by Gary Corby
“Yes, I concede this difficulty,” Aeschylus said. “These things are as the Gods ordain.”
“Sometimes the Gods get assistance. Romanos decided to make his own crisis. One that would bring his talents to the attention of every man in Athens.”
I paused, then said, “It was Romanos who sabotaged the play.”
Silence, for a long moment. I wondered if the audience would believe it.
“Romanos manufactured the crisis?” said Sophocles, aghast. “But … but … he helped to solve it. He was instrumental in saving us.”
“Yes, precisely!” I said. “Because of that, we suddenly noticed a man we had always taken for granted. Romanos even said to me that Romanos is the man Sophocles calls for when he’s run out of other good options.”
“I see.” Sophocles looked ashen. “I helped bring on this crisis by taking a man of talent for granted.”
“I’m afraid so. He was probably inspired by the skene painting. It contained enough incidental disasters to make the situation look spooky. He complained to the stage manager to force Akamas to work back late one night, then appeared wearing a mask to create the rumor of a ghost. He laid the first trap for himself, to allay suspicion: he tripped over a broom. There was no danger, not for a man who has played comic falls on stage. The next two incidents were far more serious: the balcony attempt and the fall of Phellis.”
I could see people puzzling through the idea. A few looked convinced.
I said, “Lakon is extraordinarily lucky that Sophocles refused to hire Romanos as second actor. If he had, it would have been Lakon, rather than Phellis, who had the near-fatal accident. Romanos, you see, had to step into a higher role to save the day.”
Lakon paled at my words. He understood that what I described was possible.
“Not only that,” I continued, “Romanos had to save not only the play—actors step into emergency roles quite often—but Romanos had to be seen to save a major festival. And not just any festival, but the Great Dionysia, which all the world attends.”
“This seems a big stretch,” Aeschylus said. “What possible good could come of this?”
“Imagine if Romanos had not died. Imagine if the Dionysia had proceeded. We all remarked how Romanos worked like a slave to recover the festival. You yourself, Sophocles, said that Romanos had been instrumental.”
Sophocles said. “That is true. I was wondering how I might reward him for his good work.”
“Had he lived, and had you asked him, he would have asked you to sponsor him for citizenship.”
Sophocles frowned. “Such a thing is highly uncertain, and extremely rare. How could Romanos have thought I could deliver on such a request?”
“You underrate yourself, Sophocles. The people respect you. Everyone knows you are the obvious successor to Aeschylus.” I turned to Aeschylus. “You said, sir, that you would be proud to stand beside Pythax. How would you feel about a metic who almost single-handedly dragged the Great Dionysia back from the brink of disaster?”
“I would support him for citizenship,” said the master playwright. “Of course I would.”
I turned back to Sophocles. “You see? If you and Aeschylus made the request, especially with Aeschylus retiring, how could the citizen body deny you? The People’s Assembly would declare Romanos a citizen by acclamation.”
“I see the logic of your words.” Sophocles’s voice wavered. He was deeply upset. “Yet still I’m astounded. How could he have taken us all in?”
“Because he was a great actor.”
Sophocles nodded. “That he was.”
“There is this to remember about Romanos: that he was a curious mix of a great man who would work his heart out for the theater, but who was utterly amoral when it came to his own ambitions. The stage manager told of us of an incident years ago, when Romanos saved a play by brilliant improvisation after the skene collapsed. This was the same man who blackmailed without hesitation. He was prepared to cripple Phellis and bring the Dionysia to the brink of disaster. Then he drove himself to save the play he almost destroyed.
“Kebris told us that Romanos began to teach him the third actor’s lines even before the crisis had begun. That seems extraordinary.”
All eyes turned to Kebris.
“Because my friend feared for his life,” Kebris said angrily. “I don’t believe your fantasy for a moment. Romanos said he wanted me to know his lines in case something happened to him.”
“Yes, Kebris,” I said. “I don’t doubt you for a moment. But Romanos didn’t teach you the lines because he thought something might happen to him. He taught them because he knew something was about to happen to Phellis.”
I paused to let that sink in. I could see the thoughts rearrange themselves in people’s minds. Then I said, “Romanos prepared for his own promotion in advance. Why? So that when the crisis came he would be the hero who saved the show.”
There was a pause, before Lakon said admiringly, “That’s really very clever.”
I said, “This means the murder of Romanos is disconnected from the disasters at the theater. It opens up the field to every suspect.”
“But it doesn’t explain why Theokritos would want to kill him,” Pericles said. Like the Eponymous Archon, Pericles wasn’t happy with my choice of murderer.
“I’ve eliminated the need for a theatrical motive,” I said. “Let me explain the real starting point of this disaster.”
I said, “Lakon had introduced Romanos, at his insistence, to many of the most prominent men in Athens. Lakon even told us that Romanos had specifically asked to meet men of the merchant class. Lakon assumed it was so Romanos could promote himself in search of a choregos, as Lakon himself had successfully done with Thodis. In fact, Romanos’s notes make it clear that he talked to the merchants about his plan to sell beer. He was probably looking for backers or partners.
“It probably never occurred to Romanos that anyone would be upset. Romanos wasn’t one to consider propriety when self-interest was at stake. Such men often fail to understand the reactions of others.
“Inevitably word of his plan reached the winemakers, and Theokritos. After all, they moved in the same merchant circle. Or perhaps Romanos was foolish enough to approach Theokritos directly. Either way, it was a disaster. The wine growers saw competition. But Theokritos saw something much worse. He saw sacrilege.”
The Eponymous Archon scoffed. “Theokritos couldn’t have done all this on his own. Who helped him? Answer me that!”
“His estate workers,” I said at once. It was the simple, easy answer. “And possibly some fellow winemakers.” Then I hastily added, “The trusting winemakers of course would have been led astray by their high priest.”
I could already see it would be politically impossible to get a conviction if it meant wiping out our vintners. I had offered the archons a way to punish the leader alone.
Pericles’s slaves had supplied refreshments all round and my mouth was dry. I stopped to pick up a cup of watered wine.
“The final proof is in the manner of Romanos’s death. A landlord saw Romanos step outside his private room to run into a party of friends. They hailed him. Perhaps they even called up to him in his room to join them. In either case, Romanos was pleased to see them.
“Right away we know these were not Phrygians. Romanos would have been disconcerted to say the least if his family saw him stepping out of the room he kept hidden from them. There certainly would not have been hugs all round.”
“That seems reasonable,” said Sophocles.
“We also can guess they were waiting for Romanos to appear,” I said. “There were heavy showers that night.” I paused, to let them think about it. Then I went on, “Parties don’t walk the streets when there’s a good chance of getting saturated. That’s when they sit indoors, under cover. The chances are miniscule that a party of acquaintances could accidentally happen upon Romanos, as he leaves his private room, on a night of sudden, heavy rains. No, the odds are overwhelming th
at Romanos had met his murderers.”
“It’s possible,” Aeschylus said.
I said, “The landlord’s wife saw someone pass Romanos a wineskin. That wine was probably drugged.”
“Total speculation,” Theokritos said.
I turned to Theokritos. “Sophocles said it just a few moments ago. The High Priest would sooner die than harm the Great Dionysia. In your mind, it wasn’t an impious act to kill Romanos. The killing was a sacrifice you made to Dionysos, in his own temple, of a man who planned to commit sin against the God.”
Men looked askance at the High Priest. He stood there and said nothing.
No one wanted to think of such a popular man as a murderer, but that he would kill to protect his god, that they could comprehend. I felt the audience suddenly shift my way, and my inner relief was enormous. It was like a battlefield defeat turned to unexpected victory.
I waited. So did everyone else.
Theokritos thought for a very long time. He stood, arms crossed, as he looked to each person present, one after the other. He reserved most of his attention for the senior men who would decide his fate.
After that long time he said, “Very well, it was as Nicolaos says. In every detail. What of it? I killed a metic who by your own evidence was a blackmailer, who was ready to not only commit impiety, but was going to undermine the wine industry at the same time. He even betrayed his own people.” Theokritos paused, then said, “He’s dead. Does anyone care?”
I sucked in my breath. Theokritos had admitted the crime and then dared us to do something about it.
Everyone waited for someone else to speak. The reluctance was palpable.
“We must consider this,” said the Eponymous Archon eventually. “Perhaps we were mistaken in declaring a crime.”
“What?” I was shocked.
“We must consider, young man, what is in the best interests of Athens,” the archon said.
“Who would be the judges, if this went to court?” someone asked.
“We three archons,” said the Polemarch. “Me, the Eponymous Archon, and the Basileus. Normally it would go to one of the six lesser archons who hear trials, but for a high priest who is charged with murder, it could be nothing less than the senior archons, and a jury of not less than five hundred and one members.”
We all knew what that meant. A show trial. When the jury was large the winner was whoever could entertain the jurors the best. Theokritos was an amiable, well-liked man. There was every chance he could walk away.
“We must keep in mind the likely sentence,” the Polemarch said. “For the death of a metic, a citizen could expect exile or an enormous fine. No worse, unless there are aggravating circumstances.”
“But what about the charge of impiety?” I said. “That’s the crime I was commissioned to solve.”
“Who decides whether impiety has been committed against a god?” the Eponymous Archon asked me.
I said, “Normally it would be the senior priest of the relevant temple … oh.” I saw the point. Theokritos need only argue that as the resident expert on what pleased Dionysos, if he said it was all right to slaughter Romanos in the theater, then it was.
“Surely there must be a way around this,” Diotima said.
“There is,” said the Basileus. “I’m the archon in charge of religious affairs. I could determine that impiety has occurred that displeases the Gods.”
“Well?” she demanded.
“There’s a problem with that,” Pericles answered for the Basileus. Pericles had never liked Diotima. “Have you forgotten the thousands of important visitors in Athens this moment? If we put our own high priest for Dionysos on trial on the first day of the Dionysia, in front of the whole world, we will look like complete idiots.”
“Apparently we are,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but we don’t want the rest of the world finding out,” Pericles said. “The Great Dionysia is as important to our diplomacy as any trade negotiation. We can’t put Theokritos on trial. It would be a diplomatic disaster.”
There was a difficult silence.
“He’s right,” someone said from the back of the room.
“Perhaps a significant donation, in lieu of a fine?” Theokritos suggested. “Something equal in size to the sum a court might have levied?”
Heads slowly nodded, albeit reluctantly, but they nodded.
Maia suppressed a sob.
“That would be satisfactory,” said the Eponymous Archon. Then he asked, “Now can we get on with the Dionysia?”
IT HAD ALL been for nothing. We stumbled from Pericles’s house into the street.
Someone put a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see the Polemarch.
“I know how you feel, Nicolaos,” the Polemarch said. “I warned you before, it is very hard to obtain justice for a metic.”
“I understand,” I said. The Polemarch was a good man, trapped by circumstances.
He said, “The fine that Theokritos is paying is the same as a court would have ordered. It comes to the same thing.”
“Yes.” There was no point arguing.
It wasn’t fair. Not only was Theokritos going to get away with it, but when he donated to the temple it would enhance his reputation.
Diotima and I stood forlornly in the street outside Pericles’s house. We were joined by Petros and Maia, Kiron and Lakon.
The Polemarch departed, to be replaced by Aeschylus and Sophocles. Both men looked very unhappy.
“The decision is a bad one,” Aeschylus said at once. He was a stickler for proper behavior. “But, Nico, the word of the archons in this matter is law. I want you to know, you did a good job.”
“I would refuse to proceed,” Sophocles apologized. “Except that honor requires otherwise.”
“Can you go on?” I asked.
“Sisyphus will be a disaster,” Sophocles admitted. “At this stage all that matters is we do our best. Kiron told you how Romanos once carried on when the stage fell in on them. That’s what honor is to an actor.” He turned to Petros. “I can offer you condolences and the place of second actor, if you wish to accept. You will be well compensated from my own funds. It’s the best I can do.”
“I accept,” said Petros.
Aeschylus and Sophocles departed.
The others who had been present passed us by without a word. Theokritos gave me a good long stare, but he said nothing. Petros took a step toward the departing murderer. Kiron, Lakon, and I held him back.
Maia said, “I know my brother was prepared to leave us, but he was still my brother.”
“It is hard,” Kiron said to Maia. “I can make sure the other theater people know what happened but …” He shrugged. “It will mean nothing. Theokritos is a powerful man.”
“If it’s any consolation, this is manifestly unfair,” Lakon said to the Phrygians. “I can say that, and I was one of his victims.”
“Thank you,” Petros said.
“I may not be a good man,” Lakon said. “But I’m not a bad one either.”
I made a decision. It was an idea inspired by something Socrates had said a few days ago.
I said, “Would you be willing to embarrass Theokritos?”
“Yes.”
“All right, this is what we’re going to do.”
I explained my plan to Diotima, to Petros and Kiron, and to a somewhat reluctant Lakon.
When I finished, heads nodded.
“SOCRATES, I HAVE a job for you,” I said. I’d found him at home, reading.
Socrates said, cautiously, “Another? The last one wasn’t much fun, Nico.”
“I think you’ll prefer this one. Do you remember a few days ago, you talked about characters not knowing they’re in a play?”
“Yes?” He looked at me oddly.
“We’re about to do something like that. You understand how the god machine works, don’t you?”
“I think so.”
“I need a machine.” I explained what I wanted.
So
crates said excitedly, “Sure, Nico! I can design that.” Then he looked worried. “But Nico, who’s going to build it?”
“Leave that to me.”
“CAPTAIN KORDAX!”
“Nico! What are you doing here?” I had found him on Salaminia, inevitably. I had the impression Kordax never willingly stepped ashore. The captain was stripped bare but for a loincloth, as he and his men crouched over some detail of his boat. He stood up and wiped his hands.
“Captain, last time we spoke, you said, ‘Give us a harder problem.’ ”
“So I did. Yes?”
“Well, here it is …”
“HELLO, MOTHER.”
“Diotima? What are you doing here?” Euterpe was plainly astonished. Diotima never visited her mother if she could avoid it. But my wife had insisted that this request must come from her and not me.
“Mother,” Diotima said through gritted teeth, “we were wondering if—maybe, don’t feel as if you need to—that you might like to help us with a job we have in mind.” Diotima paused, then added, hopefully, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to—”
“I accept,” Euterpe said without hesitation.
“You haven’t asked what the job is yet,” Diotima pointed out.
“Do I need to? Whatever it is, dear, if you two are involved, it’s bound to be intriguing. I think you should thank me for choosing you such an interesting husband.”
“I chose him.”
“You’re going to love this, Mother-in-Law,” I said, before that could turn into a fight. Then I explained.
I was right. Euterpe loved it.
SCENE 38
DEUS EX MACHINA
IT WAS THE twelfth of Elaphebolion.
The final day of the Great Dionysia had arrived. The people had been assured by the archons that the impiety had been cleansed. Theokritos had stood beside them as they spoke. The hypocrisy had been enough to make me gag, though in truth it would have looked strange if the High Priest of Dionysos had not been present for that announcement.
The Dionysia had proceeded, and it had been as fine as any in recent memory. The choral performances had been well received, and the comedies had everyone laughing and repeating the best jokes.
