Death Ex Machina (33 page)

“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 that 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.

Socrates 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

I
T 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.

The greatest excitement had been the day before, when Aeschylus had put on his final play, the last Aeschylus original that anyone would ever see. The theater had been packed to overflowing and beyond. Aeschylus had outdone himself. The chorus in his play had been made up to look like the Furies, with real snakes writhing in their hair. The effect had been so overwhelming that when the Furies rushed onstage one heavily pregnant young woman in the audience had screamed and gone instantly into labor.

It might have ended in disaster had not my own mother been nearby. Four men carried the woman away, even as Phaenarete tended to the rapidly arriving babe. Phaenarete reported later that night that mother and child were both doing well.

Now on the final day it was the turn of the ill-fated
Sisyphus
, or as I was supposed to call it these days, The Corinthian Play. Many people had turned up for what everyone knew was going to be a disaster. They had probably come to enjoy the wreck.

All about the amphitheater, people shifted on their backsides and tried to pretend that no one could see them doing it. The anticipation of the play wasn’t enough to overcome the discomfort of the cold stone seats or, in the cheaper rows at the back, the temporary wooden benches.

I wished I could have gone to the very back, where the poorest people had to stand. But that would have been unthinkable. This was the Great Dionysia, the greatest arts festival of the greatest city in all the world, and a citizen of Athens has standards to maintain, whether he likes it or not.

So instead I sat on the hard stone bench beside Pythax. I noticed with some surprise that Pythax was developing a paunch. On this festival day he wore a formal chiton dyed in bright reds and greens and blues. I had to assume this was his wife’s idea, because Pythax was a man whose workday clothing was the leather armor of his guards. After work he invariably chose the sort of plain, simple chiton that was favored by the most conservative of citizens.

Yet throughout the Dionysia he had worn colored ribbons hung from his belt, and the bright chiton covered him from neck to ankles and wrist to wrist. A flowery Dionysiac wreath sat askew atop his meaty brow. The overall effect was to make him look like a giant walking flower. The only reason he didn’t appear out of place was that the rest of us looked like walking flowers too.