“If he did, I missed it. I was … ah … preoccupied.”
Thodis meant he hadn’t followed events during the meeting. I said, “I distinctly heard Lakon say he didn’t socialize with Romanos.”
“Then you must have misheard, or misunderstood.”
“What do you think?” I asked Diotima as Thodis strode off.
“He’s not going to help Phellis,” she said.
“No. It looks like we’ll have to catch the killer and make him pay.”
“But Nico, what if we can’t do it in time to save Phellis?”
“Banks lend money. Maybe we could get an interim loan to cover the costs?”
“A loan where the only surety is our promise to capture a killer? Does your banker do deals like that?”
“Maybe not,” I said, rubbing my chin. “All right then, what do you think of Thodis as a murderer?”
Diotima said, “Thodis is the last man on earth who would want to ruin his own play.”
“Or at least, he should be,” I said. “I agree.”
“Logically we should cross him off the list of suspects,” Diotima said.
“Right.”
“Then why do I feel like he should be top of the list?” Diotima said.
“Me too,” I said. “We’ll have to keep him in mind.”
“He might have something to hide,” Diotima said. “He has a connection to Romanos that we didn’t know about.”
“Maybe,” I said, though I felt dubious about her theory. “Thodis admitted he knew Romanos without being asked. That looks innocent. The more important news is that Lakon lied when he said he never saw Romanos outside the theater.”
Diotima’s brow furrowed. “Why would he lie about that?”
“Good question. We’ll have to find out.”
Most of the men backstage had disappeared as quickly as they could, but three remained: Sophocles, Aeschylus, and Chorilos. The three tragic writers for this year’s competition were in earnest conversation.
Diotima and I decided to interrupt.
“Excuse me, sirs,” I said. “We have some urgent questions.”
“Hello, Nicolaos. Yes?” Aeschylus said. He and I had become friends during a previous case. The difference in our ages was almost fifty years, yet we got on well. He also had a high regard for Diotima.
“It’s about casting,” I said. “How do you do it?”
“The Eponymous Archon selects who will be the writers, who will be the choregoi, and who can be cast for protagonists,” said Aeschylus.
“Not you, Aeschylus?” Diotima said, surprised. “I thought you simply volunteered your services for the year and then chose your actors.”
All three men laughed.
“If only it were that simple,” said Chorilos. “Take me, for example. I applied to the Archon’s office six months ago. I was one of thirty men. We were all applying for only three slots in the schedule.”
Aeschylus added, “Every writer in Athens is desperate to see his work at the Great Dionysia. It’s a wonder there isn’t a bloodbath every time the authors apply.”
“How does the Archon choose?” Diotima asked.
“Exactly the way any sane person would,” Chorilos said. “The Archon chooses the most popular writers first.” Chorilos glanced at his two colleagues. “I said before that I was one among thirty for three positions, but that wasn’t quite accurate. We all knew that Aeschylus and Sophocles had applied this year. That meant the other thirty had to fight for one slot.”
“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.
SCENE 21
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.