Death Ex Machina (32 page)

I added, “One insane killer was believable, but no one could credit a whole group of them.”

Everyone nodded in agreement. Athens had its fair share of crazy people, but that would be stretching it even for us.

“This took us back to the first motive,” I said. “That Romanos had been killed because of his work as an actor. Here we had more luck. We discovered that Romanos the actor was prepared to do anything to claw his way to the top of his profession. Romanos was blackmailing Lakon.”

“Here now!” Lakon objected. “Surely we don’t need to go into that.”

“But I’m intrigued,” said the Basileus. He was obviously a gossip. “What did Romanos have against Lakon?”

Lakon looked into my eyes, imploringly.

“It was a … er … personal peccadillo,” I said. “One that might reflect on the first actor’s popularity with theatergoers.” It was technically true, while at the same time being a complete lie. Yet Lakon didn’t deserve to have his life destroyed.

Every man in the room contemplated Lakon with varying expressions of interest and intrigue. I could almost see the speculation running riot in their heads.

To quell it I said, “Gentlemen, we all have one or two little peccadilloes in our past, do we not? Ones that we’d rather our friends and acquaintances didn’t know about?”

Every man present older than thirty nodded.

I said, “Imagine how much harder such things must be for an actor, who relies on his good name for work.”

“Then it should be Lakon who murdered Romanos,” Sophocles said.

Lakon turned bright red with anger.

“This is a lie!” he shouted.

I shook my head.

“Your idea is very natural, Sophocles,” I said. “But there’s an objection to Lakon killing Romanos: why would he choose the moment that did himself the greatest possible harm? Lakon would have been better off waiting until after the Dionysia was over. Lakon himself pointed this out, and he was right.”

“Sometimes men act too soon,” Aeschylus said. “Or they act against their own interests. We all know the old saying, whom the Gods would destroy, they first cloud their minds and muddy their senses, so that their mistakes betray them.”

I said, “Aeschylus is correct that Lakon
might
have decided to murder Romanos. But we know that he didn’t, because of the evidence of the theater fan, the rather intense fellow I mentioned before. I can produce him for court. He was there that night. He saw a group kill Romanos, not a single actor. What group could that possibly be?”

There were expressions of bewilderment among my audience.

I said, “That brings us to the final version of Romanos: the private man. The most obvious candidate for a group of killers was the family of Romanos: the Phrygians.”

Everyone turned to stare at Petros and Maia, who stood side by side in a corner of the courtyard. They glanced at each other in open-mouthed surprise, then they said as one, “That’s not true!” Maia added, “I loved my brother.”

I ignored that and said to the assembly, “The Phrygians would certainly be convenient. Metics never get a fair trial, do they?”

“But what of a motive?” asked the Polemarch, whose job was to manage the affairs of metics. He was also a fair-minded man.

“The Phrygians are followers of Sabazios, who is a rival god to Dionysos,” I told them. “Maia and Petros and the other Phrygians had long been planning to hijack the Dionysia to promote their own faith … and their own drink.” I paused, then added, “We all know what that led to.”

There were growls of unhappiness from around the room, particularly from Pericles, whose party it was that had been destroyed.

I said, “Of course Romanos must have known of his family’s plan to spread the word of Sabazios by distributing beer. But the same grasping ambition that caused him to blackmail Lakon then surfaced against his own sister. Romanos decided to make beer and sell it, like we do wine.”

“What’s this?” Petros and Maia exclaimed.

I had no choice but to tell Maia of her brother’s plan to turn beer into a money-making venture. She didn’t believe me until I produced his notes, and told her of the hideaway he kept secret. I finished by saying, as gently as I could, “No doubt he did it to promote his own interests to become a citizen.”

Maia was visibly shaken.

“Then the case is simple,” said the Eponymous Archon. “The Phrygians, having learned that one of their number was set to betray them, killed the man before he could do so. Nothing could be simpler.” The city’s highest official spoke with obvious relief. “Any jury would convict them on that evidence.”

“Yes, sir, but the jury would be wrong,” I said. “The Phrygians had no idea what Romanos was planning. You need only
look at Maia and Petros here to see how surprised and devastated they are by this news.”

“That’s not evidence,” the archon scoffed. “They could be acting.”

“They could be,” I agreed. “But it’s definitely evidence that the Phrygians invited my wife and me to attend their … er … religious observances.”

“So they’re a religious people,” said the Basileus.

“You could say that, sir,” I said with feeling. “The point is they made no attempt to hide their beer. If you had killed a man for such a reason, you would hide your motive, would you not? The fact that they went ahead and gave away the beer at the festival shows that they didn’t think they had anything to hide.”

“Who else, then?” the Basileus challenged.

I said, “Theokritos the High Priest of Dionysos is a popular man. The workers at his vineyards would do anything for him.”

I paused, then added. “Theokritos also leads the association of vintners.”

“Surely you are not about to accuse all of our winemakers!” the Eponymous Archon said.

Athens would still need her winemakers after this was over. I said, “I merely point out the economic motive, sir. Theokritos himself was moved by his religious devotion. Anyone who’s spoken to him can tell you he is devoted to Dionysos.”

“That’s fairly normal for a high priest, don’t you think?” the Eponymous Archon said sarcastically.

“Yes, sir. But the point is Theokritos had a ready-made group of followers, if he chose to use it.” I quickly drew breath before he could argue again and carried on. “Then there is Thodis, the choregos, who also has a group: the friends who advised him to get into the theatrical business.”

Thodis scowled angrily but remained silent. No doubt he would speak after he’d taken advice from his friends.

“What of Lakon?” Aeschylus asked.

I said, “Lakon
might
have been able to persuade his fellow actors to join him in revenge on Romanos, particularly if they knew it had been Romanos who was sabotaging them. The family of Phellis might happily have joined in.”

That completed the list of possible murderous conspiracies. Everybody whom I’d mentioned was glaring at me.

“Which of these groups, then?” I asked. “Or more to the point, which of their leaders? Theokritos, Thodis, Petros, or Lakon?

“None of them make any sense,” Sophocles said. “You forget, Nicolaos, that my play was sabotaged right from the start. Thodis would not wish to destroy the play; he paid for it! Lakon would not damage his biggest role. The High Priest of Dionysos would sooner die than harm the Great Dionysia, and I dare say the metics desperately needed the income Romanos brought in.”

“Yes, that confused me too, sir,” I said. “But there was another possibility: Romanos himself. Romanos yearned above all else to become a citizen of Athens. We know this because he said so, to Diotima and me, under a rain-soaked stoa. He questioned Diotima closely as to how her father Pythax had achieved his citizenship.”

“Through his vast merit,” Aeschylus said. “I know Pythax and I would be proud to stand beside him in the line as a fellow citizen.”

“I said the same thing,” I said ruefully. “I didn’t know then that Romanos had already reached the same conclusion. How many men are gifted with an opportunity to display their talents in the way that makes a whole city admire them? It’s not a question of merit, it’s a question of a crisis occurring that brings you to the fore, or being in the right place at the right time.”

“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.