Gary Corby - Death Ex Machina

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.

“I needed that money,” he said. “I got kids and not enough work.”

“You can rent it to the Dionysia crowd,” I said. “There are hundreds of people camped outside the walls, maybe thousands. I’ll bet there’s a family out there that would pay you plenty.”

He brightened. “Say, that’s a good idea. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Do you mind if we take a look at the room?”

“No way,” he said at once.

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s not your room for a start.”

“We only want to look at the things Romanos kept there,” Diotima said.

“His things don’t belong to you either,” he pointed out.

Of all the landlords in Athens, Romanos had to rent a room from the only honest one. Remembering the landlord’s comment about needing money, I said, “What if we were to buy those things from you?”

That put a different complexion on it. I could see the thoughts running through the landlord’s mind. I decided to help him out.

I said, “If a tenant doesn’t pay his rent, or if he never returns, the landlord’s entitled to sell whatever belongings remain, to pay for back rent. Right?”

“That’s the law,” the landlord agreed.

“Well I’m pretty sure Romanos won’t be returning,” I said. “So he owes you rent, right?”

“That’s true.”

“I’m offering to buy the things that you’d be allowed to sell anyway,” I said. “That’s logical, isn’t it?”

The honest landlord decided it was logical. We agreed a price that made me wince. I made a mental note to add it to the bill I sent Pericles.

The landlord showed us up to collect our new belongings. He didn’t even stay to watch what we took.

Diotima and I pulled on a rough wooden door that opened into a rough wooden room. There was a bed, a table, a chair, and a chest. It wasn’t the sort of place you invited friends to for a sophisticated symposium.

“I wonder what Romanos was doing here?” Diotima asked.

“Maybe he wanted the privacy,” I said, thinking of the crowded house the Phrygians inhabited.

We had bought everything inside the room that wasn’t furniture. So far, that came to nothing, but for some ceramic cups and plates on the table and an old lamp that smelt of rancid oil. A single small, shuttered window looked out over the street. The shutter squeaked when we opened it.

“It’s dismal,” Diotima said.

“Yes,” I said. “But if I was a bachelor in a house full of families, I wouldn’t mind somewhere like this where I could get away from everyone else.”

“It must be a man thing then, because I wouldn’t,” Diotima said. She looked at me quizzically. “ You don’t have a place like this hidden somewhere, do you Nico?”

“No,” I said. I’d spent long enough trying to get Diotima into my home. I wasn’t about to escape now that I’d finally succeeded.

We continued the search. There were a chamber pot pushed under the bed. Diotima found it. It was half full. The contents sloshed over her hand when she pulled it out.

“Gaah!” She pushed it back under. The contents sloshed again. She wiped her hand on her chiton.

“Careful with that!” I said. “We own the wee in that pot. It cost us a small fortune.”

“You’re welcome to it then,” she said.

“Is there anything else under the bed?”

“Cobwebs and small spiders.”

“We own those too.”

The chest proved more fruitful. It was the sort of chest that officers took with them on campaign, worn enough to have been through several wars.

“Why would an actor own a campaign chest?” I said.

“Oh Nico, isn’t it obvious?’ Diotima said. “He was an actor. This is his touring chest. It’s what he took with him when he joined a company that was traveling from town to town.”

Diotima was right. It was obvious.

Sitting on top of all the clothes were several masks. One was a comedy mask, the face distorted into grotesque features. The other two were tragedy masks, one for a man, one for a woman’s role.

Diotima pulled out these masks. She held them up to the light and said, “I wonder …”

She placed them on her lap.

Beneath the masks were clothes.

We pulled them out, one by one. Each was recognizable as a stage costume. The top costume was obviously for kingly roles, with its elegant gold patterns. The next one down was a regulation generic costume that would do for many characters. Under that, the bright, gaudy, flamboyant costume of a comic.

Diotima said, “Oh, yes, Romanos did do some comedy, didn’t he?”