Sacred Games

by Gary Corby

  One-Eye shuddered.

  “It was a Spartan who gouged out my eye. He claimed it was an accident, which made him a liar as well as a cheat. All he got was a beating, while I … I could have been an Olympic victor.”

  One-Eye let go of me, and I staggered back.

  “So guess what. I don’t give a shit about any dead Spartan. But hear me on this, friend of my son.” In his rage, the spittle flew from his mouth. I felt it spatter my face. “Timodemus gets his chance to go where I failed. And that means you’ve got to get him out in time for the pankration.”

  “What if I can’t?”

  “Then it doesn’t matter whether he lives or dies, because his whole life will have been wasted.”

  “NICE FRIENDS YOU have,” Markos said as we walked away.

  I was shaking. All these years I’d known Timodemus—been at his house, played there as a boy—yet never had I talked to One-Eye long enough to realize what a driven, brutal man he could be.

  “The father of Timodemus isn’t my friend.”

  I recalled the horrible sight of Arakos as he lay faceup in the dirt. There’d been ugly red holes where his eyes had been torn out, holes that matched the terrible scar in One-Eye’s own face, and One-Eye had admitted a Spartan disfigured him. I hoped Markos didn’t make the same connection.

  Markos and I had to push our way through the entrance to the stadion. The way was narrow, the crowd immense. It squeezed the shambling men to two abreast, down a roofed passage not more than fifteen paces long.

  A voice beside us said, “The Hellenes pass through the birth canal of the entrance into the clean, open world of the stadion.”

  We both turned, startled, to see Pindar at my elbow. Even in this crowd he carried the manner of a priest. Men about us gave him room, and he slid in to join us, with Markos to his left and me to his right.

  “I noticed the two of you push your way into the queue,” he said. “I was intrigued, of course, so I slipped in behind. Are you young gentlemen hot on the heels of the malefactor?”

  “If Zeus favors us,” I said, and then, hearing my own words, said, “Curse it, Pindar, I’m beginning to sound like you.”

  “That would be a distinct improvement.”

  “Did I hear you say ‘birth canal’?” Markos said.

  “Consider the layout, my friends,” Pindar said, as the crowd of which we were a part shuffled into the tunnel. “The goddess Hera—she who is wife to Zeus and matron to the Gods—her temple opens directly onto this path down which we tread. Men are squeezed into the short tunnel before us, whence we emerge into the open stadion. So Hera gives birth to us all.”

  I was aghast.

  “You’re not serious, are you, Pindar?” Markos said.

  “It’s a metaphor, lads. Poets are very keen on metaphors. They sell like honey cakes. I thought of the birth canal idea many Olympiads ago, when I was a young man. I’ve always wanted to get it into a victory song, but I never found the opportunity.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Markos said. “Unless they introduce Olympic childbirthing as an event.”

  “No sillier than Olympic detecting,” Pindar pointed out. “And I must beg to disagree with you on the chance of Olympic childbirth. What would our illustrious ancestors say if they knew these days we have an Olympic mule race? Never underestimate the power of human stupidity, my boy. After the acts of the Gods, the mistakes of mortals are the single greatest decider of our fates.”

  “Did you really write a victory song for the mule race?”

  “I did. But I used one of my generics.”

  “Generics?”

  “I prepare them in advance and then fill in the victor’s name later.”

  We found Festianos where One-Eye had guessed he’d be, standing at the back of the crowd on the low hill that ran the length of the stadion. Which was a good thing because we could never have pushed through the densely packed men to find him anywhere else. The hill had been covered in grass when I first saw it two days ago. Now I felt nothing but bare dirt between my toes. Ten thousand men walking across it for two days had had the expected effect.

  “Festianos,” I said. He looked up at me in surprise, then to my right where Markos stood. His eyes narrowed.

  Festianos had the family height, which is to say, not much, but unlike One-Eye and Timo, Festianos had let himself run to fat. He was pudgy and entirely bald. His eyes had dark rings around them. I guessed that was due to excessive partying.

  “We need to talk to you,” I said to him.

  Suddenly my feet felt wet. I looked down. I’d trodden into a puddle where someone had pissed where he stood rather than miss the Games. I glanced behind me. A man with a deep black beard grinned back.

  “Does it have to be now?” Festianos said. “They’re in the middle of the pentathlon.”

  There were no athletes on the field, which meant they were between events. The pentathletes are permitted a short break in between each of the five events—discus, javelin, long jump, wrestling, and running.

  Droplets of sweat had appeared on Markos’s brow. I, too, was sweating freely. The men were packed in like sheep, and the heat that rose from the bodies was incredible. It was the middle of the day, but anyone who wore a hat had it torn off by the men standing behind.

  “Where are they up to?” Markos asked. He seemed to be easily distracted by the sport.

  “They’ve finished the discus and the javelin. The long jump will start at any moment.”

  Even as Festianos said it, the athletes emerged from the tunnel carrying their weights, accompanied by an aulos player with his V-shaped flute. They walked single file across the stadion to the long side immediately before us, where the skamma lay, a long strip of soft earth in which the long jumpers would land.

  While the athletes stretched and warmed up, I said, “That night outside Timo’s tent. You said you’d keep an eye on him after I went to bed. What happened?”

  Festianos groaned. “I knew you’d ask that eventually.”

  The pentathletes were naked, of course, but for the only item of wear allowed: the kynodesme—the “dog leash”—a leather cord that tied around the tip of the penis and then wrapped around the scrotum, to stop bits from jiggling while the athletes competed. They carried in each hand heavy weights to assist with their jumps.

  The first man to jump stepped up to the line.

  The aulos player put his V-shaped flute to his lips and played a hymn to Apollo. The hymn was catchy and the rhythm so regular that I found myself tapping my foot.

  The first jumper swung his weighted arms back and forth in time to the music, stared intently at the skamma, and bent his knees in preparation. The swings became progressively more violent till I thought he must surely be lifted off his feet. At the next swing forward he leaped, arms and legs outstretched.

  The moment his feet landed in the softened ground, he swung his weighted arms back, bent his knees, and barely managed to hold his place. If he’d fallen or taken a step forward, he would have been disqualified.

  Immediately one of the judges rushed to the landing spot with a measuring rod. The athlete walked back to the group with head hung low. Men about me shook their heads and muttered. One of them was Markos.

  “Not the best,” he said.

  “No,” Festianos agreed. “But he needn’t worry yet. He still has four more attempts.” He paused. “The tent, yes, I know. I’m not avoiding the question. The truth is I went for a walk to clear my head. To be honest, I knew Timodemus wanted to sneak off.”

  “And you let him?” I couldn’t believe it. After all the effort I’d gone to.

  Festianos snorted. “I’m a middle-aged man. Middle-aged men don’t stop young men when they want to party with the women.”

  “You knew he was looking for women?”

  The next pentathlete had stepped up to the line, and the aulos player picked up the tune. The athlete made a huge leap—well beyond the first—but try as he might he couldn’t stop him
self from taking the tiniest step. The crowd jeered, and he walked away without a measurement. Like the first man, he still had four tries.

  Festianos resumed the conversation. “Timo has been creeping from our rooms in Elis for the best part of a month. Where else do young men go in the dead of night?”

  “But the Spartans might have been out to get him.”

  “I was a trifle worse the wear for drink. You probably noticed. I suppose it affected my judgment.”

  I felt like throttling Festianos. If he’d done what he’d said he’d do, Timodemus wouldn’t be in trouble now.

  “So you let him go to the tents of the pornoi.”

  “The pornoi? Timo has better taste than that. No, the lad’s picked up a girlfriend.”

  That wasn’t what he’d said to me! I was careful not to let my surprise show. In the most neutral voice I could manage, I said, “What’s this girlfriend’s name?”

  “I’ve no idea. He got her in Elis. Apparently she followed him here.”

  I thought of how Festianos had promised me he’d watch Timodemus, then let him out on his own the moment my back was turned. Festianos was capable of lying.

  “You sure you don’t know this girl’s name?”

  “I swear by Zeus,” Festianos said. “Why don’t you ask Dromeus? I bet he knows. That bastard never takes his eye off Timo. I don’t know who’s more driven for my nephew to win: my brother or Dromeus.”

  DROMEUS SAT IN a corner of the gym with four other trainers. It seemed the ban against Team Timo didn’t extend to a former Olympic champion. Dromeus and his friends had laid wet cloths across their heads, no doubt to keep them cool in the heat. Even with the open courtyard to let in the breeze, the gym was like an oven.

  Dromeus had won the pankration twenty years ago; among these men he was a celebrity. I wondered how much it had cost One-Eye to hire his services. The Timonidae were a wealthy family, but to hire a man like Dromeus must have stretched even their fortunes.

  The trainers spoke among themselves. They sat upon the benches that lined the walls. There were bowls of food scattered between them and wineskins in their hands. Markos and I were about to interrupt their lunch. The thought made me realize that I’d probably be missing my own; there was too much to do.

  As we approached, I heard Dromeus speak the words, “If you ask me, I reckon it was one of those two what did it—” He broke off his conversation when he saw us. “What do you want?”

  They all five looked at Markos and me, standing side by side.

  I said, “Dromeus, we need to ask you what happened in the procession.”

  “You were there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know.” He turned his back on us.

  I stood my ground. “Dromeus, what did Arakos say?”

  Dromeus turned. “Listen, kid—”

  “My name’s Nicolaos.”

  “Listen, kid, I’ve got a reputation to think of. You understand?”

  I nodded. “You don’t want to be associated with a killer.”

  The trainers burst into laughter. Dromeus said, “This young idiot thinks I don’t want to be seen with killers. Hey Theo, when did you last kill a man with your bare hands?”

  Theo scratched his head. “Eight, nine months ago? At that contest in Thebes. I got this guy in a real neat choke hold, and he just wouldn’t give up. Bastard grabbed my balls and twisted, so I jerked his—”

  “Thanks, Theo,” Dromeus broke in. “Eosilos, how many men you killed?”

  “You know I can’t count high, Dromeus! I’m an athlete, not a philosopher.” They all grinned while Eosilos counted on his fingers, slowly. “Reckon I’ve done for eight men as I recall.” He paused. “Not counting Persians, of course.”

  “Barely worth the effort of killing,” Dromeus agreed with a straight face. He turned back to me. “You see, kid? Every man here has killed with his own hands, except for you and your friend.”

  He was wrong, in my case at least. I’d killed two men, but neither was something I could talk about. Markos kept his expression carefully neutral and hadn’t said a word, but I felt rather than saw his muscles tense, and I guessed he too had seen his share of mayhem.

  Dromeus had made his point.

  “Murdering don’t mean a thing, kid. You know what they do before the pankration? They give us a blanket pardon for murder. Because all those kids you saw take the oath? Chances are one of them’s going to kill another before these Games are over.”

  “One of them already has,” Theo said.

  “But the next one will be fair and square.”

  “Where were you when Arakos died?” I asked.

  “You’re not suggesting I—an Olympic champion—had something to do with this, are you?”

  “As it happens—”

  Theo and Eosilos raised their fists.

  “Er … no, of course not, Dromeus.”

  “Good.”

  Markos cut in smoothly, “But consider, sirs, if we know where everyone was, then it helps us to eliminate the innocent from suspicion, you see? Also, anyone you saw must be innocent.”

  Markos, the calm voice of reason; once again he was doing better than I in an interview. This was becoming a habit I didn’t want to continue.

  Dromeus considered Markos’s words. “All right,” he said. “After the ceremony, where my moron of a student made a complete ass of himself in front of everyone, I dragged the young idiot here to the gym. Well, you know that, Nicolaos, you turned up later.”

  I nodded. I could still feel the bruises.

  “No one hung around after you left. Timodemus had his rubdown. Then his uncle led him away.”

  “Not One-Eye?” I interrupted.

  “He wasn’t there. You know that.”

  So I did. One-Eye had gone to see Pericles and then the judges.

  “What about that night? Did you see Timodemus then?”

  “Didn’t see him the entire evening.”

  “What about One-Eye?”

  “Didn’t see him neither.”

  “Is that reasonable? You train his son, who was scheduled to fight in only a few days.”

  “No, he isn’t. Timodemus is a prisoner. Remember?”

  “You didn’t know that then.”

  Dromeus shrugged. “All I can say is I didn’t see One-Eye nor his son nor his brother the whole night, and I stayed up late, let me tell you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I stayed at the gym to greet my friends. It was dark when we left here.”

  “It took that long?” Markos asked.

  “I have a lot of friends. Then we went out to dinner together.”

  “All of you?”

  “Most.”

  “Anyone can vouch for you?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” Dromeus nodded at Theo and Eosilos. They grinned back at me, or, rather, they bared their teeth.

  “I saw Arakos,” Theo said. Every head turned, and Theo looked surprised at the attention his statement got him.

  “What?” Dromeus said.

  “When? Where?” I added.

  “It was when I left you guys. After dinner. Remember, I said I was off to get a woman?”

  Heads nodded. Everyone agreed Theo had been off to get a woman.

  “Well, I was walking to the women’s camp, and Arakos passed me by.”

  “Wait, when was this?” I demanded.

  Theo scratched his head. “I dunno. To tell you the truth, I’m not too good at telling the time …”

  “He means he was plastered,” added Eosilos helpfully.

  Theo looked hurt. “That ain’t true, Eos,” he said. “I walked in a straight line all the way from here to the women, didn’t I?”

  “You was walking in a straight line when you left,” Eos allowed. “All right, so you was mellow.”

  “Mellow. Exactly.” Theo nodded. “Mellow’s fine. Means you can still get it up. Not like plastered, ’cause in that case with a woman you got to—”

  “Coul
d we get back to Arakos please?” I asked. “Can any of you remember when Theo left your company?”

  They all looked blank.

  “Was the moon still rising, or was it falling?” I asked in desperation.

  “Rising,” said Dromeus. “I remember. Not long before it peaked.”

  Close enough to midnight, then.

  “Excellent. Now, Theo, think hard—”

  He gaped at me with an open mouth.

  “Where did you see Arakos?”

  “We crossed the ford together.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “Sure. We spoke.”

  “What!”

  “I said I was going to get a woman, and he said he was, too, and then he was going to meet Timodemus to beat the little bastard senseless.”

  “In the name of Zeus, why?”

  “In revenge for what happened at Nemea.”

  “What happened at Nemea?” Markos asked, looking confused. “What’s Nemea last year got to do with this?”

  “Arakos lost. Timodemus won,” Theo said simply.

  “I’ve heard there was some unpleasantness at Nemea,” I said.

  Silence, but a few eyes turned toward Dromeus.

  “Theo, why didn’t you tell me this before?” Dromeus said.

  “You didn’t ask, Dromeus.”

  “I would have stopped a fight.”

  I asked the trainers, “Would it be cheating if two pankratists decided to batter each other in private, before the contest?”

  They had to scratch their heads about that one. “I dunno,” said Eosilos. “I never heard of it happening, but there’s nothing in the rules against it, is there, Dromeus?”

  Dromeus shook his head. “Nothing in the rules says no, but if my student agreed to meet Arakos in the woods, I’d kill the idiot before the judges did.”

  “Dromeus, when I walked in, I heard you say, ‘I reckon it was one of those two what did it.’ Who were you talking about?”

  “Never you mind.”

  There was nothing I could do to force him to answer.

  “What would you say if I told you someone—I won’t say who—has accused you of the murder?”

  Dromeus laughed bitterly. “I’d say One-Eye was full of donkey crap.”

  I gaped. “What makes you think it was One-Eye?”