“Yes, I concede this difficulty,” Aeschylus said. “These things are as the Gods ordain.”
“Sometimes the Gods get assistance. Romanos decided to make his own crisis. One that would bring his talents to the attention of every man in Athens.”
I paused, then said, “It was Romanos who sabotaged the play.”
Silence, for a long moment. I wondered if the audience would believe it.
“Romanos manufactured the crisis?” said Sophocles, aghast. “But … but … he helped to solve it. He was instrumental in saving us.”
“Yes, precisely!” I said. “Because of that, we suddenly noticed a man we had always taken for granted. Romanos even said to me that Romanos is the man Sophocles calls for when he’s run out of other good options.”
“I see.” Sophocles looked ashen. “I helped bring on this crisis by taking a man of talent for granted.”
“I’m afraid so. He was probably inspired by the skene painting. It contained enough incidental disasters to make the situation look spooky. He complained to the stage manager to force Akamas to work back late one night, then appeared wearing a mask to create the rumor of a ghost. He laid the first trap for himself, to allay suspicion: he tripped over a broom. There was no danger, not for a man who has played comic falls on stage. The next two incidents were far more serious: the balcony attempt and the fall of Phellis.”
I could see people puzzling through the idea. A few looked convinced.
I said, “Lakon is extraordinarily lucky that Sophocles refused to hire Romanos as second actor. If he had, it would have been Lakon, rather than Phellis, who had the near-fatal accident. Romanos, you see, had to step into a higher role to save the day.”
Lakon paled at my words. He understood that what I described was possible.
“Not only that,” I continued, “Romanos had to save not only the play-actors step into emergency roles quite often-but Romanos had to be seen to save a major festival. And not just any festival, but the Great Dionysia, which all the world attends.”
“This seems a big stretch,” Aeschylus said. “What possible good could come of this?”
“Imagine if Romanos had not died. Imagine if the Dionysia had proceeded. We all remarked how Romanos worked like a slave to recover the festival. You yourself, Sophocles, said that Romanos had been instrumental.”
Sophocles said. “That is true. I was wondering how I might reward him for his good work.”
“Had he lived, and had you asked him, he would have asked you to sponsor him for citizenship.”
Sophocles frowned. “Such a thing is highly uncertain, and extremely rare. How could Romanos have thought I could deliver on such a request?”
“You underrate yourself, Sophocles. The people respect you. Everyone knows you are the obvious successor to Aeschylus.” I turned to Aeschylus. “You said, sir, that you would be proud to stand beside Pythax. How would you feel about a metic who almost single-handedly dragged the Great Dionysia back from the brink of disaster?”
“I would support him for citizenship,” said the master playwright. “Of course I would.”
I turned back to Sophocles. “You see? If you and Aeschylus made the request, especially with Aeschylus retiring, how could the citizen body deny you? The People’s Assembly would declare Romanos a citizen by acclamation.”
“I see the logic of your words.” Sophocles’s voice wavered. He was deeply upset. “Yet still I’m astounded. How could he have taken us all in?”
“Because he was a great actor.”
Sophocles nodded. “That he was.”
“There is this to remember about Romanos: that he was a curious mix of a great man who would work his heart out for the theater, but who was utterly amoral when it came to his own ambitions. The stage manager told of us of an incident years ago, when Romanos saved a play by brilliant improvisation after the skene collapsed. This was the same man who blackmailed without hesitation. He was prepared to cripple Phellis and bring the Dionysia to the brink of disaster. Then he drove himself to save the play he almost destroyed.
“Kebris told us that Romanos began to teach him the third actor’s lines even before the crisis had begun. That seems extraordinary.”
All eyes turned to Kebris.
“Because my friend feared for his life,” Kebris said angrily. “I don’t believe your fantasy for a moment. Romanos said he wanted me to know his lines in case something happened to him.”
“Yes, Kebris,” I said. “I don’t doubt you for a moment. But Romanos didn’t teach you the lines because he thought something might happen to him. He taught them because he knew something was about to happen to Phellis.”
I paused to let that sink in. I could see the thoughts rearrange themselves in people’s minds. Then I said, “Romanos prepared for his own promotion in advance. Why? So that when the crisis came he would be the hero who saved the show.”
There was a pause, before Lakon said admiringly, “That’s really very clever.”
I said, “This means the murder of Romanos is disconnected from the disasters at the theater. It opens up the field to every suspect.”
“But it doesn’t explain why Theokritos would want to kill him,” Pericles said. Like the Eponymous Archon, Pericles wasn’t happy with my choice of murderer.
“I’ve eliminated the need for a theatrical motive,” I said. “Let me explain the real starting point of this disaster.”
I said, “Lakon had introduced Romanos, at his insistence, to many of the most prominent men in Athens. Lakon even told us that Romanos had specifically asked to meet men of the merchant class. Lakon assumed it was so Romanos could promote himself in search of a choregos, as Lakon himself had successfully done with Thodis. In fact, Romanos’s notes make it clear that he talked to the merchants about his plan to sell beer. He was probably looking for backers or partners.
“It probably never occurred to Romanos that anyone would be upset. Romanos wasn’t one to consider propriety when self-interest was at stake. Such men often fail to understand the reactions of others.
“Inevitably word of his plan reached the winemakers, and Theokritos. After all, they moved in the same merchant circle. Or perhaps Romanos was foolish enough to approach Theokritos directly. Either way, it was a disaster. The wine growers saw competition. But Theokritos saw something much worse. He saw sacrilege.”
The Eponymous Archon scoffed. “Theokritos couldn’t have done all this on his own. Who helped him? Answer me that!”
“His estate workers,” I said at once. It was the simple, easy answer. “And possibly some fellow winemakers.” Then I hastily added, “The trusting winemakers of course would have been led astray by their high priest.”
I could already see it would be politically impossible to get a conviction if it meant wiping out our vintners. I had offered the archons a way to punish the leader alone.
Pericles’s slaves had supplied refreshments all round and my mouth was dry. I stopped to pick up a cup of watered wine.
“The final proof is in the manner of Romanos’s death. A landlord saw Romanos step outside his private room to run into a party of friends. They hailed him. Perhaps they even called up to him in his room to join them. In either case, Romanos was pleased to see them.
“Right away we know these were not Phrygians. Romanos would have been disconcerted to say the least if his family saw him stepping out of the room he kept hidden from them. There certainly would not have been hugs all round.”
“That seems reasonable,” said Sophocles.
“We also can guess they were waiting for Romanos to appear,” I said. “There were heavy showers that night.” I paused, to let them think about it. Then I went on, “Parties don’t walk the streets when there’s a good chance of getting saturated. That’s when they sit indoors, under cover. The chances are miniscule that a party of acquaintances could accidentally happen upon Romanos, as he leaves his private room, on a night of sudden, heavy rains. No, the odds are overwhelming that Romanos had met his murderers.”