Sacred Games

The Pericles Commission

The Ionia Sanction

M
OST MODERN WESTERN
names come from the Bible, a book which had yet to be written when my hero Nico walked the muddy paths of Olympia. Quite a few people have asked me what’s the “right” way to say the ancient names in these stories. There is no right way! I hope you’ll pick whatever sounds happiest to you, and have fun reading the story.

For those who’d like a little more guidance, I’ve suggested a way to say each name in the character list. My suggestions do not match ancient pronunciation. They’re how I think the names will sound best in an English sentence.

Characters with an asterisk by their name were real historical people.

The Chorus

Assorted athletes, judges, heralds, slaves, donkeys and crazed, drunken sports fans.

T
HE PROCESSION WOUND
past the Sanctuary of Zeus. They’d been walking two days, from Elis to Olympia.

“Will we get to see someone die?” Socrates asked. Like any boy, he looked forward to the violence of the struggle more than the beauty of the sport. Unlike me, Socrates had never seen death. To him, it was still a game.

“How should I know?” I said. “You can only hope.”

We stood in the crowd to watch the long line file past: the athletes, their fathers and uncles and brothers, the trainers, and the Ten Judges of the Games. Socrates jumped up and down to see over the shoulders of the spectators in front. That’s what he got for being a twelve-year-old in a crowd of mostly men.

The team from Sparta passed by, one of the few teams I could recognize without having to ask, because Spartans march in step where others walk. At the rear of the Spartans came one of the largest men I had ever seen, a towering hulk—he was half as tall again as me, with shoulders that could have hefted an ox. The chiton he wore had enough material to double as the sail for a small boat. The blacksmith who’d made his armor must have wept for joy at the challenge, then died of exhaustion trying to cover such a chest. Despite the two-day march, the large man’s stride was brisk; he looked neither left nor right, and he swung his well-muscled arms in much the same style as the Titans once had done when they strode the earth.

The Athenians came next. Leading them, almost in the shadow of the huge Spartan, was Timodemus, son of Timonous,
of the deme Archarnae. I waved at once and shouted, “
Chaire
, Timodemus! Hail, Timodemus!”

He smiled broadly and waved back. “
Chaire
, Nicolaos!”

I raised my arms in a victory salute, meaning he would win his event. Other men, all Athenians, cheered for Timodemus, too. Everyone knew he was one of the stars of this Olympics, a likely winner of the pankration, and Athens’s best hope of a victory.

The large Spartan, who had ignored everyone around him up to now, turned and said something to Timodemus. Timo’s smile disappeared in an instant. Perhaps the Spartan had complained of too much levity on what was supposed to be a solemn occasion.

Beside Timo walked a man who looked so like my friend I could have sworn the two were brothers, had I not known better. They were both short men and wore their hair cut almost to the scalp, but by his weathered skin and destroyed left eye, I knew the other to be Timo’s father. A third man, stockier and noticeably taller, walked with them a half-pace behind. He looked like an older brother, and one more tired by the long march. This could be no one but Timo’s uncle, and the eldest of the three. The men of Timo’s family were all former athletes, and though they were too old to compete, the father at least had kept himself in decent condition.

Timodemus and the rest of the Athenians were followed by the Corinthians, then the Thebans, the men of Argos and Thessaly, and Rhodes and all the other cities with athletes whose excellence permitted them to compete at the eightieth Games sacred to Zeus, king of the gods.

The last of the contestants passed by, the forlorn and grimy men from Megara, who every step of the way had eaten the dust raised by those who’d gone before. We spectators waited for the tail to pass, then followed as one large, milling crowd.

Though it was still early morning, already I sweated freely. The close mass of spectators added to the heat of this already hot midsummer day. There must have been ten thousand of us, from
every part of Hellas, all at this one place called Olympia, here to bring glory to Zeus in the form of the greatest sport in the world.

We skirted the Sanctuary of Zeus, passed the newly raised temple—so new in fact I’d yet to look inside—and stopped at the Bouleterion, the council house of Olympia. Men elbowed one another for the best positions to see and hear the ceremony to come. Those at the back would struggle to hear. Socrates and I were small enough to weave our way toward the front.

The
hellanodikai
—the Judges of the Hellenes—took the steps up the Bouleterion. They were dressed in formal chitons of bright colors, with long sleeves that covered their arms and hems that went all the way down to their ankles. All ten wore expressions to match the gravity of their task. The judges were citizens of the city of Elis, within whose land Olympia lies. For the next five days, the word of these men was law, and no man, not Pericles nor a king of Sparta, could gainsay them. All were chosen for their honesty and integrity.