by Gary Corby
The other man shook his head. “Too busy screaming to drink.”
“Oh, well. We’re hot enough here. You two”—he pointed at Markos and me—“you hold him down. I need the other two to keep his arm steady. Unlike you, they know what they’re doing.” He gave us a searching look. “Can you do it?”
Markos said, “Of course.”
I swallowed and nodded. I told myself we were saving this man’s life.
“Right. Keep his body still. Don’t worry about the legs; I’ll avoid them. Ignore the noise; this one’s a screamer.”
Markos and I made ready on either side of the driver. We pressed down.
“Harder. He’ll jerk like a dying fish.”
I pressed harder. The other two assistants held the arm with two strong hands each and grim expressions. The man at the brazier wrapped wet rags about the end of the bar to make a handle, pulled it out, and in a single smooth motion pushed it against the wound. It sizzled. I smelled the flesh burn and gagged.
“Hold him down!”
The man had been right; the driver jerked like a dying fish. I pushed with all my might and turned my head to avoid seeing what happened so close to my eyes.
When it was finished, the driver curled up in a ball and whimpered. The end of his arm was a blackened stump.
“That was awful,” I said to the man as he put the iron bar, now cool, back in the brazier. “But at least he’ll live.”
The man shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes they sicken anyway and die in a fever. Who knows? You said you wanted Iphicles. He’s in the bed at the end.”
Iphicles lay there and gasped. Niallos the team manager crouched beside and trickled cool water on his driver’s head. Niallos looked up as we approached.
“Is he all right?” I asked.
“Of course he’s not all right,” Niallos snapped. “Look at the man. He can barely breathe.”
Iphicles coughed, tried to scream but couldn’t, and coughed again. Flecks of blood spattered the face of Niallos.
“I’ll kill those bastards on the crew! Did you see the way the wheel came apart? Without being hit, even.”
“The chariot drove over some wreckage, and a body, on the first lap,” Markos pointed out. “Perhaps it was damaged then.”
Niallos spat his disdain. “Maybe. But the wheels are built to handle that, or they bloody well should be. It’s a chariot race, curse it, you expect to hit wreckage.”
Heraclides joined us.
I asked, “What are his chances, doctor?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes a man gets hit in the chest and the ribs cave in and then this happens. I was at the race. Iphicles took a big blow, and he didn’t let go. Those horses dragged him cruelly.”
“Iphicles did the right thing,” said Niallos. “If he’d let go, he’d have joined that fellow over there with the crushed arm, only he’d have lost his legs. Maybe worse.”
“Can he talk?” Markos asked.
“Doubt it.”
Iphicles moaned. The eyes rolled in his head.
I quickly knelt by his side and said, “Iphicles, is there something you wish to say?”
He nodded, slowly, and opened his mouth.
I said, “Markos, he’s going to speak!”
Markos said, “Zeus and Apollo favor us,” and leaned over, the better to hear.
Iphicles rolled toward me and coughed up a little blood.
He whispered, “My … my lucky whip …”
“He wants his whip.”
Niallos placed the whip in the right hand of Iphicles and gently closed his fingers about the handle.
Iphicles smiled for a moment and then gasped. I thought he must have cleared his airways. Then a great surge of blood came from his mouth and hit me right in the chest.
Iphicles died before our eyes.
I WALKED OUT, unable to stand it any longer. As soon as I emerged into clean air, I tried to wipe the sticky blood off my exomis, but it was no good. I undid the pins that held the material together, let it fall to the ground, and kicked it out of the way. I stalked off naked, with only the pins in my hand and anger at the Gods in my heart.
“Wait up there, Nicolaos.” Markos ran to catch up. He took my arm. “I don’t know about you, but I could use some wine about now. Let me buy you a drink.”
He led me toward the wine stalls of the agora, temporary, grossly overpriced stands there to rip off the tourists. Even so, it was hard not to enjoy the place. A normal agora is a fresh food market with household wares on the side; the agora at Olympia was an all-day carnival of entertainers and hot food sizzling in braziers.
A troupe of young women juggled balls. Markos and I stopped to watch in appreciation as various parts of the girls wobbled in time to the juggling. We tossed coins at their feet. A fat man sang and a thin man rode by while standing on the back of his horse. He flipped over to stand on his hands as the beast rode on. Strong men dressed as Heracles lifted heavy stones over their shoulders. A small man slipped through the crowd, and we came almost face-to-face. He took one look at me, said “Eek!,” and ran off. It was my own Heracles, the scrawny fellow who had attacked Diotima and me the day before. Crowds gathered wherever there was something to see, which was pretty much everywhere.
I shook my head. “I wonder how many thieves there are in this crowd.”
Markos laughed. “I’ve already caught two hands searching for my purse.”
He bought the first round, and we downed our cups in one go. I said, “This was a great idea, Markos. I’ve seen some ghastly things, but that tent was one of the worst sights ever.”
He said, “We need to talk.”
“So we do.”
I bought a small amphora for the second round. He carried the cups and I carried the wine, and together we walked up Mount Kronos. It was a long way to go, but we both felt the need to escape the crowds. We found dry rocks to sit upon and a view of Olympia worth the effort of the climb. He poured, and together we drank, watching the activity below as if it were some play put on for our benefit.
I felt better. Being slightly drunk helped.
Markos said, “Nicolaos, back in the forest last night, you said you didn’t know what an ephor was. I told you it matters a great deal, but I don’t think you believed me.”
“I didn’t,” I admitted.
“You’re an Athenian; I guess you know about political factions and hidden agendas.”
“Conspiracy is in our blood,” I had to concede.
“Yet you really don’t know how it works with us Spartans, do you?”
Markos explained. His explanation took so long I poured him another cup to keep his throat smooth.
“Sparta has two kings, not one like in any normal kingdom.”
“Why two?”
Markos shrugged. “That’s the way it’s always been. They’re descended from two different ancient lineages. Then there’s the Gerousia, a council of old men who advise the kings, twenty-eight of them. You have to be sixty to be invited into the Gerousia, and then you’re a member for life, if you can call it life when you’re that old.”
I nodded. “I know what you mean. Why do they always leave important decisions to the old men? Everyone knows your mind turns to water when you get old.”
“Tell me about it.” He sighed. “But to continue, then there are five ephors, and they’re the scary ones. They’re elected annually from among all the Spartans. Their job is to be … auditors. The ephors see to it that the kings rule according to the law. Whenever a king leaves Sparta, two ephors must accompany him. Any two ephors together can overrule one king. All five ephors can overrule both kings.”
“So the ephors are the real rulers of Sparta.”
“No, because the ephors have no power to command, they can only veto.”
“Then the two kings rule.”
“Only so long as the ephors agree with them.”
“Then what of the Gerousia?”
“They advise the kings in the backgr
ound and act as a final court. Did I mention the ephors consult the Gerousia on questions of the constitution?
“And I thought Athenian politics was complicated.”
“No, it’s really quite simple. The kings tend to be our progressive thinkers, because they have to rule for the long term. The Gerousia are conservatives to a man. The ephors are a throw of the dice; much depends on who’s elected in a given year, whether they support the kings, and we get progress, or block the kings, and we get conservatism. On any one issue the kings might have differing positions, in which case the ephors can veto one and support the other.”
I thought this over. “King Pleistarchus is here at Olympia. Where’s the other king?”
“King Archidamus is in Sparta. The Spartans like to keep one king at home at all times, in case of an emergency.”
“So useful to have a backup. Like having a spare knife.”
“Exactly. Your metaphor is more perfect than you know. That’s what our kings are: very dangerous knives. They’re capable of anything, for the good of Sparta.”
For the good of Sparta … the phrase resonated with a favorite saying of Pericles. He liked to justify his actions as being for the good of Athens.
I said, “There must be two ephors here with Pleistarchus.”
“Xenares and a fellow named Phalakrion. I wouldn’t call Phalakrion weak-willed, no one could ever say that of a Spartan, but he will go along with a strong opinion.”
“Xenares decides for them both.”
Markos nodded. “You see what I mean, Nicolaos? You do need to know about Spartan politics.”
“Thanks for taking the trouble, and call me Nico, will you? All my friends do.”
He smiled and said, “Nico.”
“I guess you’ve been looking into Arakos from the Spartan end?”
“Of course.”
“Tell me about him. If we’re lucky, this might turn out to be a run-of-the-mill domestic killing.”
“Then you’re out of luck already.” Markos grimaced. “Did you notice at the opening ceremony that Arakos had no father or brothers with him?”
“Yes?”
“Arakos was an orphan. His father was one of the Three Hundred who held the pass at Thermopylae, one of the heroes who died to the last man rather than surrender to the Persians. At the time, of course, Arakos was a babe in arms. There was a grown brother by a previous marriage, but the brother died in the fighting later. Our victim was raised by the state.”
“Tough childhood.”
“Yes and no. The orphans of the Three Hundred received special attention. But it makes things tricky for you and me. To assault a child of the Three Hundred is an insult to all Sparta. That makes this murder political.”
It was my turn to shrug. “It was political already.”
“True enough. But there are Spartans who are going to take this personally.”
“Did you know Arakos before this?” I asked.
“Not the way you know the accused. No.”
I paused. “Tell me, do you think Timodemus killed Arakos?”
“Not enough evidence,” Markos said promptly, earning my immediate approval. “But on what we’ve got, the answer is probably yes.”
“We don’t have anything.”
“Nico, we might have to agree to disagree on our politics, and the Gods and all men know your city and mine are mortal rivals, but fortunately we don’t have to agree on such things to run an investigation. Surely we two can agree on facts, even if our interpretations are at odds?”
“I was about to suggest the same thing,” I said. The shared danger on the hippodrome had brought us together, and Markos struck me as a man very like myself. “But Markos, what if we find Timodemus is not the killer?”
Markos shrugged a third time. “Then that’s what I report, and it’s up to my leaders to make of it what they will. More important, Nico, what if we prove your friend killed Arakos?”
I gulped wine, and it went down the wrong way. “In that case,” I choked, “it’s what I report, and Timo is a dead man. But I repeat, there’s nothing connecting Timo with the scene.”
Markos nodded. “I was sure you’d say that. You seem to be a man much like myself.” He hesitated. “I … er … I’m not sure you’re going to like this, but I know if it were me I’d want all the evidence …”
“Yes?” I prompted.
“I’m afraid that connection you mentioned exists. The first thing I did after I left the scene was search the tent of Arakos. I found this.” He handed me an ostrakon, a pottery shard into which a note had been scratched with the point of a knife. People used ostraka all the time to write short notes. This one was larger than normal.
Timodemus says this to Arakos: I offer to meet you in the woods across the river tonight.
As I read, wild cheering erupted from the stadion behind us. Someone had just won an Olympic crown.
“MARKOS HAS A perfect set of evidence.” I groaned. “I’m sure he only showed me that ostrakon to rub it in.”
“It doesn’t look good, does it?” said Diotima. “Maybe he’s hoping you’ll give up?”
I’d gone to consult with her at once, to reveal my fears and hear her news. We’d met at the agora to compare plans and to eat honeycomb. Diotima had discovered a stall that sold the sweetest food you could find in Hellas. On our previous job, we’d both been spoiled by the decadent Persian desserts, but Diotima in particular couldn’t get enough of sweet foods now. It was a good thing she was an heiress, because I could never have afforded the stuff. We sat on rocks with honeycomb in our hands and on our lips and sticking our teeth together. It made kisses an interesting challenge.
“We’re doing this the wrong way,” Diotima said. “We have to find realistic evidence against someone. Someone other than Timodemus, that is.”
“Good idea,” I said. “How do you suggest we do it?”
“I only think of the plans. It’s up to you to make them work.”
I said, “If Timodemus wanted to destroy Arakos in a fair fight, why wouldn’t he wait a mere four days for the pankration? Then he could kill Arakos in full view of thousands of men and not only get away with it but even be praised for his technique.”
“That’s easy,” said Diotima. “Because Timodemus didn’t think he could win.” She saw my expression and said at once, “Sorry, Nico, but that’s what Markos will say: Timodemus decided on an early murder because he didn’t think he could win in the ring.”
“Timo had already beaten Arakos, at the Nemean Games.”
“Maybe the contest at Nemea was lucky. Maybe your friend didn’t think he could do it again.”
I knew she was wrong, but I couldn’t prove it.
Diotima had been checking the evidence at the women’s camp while I dealt with the men. After all, Timodemus had been arrested there. I said, “Did you discover if anything suspicious happened at the women’s camp?”
“Among hundreds of drunk men looking for sex? What do you think? Everything that happened that night was suspicious.”
“Isn’t that reverse logic?”
“I asked among the pornoi,” Diotima said. “Not easy, by the way. The girls are all exhausted.” She finished licking her own fingers clean and began on mine, taking each and sucking on it gently. The effect was … distracting.
“Late nights?” I asked, trying to keep my mind on the subject and failing miserably. We were out of sight of anyone else; I put my free arm around her and cupped her breast.
“Doing a roaring trade. The more popular ones had men queuing outside the tents. Timo’s story that he blundered into Klymene’s tent rings true. It happened to me, you’ll recall; it could have happened to Klymene, too.”
I played with her nipple beneath the material of her chiton. Diotima breathed a little more heavily.
“Did anyone spot Timo?” I asked.
“One man among many? No. But one of the girls did see someone interesting.”
“Oh?”
&n
bsp; “Arakos.”
“What!”
I unhanded her. Diotima grabbed my hand and put it firmly back.
“One of the pornoi saw Arakos in the women’s camp.”
“We’d better see her at once.”
“No, Nico, we have to go to my tent at once.”
“Why?”
Diotima gasped. “Because my other nipple is feeling jealous. The rest of me needs attention, too. Come on. Quickly!”
“WHAT I REALLY want to be,” said Petale the pornê, “is a hetaera. Those girls have it made: their own house, regular clients, big money.” She twisted a stray brunette tress around her little finger and looked thoughtful. “I’m working my way up, gonna have my own place someday.”
Would Petale make it? I glanced at Diotima for her reaction, because Diotima was the daughter of a hetaera, and a highly successful one at that. Diotima might cringe at her mother’s history, but she knew the business as few respectable women did. When Diotima nodded, ever so slightly, I knew she rated Petale a chance to reach the top of her profession. I wondered why; it certainly couldn’t be based on her possessions.
We sat in Petale’s tent, patched and barely large enough for its purpose. A man could stand if he hunched. A couple could lie on the rug, a trifle worn but thick enough and scattered with cushions to cover the stains and the spots where moths had eaten holes. Petale had produced cheap pottery cups and served us wine, which somehow she had managed to chill despite the heat of the day. She had served us with grace, and perhaps this was what Diotima saw. Petale was poor—everything she owned could be rolled up within the canvas of her tent—but she did the best with what she had.
I glanced at Diotima. She glanced at me.
“Did I say something funny? How come you’re both smiling?” Petale asked.
“We’re naturally happy people,” I said. “Where are you from, Petale?”
“Corinth.”
“Long way to haul your tent,” Diotima commented.