Death Ex Machina

by Gary Corby

  The old actor said, “I was having dinner with Romanos one night. We were friends, you see. We had toured together. After my wife died he made a point of visiting me often. I appreciated that. After he won the part in Sisyphus he was very excited. He said he felt this was his big chance.”

  I nodded. “It was. But then it all went horribly wrong. How did he come to ask you to learn his part?”

  “One night, after rehearsals had begun, he suddenly asked me. When I asked why, he said it was in case anything happened to him.”

  “He used those exact words?”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t you ask what he meant?”

  “Obviously I pressed him about it. It sounded to me like he had an enemy he feared.”

  “Did he say whom?” Diotima asked.

  “No, and when I pressed him he simply shrugged.”

  It occurred to me that old, out-of-work actors probably didn’t eat well. I went back to the hole in the wall, and returned with a bowl of lentils and bread. It was the only food the woman behind the counter offered, served from a pot that rested on hot stones.

  Kebris accepted the bowl as his due. As he ate, he said, “There’s another reason one actor might ask another to pick up his part. If he knows he’ll be taking on another role soon.”

  “He’d only just got this one,” I pointed out.

  “You are right.”

  “Could Romanos have been planning to supplant Phellis?” Diotima asked.

  Kebris smiled. “Actors do connive against each other. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen in my years,” he said. “But I cannot think it of my friend. Besides, it is the choregos and the writer together who select a replacement.” He shook his head. “Not the outgoing actor.”

  “But Lakon recommended Romanos for the second’s role,” Diotima said. “He was quite forceful about it.”

  “Then Romanos suggested me,” Kebris added. “Or so I’m told. I’ll always be in his debt for that. To finish my career in a Great Dionysia is more than I ever hoped for.”

  “Is there any other reason an actor might pass on his part?” Diotima asked Kebris.

  He looked slightly uncomfortable and said, “Well, if an actor’s planning to skip town and he has a conscience, then he makes sure there’ll be someone to replace him.”

  Kebris finished the last of his wine. “But I’m sure that can’t be the case with Romanos.”

  “No,” I said politely.

  “It can only be what I thought at first. That my friend expected an attack. Or perhaps he was more superstitious than I realized, and that he feared the ghost.”

  As we left the grounds, Diotima frowned. “We have so little to work with, yet in a way we have too much. We know that someone was sabotaging Sophocles’s play. We don’t have a shred of evidence as to who it might be.”

  “Right.”

  “We know that Romanos was worried about something.”

  “Yes.”

  “We know that ended with Phellis taking a bad fall.”

  “That’s presuming whoever booby trapped the machine on Phellis pulled the other tricks.”

  “It does seem logical, doesn’t it? That might have been enough to halt the plays, except that Romanos worked like a slave to make the second actor’s role his own and to train the replacement third actor. It looked like the Great Dionysia was back on.”

  “And then Romanos died,” I said. “There’s a lot to do. Where do we go next?”

  She said, “Someone else lied to us, too. Lakon. Let’s go find out why.”

  SCENE 23

  THE PROTAGONIST

  LAKON LIVED IN one of the fashionable streets north of the agora. His home was a narrow fronted building adjoined to the neighboring homes. The street in front was swept clean, which must have been the work of his slaves. Where some people placed a bust of Hermes outside their door, to wish good luck to travelers, Lakon had placed a bust of Dionysos.

  We knocked on the door and were admitted by a polite house slave of older years. He took one look at Diotima and led us straight to the courtyard and brought us wine without even asking. Had I been alone, I would have been taken to the andron at the front of the house, but with a lady present the inner courtyard was the correct place for visitors. Lakon’s slaves knew their manners.

  The dining couches on which we sat were old and probably cheap, but well cared for, and there weren’t any stains that I could see on the cushions. Vines had been trained up the columns that surrounded the open yard. The paved areas were swept. There weren’t any cobwebs in the corners.

  Lakon was a man who cared about appearances. I was willing to bet there were no mice in his roof.

  Lakon joined us after a respectable time had passed. He was wearing a large blousy chiton of soft fabric, with no belt to tie it in. It was the sort of thing a man might wear in the comfort of his own home: man shaped, but on the verge of effeminacy.

  Lakon greeted us with politeness and a raised eyebrow. “Welcome though you are, I confess I wasn’t expecting you,” he said.

  I said, “We were at the funeral of Romanos and we thought of you. In fact, we wondered why you weren’t also there.”

  Lakon waved his arm in that airy manner of his. “As I told you, we weren’t that close.”

  I said, “We’ve come across some information that appears to be a—how shall I put this?—a paradox.”

  “Yes?” He waited. There was no concern in his voice.

  I said, “We understand that you dined with Thodis, the choregos of your play.”

  “So I did,” Lakon said. “Perhaps even more than once. Is that a crime? Perhaps you should bring me before the courts. Though come to that, isn’t it punishment enough that I’ve had to eat his ill-prepared feasts and endure whole evenings of his tedious conversation?”

  “I was under the impression you enjoyed his company,” I said. “Thodis says so.”

  Lakon laughed.

  “Not that cultureless oaf. It was all I could do to prevent myself from falling comatose in the middle of his dreary conversation.”

  “Then why—”

  “Why did I flatter such a contemptuous man?” Lakon said. “It’s simple. I’m an actor. Actors are entirely dependent for their parts on men with no taste but lots of money.” Lakon leaned forward in his chair, the better to make his point. He seemed genuinely absorbed in the subject.

  “You see, all plays—all of them, every single one—are funded by wealthy men. Most of these men have no idea about theater. Some know just enough to sound knowledgeable before their friends, and some, a mere handful, really do understand our art. Your friend Pericles is among the truly cognoscente, by the way.”

  Of course he was, I thought sourly. Was there any subject on which Pericles wasn’t an expert?

  “But all of these rich men,” Lakon went on, “every one of them thinks they can run a play better than the experts. Every one of them thinks they can write better than the writers and act better than the actors. They’re used to running large estates, you see. They tell their workers what to do, and the workers do it, and by next summer there’s a harvest. The rich think the theater works the same way. They think they need merely order ‘write a successful play’ and a successful play will be written to order.”

  Lakon was passionately involved in his art, that was clear. He spoke quickly. I felt for the first time I was hearing his honest voice, and not a façade.

  Lakon said, “In particular, every choregos thinks he can cast better than the writer.” He smiled. “Well, that’s hardly a surprise, is it? Everyone thinks they can cast better than the writer.”

  I nodded, and so did Diotima.

  Lakon saw that we followed his argument. He went on, “Writers must satisfy their choregos if they wish their works to be seen by an audience. So when a wealthy choregos suggests to a writer that Lakon would be the ideal protagonist for his play, the writer will simply agree, and hire me. Hence, I make myself agreeable to ev
ery man who might conceivably become a choregos.”

  “Isn’t that cheating?” Diotima said.

  “Young lady, I am telling you the deepest secret of the theatrical business,” Lakon said. “One toadies to the men with the money, and from that small beginning, all things follow.”

  “But what if there’s a better, more deserving actor?” Diotima asked.

  “What does it mean to be more deserving?” Lakon waved his arm with a nonchalant air. “Be assured that if I was too bad, the writer would protest. I don’t have to be the best actor,” Lakon said. “I merely need to be good enough that the writer doesn’t find me objectionable.” He paused, to drink deep from his wine cup. Then he continued. “As it happens, I work very hard at my art. I love it. I flatter myself that I really am one of the best in Athens … not that that means anything when it comes to casting; I just explained to you why influence beats talent any day. I shall point out, too, that the typical audience member neither knows nor cares who is behind the mask.”

  “Surely that can’t be true, Lakon,” Diotima said. “Don’t they respect you for your art?”

  “How many actors do you see each day at the agora?” Lakon shot back.

  “Why, I don’t see any,” Diotima said, puzzled.

  “My dear lady, that is utter tosh,” Lakon chided my wife. “You’ve seen many actors without their masks. You go to the agora to socialize, don’t you? So do actors. Once we have our street clothes on, we are as other men. You pass us in the street and you never know it.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said. “Without the mask, you are … er …”

  “Nothing?” Lakon suggested with a gentle smile.

  “An everyday person, just like the rest of us,” Diotima corrected.

  I said, “If I could ask a personal question, don’t you find all this demeaning? Isn’t it hard to ingratiate yourself to lesser men?”

  Lakon nodded. “Yes, but if I want to reach the top of my field, I hardly have a choice, do I? Fortunately, I used to play comedy before I turned my talents to tragedy. I had no trouble amusing the boors that Thodis invited to his symposia. I steal mercilessly from the great comedies: an amusing anecdote, a little bit of business, some subtle flattery, and before you know it I have a roomful of wealthy men who think that Lakon the actor is a fine fellow. As to my feelings on the subject, I merely pretend I am in a play.”

  I said, “Thodis seemed less taken with Sophocles.”

  “Sophocles is a man of integrity.” Lakon shook his head in dismay. “That trait will get him nowhere if he’s not careful.”

  “What about Romanos?” I asked.

  “I’d rather not talk about him.”

  “We’d rather you did. Our information is that Romanos attended at least one of the symposia with you.”

  Lakon assumed exactly the same pose that actors do on stage when their character is thinking deeply. “Now that you mention it, I believe I did see him there. Perhaps he was following the same ploy as me.”

  “Our information is that you brought Romanos along as your guest,” Diotima said.

  “Who told you that?” he said with annoyance. “No, wait, I don’t have to guess. It was that idiot Thodis, wasn’t it?”

  We sat silent.

  Lakon sighed. “Well, he didn’t know any better.”

  “So you admit you lied. Tell me, Lakon, how did Romanos die?” Diotima asked.

  Lakon looked at her oddly. “I think we may conclude,” he said carefully, “that someone didn’t like him very much.”

  “Would that include you?”

  “Certainly it would. But if you want to blame someone for his death, you are looking at the wrong man.”

  I said, “Under the circumstances, you would have to prove that.”

  “Then consider this. Even if I had a motive, I would have to be insane to kill Romanos right now. This is the biggest moment of my career. I am protagonist for Sophocles! If I was planning to kill Romanos, I would wait until after the play.” His logic was excellent.

  Lakon added, “And I certainly would not have sabotaged this play. From my point of view that’s just as bad as the murder.” He paused, then added, “I’m assuming the saboteur is the same man who killed Romanos.”

  “It seems logical,” I admitted.

  “There you are, then. It can’t be me.”

  I said, “The problem is, Lakon, that you’re caught out in a lie. You told us that you never socialized with metics. You told us point blank that you didn’t know Romanos outside the theater.”

  “Compared to all the disasters that have occurred, it’s not a very big lie, is it?” Lakon said.

  “It’s big enough. The fact is, you said you barely knew him, and now it seems you go to parties together.”

  “Who cares?”

  “The jury will care.”

  He looked alarmed. “What jury?”

  “Lakon, have you any idea how easy it is to be convicted of murder in this city?” I said. “I myself was once falsely convicted on evidence much weaker than we have against you.”

  “You were?” Lakon said, surprised. “How did you survive?”

  “With enormous difficulty,” I said grimly. “And a lot of luck.”

  “Nicolaos speaks the truth,” Diotima spoke up. “Think about it, Lakon. You and the victim were rival actors. It’s not exactly a profession noted for its easy relationships, is it? Romanos died in a place you know intimately. He died on a machine that only actors know how to use. And of all the suspects, you’re the only one caught out in a lie. What lie did you tell? That you didn’t know the victim outside the theater.” Diotima let him think about that for a moment. “Any normal, suspicious jury will assume you lied to distance yourself from the crime,” she said.

  Lakon surely knew, and so did we, that Athenians plotted as easily as they breathed. Of course they would magnify his small lie into something more sinister.

  “Not everyone would believe you,” he said weakly.

  “Not everyone has to,” Diotima said. “We only need a majority of jurors. Enough of them would go our way.” She added mercilessly, “If we gave this brief to Pericles, by the time he finished prosecuting you, there’d be only one performance left for you, Lakon: chained to a stake and waiting to be stoned.”

  “Pericles?” Lakon said, openly aghast. Pericles had never, ever lost a court case.

  “He’s the one who commissioned me,” I said. “He’s the one who’ll prosecute.”

  Lakon was doomed, and he knew it. He stood up, paced back and forth, holding his head in despair. Diotima and I remained silent while he built up his angst. Before long, Lakon began to tear at his hair.

  Then he turned to us abruptly. “I didn’t want to tell you this,” he said. “I truly didn’t.” He appeared deeply distraught, but with Lakon you never knew if it was acting or genuine emotion.

  “Tell us what?” Diotima said.

  “That Romanos was blackmailing me.”

  SCENE 24

  FRIENDS MAKE THE WORST ENEMIES

  “IT’S TRUE, I did take him with me as a companion to parties.”

  Now that the truth was out, Lakon had settled down. He called for more wine, drank off his first and second cups in about three gulps, then held out his cup for a third. This he clutched in both hands sitting far forward

  “But I only took him to the parties of influential men,” he added quickly. “Never to meet my friends. I would never be so cruel to my friends.”

  “Was Romanos blackmailing you for money?”

  “No, for influence.” Lakon sighed. “I recommended Romanos for third actor in the play. I suppose Sophocles told you that already.”

  We nodded.

  “It was part of the hold he had over me. I found it impossible to disengage myself from him. Every success I had, every major part I landed, there was Romanos insisting that I recommend him for a role.”

  “So you recommended him for tritagonist,” Diotima said.

  “He
insisted on deuteragonist!” Lakon said.

  “What happened?”

  “Sophocles wouldn’t have it. He already had Phellis earmarked for second actor. I didn’t dare insist too strongly. As it was, Sophocles looked at me a little oddly when I pressed the case for Romanos. It’s not normal, you see, for an actor to take an active interest in casting a rival.”

  “How did Romanos take that news?”

  “He was angry. I pointed out that I had done everything he had asked. I could not be blamed for failure. He threatened me with exposure anyway.”

  “That’s why you pressed again, after Phellis was injured,” Diotima said.

  “Yes. Romanos gave me a look, as you carried away Phellis. I knew what he expected of me.” Lakon knocked back the last of his third cup of wine. The slave who stood behind him filled the cup for the fourth time. At the rate he was going, Lakon would be drunk before the interview ended.

  I said, “Did Romanos tell you in advance that he wanted you to recommend him that second time?”

  “I resent that!” Lakon said at once in instant and unmistakable anger. He sat up straighter. “I had no knowledge that Phellis would fall. I had nothing to do with it. What’s more, I don’t think Romanos did either.”

  “Oh?”

  “If I had any evidence that Romanos arranged that accident, don’t you think I would have exposed him at once? It would have solved all my problems.”

  It would indeed. It occurred to me though, by the same logic, that Lakon had the perfect reason to kill Romanos.

  “Besides which,” Lakon added, almost as an afterthought, “I would never hurt a fellow actor.”

  “What did Romanos have over you?”

  “My dear fellow, you hardly expect me to tell you that. We all have peccadilloes in our past.”

  “Your peccadillo is one we’ll be hearing about.”

  “No you won’t.” He said it with surprising firmness. “Even if it means my death, you’ll not hear it from my lips.”

  I could hear the genuine emotion in his voice, and this time, for a change, I had a feeling that Lakon wasn’t acting.