Death Ex Machina (31 page)

Dora looked up from feeding their children. She said, “Yes, dear.”

“That’s why we rent our spare room,” he confided. “It means I don’t have to work so much. Landlording is easy.”

“I should imagine,” I said. The honest landlord was also a talkative one when he was in his cups. I desperately cast about for some question that might end the dialogue.

“Especially when the renter is someone as quiet as Romanos,” I said.

“Don’t know about that,” the landlord said, to my surprise. “He came and went at odd times. Not many visitors though, I’ll say that for him.”

It had never occurred to me that Romanos might have had visitors to his secret room.

I asked, “Did he by any chance have visitors on the night he died?”

The honest landlord spat the gristly part of his meat onto the
ground. “Nah. He was off to a party somewhere else. I wouldn’t let a renter have a party on my property.”

I thought about my own experience renting Diotima’s house, and could only agree with him.

The landlord was still speaking. “So Romanos went out. Late at night it was, after all the rain. Saw him run into some friends. They were happy to see him. Isn’t that right, Dora?”

Dora looked about and said, “Yes, that’s right, dear. I saw them. Hugs all round.”

At these words Diotima’s eyes lit up.

“Can you describe his friends?” Diotima asked.

“Tipsy,” said Dora. “They were carrying wineskins. One of them passed his skin to Romanos. Poor fellow.”

Everyone at the table had been listening in. The tale of men with wineskins had inspired the revelers. There were cries of, “More drink! More drink!”

A man with an amphora under each arm came over to fill cups.

“Would you like some beer?”

I looked up to see the man with the amphorae. I knew him. “Petros, what are you doing here?” Unfortunately I had a fair idea.

He smiled. “Did we not tell you that we want to show Athens what beer is like?”

“Here? Now? Is that a good idea?”

“Why not? No one has to drink the beer if they don’t like it. We merely offer. The Athenians might decide beer isn’t so bad after all.” Petros grinned. He was a happy man. “Already many Athenians have drunk our beer and called for more.”

“Does Pericles know you’re doing this?” I asked, worried.

“You think a metic ever gets to speak to Pericles?” he said. “If Pericles can donate food and drink to the people, so can we.”

“Petros, I have to tell you, if what happened at the clearing
last night happens here, it’s not going to be good.” I had visions of the people of Athens descending into one enormous orgy. What would the children say?

Petros shrugged. “Our beer maker Marinos says it will be fine.”

It wasn’t the most reassuring answer, but it was too late to do anything about it. Half of Athens was already drinking beer. In fact, if the rapidly increasing merriment was anything to go by then the Athenians had drunk an awful lot of beer, and an equal amount of wine.

The landlord put down his cup and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Say, this beer is pretty good. Do you have more?”

“Desecration! Abomination!” A voice shouted above the crowd, so loud that everyone heard it. The shouting came from the other side of the festivities, close to where Pythax and Euterpe sat. The speaker was Theokritos. I had a feeling he’d just discovered beer on the premises.

Theokritos mounted the steps of the Painted Stoa, beside a startled Pericles. Whether he knew what was coming, or simply didn’t want to be associated with anything controversial, I don’t know, but Pericles quickly disappeared from view.

Theokritos stood with his arms raised. Behind him stood the assembled vintners of Athens, with their arms crossed and stern expressions.

“People of Athens!” Theokritos spoke. “I remind you that this is the festival of the Great Dionysia. Today we worship the god of the harvest, Dionysos, who is also the god of the theater and of wine. Wine is his sacred drink. We praise the God when we drink it. We dishonor him when we drink anything else. It has come to my attention that there are people here drinking beer. This is a sin against the God. Think what you are doing. This is his festival. Beer is impious! Spurn it!”

Theokritos wrested a cup of beer from a nearby drinker.

“Here now!” the drinker objected loudly.

The High Priest poured the offending liquid into the dust.

The man whose drink he’d destroyed stood up suddenly and punched the High Priest. Theokritos fell. The other vintners moved to defend their leader.

The beer drinker’s friends stood up to defend their friend. They’d probably been drinking beer too.

That was enough to start the riot.

Fists flew. Strong men cursed. Women called for help and threw food.

So far the fight was limited to the men about the High Priest. The problem with Athenians is, they’re always ready to lend a helping hand. The bystanders weren’t moving away from the trouble; they were moving toward it, to break it up or more likely to take sides, either for beer or for wine.

There was plenty of that already. Even from my distance I could hear the debate as the punches flew.

“Beer!”

Whack.

“Wine!”

Thump.

I jumped onto the plinth of a statue, the better to see what was going on. It was the statue of Hephaestus. I apologized to the god of artisans but didn’t let go of his arm. I didn’t know where my parents were. I could see Pythax on the other side. He had placed Euterpe on top of the table where they’d been sitting and now he was defending the position. Several other men had followed his example. Euterpe looked like a beleaguered heroine out of the ancient tales. I had a feeling she was enjoying every moment. Three rioters tried to overwhelm Pythax. Euterpe smashed a jug of beer down on the head of one of them. That evened the odds and Pythax disposed of the other two.

This had to be stopped. Quelling riots was a job for the
Scythian Guard. The problem was that Pythax was completely cut off in the dead center of the riot. Somehow he had to get out of there and take command.

“What are your orders, sir?”

It was a voice from below. I looked down to see the faces of the men of the Scythian Guard. A whole squad of them. They looked up at me expectantly.

“Sir? Your orders?”

Me? They were asking
me
for orders?

Then it occurred to me that their chief was my father-in-law. In family-oriented Athens, where every business is a family business, that made me practically his lieutenant. The men had seen Pythax chew me out on more than one occasion for various faults, and probably sniggered behind my back. That didn’t make me lesser in their eyes, it made me a junior officer. The Scythians were always deferential to Diotima when she passed them in the street. Most of all, Pythax had given me his men in ones and twos for my own work. They knew me.

“Sir? What are your orders?”

The guard sounded worried. I knew him by name. Eusebius. We would nod to each other whenever I visited Pythax at the Scythian barracks.

I had to say something.

I’d never run a battle in my life. I had no idea what to do. I cast about, wondering what someone with experience would say.

What about Pericles? He was a General. What orders would Pericles give in this situation?

No, scrap that. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what Pericles would do.

I felt the first stirrings of panic in my guts. Dear Gods, how did Pythax cope with this every day?

Pythax! Yes, there was a man I could hope to emulate. What would Pythax do?

I’d once seen Pythax quell a riot by hitting a troublemaker so hard he flew into a wall. But it was too late for that. The riot was well and truly underway. Besides, I couldn’t hit that hard.

Had I ever seen Pythax deal with a mob?

“The ropes!” I said. “Where are the ropes?”

“At the barracks, sir.”

“Bring them all! And wake up the other shift. I want every guardsman here.”

Eusebius pointed to two men. They didn’t need more instructions. They took off up the Panathenaic Way as if Hades was on their tail.

I breathed easier. I had once seen the Scythians deal with a mob by using long ropes strung out to make barriers. They had herded a rioting mob away from a trouble point and then got them into single file to deal with them one by one.

“Here’s the plan,” I said. “We’ll use the ropes to pull rioters away from the center of the agora. We’ll pick them out in manageable groups by flinging the longest rope over their heads and pulling on both ends.”

They looked dubious.

“We don’t have enough rope for all that, sir,” Eusebius said.

“Yes, I know. We’ll use the narrow streets that run off the major roads. We’ll use them like corridors,” I said. “To split the mob. The more we can separate them, the less they’ll fight. We’ll station men at the other ends. The rioters will have no choice but to keep moving along because we’ll be feeding more citizens in.”

I felt proud of myself for already having thought of that. For once the narrow backstreets of Athens would turn out to be useful. I did a quick calculation. With three hundred men we could run two corridors side by side, with enough men left over to intervene if things got ugly.

The men looked happier.

“Like pushing sheep through a run,” Eusebius said.

“Precisely.”

“What if they argue, sir?”

“Then knock the bastards out.”

“Yes sir!” Eusebius said happily.

That was a command any Scythian could understand. But I was betting there wouldn’t be many who argued. The people of Athens were too used to following the lawful commands of their guardian slaves, as long as we could calm the people down long enough to listen.

The two runners returned with the rope plus every spare man who’d been off duty, more than a hundred men in double file. They quickly created a rope cordon that led away from the agora.

“You need any help?”

I turned. It was Akamas, the well-muscled stage crewman.

“Stand there.” I pointed. “Hit anyone who tries to turn back to the agora.”

“Can do,” Akamas said.

The Scythian at the front flung the rope over the heads of the nearest people, then pulled them in toward the cordon. Those Scythians not involved in the cordon stood alongside, with their unstrung bows in hand. Several times an Athenian sought to break through the barrier or continued fighting. Every time two Scythians leapt to the trouble spot and dealt with it. As each group was pushed into the cordon the Scythians at the front flung the first rope again. It was like net fishing for people.

Under the urging of the guard the crowd flowed away from the trouble, into the narrow side streets of the city, from whence they dispersed, most of them carrying as much food as they could from the free stalls.

Eventually we came to the core of the troublemakers. Euboulides and Pheidestratos, the two guards who had fallen asleep at the theater, were stationed alongside the cordon.

“You two! Do you want to redeem yourselves?”

They both stood at attention. “Yes, sir!”

“Then come with me.”

I left the Scythians to their work. The remainder of the crowd were the serious rioters. I ignored them and instead jumped onto the long benches. I ran along these with Euboulides and Pheidestratos at my heels. Euterpe and the other women had taken refuge on the heights. I knocked one matron over into a fish pie in my haste, but didn’t stop to apologize.

The route brought us to where the vintners of Athens were brawling with the Phrygians and the dedicated beer drinkers.

The two Scythians and I reached them only moments after Pythax got there. Between the four of us, we made short work of anyone who still felt like fighting.

When it was over, I said to the man who stood defiant amongst the vintners, “Theokritos, High Priest of Dionysos, I charge you with crimes against Athens.”

Theokritos raised an eyebrow above a black eye. “For inciting a riot?” he asked.

“No. For murder.”

SCENE 37

THE FALSE TRIAL

“Y
OU HAD BETTER have a good reason for this,” said the Eponymous Archon.

“I do, sir,” I said.

We were assembled once more in the courtyard of Pericles, everyone who had been there for the first meeting, plus Diotima, and Petros and Maia of the Phrygians.

The Eponymous Archon crossed his arms and stared at me in obvious anger. “You do realize, don’t you, that Theokritos is one of the most respected men in Athens? This charge is grotesque.”

I said, “I promise you that Theokritos is responsible for the death of Romanos.”

I turned to face the assembled personages, none of whom were smiling. Though this wasn’t a trial, it felt very much like one to me. I was all too aware that I had to defend my position here, or I might be the one who ended up facing the jurors.

I said, “Let me explain. The problem all along was to decide which of the three versions of Romanos was the victim. Was it Romanos the professional actor, or Romanos the metic with an extended family in Athens? Then there was the character Romanos played, Thanatos, the god of death.”

I paused to let them consider that, then added, “Initially it seemed the last option was best, that the killer had been out to murder Death.”

The Eponymous Archon snorted derision at that.

I said, “Yes sir, yet ridiculous as it sounds, Romanos died
dressed as Thanatos, in a manner identical to the entrance of Thanatos in the play. We kept our eye out for someone so disconnected from reality that he thought killing fictional characters was a sane way to behave.”

“Was there such a man?” Pericles asked.

“There was one suspect who might fit the description,” I said. “A fanatical theater fan. But he proved innocent. The evidence he gave corresponded exactly with what we’d deduced not long before we met him: that Romanos must have been killed by more than one man.”

I explained the logic that one man alone could not have used the machine, that it must have been a group. I didn’t mention that it was Socrates who had deduced it.