Death Ex Machina (16 page)

As he walked past me, Pericles said out of the corner of his mouth, “That’s my part done. Now it’s up to you, Nicolaos. Don’t fail us.”

SCENE 20

WRITERS’ CONFERENCE

A
S THE ASSEMBLY broke up Diotima and I went straight to Thodis. This was our chance to find out what he knew. “Thodis? Could we speak to you for a moment?”

Thodis looked at me as if I was some spirit raised from the earth.

He said, “You were at the meeting, but I don’t recognize you.”

That surprised me. Had Thodis paid no attention?

“Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus, and this is my wife,” I said. “I’m the investigator on this case.”

“Then you are the one to blame for all the troubles,” he said.

“I think that would be whoever harmed Phellis and killed Romanos,” Diotima said to him.

Thodis looked at Diotima for a moment, plainly considered not answering her, then said, “But your husband failed to prevent it.”

That was an interesting way of assigning blame, but Thodis was right. I
had
failed to protect his investment.

I said, “I wanted to ask you, sir, what’s your interest in the theater?”

“I’m paying for the play written by Sophocles. I pay for every mask, every prop, every actor.”

“And yet, sir, you never seem to attend the theater. We’ve been there almost constantly for six days, and we haven’t seen you there even once. It seems strange behavior for a man who loves the theater, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“I see.” He considered my words. “I must disillusion you. I have no interest in the theater whatsoever.”

“Then why—”

“Why am I spending such large sums on something I care nothing about?” He flicked away a fly that buzzed about his face. “I was advised by my friends to do so. My father died recently—”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. I found it rather convenient actually. You see, I planned a career in politics, but my father wouldn’t permit it.”

“I know that song,” I muttered.

“You too?” he said sympathetically.

“Let’s say I had a similar problem.”

“Did you have to wait for your father to die?” he asked.

“No, I talked him round.”

“Then you were lucky,” he said sourly. “My father was most unreasonable. He insisted I learn to manage our estates. Then he died. As you see I am a man of middle age, yet only now can I begin my true career.”

“Why begin with a play?” Diotima asked.

“My plan is to become the first man in Athens,” said Thodis modestly. “To that end I have studied the career of Pericles most closely. When Pericles entered public life, the first thing he did was provide a play. He was a choregos.”

That was true. Pericles had funded the play called
The Persians
written by Aeschylus. It was one reason the two were such good friends.

Thodis said, “I reason that if I do what Pericles did, then it follows that I must eventually attain the same position.”

Thodis was fooling himself. He was no Pericles.

“Thus I spent a substantial part of my inheritance on a play to entertain the people. I’m pleased to say that if my father returned from Hades to see what I’m doing, he’d probably have apoplexy and die again.”

I said, “When you said you had no interested in the theater, you really meant it.”

“Yes. My friends advised me that with Aeschylus retiring, Sophocles is the coming man. As Pericles linked his name to Aeschylus, so I should link mine to Sophocles.”

“I see. Then disaster struck. Is this why you’re avoiding the theater?” I asked.

“Yes. I must dissociate myself from the disaster. Don’t take this personally, but I can hardly afford to have my name linked to someone like you.”

“What about the actors in your play?” Diotima asked.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“There’s someone who needs your help: Phellis, the actor whose leg was smashed.”

Diotima explained that Melpon the doctor was demanding payment for his use of the healing machine. “Phellis is an actor, he hasn’t enough money to pay the doctor to save his leg.”

When she was finished, Thodis said, “I will think upon it, and I will take advice from my friends. I must say this is hardly my problem.”

“He was injured working on your play.”

“He was hired for the duration of the play, was he not?”

“Well, yes,” Diotima said.

“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

A
POLLO’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.”