by Gary Corby
“Who’s Milo of Croton?” Diotima asked.
“He was the strongest man who ever lived, barring Heracles himself. You’ve never heard of Milo?” said the fake Heracles.
“This is our first Olympics,” I said.
“This is my fifth.” He smiled. He’d scored a point over us. “I’m from Elis. I come to every Games.”
I inspected the club. It really was a solid piece of twisted wood. I handed it back.
“You should be careful with that; you might hurt someone.”
The club hung limply from his hands. “It’s just a game. I’ll be more careful. So, what do you think of the festival agora?”
“I don’t know,” said Diotima. “You’re standing in my way.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Fake Heracles stepped back to reveal a vista of the festival ground of Olympia.
Men and women in gaudy festival clothes moved like a flowing rainbow among the stalls and displays. Jugglers wandered among the crowd, tossing and catching balls with blinding speed. Flute girls swayed and played their lilting tunes.
“Oh, Nico,” Diotima breathed. She took my hand and stepped into the swirling crowd.
We wandered from stall to stall. Vendors had come from all over Hellas to sell every imaginable thing: fine jewelry, beautiful cloths of many colors and patterns; bronze ware that shone in the sun, plus fine food. A man stirred a large kettle of sizzling spiced lentils. His wife handed out steaming bowls to those with coin. Every second stall sold wine.
I bought silver earrings for Diotima, because they matched her headband, and a bronze mirror because I knew she didn’t have one with her. The earrings were in the shape of bears, the animal sacred to the goddess Artemis, whom my Diotima serves as priestess.
We came across three more Heracleses. One of them lifted a vast block of stone, his every muscle straining to burst through his skin, before he tossed it over his shoulder to the applause of the onlookers.
“This is what I imagine it must be like every day for the Gods on Mount Olympus,” Diotima said. “Can you imagine walking through such a crowd and coming face-to-face with a goddess?”
“I already have,” I told her, and she blushed.
Naked acrobats tumbled and somersaulted past us.
I put my arm around Diotima’s waist and squeezed tight. It wouldn’t have been proper to kiss my wife in full public view, but the temptation was almost overwhelming.
“Why don’t we go back to your tent for some tumbling of our own?” I whispered into her ear.
“What will you do if Pythax catches us? He’s already furious with you.”
“I’ll point out you can only break a pot once,” I told her.
Diotima smiled, but she hesitated. “I’d love to, Nico, but … let’s use your tent. I wouldn’t want the other women to think you were a custom … er, that is, not my …”
Diotima had a horror of anything that could possibly be misconstrued to suggest she was a professional woman, as her mother once had been. Her background, paradoxically, had made her more prim and proper than the most natural-born of citizen women.
I said, “Wouldn’t it look even worse if you were seen walking into a tent in the men’s camp?”
“Men don’t notice. The women have nothing better to do than spy on one another and gossip.”
When we returned to my tent, a message awaited me, scrawled untidily into a wax tablet and left to lie on the ground. It read:
Pericles says this to Nicolaos: Timodemus has been reinstated. The Spartans are furious. Keep a close eye on your friend.
Diotima had rested her chin on my arm and read along with me.
“I’ll have to go at once.” I sighed.
“How long do you think this tablet has been here?” Diotima asked.
“Could be as long as half the afternoon.”
“Then he can wait a little longer,” said Diotima. She pressed her body against me, put her arms about my neck, and raised her face to be kissed. I was instantly aroused. I pulled the shoulder pins from her dress, and it fell to the floor.
“NOW TIMO, DO you promise me you’ll go into that tent and not come out until morning?”
Timo laughed. “What are you, Nico, my mother?”
A mother wouldn’t have trailed as close to Timodemus as I had that afternoon. I’d caught up with him at the gym, where he was being congratulated by friends. The friends had been strangely absent in the morning, when Timo was in trouble, but were exceedingly visible after the judges announced his rehabilitation. Man after man said that Timo was sure to win, for he must have the favor of the Gods, and all of Athens was behind him.
I knew how uncomfortable such talk made him feel. I waved from the back of the crowd and said in a loud voice that Timo was wanted at the Bouleterion. Timo edged away, and we made our escape. When we were out of sight, we diverted to the agora, where I bought a few wineskins to celebrate, and we found a quiet spot by the river.
We were both in a more relaxed state than we had been in the morning. We stayed there until it was well and truly dark, after which we meandered back to the campsite. An athlete needs his sleep.
When we came to Timo’s tent, I insisted he stay there and not go wandering about. “I promised Pericles I’d keep an eye on you. I can’t do that if you go partying across Olympia in the middle of the night. What if some Spartan tries to get revenge?”
“You are protecting me?” Timodemus was too polite to point out that he had beaten me to a pulp that morning. Instead his eyes lingered on my bruised neck and my aching knee—Diotima had wrapped a wet rag around it to reduce the swelling—and he smiled.
“I thought you were sticking with me to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid again.”
“Perhaps a little of both,” I conceded. “I know you could destroy me with your little finger, Timo. But has it occurred to you that even the weakest man could knife you as you sleep? Or attack you from behind as you walk through the crowds? I can watch your back. Pericles said he spent political capital on you, and he doesn’t like his property damaged.”
Timodemus laughed. “All right, Nico. I’ll stay in the tent.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Good night, then.”
Timodemus stepped into his tent and closed the flap.
I settled down outside and listened to the night. All over Olympia, men partied. Bonfires lit up the night in every direction. Sweet smoke drifted in the light breeze. Men sang. Women laughed. Somewhere close by, music played, growing louder.
A komos line appeared, happy shouting men and intoxicated women. Aulos players danced alongside and fingered their V-shaped flutes with both hands. The revelers kicked in time to the music and snaked their way down the street. They waved at me to join them, one a lovely redheaded woman, but I shook my head and smiled. The line passed around the corner and out of the camp, leaving me alone once more.
I was missing the biggest party in the world, all because my best friend couldn’t be trusted not to strangle people. I hoped my sacrifice was worth it. I made a mental note to remind Timodemus of this every day for the rest of his life.
What was Diotima doing while I sat here in the dark? She was probably stuck in her tent, reading a scroll or throwing knives, or—a sudden thought struck me, and my breath tightened—maybe she’d met some handsome man and gone off to a party. Diotima liked men’s chests. It was a particular thing for her, and this was the sort of place where she’d see plenty of them.
I put my hands under my exomis and checked my chest. I had to admit, there were men with broader, better muscled chests, especially around here. Maybe I should ask Timo’s coach Dromeus for some exercises to make my own chest more manly.
But that would have to wait until tomorrow. It was getting late. Even the parties in the distance had quietened as the drunks fell by the wayside.
I yawned and lay back to relax.
“Are you all right?” a voice said in my ear.
I
sat bolt upright. A man stood beside me. It was Festianos, Timo’s uncle. His cheeks were flushed enough that it showed in the bright moonlight. A garland of flowers sat askew atop his thinning hair.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said when he recognized me. “You’re Timo’s friend, aren’t you? I thought you must be a drunk who’d passed out beside our tents. You were asleep.”
“I wasn’t asleep. I merely rested my eyes.”
Festianos laughed. “Then you’re one of the few men who snores when he’s awake.”
I never snore. But Festianos had worried me. I lifted Timo’s tent flap quietly to peer inside. There was Timodemus, on his camp bed. The blanket that covered him rose and fell softly. I let the flap fall back.
“It’s good news about the lad, isn’t it?” Festianos said.
“Yes, it is.”
“We’re very proud of him, my brother and I.”
I yawned. I couldn’t stop myself.
“Why don’t you go get some sleep?” Festianos said.
“I have to keep an eye on Timodemus.”
“I can do that. Old men like me don’t need as much sleep as you young ones.”
I hesitated. My head ached. My eyes felt like someone had rubbed grit in them. I could indeed use some sleep, and wouldn’t I be a better guard for Timodemus in the morning if I was rested? He was safe enough with his uncle.
“I’ll do that. Thanks, Festianos.”
I left him sitting outside their tents, with his head back, the garland circlet crooked on his head, watching the moon and stars.
I STAGGERED INTO the small tent I shared with my brother Socrates. Our father snored in an even smaller one beside us. Socrates was already asleep. It was chilly. I pulled my traveling cloak over me and edged close enough to my brother to steal some of his warmth. I was so tired I don’t remember falling asleep.
“Wake up! Wake up, Nico!” That was Socrates, his voice anxious.
“Huh. What?” I rolled over. “Go to sleep, Socrates.”
“Get up!” Someone swore mightily and kicked me in the back. Hard. Not Socrates.
I sat bolt upright while my hand scrabbled around for a knife it couldn’t find. “Who is it?”
My eyes focused. Two men stood in our tent. Both wore light armor but held no weapons in hand. The one leaned over me, and I wished he hadn’t because he’d been eating garlic. “Get up. You’re wanted.”
I struggled not to gag. “By whom?”
I expected him to say Pericles.
“Timodemus asked for you. Better hurry if you want to be there for the death.”
I moved.
I grabbed my exomis and pulled it over my head as we marched. The almost-full moon was high, the sky cloudless. It was easy to step among the tents and equipment left lying on the ground. A few men were still awake, clustered around fires drinking, talking, singing, and arguing. They watched us pass, the two guards and me, with Socrates trailing behind. I let him come; there wasn’t time to stop to argue with him.
To my surprise we left the Athenian camp altogether and followed the path that snaked past the camp of the Spartans, and I choked with fear. Had they dragged Timodemus within?
Apparently not, because we hurried by the entrance without pause.
The Sacred Truce meant even mortal enemies could pitch their tents side by side in perfect safety, but still the Spartans arranged their own tents in regular clusters, and they left nothing loose on the ground for men to trip over if there were a sudden call to arms. I suppose they knew no other way.
The guards led me to the river Kladeos, which flows north to south along the western edge of Olympia. We crossed the ford without a word to the sentries, who in silence watched us pass by. The water was chilled and moved with relative speed, enough that a hurrying man might slip, but the people of Elis had long ago placed strong stepping-stones; it was easy to cross with only damp feet.
The path on the other side forked. To the left was the women’s camp, to the right a forest that had been there in the days of Heracles. We went right.
I could see our destination now. A group of men clustered among the trees, easy to spot because two or three carried torches despite the moonlight.
I discerned a lump on the ground. The lump became a man, the man a body, lying all too still.
A body large enough to look like a mound.
A man with his back to us turned as we stepped into what I now realized was a small clearing.
“You’re too late,” said the Chief Judge of the Games. “Arakos has died.”
THE FLICKER OF the torchlight across his face made the Chief Judge look like one of the Furies, and he was approximately as angry. He held in his right hand the badge of his office: a long staff, which forked into a Y, and this he stamped into the ground.
“Who are you?” he demanded of me.
“I am Nicolaos son of Sophroniscus, of Athens,” I said.
“This is the man Timodemus requested, Exelon,” said one the guards. “You said to bring him.”
“Oh. So I did.” Exelon the Chief Judge studied me for a long moment. “You’re a young man. Why?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll grow out of it.”
“I mean, why did Timodemus call for you? Why not a responsible older man?”
“Is Timodemus also dead, sir?” I asked, anxious for my friend. “Is he hurt? Where is he?”
I looked around. I counted at least thirteen men within the clearing, in various states of visibility, depending on their proximity to the torches and their obscurity behind the thick vegetation. The moon was bright above us, so that the clearing itself was well lit. Yet the coverage of leaves upon the surrounding trees was such that in some parts of the perimeter I couldn’t see if anyone was there. The body lay in one of those shadows.
The Chief Judge of the Games said, “You are here at the request of the accused. It seems only fair to give him a chance to explain, if he can.”
“Timodemus is accused?”
At that moment Pericles bustled into the clearing, accompanied by One-Eye, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I agreed with Exelon the Chief Judge on one point: this was no place for a young man to represent Athens.
“One-Eye’s told me what happened.” The usually elegant Pericles was unkempt by his high standards. His hair was uncombed. He wore no himation—Pericles owned one made of the finest Milesian wool, and he normally would not be seen dead out of doors without it. He did wear a formal chiton, but it was smudged and crumpled. Was it possible that Pericles, like any normal man, dropped his clothes on the floor when he went to bed? He’d forgotten to put on sandals.
Exelon banged his forked staff on the ground again and said, “I blame Athens for this disaster, Pericles. Your man attacked Arakos this morning, and now Arakos is murdered.”
“A scuffle in the morning does not necessarily mean murder in the evening,” Pericles said.
“There’s more,” said the Chief Judge. He moved a step to the side.
Over the shoulder of the Judge I saw Timodemus with his head bowed and a guard to either side of him. The guards held his arms tight. It was the second relief for me for that night. I’d been afraid that Timodemus too lay dead or dying.
Timodemus looked up at that moment, and our eyes met. His were unreadable. The expression on his face was identical to the one he wore in the pankration, the same expression I’d seen right before we’d fought that very morning.
Pericles said, “What do you have to say about this, Timodemus?”
“There’s nothing I can say,” Timodemus said. “I didn’t kill him. I haven’t even seen Arakos since this morning.”
I said to the Chief Judge, “Did you find Timodemus here?”
“Close by, in the women’s camp. Hiding.”
“Hiding?” That didn’t sound like Timodemus.
“Guards found him in the tent of Klymene, the High Priestess of Demeter,” the Chief Judge said grimly.
Uh-oh. The Priestess of Demeter was an integ
ral part of the Sacred Games; the contests could not be held without her. If Timodemus had hurt or polluted the priestess by his presence, then the Games would be delayed, and ten thousand angry sports fans would butcher Timo before the day was out. I decided not to ask the obvious question.
“What he was doing in the women’s camp is irrelevant,” said Exelon. The Chief Judge seemed equally reluctant to follow that line of thought. “The fact is the women’s camp is the shortest of runs from where we stand, and that is meaningful in the extreme.”
“The implication is obvious,” Pericles said. “But that’s all it is: an implication. How many other men were in the women’s camp tonight? Hundreds, at least, probably thousands. No court would convict a man for that.”
“You’re not in Athens now, with your courts and your rhetorical tricks,” said Exelon. “This is Olympia, where the Ten Judges decide. It’s in our power to ban Athens from the next Olympics.”
Pericles said at once, “I apologize, Exelon. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
Pericles contrite was a sight to behold, but not at the cost of Timodemus, which was the way this was headed. Something had to be done. I asked, “How did Arakos die?”
“See for yourself.” The Chief Judge stepped back to let me pass.
The body lay in half darkness. I knelt down. It was impossible to see detail.
“Can I have some light here?”
One of the torchbearers stepped over beside me, and suddenly the scene was revealed. The flame was fresh and still smoked considerably and burned with a strong yellow light that was hot and eerie in how it revealed the ghastly corpse.
Arakos had been laid out straight, a scarlet cloak placed under his head. It was the standard-issue cloak beloved of the Spartans. Blood had dribbled from his crushed nose and mouth and now dried on his cheek. His jaw hung slack, and there were bloody gaps where teeth had been. But the worst was his eyes had been gouged out, both of them. The sockets were bloody holes.
I looked behind me at once, to where Socrates stood. He’d never seen violent death before. Well, now he had. I worried what effect the ugly sight had on my little brother.