Death Ex Machina

by Gary Corby

  He poured me another cup of wine, then took another for himself, both in generous proportions. I was beginning to understand where Theokritos’s pot belly came from.

  “I wonder that Romanos didn’t ask his own patron to support his relatives,” I said, as I sipped the wine. It was superb.

  “I believe the patron had died,” Theokritos said.

  “I have another request for you, Theokritos,” I said. “Before Romanos was killed there was the actor whose leg was broken. His name is Phellis.”

  “Yes? I hope he’s recovering.”

  “That’s the problem,” I said. I explained the situation, as I had before to Thodis and Pericles.

  When I finished, Theokritos gave me what had become the standard reply. “Surely this is a problem for the play’s choregos,” he said.

  “I put the question to Thodis first,” I said. “He denies any responsibility for the play’s actors.”

  Theokritos scowled. “The more I hear of this Thodis, the less I like him. His part in the conference at Pericles’s home was hardly praiseworthy.”

  I said nothing.

  Theokritos put the tips of his finger together and leaned back in his dining couch. “I suppose it might be argued that the actor was injured in the course of service to the god Dionysos. To that end he might be supported on a temporary basis from temple funds.”

  “That would be most generous, sir,” I said gratefully.

  “But I’m afraid it’s impossible,” he finished.

  “Oh. Why?” I asked. For a moment I’d thought Theokritos would save Phellis.

  “Young man, if the temple supports Phellis, who I agree is more than worthy, then by this time tomorrow every actor in Athens will have stubbed his toe and will be claiming compensation out of the temple’s treasury.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  Theokritos was right. No Athenian in his right mind would pass up the chance for free money.

  “The worship of Dionysos is too important to let this pass,” Theokritos said. “A way must be found.” He paused, then said, “What is the name of this doctor?”

  “Melpon.”

  Theokritos scribbled the name on an ostrakon. “I will speak to him,” he said. “Perhaps something can be arranged. If nothing else I can approach the other winemakers. If everyone contributes then all things become possible.”

  “Would they help?”

  “Wine is the sacred drink of Dionysos. Did you know it’s almost impossible to make wine without sacrificing to the God at every step? It’s in their interests to keep the God happy. There’s an association of vintners. As High Priest of Dionysos I have the honor to be their leader. They love wine and the god of wine as much as I do. If I suggest to my fellow vintners that Phellis was injured in the service of Dionysos I feel sure they will come to the party. It might be as simple as offering this Melpon a few amphorae of wine from each of our vineyards. A treasure in itself.”

  “Thank you, sir. If it’s anything like what we’ve been drinking, he’ll jump at the chance,” I said. “Your excellent wine has washed out the taste of that other drink.”

  “What’s this?” he said.

  I told Theokritos of the strange drink of the Phrygians.

  Theokritos looked as if he’d swallowed something particularly vile.

  “Beer. Revolting stuff. It’ll never catch on in Athens.”

  “They seem to like it in Phrygia,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, well. It’s good enough for barbarians, I dare say.” Theokritos looked put out. “Real men drink wine,” he said.

  I DIDN’T HAVE to walk back home. By the time we had finished talking I’d drunk so much of Theokritos’s wine that I couldn’t have made it. Theokritos insisted I take his personal cart, and a slave to drive it. It was only when we were halfway back, and I’d sobered up sufficiently to notice, that I saw that Theokritos had ordered his slaves to replug the small amphorae from which we’d been drinking and load them on the back. They were his gift to me.

  My head began to pound, as it always did after I’d drunk too much. Every time this happened, I swore I’d never drink again.

  To get my mind off my pounding head, I asked the driver about Theokritos. It’s not normally the done thing to question a slave about his owner, but I wanted to know.

  “The master is a great man,” the slave said without hesitation.

  “From the look of the estate, I thought he might be very demanding,” I said.

  “He is,” the slave agreed. “He demands perfection. But he rewards our diligence. You saw the temple on his lands?”

  “Yes.”

  “Twice every month the master sacrifices at that temple, always the finest lamb. When he does, he insists that we all eat the meat of the sacrifice, even we slaves. Have you ever heard of a master who insists that his slaves eat meat? He says it’s because a well fed slave can work harder, but I think it’s because he’s a humane man. Once I even saw him take a good portion to my daughter, when it was her birthday. He gave it to her with his own hands. He told her it was a birthday gift from the God.”

  “You have a daughter?” I said, amazed. It is rare for a slave to be permitted to have children.

  “I have a wife!” he said proudly. “We have three children.”

  He could not have been happier.

  The cart deposited me at my home, by which time I felt slightly better but no doubt looked the worse for wear.

  Diotima greeted me at the doorstep with news that I really didn’t want to hear.

  “You have a message from Pericles,” she said. “He wants to see you.”

  She frowned at me, at the cart, and at the wine amphorae that the slave gently deposited on the ground beside the door. He gave me a friendly wave and drove off home to his family.

  I knew Diotima wasn’t pleased at the state I was in, but she said nothing, but for a single suggestion. “Perhaps you might like to get rid of the stale wine smell before you go?”

  “DO YOU KNOW what date it is today?” Pericles asked, the moment I arrived at his house.

  “It’s the ninth of Elaphebolion,” I said instantly. He hadn’t offered me a drink, but if he had, I would have declined.

  Pericles said angrily, “If you don’t get a move on, it’s going to be the ninth of Elaphebolion for the rest of our lives.”

  “I’m doing my best,” I told him. “These things take time.”

  “Has it occurred to you, Nicolaos, that you don’t have to find the actual murderer of Romanos?”

  “What?” I said. No such thing had occurred to me at all. “I don’t understand, Pericles.”

  “It’s simple. We need a solution. If this death had happened anywhere else, no one would care. But it happened in the Theater of Dionysos. The purpose of your investigation is to clear the theater of the miasma of desecration. The only reason we have this problem is the ritual pollution.”

  “The theater is considered a temple to Dionysos,” I said. “Therefore any crime committed within is desecration. Yes, Pericles, I know this.”

  “Just as your original assignment was to purge the theater of a ghost—even though we all knew perfectly well you would do no such thing—so your assignment now is to purge the theater of the taint of murder.”

  “Which we do by finding the murderer,” I said.

  “Except that it isn’t necessary to find the killer in order to clear the theater,” Pericles said smoothly. “We must consider the practicalities here, Nicolaos. If the Great Dionysia can’t proceed it will be a disaster for Athens.”

  “What are you suggesting here, Pericles?” I said.

  “Only that to earn your commission you need merely follow the forms to demonstrate good faith in finding a criminal. Any criminal will do.”

  “Do you have someone in mind?” I asked him.

  “If you feel that a death is necessary to expurgate the miasma, then another metic would be your best choice,” Pericles said. “What about one of the Phrygians?” he
suggested.

  “But I don’t know that they did it!”

  “Is that a problem?” Pericles asked. “The Polemarch himself has told you that if the killer is a citizen, then the penalty for murdering a metic would be a fine, or at most exile for a few years.”

  “There’s also the charge of impiety,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, that would certainly lead to a death sentence,” Pericles conceded.

  I must have displayed my horror, because Pericles said, “Listen, Nico, we must consider which is the greater disaster for Athens: a failed festival, with all its international repercussions, or the death of one man who wasn’t even a citizen. The good of Athens may demand a curtailed investigation. I think you can see that.”

  The problem was, I did see that.

  But I also saw that I couldn’t abandon the victim. For if Pericles, and Lysanias, and Sophocles, and everyone else was right when they said that our plays were as important to Athens as a diplomatic mission, then Romanos had died in the service of Athens as surely as any soldier who fell in battle.

  I couldn’t not find justice for Romanos, even if he had been a conniving blackmailer.

  And as for framing another metic, because it was convenient …

  “I can’t do that, Pericles.”

  “Then you had better bring me a better solution. Quickly. The public feast is set for two days hence. I want this fixed by then.”

  SCENE 33

  THE STRANGE TENANT

  I RETURNED HOME WANTING to rant to my wife about my difficult boss. Instead I walked in to find my mother-in-law paying a social call.

  Diotima and her mother, Euterpe, lay on dining couches in the courtyard. From the various empty small food bowls dotted about, I deduced the visit had been going for some time. My own mother, Phaenarete, had absented herself. The house slave told me as I entered that she had been called away on an urgent delivery, by which he meant a baby. Whether this was strictly true I didn’t know. Phaenarete and Euterpe rarely got on, though they had worked at opposite ends of the same business.

  My father, unsurprisingly, was shut away in his workshop. It was his natural place, but in any case it would never occur to him to entertain visiting ladies.

  That left me to join the ladies and be polite, when what I really wanted to do was shout in frustration. Luckily it seemed the visit was nearing an end. Euterpe had come to hear the latest on the investigation.

  “All of Athens is talking about it,” she told me excitedly. I took this to mean she was talking about it.

  As I sat, Diotima was winding down from a minor tirade that women were not permitted to act.

  “I know what you mean, dear,” Euterpe said. “I’m sure you would have made a fine actress. I myself was excellent.”

  “But you don’t know how to act,” Diotima said to her mother. “You’ve never acted in your life.”

  Euterpe looked at her daughter in some surprise. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear. A courtesan has to please her clients, does she not? Well let me tell you, if there’s anything that a woman of my former profession is an expert at, it’s making a man feel he’s special, even when he isn’t. Also that he has the biggest dong since Heracles. Every man thinks he’s hung like Heracles. You wouldn’t believe how much acting ability that requires with the average man.”

  Diotima stared at her mother openmouthed in shock.

  Euterpe didn’t seem to notice. She added enthusiastically, “I’m especially good at faking orgasms. Would you like to see one?”

  “Thanks anyway, Mother.”

  Euterpe shrugged. “The fact is, my daughter, if it’s ability to fool men that you’re looking for, then I’m one of the best actresses in Athens.”

  As Euterpe stood to depart, she added, almost absent-mindedly, “Not that there’s any need to, now that I’m married to your new father.”

  “Of course not, Mother,” Diotima agreed primly, as she escorted her mother to the door. “You and Pythax have married for love.”

  Euterpe looked surprised for a moment, then said, “Why, that’s so, dear, but it helps that when it comes to sex, there isn’t much to choose between your new father and Heracles.”

  I heard the door open and shut, and Euterpe’s departing merry laughter.

  THAT NIGHT, AFTER dinner, Diotima read the manuscript that Euripides had given us. I don’t think she intended to, but she always read everything within reach, and she did it out of habit.

  When she was finished she put down the scroll and said, “I hate to have to say it, but his writing is very good.”

  “You mean that dysfunctional little creep really can write?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Diotima said. She rolled the scroll backward from the end. She looked down at the words printed there in Euripides’s crabbed hand. “His stories are great, his characters are fantastic, his phrases are …” She groped for the right word. “Divine.” She frowned. “But there’s something odd. In every story, he progresses the plot very well. The tension builds. I was desperate to find out what would happen next, and then, every time, right before the climax, a god descends from the machine and wraps up everything. It leaves you dissatisfied with the story.” Diotima looked up at me. “It’s like he doesn’t care how his story ends.”

  I shrugged. “If he thinks a god from the machine is going to solve the problems of we mortals, then more fool him.”

  Diotima said, “Do you think he’s involved, Nico?”

  “He’s weird enough,” I said. “But a killer? I don’t know. Not many killers write plays.”

  Diotima put down the scroll. She hesitated, then said, “Nico, I’ve been thinking.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve caught Romanos out on one fabrication already, or we think we have,” she said.

  I nodded. “Romanos didn’t recommend one of his own family for the third actor role, and then didn’t tell them what he’d done. It might not technically be a lie, but I follow you.”

  Diotima looked unhappy and said, “Plus he was a blackmailer.”

  “It doesn’t exactly instill sympathy for our victim,” I agreed.

  Diotima said, “I wonder, is there anything else Romanos might have lied about?”

  “Do you have something in mind?” I asked. I took her idea seriously, but I had nothing to suggest.

  She gave an uncertain shrug, which was unlike her. “I’ve been thinking over everything I ever heard him say,” she said.

  Knowing Diotima’s memory, she could probably quote his every conversation verbatim.

  She went on, “It’s only an idea, but that night, when we three sheltered from the rain …”

  She hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “Romanos said he was on his way home.”

  “He probably was.”

  “Yes, Nico, but Melite is almost due west of the Theater of Dionysos. We met him in the agora, which is almost due north.”

  Romanos had lied. Diotima was right.

  Diotima hammered home the point. “He can’t have gone to the agora to shop on his way home,” she said. “It was late at night.”

  “Right.”

  “And he can’t have been out for a pleasant stroll on the way. It was pouring rain. He would want to take the fastest route.”

  “What a silly, trivial thing to lie about,” I said.

  Diotima nodded. “All he had to say was that he was on his way to a party, or to visit a friend, and we would have been none the wiser.”

  I said, “Keep in mind that at that stage, we didn’t know where he lived, and had no reason to care.”

  “I thought so too. So maybe he wasn’t lying.”

  “What?” I said, perplexed. “You just proved to me that he did.”

  “It’s what you said a moment ago, Nico. A lie for no reason makes no sense. Maybe he really was on his way home, but not to Melite.”

  Diotima’s idea hit me then. Perhaps Romanos had a second home. One that his family didn�
�t know about.

  “This is a lot to build on one small slip of the tongue,” I cautioned her.

  “Yes, I know. That’s why I was hesitant to mention it, but …” she trailed off.

  I finished it for her. “Either Romanos lied for no reason, or he told the truth and has a second home. You’re right, Diotima. I just don’t know how to prove it.”

  “We’ll have to look for a house.”

  “How? They don’t normally come with names inscribed in the walls.”

  Something else occurred to me. “The Polemarch told me that metics aren’t allowed to own houses in Athens.”

  Diotima nodded. “That’s true. In the days before she married Pythax, my mother had to have my birth father keep our home in his name.”

  “We’re looking for a rental home then.”

  That turned the task from impossible into merely very difficult.

  “It can’t be too far away,” Diotima said. “Romanos was running through the rain to get home.”

  “It can’t be outside the city walls!” I said in sudden revelation. “When we saw him, the gates had already been shut for the night.”

  “We know it’s north of the agora, because that’s the direction he was headed,” Diotima added.

  What had seemed impossible suddenly looked doable.

  “Anything else?” Diotima asked.

  “The city is full to overflowing with visitors,” I said.

  “So?”

  “I wonder if the landlord knows that his tenant is dead?” I said. “If he does, he’ll be the only man in Athens with a room to rent. He could make a killing.”

  IT TOOK A day of door-knocking, but we found the place by pretending to be visitors to Athens for the Dionysia. We were directed from house to house, at each one asking if there was a room that might be available, even if a local currently rented it.

  Romanos had rented a room in the upper storey of a house owned by a man who needed some extra cash. When we told him that his tenant was dead, his shoulders slumped.