“It’s possible,” Aeschylus said.
I said, “The landlord’s wife saw someone pass Romanos a wineskin. That wine was probably drugged.”
“Total speculation,” Theokritos said.
I turned to Theokritos. “Sophocles said it just a few moments ago. The High Priest would sooner die than harm the Great Dionysia. In your mind, it wasn’t an impious act to kill Romanos. The killing was a sacrifice you made to Dionysos, in his own temple, of a man who planned to commit sin against the God.”
Men looked askance at the High Priest. He stood there and said nothing.
No one wanted to think of such a popular man as a murderer, but that he would kill to protect his god, that they could comprehend. I felt the audience suddenly shift my way, and my inner relief was enormous. It was like a battlefield defeat turned to unexpected victory.
I waited. So did everyone else.
Theokritos thought for a very long time. He stood, arms crossed, as he looked to each person present, one after the other. He reserved most of his attention for the senior men who would decide his fate.
After that long time he said, “Very well, it was as Nicolaos says. In every detail. What of it? I killed a metic who by your own evidence was a blackmailer, who was ready to not only commit impiety, but was going to undermine the wine industry at the same time. He even betrayed his own people.” Theokritos paused, then said, “He’s dead. Does anyone care?”
I sucked in my breath. Theokritos had admitted the crime and then dared us to do something about it.
Everyone waited for someone else to speak. The reluctance was palpable.
“We must consider this,” said the Eponymous Archon eventually. “Perhaps we were mistaken in declaring a crime.”
“What?” I was shocked.
“We must consider, young man, what is in the best interests of Athens,” the archon said.
“Who would be the judges, if this went to court?” someone asked.
“We three archons,” said the Polemarch. “Me, the Eponymous Archon, and the Basileus. Normally it would go to one of the six lesser archons who hear trials, but for a high priest who is charged with murder, it could be nothing less than the senior archons, and a jury of not less than five hundred and one members.”
We all knew what that meant. A show trial. When the jury was large the winner was whoever could entertain the jurors the best. Theokritos was an amiable, well-liked man. There was every chance he could walk away.
“We must keep in mind the likely sentence,” the Polemarch said. “For the death of a metic, a citizen could expect exile or an enormous fine. No worse, unless there are aggravating circumstances.”
“But what about the charge of impiety?” I said. “That’s the crime I was commissioned to solve.”
“Who decides whether impiety has been committed against a god?” the Eponymous Archon asked me.
I said, “Normally it would be the senior priest of the relevant temple … oh.” I saw the point. Theokritos need only argue that as the resident expert on what pleased Dionysos, if he said it was all right to slaughter Romanos in the theater, then it was.
“Surely there must be a way around this,” Diotima said.
“There is,” said the Basileus. “I’m the archon in charge of religious affairs. I could determine that impiety has occurred that displeases the Gods.”
“Well?” she demanded.
“There’s a problem with that,” Pericles answered for the Basileus. Pericles had never liked Diotima. “Have you forgotten the thousands of important visitors in Athens this moment? If we put our own high priest for Dionysos on trial on the first day of the Dionysia, in front of the whole world, we will look like complete idiots.”
“Apparently we are,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but we don’t want the rest of the world finding out,” Pericles said. “The Great Dionysia is as important to our diplomacy as any trade negotiation. We can’t put Theokritos on trial. It would be a diplomatic disaster.”
There was a difficult silence.
“He’s right,” someone said from the back of the room.
“Perhaps a significant donation, in lieu of a fine?” Theokritos suggested. “Something equal in size to the sum a court might have levied?”
Heads slowly nodded, albeit reluctantly, but they nodded.
Maia suppressed a sob.
“That would be satisfactory,” said the Eponymous Archon. Then he asked, “Now can we get on with the Dionysia?”
It had all been for nothing. We stumbled from Pericles’s house into the street.
Someone put a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see the Polemarch.
“I know how you feel, Nicolaos,” the Polemarch said. “I warned you before, it is very hard to obtain justice for a metic.”
“I understand,” I said. The Polemarch was a good man, trapped by circumstances.
He said, “The fine that Theokritos is paying is the same as a court would have ordered. It comes to the same thing.”
“Yes.” There was no point arguing.
It wasn’t fair. Not only was Theokritos going to get away with it, but when he donated to the temple it would enhance his reputation.
Diotima and I stood forlornly in the street outside Pericles’s house. We were joined by Petros and Maia, Kiron and Lakon.
The Polemarch departed, to be replaced by Aeschylus and Sophocles. Both men looked very unhappy.
“The decision is a bad one,” Aeschylus said at once. He was a stickler for proper behavior. “But, Nico, the word of the archons in this matter is law. I want you to know, you did a good job.”
“I would refuse to proceed,” Sophocles apologized. “Except that honor requires otherwise.”
“Can you go on?” I asked.
“Sisyphus will be a disaster,” Sophocles admitted. “At this stage all that matters is we do our best. Kiron told you how Romanos once carried on when the stage fell in on them. That’s what honor is to an actor.” He turned to Petros. “I can offer you condolences and the place of second actor, if you wish to accept. You will be well compensated from my own funds. It’s the best I can do.”
“I accept,” said Petros.
Aeschylus and Sophocles departed.
The others who had been present passed us by without a word. Theokritos gave me a good long stare, but he said nothing. Petros took a step toward the departing murderer. Kiron, Lakon, and I held him back.
Maia said, “I know my brother was prepared to leave us, but he was still my brother.”
“It is hard,” Kiron said to Maia. “I can make sure the other theater people know what happened but …” He shrugged. “It will mean nothing. Theokritos is a powerful man.”
“If it’s any consolation, this is manifestly unfair,” Lakon said to the Phrygians. “I can say that, and I was one of his victims.”
“Thank you,” Petros said.
“I may not be a good man,” Lakon said. “But I’m not a bad one either.”
I made a decision. It was an idea inspired by something Socrates had said a few days ago.
I said, “Would you be willing to embarrass Theokritos?”
“Yes.”
“All right, this is what we’re going to do.”
I explained my plan to Diotima, to Petros and Kiron, and to a somewhat reluctant Lakon.
When I finished, heads nodded.
“Socrates, I have a job for you,” I said. I’d found him at home, reading.
Socrates said, cautiously, “Another? The last one wasn’t much fun, Nico.”
“I think you’ll prefer this one. Do you remember a few days ago, you talked about characters not knowing they’re in a play?”