinking … the machine behind the stage, it lifts a man. With the lever, men can move something that they couldn’t lift on their own.”
“Yes. So?” I said impatiently.
“How did Romanos get into the air?”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “The killer used the crane, of course.”
Socrates said, “Then the killer must have put the noose around Romanos’s neck, then walked backstage to work the machine?”
“Yes.”
“What was Romanos doing while his murderer went backstage to kill him?” Socrates asked.
“Er …” I didn’t have a good answer for that one. He would hardly have waited politely.
Diotima said, “Socrates has a point. Romanos must have been unconscious. Or perhaps he was already dead?”
“The body looked like a hanged man,” I said. “Blue face, tongue poking out.”
“Nico, you said the guards were drugged,” Socrates pointed out.
“They were. You think Romanos was drugged too? Maybe.” I didn’t like the way Socrates was finding answers that I hadn’t thought of.
“Maybe I can think of something else to help?” Socrates offered enthusiastically. He was obviously trying to avoid going back to the records room.
“Go inspect that machine again,” I said, to get him out of the way. No one was using it, and he could hardly do any damage. “But once you’re done, it’s back to the records.”
“Where will you be?” Socrates asked.
“Interviewing a suspect,” I said.
“Have you given thought to selling the other house?” my father asked abruptly.
That brought me down to earth.
“No, Father, I haven’t,” I said. “I’ve been busy, and it is the time of the Dionysia after all.”
“Not while the calendar is halted,” Sophroniscus pointed out. “There’s no point trying to delay the inevitable, Nico.”
“No, Father.”
“Give it some thought,” he said. “If you’re having trouble, I might be able to find a buyer among my friends.”
He meant to help, but what it sounded like was a threat. Diotima had kept studiously quiet every time my father mentioned her house. I felt it was time to point out that the property wasn’t my father’s to dispense.
“It’s because the house is part of her dowry that I am concerned,” he said, when I’d made my point. “You’re a husband now, Nico—”
“Yes, sir, I’d noticed.”
“You have responsibilities,” my father went on. “First and foremost is to support your wife. You’re doing that. Second is to make sure her wealth remains secure. Preferably it should earn some income. That city house is the bulk of Diotima’s dowry, son. You have to make it work for her.”
“Yes, sir. We tried to rent it—”
“And the residents trashed the place, then disappeared to their own cities before you could sue them. Yes, I know. But son, it’s still a problem, because while you dither, your wife’s dowry is going down in value.”
When he put it like that, it didn’t sound good. It did seem like I was being careless with my wife’s property.
“You are allowing your wife’s property to go to rack and ruin,” my father twisted the knife in a well-meaning way.
“Yes, sir, I’ll see to it.”
Breakfast was over. The slaves were clearing the bowls.
Diotima picked up the small leather pouch that she always took with her when she went outdoors. It contained only a few useful day-to-day items: a clean linen cloth, a handful of coins for emergency purchases, and a priestess knife sharp enough to slit any throat. Diotima jumped to her feet and hung the pouch over her shoulder by its long leather strap.
There was a great deal to do, but first, there was one absolute essential. We had to attend a funeral.
SCENE 22
THE FUNERAL
DIOTIMA AND I went to the house in Melite to pay our respects before
the ceremony began.
Funerals are always conducted in the early dawn or in the late evening, so that Apollo the sun god is not forced to look down upon a corpse. The family of Romanos had opted for the dawn. The season was spring but the air was chilly, with the recent unseasonable rain and the breeze. We wrapped our arms about ourselves and shivered slightly.
“I’m looking forward to this,” Diotima said as we walked through the twisty streets of Melite.
“You’re looking forward to a funeral?”
“Nico, these people are professional mourners. Nobody knows more than they do about how to run a good funeral. I can’t wait to see how the experts do it.”
There was a considerable crowd outside when we arrived, and much murmuring. After Diotima’s words it was quickly clear to me that they weren’t friends of the family, but curious onlookers. They, too, wanted to see how the experts did it.
Within, the noise was unbearable. All the women of the house, and there were a lot of them, moaned and tugged at their shorn hair and sobbed loudly. The men beat at their breasts or looked grave and despondent.
Romanos lay in the courtyard. His body was carefully positioned so that his feet pointed at the front door. That was the necessary precaution, to ensure the dead man’s psyche didn’t escape to haunt the house before the body could be cremated. Romanos had been dressed in his best clothes, then wrapped in his burial shroud. A white linen cloth was wrapped over his head and tied beneath his jaw, to keep his mouth closed. The coin had already been placed under his tongue. His psyche would carry the coin with him on his way to Hades. When he came to the river Acheron, he would pay Charon the Ferryman the coin to carry him across.
Romanos would not have been pleased by the attendance. The only actor from the cast was Kebris, the substitute third actor. He kept to himself in a corner of the room. Neither Lakon nor any of the stage crew had come to see him their colleague. Sophocles was leaving as we arrived. He nodded grimly to me and I to him. It was obvious he didn’t intend to stay for the funeral, but that wasn’t necessary to maintain the proprieties. He had done the right thing by coming to see his theatrical colleague.
Petros was chief among the mourners, as was proper. He greeted us as we entered.
