Gary Corby - Death Ex Machina

“I see.”

“Some years ago, I was approached by one of the actors-Romanos, in fact, the one who died. He told me his family wanted to come to Athens. They would need a patron. He asked would I oblige.”

“So you did,” I said.

“I asked a lot of questions first! I needed to know that they were not wanted criminals, that they were people of good character, that I would not regret my generosity in becoming their patron.”

“Of course.”

“I also reserved the right to withdraw after I’d interviewed them. As it happened, they seemed fine people and I was happy to lend my support. I haven’t had cause to regret it. No one’s complained to me about the Phrygians.”

“You’re on good terms with them then,” I said.

“I haven’t spoken to them since,” Theokritos said.

“You haven’t?”

“There’s no reason why I should,” he said. “Sponsorship isn’t a sign of friendship, young man. It merely means that a responsible member of the community has checked out the applicants and found them worthy of a place in Athenian society.”

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.”