Gary Corby - Death Ex Machina

“Yes, I know. Nevertheless sir, if you went to the courts and argued before a jury that free beer was a crime, I fear you might lose.”

Theokritos took visible steps to calm himself. He wiped his brow and took a cup of wine. “I believe you’re right, Nicolaos. Yet steps must be taken.”

“I hope you won’t do anything rash, sir,” I said, slightly alarmed.

“I will do all that is good in the eyes of Dionysos.”

Diotima and I talked through the rest of the day. We were too exhausted to do much else. The last days had been more than intense. More to the point, we felt as if we’d learned everything there was to learn in the time we had left. Pericles’s feast was due to begin that evening. Failure beckoned, unless we could solve the crime with what we had.

We considered every possible combination of killers, but no matter which we tried, there always seemed to be an objection that was hard to remove, or worse, no proof good enough for a court.

In the end, as the sun began to set, we resigned ourselves to the inevitable. Diotima put on her special party chiton, though she said she hardly felt in the mood. Together we set off for the agora, certain to be last to arrive at the biggest party of the year.

Where stalls normally stood, slaves had erected long rows of trestle tables. Barbecue pits had been hastily dug about the periphery. Beside the pits, temporary altars had been erected so that the meat could be blessed before it was cooked, and beside the altars, priests stood ready and waiting to perform the blessings. Chief among these was Theokritos, the High Priest of Dionysos, which was no surprise since the festivities were in honor of his god.

Women slaves carried in basket after basket of fruit: olives and quince and apples-more baskets than I could count-hundreds of them, all decked in flowers.

The fishermen had been cleared of all their stock. There was a traffic jam of fisher carts waiting to offload their catch at special fires along the west side of the agora.

Musicians played at every corner. They played upon aulos pipes and lyres and drums. As soon as you passed by one group you came upon the next, so that the entire agora was bathed in music. The sights and sounds were enough to lift our hearts, at least enough to enjoy the night’s show.

The Altar of the Twelve Gods stands at the center of the agora. Diotima and I pushed our way through, the better to see everything. The Altar too had been wreathed about in flowers.

I led Diotima by the hand to the statues of the Ten Heroes, each of whom lends his name to one of the ten tribes. The Ten Heroes are spread out in a line, each hero in such a noble pose that I’m sure his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him: Ægeus, Erechtheus, Pandion, Oeneus, Leos, Acamas, Cecrops, and Hippothoon; then there was Ajax, who fought at Troy, and finally Antiochus, the son of Heracles, to whose tribe my own family belonged.

Some wag had tied giant wooden dildoes to each of them. The heroes didn’t seem too upset about it.

Phalluses are charms of the greatest good luck. Phalluses had been hung from poles all about, made of wood or clay or carved in stone. They were various models, but all of them of a shape and size to please even Diotima’s mother.

People wore good luck amulets with models of phalluses dangling upon their chests. A troop of small boys walked past. Each carried a giant phallus made of light wood.

Diotima watched these pass and said, “I wonder if Theokritos would appreciate it if I pointed out the correspondence between the phalluses in the agora and the rites of Sabazios in the glade?”

“I wouldn’t mention it if I were you,” I said. I took her hand. “Come with me behind the Ten Heroes.”

“Why?” she said suspiciously. But then she followed me behind the statuary. I showed her, scratched deep into the buttocks of Antiochus, just below the cloak line, a large N.

“I did that when I was a boy,” I said proudly.

“Congratulations,” she said. My wife seemed strangely disinterested.

We weren’t the only ones arriving late. People streamed in from all directions, all of us looking forward to a free meal of the best Athens had to offer.

I took pleasure in the knowledge that Pericles was paying for the feast. This magnificent display of public benefaction must be killing him.

The thought took me in search of the man himself. We found him upon the steps of the Painted Stoa, where he could be seen by all the merrymakers, and from whence he could direct the festivities. From time to time he called out instructions to the slaves who served.

Diotima and I climbed the steps to join him.

Pericles stood and watched while the entire year’s produce from his estates went down the mouths of his fellow citizens. He smiled benignly, with that serene composure for which he was famous, and waved when the people cheered him.

As he smiled and waved, out of the corner of his mouth he muttered, “I want you to know that this party has cost me a fortune, and then some.”

Pericles said it as if it was my fault.

“I actually had to borrow to fund it.”

“Is that bad?” I asked.

“When every drachma I borrowed is being poured down someone’s gullet and will be excreted by this time tomorrow? Of course it is. This had better be worth it, Nicolaos. Are you making progress?”

“None whatsoever, Pericles,” I said, for the pure joy of seeing his reaction.

We left him before he could reply. Diotima and I plunged back into the crowd.

I was whacked on the head from behind. It wasn’t a hard hit, but it was unexpected and the more painful for that.

“Ouch!”

I turned at once to see that the weapon was a giant phallus, one made of light pine. It was carried by a small boy. He grinned up at me.

The boy rested the phallus on the ground beside him. The phallus was taller than he was.

“Now you’re going to have good luck!” the small boy said.

It was the children from Melite, the ones who had led us to the home of Romanos. They hadn’t said a word before. I had thought they must be mute.

“How come you talk to us now?” I asked.

“We’ve been eating lots of food!” the boy said proudly, and his sisters nodded. “Our mother bought us some with the money you gave us.”

“What about your father?”

“He’s dead.” The boy shrugged, but I could see him struggling not to cry. “After we came here he got a disease and then he died.”

“I see.”

It happened. The orphans of citizens were cared for-the archons saw to that-but the same wasn’t true of metics. They could look after themselves. Or they could go away. In a city that struggled to feed its own children, there was nothing left over to feed someone else’s offspring.

Diotima asked, “Where were you before you came here?”

“Some other city. I don’t remember it. Our mother said we were poor there. Father brought us here to get rich.”

And now he was dead. I remembered the mother of these children. She had insisted they maintain standards, even while they starved.

I crouched down to their level and said, “Listen, do you know I owe you again?”

“Why?”

“You just gave me good luck, didn’t you? That’s very valuable. Here you go.”

I gave the boy every coin I had. It wasn’t much.

“Now you take these straight to your mother, all right?”

“Yes sir.”

“And make sure you stuff yourselves full tonight!” I smiled.

They ran off.

Diotima leant over and kissed me on the cheek.

“Diotima!” I said shocked.

“You’re a good man, Nico,” Diotima said.

“I’m a foolish one. I can’t support that family. All I’m doing is prolonging their agony.”