“Not a citizen of Athens?” my non-citizen metic wife finished in a frigid tone. “And is that a problem,
husband
?” She picked up one of the throwing knives beside her and balanced it on a finger.
“Not for me, and well you know it,
wife
. But for most men, yes, it is.”
“Well,” said Diotima, “it won’t do either of them the slightest good if Timodemus is executed.”
“But we’ve proven he didn’t do it. He was in bed with Klymene.”
“An alibi we can’t use.”
I nodded unhappily. “The only way to save Timo is to find the real killer.”
“Then let’s review the possibilities.”
“All right,” I said. “One-Eye and Festianos. They killed Arakos to give Timo an easy run in the Games. The hemlock is suspicious.”
“Maybe,” Diotima said. “But it leaves us with the problem of how they could poison Arakos with hemlock before they beat him.”
I nodded glumly.
“Dromeus has the same motive,” Diotima said. “I don’t trust Dromeus. He makes a living teaching young men how to beat up other young men.”
“Would Dromeus take such a risk for what, after all, is only a job? Dromeus is a hired hand.”
“Who can say? We need to know more about Dromeus,” Diotima said. “There might be more to him. What about Exelon? Do you believe his story?”
“Timo confirms the facts, but … I don’t know, Diotima. He has a fantastic motive.”
“I agree.”
“What about these mysterious secrets?” I asked. “Any idea?”
Diotima threw up her arms in confusion. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Have we missed any suspects?”
“The other contestants,” Diotima said at once. “What better way to improve their chances than to kill one front-runner and frame the other?”
I’d had the same thought but never followed it up. “You’re right, and I haven’t done a thing about them. We better get on to that.”
W
E COLLECTED
M
ARKOS
on the way, since the rules of this game required us to see the same evidence and hear the same witnesses. I’d played very loose with those rules, and I was sure he had, too. I debated with myself whether to tell Markos about the hemlock. I liked him, and I was sure that together we could make faster progress. I decided in the end that this was a competition, and he was my opponent, and that mattered more than friendship, particularly when my other friend’s life was the stake of the game.
Timodemus had told me the top three men in pankration, after himself and Arakos, were Korillos from Corinth, Aggelion from Keos, and Megathenes from Megara. We found all of them at the gym, as expected. The pankration was on the next day, a dismal reminder that Timo’s time was running out. The pankratists were in final preparation—not working to the limit, but enough to keep themselves loose.
Diotima had to wait outside. Markos and I found the three we wanted, the three with the most to gain from the elimination of Arakos and Timo. Their trainers tried to stop us, but we invoked the rule of the Chief Judge: Markos and I had access to anywhere and anyone.
“Can we go somewhere we can’t be seen?” one of the men—Korillos—asked. They were as young as Marko and me.
Together we crossed the Sanctuary—Diotima rejoined us on the way—to the Avenue of the Victors, part of the road into Olympia, lined with the statues of past winners. The statuary varied wildly in style, from the recent winners, so realistic you’d swear they could step down from the plinths to win again, to statues of winners from so long ago they looked like something out of Egypt.
All three of our suspects seemed worried. Aggelion, from Keos, was small and fast, like Timo. Megathenes of Megara had more the look of a runner than a fighter. Korillos of Corinth was a big man, exuding strength.
“Why are we hiding?” I asked. “Is what you have to say so sensitive, or is it embarrassing to be seen with the investigators?”
Aggelion said, “It’s nothing to do with you.”
“The thing is, we’re regulars on the circuit,” said Megathenes. “We don’t want the other regulars to think we might be talking about them.”
“The circuit?” Markos repeated.
Korillos said, “The Isthmian Games, the Pythian Games, the Nemean Games, the Olympic Games. The big four, plus all the little contests in between that no one ever mentions. We go from one to the next, competing at each. It’s a punishing pace, but while we’re fit and young is the time to do it. We hardly ever see our homes.”
“We’re closer to each other than we are to the people in our own cities,” said Megathenes. He smiled at Korillos, and Korillos returned a grin, in a way that instantly caused me to think they might be very close indeed.
“You were to compete against Arakos then,” Markos said.
“Right,” said Korillos.
“Are you from a sporting family?” Aggelion asked me.
I smiled. “Hardly. My father’s a sculptor.”
“How can someone who doesn’t understand sport solve a sporting crime?” Aggelion asked.
“I don’t need to understand the game to solve who killed a man.”
“Sure,” said Aggelion, obviously unconvinced.
“How well do you know Timodemus?” I asked the pankratists.
“Like us, he’s been on the circuit,” said Korillos.
“All three of you were at Nemea?” Diotima asked.
“Yes,” he said shortly. He was clearly unhappy to talk to a woman.
Diotima saw it, too. She said, “Do you understand we’re empowered to ask any question?”
“No, you’re not,” said Aggelion. “That’s the two men. We don’t have to answer to you.”
“When Diotima speaks, it’s as if I speak,” I said at once. “Please answer her questions.”
Diotima had held her temper remarkably well. She said, “The rumor is Timodemus cheated at Nemea.”
Korillos looked to his friends and competitors. They nodded. “It’s no rumor. Timodemus definitely cheated at Nemea.”
Markos cast a look of triumph my way, which I studiously ignored.
Megathenes spoke for the first time. “All three of us fought against Timodemus. We all felt the same thing.”
“Felt what?”
“Heavy legs.”
Korillos nodded. “Lethargic, like I didn’t want to move. I was fine before the match, I was fine the next day, but when I faced Timodemus, all I wanted to do was lie down.”
“Everyone knows he cursed us with witchcraft,” Megathenes said.
I kept my face passive. I already knew this from Pindar, but I didn’t want Markos to discover I’d hidden the information from him.
“I’ve got a question,” I said. “It’s nothing to do with the investigation, so please excuse me if this is rude and don’t answer if you don’t feel like it …”
They looked at me in surprise.
“You, Megathenes, you’re from Megara.”
“Yes.”
“And Korillos, you’re from Corinth.”
“Right.”
“Your cities are at war, and Athens is involved, too. Your little war could drag every other city in Hellas into an all-out conflagration.”
“I get the impression you’re not pleased about that,” said Megathenes.
“I’m not. I have better things to do than march in a phalanx. Has it occurred to you gentlemen that if Hellas goes to war, we five might have to kill each other in battle? But here’s the question you don’t have to answer. How can you, Megathenes, and you, Korillos, maintain your … ah … friendship when your cities are at each other’s throats?”
“It isn’t easy,” Korillos said at once, and he reached out to hold Megathenes’s hand. Megathenes squeezed back.
“We’ve talked about it. A lot,” said Megathenes. “But what can we do? We have to hope it all settles down.”
“Any hope of that, do you think?” I asked.
“Megara would make peace in an instant,” said Megathenes. “My people only want to be left alone.”
“But Corinth won’t tolerate it,” said Korillos. “Megara began as a colony of Corinth, and that’s how my people insist it stays. It wouldn’t be such a big deal, except Megara ran to Athens for help.”
“My people could hardly do otherwise when they have no chance against Corinth on their own.”
Korillos and Megathenes seemed to have forgotten us. They faced each other in their own little argument.
“But bringing in Athens turned it into a matter of prestige,” said Korillos. “Now my people can’t back away without looking weak.”
Megathenes said, with some heat, “That’s not fair.”
“Don’t fight, you two,” said Aggelion. Which I thought was rather silly for one pankratist to say to two others.
“You see how it affects us all,” said Aggelion, and Korillos and Megathenes looked rather shamefaced. “Now kiss and make up,” Aggelion ordered, and the two friends did.
“You see the real reason we didn’t want to be seen,” Aggelion said. “There’d be an uproar if a man of Corinth and a man of Megara fraternized.”
I wondered if Aggelion sometimes joined in the frolics with his friends. “So you three have a real interest in keeping the peace,” I said.
“Rather funny for a bunch of professional fighters, isn’t it?” Aggelion observed, and he smiled.
“Where were you on the night Arakos died?” Diotima asked.
“In bed,” said Aggelion.
“That’s not much of an alibi.”
“In bed together. All three of us.”
“Oh.”
“Please don’t tell our trainers.”
“T
HE CASE SEEMS
clear,” Markos said, after the three friendly pankratists had made their way off. “Timodemus of Athens cheated at Nemea. Not only cheated, but used witchcraft to curse his opponents, a terrible crime. He continued his ways here at Olympia, only now he’s graduated to murder.”
“Why wouldn’t he continue to use curses?” Diotima asked. She and I knew the truth, that Timo could not have been in the clearing with Arakos, but we couldn’t tell Markos that.
“Perhaps Arakos had proof Timodemus had cheated before. That would be more than enough motive for murder.”
Indeed it would, if it were true.
“I’m not sure I believe Timo cursed anyone, Markos,” I said.
“You’ll have to believe it if everyone who fought against your friend tells the same tale. You realize, I’m sure, the evidence of those pankratists make it certain your friend practiced witchcraft. Heavy legs, indeed! It sounds like a typical binding spell.”
“I don’t even know if curses work,” I said.
“Oh, come on, Nico. I know you have to do your best for your friend, raise every reasonable doubt, but
everyone
knows curses work.”
“Have you ever tried one?” I challenged him.
“No, of course not,” he said. “That would be immoral.”
“Then you don’t really know.”
“Everyone’s heard of a case.”
“Right. You hear the stories, but you never see one.”
“Well, now you
are
seeing one, and you refuse to believe it,” Markos said, reasonably enough.
I shook my head. There was something wrong with that logic, but I couldn’t work out what it was. Perhaps Socrates could tell me.
“I just feel we need to look for a more rational explanation,” I insisted.
“You’ve been hanging around too many of those philosophers you have in Athens,” said Markos.
“Ain’t that the truth,” I told him, and I nudged Diotima, who considered herself to be a philosopher.
“He’ll be hanging around one for a lot longer,” she said, and took my arm.
Markos laughed. “It’s a pleasure to work with the both of you. I’m sorry that I must prosecute your friend. I hope you understand, my liking for you won’t prevent me from doing my utmost to see him punished.”
“You keep calling him my friend,” I said.
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
And of course, Markos was right. No wonder people didn’t trust me. It made me wonder if perhaps Markos was right, if my friendship for Timo had blinded me to the evidence, because he was right about that, too. On the face of it, those pankratists had been cursed.
W
E NEEDED TO
know more about Dromeus of Mantinea, the trainer of Timodemus. Dromeus had been at Nemea. He was here at Olympia. He had every reason to want to see Timodemus win. And another thing: everyone assumed only Timodemus could have beaten Arakos, but what about a previous victor? Surely a man who’d won the crown and kept himself in good condition could take on a current contender, especially in a surprise attack in the dark.
But who was Dromeus, really, and what sort of man was he? I knew just the people to ask. Heralds not only have the loudest voices, but every one of them is a sports fanatic.
Diotima and I bid farewell to Markos and wished him a happy feast in the evening. Then we went to find the Heralds of the Games.
The heralds sat in a cluster at one corner of the stadion. It was one of the perks of the job that they had access to the field. When I approached, I saw they were eating a picnic on the most hallowed sporting ground in the world. Most of them carried paunches over which their chitons had to detour on the way down. It seemed odd that men who loved sport should themselves be in such poor condition.
“I’d like to ask you a few—”
“Shhh!” They waved at me to be quiet. “Can’t you see we’re playing
kottabos
? He’s about to throw.”
“Oh.” I shut up.
Now that they mentioned it, I saw they lounged in a ring around a central point, where they’d placed the upright stand necessary for the party game called kottabos. The stand was half
the height of a man, a polished wooden pole set into a wide, bronze base. A small hook had been placed in the top of the pole, from which hung an ornate bronze disk. Carved into the disk was the image of Dionysos, the God of Wine.
One of the heralds drained his wine cup down to the dregs. Then, using only the forefinger of his right hand to hold the cup handle, he took careful aim and flung the dregs at the kottabos stand. The dregs sailed through the air as one alcoholic glob to hit the small bronze. The disk wobbled back and forth, once, twice, three times, then came loose of the hook and fell into the bronze base, where it landed with a loud metallic clatter.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!”
He pumped his hands in the air. If he’d won the Olympics he couldn’t have been any happier. I struck while there was joy all around.
“You heralds are the world’s greatest experts on sport,” I said.