Gary Corby - Death Ex Machina

“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.

Apollo’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.”

“How would we ever find out?” Diotima asked. “They’re metics,” she added, forgetting that she too had been a metic, though she’d lived her entire life in Athens. “Foreigners to the city aren’t about to open up to us.”

“We’ll have to think of something,” I said. “Who else?”

“A crazy person,” Diotima said.

“We can’t go back to that theory,” I complained.

“But it’s consistent with what happened,” Diotima argued. “Remember, there’s been not only the murder of Romanos but all the disasters during rehearsals, and they weren’t directed at the murder victim.”

“There was the broom he tripped over,” I pointed out.

Diotima snorted contemptuously. “That hardly rates with Phellis’s leg, or with Lakon almost falling off the balcony.”

“The broom was the first attempt, though, if what we’re told is true,” I said. “It makes sense it would be the mildest attack.”

“Like an escalation of hostilities?” Diotima said.

“Right. Each failed attempt to stop the play resulted in a stronger attack.”

“The only problem is, I don’t believe it. You still haven’t answered why anyone would want to stop the most popular festival in Athens.”

“Which brings us back to the crazy person,” I groaned.

“Yes,” said Diotima happily. “I like that theory.”

“Maybe there’s someone else with a motive we don’t know about?” I said. “I can’t get past the fact that there are three different victims. The actor, the play, and the man.”

There were so many unanswered questions, it was hard to know where to start.

Socrates had listened with close attention as Diotima and I discussed the different theories we might follow. (I had allowed him out of the records room for sleep and occasional meals.)

Now Socrates said, “Nico, I’ve been thinking … the machine behind the stage, it lifts a man. With the lever, men can move something that they couldn’t lift on their own.”

“Yes. So?” I said impatiently.

“How did Romanos get into the air?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “The killer used the crane, of course.”

Socrates said, “Then the killer must have put the noose around Romanos’s neck, then walked backstage to work the machine?”

“Yes.”

“What was Romanos doing while his murderer went backstage to kill him?” Socrates asked.

“Er …” I didn’t have a good answer for that one. He would hardly have waited politely.

Diotima said, “Socrates has a point. Romanos must have been unconscious. Or perhaps he was already dead?”

“The body looked like a hanged man,” I said. “Blue face, tongue poking out.”

“Nico, you said the guards were drugged,” Socrates pointed out.

“They were. You think Romanos was drugged too? Maybe.” I didn’t like the way Socrates was finding answers that I hadn’t thought of.

“Maybe I can think of something else to help?” Socrates offered enthusiastically. He was obviously trying to avoid going back to the records room.

“Go inspect that machine again,” I said, to get him out of the way. No one was using it, and he could hardly do any damage. “But once you’re done, it’s back to the records.”

“Where will you be?” Socrates asked.

“Interviewing a suspect,” I said.

“Have you given thought to selling the other house?” my father asked abruptly.

That brought me down to earth.