“You see, all plays-all of them, every single one-are funded by wealthy men. Most of these men have no idea about theater. Some know just enough to sound knowledgeable before their friends, and some, a mere handful, really do understand our art. Your friend Pericles is among the truly cognoscente, by the way.”
Of course he was, I thought sourly. Was there any subject on which Pericles wasn’t an expert?
“But all of these rich men,” Lakon went on, “every one of them thinks they can run a play better than the experts. Every one of them thinks they can write better than the writers and act better than the actors. They’re used to running large estates, you see. They tell their workers what to do, and the workers do it, and by next summer there’s a harvest. The rich think the theater works the same way. They think they need merely order ‘write a successful play’ and a successful play will be written to order.”
Lakon was passionately involved in his art, that was clear. He spoke quickly. I felt for the first time I was hearing his honest voice, and not a façade.
Lakon said, “In particular, every choregos thinks he can cast better than the writer.” He smiled. “Well, that’s hardly a surprise, is it? Everyone thinks they can cast better than the writer.”
I nodded, and so did Diotima.
Lakon saw that we followed his argument. He went on, “Writers must satisfy their choregos if they wish their works to be seen by an audience. So when a wealthy choregos suggests to a writer that Lakon would be the ideal protagonist for his play, the writer will simply agree, and hire me. Hence, I make myself agreeable to every man who might conceivably become a choregos.”
“Isn’t that cheating?” Diotima said.
“Young lady, I am telling you the deepest secret of the theatrical business,” Lakon said. “One toadies to the men with the money, and from that small beginning, all things follow.”
“But what if there’s a better, more deserving actor?” Diotima asked.
“What does it mean to be more deserving?” Lakon waved his arm with a nonchalant air. “Be assured that if I was too bad, the writer would protest. I don’t have to be the best actor,” Lakon said. “I merely need to be good enough that the writer doesn’t find me objectionable.” He paused, to drink deep from his wine cup. Then he continued. “As it happens, I work very hard at my art. I love it. I flatter myself that I really am one of the best in Athens … not that that means anything when it comes to casting; I just explained to you why influence beats talent any day. I shall point out, too, that the typical audience member neither knows nor cares who is behind the mask.”
“Surely that can’t be true, Lakon,” Diotima said. “Don’t they respect you for your art?”
“How many actors do you see each day at the agora?” Lakon shot back.
“Why, I don’t see any,” Diotima said, puzzled.
“My dear lady, that is utter tosh,” Lakon chided my wife. “You’ve seen many actors without their masks. You go to the agora to socialize, don’t you? So do actors. Once we have our street clothes on, we are as other men. You pass us in the street and you never know it.”
“Oh, I see,” she said. “Without the mask, you are … er …”
“Nothing?” Lakon suggested with a gentle smile.
“An everyday person, just like the rest of us,” Diotima corrected.
I said, “If I could ask a personal question, don’t you find all this demeaning? Isn’t it hard to ingratiate yourself to lesser men?”
Lakon nodded. “Yes, but if I want to reach the top of my field, I hardly have a choice, do I? Fortunately, I used to play comedy before I turned my talents to tragedy. I had no trouble amusing the boors that Thodis invited to his symposia. I steal mercilessly from the great comedies: an amusing anecdote, a little bit of business, some subtle flattery, and before you know it I have a roomful of wealthy men who think that Lakon the actor is a fine fellow. As to my feelings on the subject, I merely pretend I am in a play.”
I said, “Thodis seemed less taken with Sophocles.”
“Sophocles is a man of integrity.” Lakon shook his head in dismay. “That trait will get him nowhere if he’s not careful.”
“What about Romanos?” I asked.
“I’d rather not talk about him.”
“We’d rather you did. Our information is that Romanos attended at least one of the symposia with you.”
Lakon assumed exactly the same pose that actors do on stage when their character is thinking deeply. “Now that you mention it, I believe I did see him there. Perhaps he was following the same ploy as me.”
“Our information is that you brought Romanos along as your guest,” Diotima said.
“Who told you that?” he said with annoyance. “No, wait, I don’t have to guess. It was that idiot Thodis, wasn’t it?”
We sat silent.
Lakon sighed. “Well, he didn’t know any better.”
“So you admit you lied. Tell me, Lakon, how did Romanos die?” Diotima asked.
Lakon looked at her oddly. “I think we may conclude,” he said carefully, “that someone didn’t like him very much.”
“Would that include you?”
“Certainly it would. But if you want to blame someone for his death, you are looking at the wrong man.”
I said, “Under the circumstances, you would have to prove that.”
“Then consider this. Even if I had a motive, I would have to be insane to kill Romanos right now. This is the biggest moment of my career. I am protagonist for Sophocles! If I was planning to kill Romanos, I would wait until after the play.” His logic was excellent.
Lakon added, “And I certainly would not have sabotaged this play. From my point of view that’s just as bad as the murder.” He paused, then added, “I’m assuming the saboteur is the same man who killed Romanos.”
“It seems logical,” I admitted.
“There you are, then. It can’t be me.”
I said, “The problem is, Lakon, that you’re caught out in a lie. You told us that you never socialized with metics. You told us point blank that you didn’t know Romanos outside the theater.”
“Compared to all the disasters that have occurred, it’s not a very big lie, is it?” Lakon said.
“It’s big enough. The fact is, you said you barely knew him, and now it seems you go to parties together.”
“Who cares?”
“The jury will care.”
He looked alarmed. “What jury?”
“Lakon, have you any idea how easy it is to be convicted of murder in this city?” I said. “I myself was once falsely convicted on evidence much weaker than we have against you.”
“You were?” Lakon said, surprised. “How did you survive?”
“With enormous difficulty,” I said grimly. “And a lot of luck.”
“Nicolaos speaks the truth,” Diotima spoke up. “Think about it, Lakon. You and the victim were rival actors. It’s not exactly a profession noted for its easy relationships, is it? Romanos died in a place you know intimately. He died on a machine that only actors know how to use. And of all the suspects, you’re the only one caught out in a lie. What lie did you tell? That you didn’t know the victim outside the theater.” Diotima let him think about that for a moment. “Any normal, suspicious jury will assume you lied to distance yourself from the crime,” she said.
Lakon surely knew, and so did we, that Athenians plotted as easily as they breathed. Of course they would magnify his small lie into something more sinister.
“Not everyone would believe you,” he said weakly.
“Not everyone has to,” Diotima said. “We only need a majority of jurors. Enough of them would go our way.” She added mercilessly, “If we gave this brief to Pericles, by the time he finished prosecuting you, there’d be only one performance left for you, Lakon: chained to a stake and waiting to be stoned.”
“Pericles?” Lakon said, openly aghast. Pericles had never, ever lost a court case.