Sacred Games (7 page)

“Yes, it’s very confusing, isn’t it?” Socrates shrugged. “Because on the face of it, only Timodemus could have killed Arakos.”

“Whose side are you on here?” I demanded.

Socrates looked puzzled. “But Nico, isn’t the idea to work out the truth?”

I ground my teeth and managed not to shout at him.

“Sorry, Nico,” he said meekly.

“The boy makes sense again,” said Pleistarchus. “The only man ever to best Arakos in the pankration was Timodemus of Athens. Who else could have taken him on without a weapon and killed him?”

Unfortunately the King of Sparta was right: what Socrates said made sense.

“Would you all excuse me for a moment?” I marched over to Timodemus, grabbed him by the arm. The guards watched me drag him out of their earshot.

“Did you kill him?” I hissed in the lowest voice.

“Nico!” he said, obviously hurt. “How can you ask such a thing?”

“I’m asking,” I said through gritted teeth, “because when I defend you, I need to know what I have to deal with. Are they going to find any evidence against you? Tell me true, Timo, and swear by Zeus.”

“I didn’t kill Arakos. I swear this by Zeus, may he destroy me if I lie.”

“All right.” I let go of his arm and walked back to the body, stood over it, turned around. I wanted to see what Arakos saw, the moment before he was attacked.

Another man strode into the clearing; he pushed his way into the inner ring. The new arrival stood opposite me over the freshly murdered corpse. He glanced down, and said, “It looks like the pankration started early this year.”

Xenares said, “None of your wit please, Markos. You can see this is a crisis.”

The man Xenares had named Markos was slightly taller than me, which meant neither tall nor short. He stood with a straight back, his face by torchlight pleasant but unremarkable. Our gazes met, and he smiled. His intelligent eyes were so deeply blue as to be almost black.

“We seem to have a problem here,” he said to me, as if he’d walked into a room where someone had spilled the wine.

I didn’t know who this Markos was, but Xenares had called for him, and that made him an enemy. For that matter, I didn’t know who Xenares was, except that he hated Athens, and a king of Sparta treated him with respect.

“There is another issue,” said King Pleistarchus. “It’s important to determine whether Arakos died fighting.”

“Why do you care?” Pericles said. “It doesn’t make him any less murdered.”

“It is the custom of our people. If my fellow Spartan died in combat then he is entitled to a headstone with his name upon it, so he will be remembered. But if he died without a fight, then his name is to be forgotten.”

I said, “He was beaten, as you see, but there are signs of a long struggle. Look at these bruises, here and here and here.” I touched different places on Arakos’s arms and neck. “All we have to do is look for a man who’s been in a fight.”

Markos said, “Of course there are signs of a struggle on him, he’s a pankratist! He’s been doing nothing but practice fighting for the last ten months.”

“Oh yes, of course.” I had no choice but to admit it; Markos was right and looked alert, while I had just made myself look like an idiot in front of these men.

“The same will go for Timodemus and every other contestant,” Markos continued. “There’s no point searching for evidence of a fight on any of our suspects.”

“What about looking for recent, fresh bruises?” a voice in the darkness asked.

“Was there anyone who didn’t train this morning?” Markos asked reasonably.

That was true. Why, even Timodemus, who had been thrown out of the contest, had picked a fight this morning. With me.

I wiped my hands, though there was very little blood on them—the wounds of Arakos had not bled much and were already quite dry—but there was another problem. “I’ve touched a dead body. I’m ritually unclean. Is there seawater?”

Exelon the Chief Judge said, “The water of the Kladeos is considered cleansing. You can wash on the way back to camp.”

During this conversation the other nine judges of the Games had trickled into the clearing, in varying states of wakefulness, and been apprised of what had happened. Now the Chief Judge turned to them, and they muttered together for an interminable time while some of the most powerful men in Hellas waited in silence.

“Here is our judgment,” said the Chief Judge, turning back to the main group. “The evidence against Timodemus, son of Timonous, is strong. For the murder of Arakos he is to be imprisoned in one of the ancient disused buildings, and after the closing ceremony he is to be tied hand and foot and thrown to his death from Mount Typaeum.”

Mount Typaeum is a place of high cliffs along the road from Elis. To be thrown from it is the punishment reserved for women who sneak into the Games. It is a particularly shameful death.

Pericles turned to the judges and said, in a voice trained to oratory, “This is not according to the law, which states there may be no executions during the Truce.”

“That is so,” the Chief Judge said. “But this is Day One, and the Sacred Games end on Day Five. Soon thereafter the Truce ends, when the Hellenes have had enough time to return to their homes. We’ll give ourselves dispensation to act
early, while everyone’s still here to witness the consequences for sacrilege.”

Pericles said, “The men who compete in the pankration are issued a blanket pardon for murder. This is the law.”

Xenares spoke up. “The law provides immunity if one athlete kills another during the competition.”

Pericles opened his mouth to protest, but the Chief Judge held up his hand. “Wait, I’ve not finished. The Athenians raise seeds of doubt regarding the guilt of Timodemus. Perhaps they will grow to bear fruit, perhaps not. The Athenians may nominate a man to investigate this crime and, if they can, clear the name of their athlete. They have until the end of the Games to prove Timodemus innocent.”

“Four days is not enough time,” Pericles said.

“It’s all the time you have,” the Chief Judge said without sympathy. “After that, the people return to their own cities, and every witness and any suspects will be gone.”

Pericles could only nod at the truth of that.

Xenares scoffed, “Such an investigation can have only one outcome. Of course the Athenians will whitewash their own man.”

“You’re right, Xenares.” Pleistarchus turned to the Chief Judge. “Xenares, who is an ephor of Sparta, makes a good point. Sparta cannot accept this.”

I wondered if the Chief Judge would threaten Pleistarchus the way he had Pericles, but instead he held up his hand in a placating gesture and turned back to his fellow judges. They conferred once more, in low voices. I strained to hear what they said but to no avail, until Exelon the Chief Judge announced, “We, the Judges of the Games, will appoint a third city to investigate this crime.”

Pericles and Pleistarchus both snorted at that.

“Every important city in Hellas is either for Athens or against her or allied with Sparta or allied against!” Pericles exclaimed.

Pleistarchus nodded. “For once I must agree with Pericles.
There are no neutral cities of any importance. Moreover, if you appoint some minor city to oversee the investigation, the Athenians will immediately put pressure on them. The Athenians will offer generous trade agreements to save their man, or threaten to impose extra import taxes on the city’s merchant ships if they find against. That’s the way of Athenians, to cheat with their money.”

I nodded to myself. Yes, that was exactly what Pericles would do.

Pericles said, face-to-face with Pleistarchus, “And I suppose if the judges selected a minor city, you Spartans wouldn’t threaten to attack them if they don’t see things your way? The only cities free from Spartan bullying are the powerful ones or the ones far from Sparta on the islands in the Aegean Sea. The judges must select one of them to investigate.”

Pleistarchus objected, “That’s no good. They’re all pro-Athenian.”

“Because we protect them from the Persians,” said Pericles, “while you Spartans refuse to venture so far from your homes.”

“You have the ships, we don’t,” said Pleistarchus. “I don’t recall Athens whining so much when you needed us to defeat the Persians for you. If you protect the islands with your ships, it’s because we protected you on land with our army.”

“We fought the Persians together,” said Pericles. “And so did every other Hellene city. There was nothing special about Sparta.”

“Except that without us you would certainly have been conquered. My father died in that war, Athenian.”

“So did many fathers.”

“Enough. Silence, both of you.” The Chief Judge looked from Pericles to Pleistarchus, scowling. “This squabble between the Athenians and Spartans is irrelevant. You will wait while the judges confer. Again.”

The Chief Judge and his fellow judges stepped apart and spoke
in low tones to one another in the semidarkness. The rest of us waited in silence.

Pericles caught my eye. As usual I had no idea what he thought. Pericles could hide his true thoughts as easily as most men hide their dagger. What Pericles saw in me I don’t know, but what I felt was confusion for the contradictory evidence and fear for my friend Timodemus.

The Chief Judge returned. He stamped his staff to get our attention. “This is our final judgment. Athens and Sparta both speak truth. There is no city to investigate this crime that is beyond the influence of either one of you. Therefore here is our decision. Let the Spartans assign their own investigator. Let the Athenians, too, have their own man investigate the crime. The Spartan and the Athenian shall see the same evidence and hear the same witnesses. Both will swear before Zeus Herkios to show no prejudice to their own city, to accept no bribes, and to do their best to discover the truth. Both will swear the oath of the Olympic contestants, at first light, on the steps of the Bouleterion.”

Pericles nodded with visible reluctance.

Pleistarchus considered for a moment. Xenares the ephor grabbed the arm of his King. There was furious whispering between them. Xenares was obviously unhappy and wouldn’t let go. Pleistarchus shook him off. The King of Sparta nodded agreement to the judges.

The Chief Judge said, “Name your men.”

Xenares the ephor spoke for Sparta. He said, “Sparta nominates Markos, son of Glaukippos.”

“Very well. Pericles?” the Chief Judge prompted.

“Athens nominates Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus.”

“Then it is decided. We grant you until the end of the Games. You will convene before us to argue your cases after the closing ceremony. If you cannot prove his innocence, Timodemus of Athens will be thrown from the mountain.”

I
REMAINED TO
examine the scene. So did Markos. I said nothing to him; he said nothing to me. In the absence of outraged Olympic officials, the forest was eerily silent.

Markos and I both wandered about the perimeter of the clearing, looking high and low. I had no idea what I was searching for, and I doubt he did either, but I was cursed if I’d be the first to leave the scene of the crime. If Markos felt the same way, it was going to be a long night.

He whistled cheerful hymns, which quickly became irritating.

Just when I thought I couldn’t stand it any longer, my eye caught on something. Ten steps down the track to Olympia was the longest snake I’d ever seen. I halted and stared.

The snake didn’t move.

Maybe it wasn’t a snake, maybe it was something else. A dark rope?

I walked down the way to touch whatever it was. When it didn’t leap at me, I picked it up. It was thin leather, and as I pulled on it, something longer and heavier emerged from beneath the bushes.

“What’s this?” Markos had seen me.

Now I knew what I had. “It’s a whip.” I held it by the wooden handle, about which a leather grip had been wound.

“Were there any whiplashings on Arakos?” Markos asked.

The Spartans had removed their fallen comrade. Fortunately I had examined the body carefully. I cast my mind back over what I’d seen. I said there’d been plenty of beating marks, but none that were long lacerations, nothing that looked like a whip mark.

Markos took the whip from my hands and flicked his wrist. The thong entangled among leaves and branches no matter what direction he faced. “It’s long.”

So it was. The referees in the pankration use whips to control the contestants, but a referee’s whip is shorter and less flexible.

“What’s a whip doing here?” I wondered.

He shrugged. “I suppose someone must have dropped it.”

“Yes, but who carries a whip around Olympia?”

The Spartan shrugged. “It might have nothing to do with the murder. I’ll show it around, see if anyone recognizes it.”

I snatched back the whip. “I’ll keep it, if you don’t mind.”

“What if I mind?”

“Finders keepers.”

“T
HANKS A LOT
, Pericles,” I said, after I’d tramped back to the main grounds. I’d caught up with Pericles at the Bouleterion. The moon was on the way down. Soon Apollo would rise upon his chariot of fire. “But I must warn you, I’m not sure I can do this.”