by Gary Corby
I said, “I’m sorry, Dromeus. She’s a bit hard to control.”
Dromeus waved away my apology. “Who are you, woman?”
Diotima lifted her chin and said with pride, “I am named Diotima of Mantinea.” Pythax, lying in the dirt and panting, winced. His action caught Diotima’s eye, and she added in a softer voice, “And, too, I am daughter to Pythax, Chief of the Scythian Guard of Athens.”
“I care nothing for your father,” Dromeus said. “Your mother,” he said. “Tell me the name of your mother.”
“Why should I tell you?” Diotima never admitted her mother if she could help it.
“Just tell me, woman.”
“No.”
“Then tell me yea or nay, does she go by the name Euterpe the Hetaera?”
Diotima gasped.
Then it struck me like a blow to the head: Diotima was known as Diotima of Mantinea, after her mother’s hometown, because her father had never married her mother, and here was Dromeus. Dromeus of Mantinea.
I glanced at my father. Sophroniscus looked from Dromeus to Diotima and back again, and stroked his beard, and I thought I saw the beginning of a smile.
Dromeus scrabbled to his knees, took Diotima by the hand, and between broken teeth said, “Greetings, cousin. I haven’t seen you since you were a baby.”
DROMEUS HAD POLITELY asked permission of Pythax to speak to Diotima. Of course Pythax granted the privilege; it’s perfectly acceptable for a close male relative of a respectable woman to speak with her.
I invited Dromeus to our tent, and Pythax, Diotima, my father, and I gathered around to hear his story. I dragged in a table and kicked about some loose sacking to give us something comfortable to lounge on. The terrible injuries Dromeus and Pythax had inflicted on each other were forgotten—no, that wasn’t quite right; they had become marks of respect for each other. Two tough men united by a woman: Euterpe, the mother of Diotima.
“Your mother was a wild one,” Dromeus said to Diotima as he sipped our wine. “No man could tell her what to do.”
“Not like her daughter at all, then,” I said.
Diotima jabbed me in the ribs.
“She ran away from home twice, and twice her father—my uncle, your grandfather—dragged her home. When she ran the third time, he let her go. He said she was more trouble than she was worth.”
Pythax growled. This was his wife that Dromeus spoke of.
Dromeus said, “I understand your feelings, friend. I report what happened, not my own thoughts.”
Pythax nodded. “She’s a good woman,” he said.
“I know it. Speaking of which, where is she now?” Dromeus asked.
“Back in Athens,” Pythax said. “The Olympics are no place for a respectable lady.”
As soon as he said it, every male head turned to look at Diotima. We were all thinking the same thing.
She stuck her tongue out at us.
Dromeus laughed. “That’s what I’ve always remembered about your mother: her independence.”
I wasn’t sure that Diotima really wanted to know how much she resembled her mother.
“When we heard she’d become a prostitute, that was the end of her as far as the family was concerned.”
“Did you ever see her again?” I asked Dromeus.
“I did. When I came of age, I thought to look her up. We knew she’d moved to Athens. It was easy for me; a man on the tournament circuit moves around.”
Like Korillos and his fellow pankratists. Yes, that made sense.
“She’d become a fine woman with a big house. I was impressed. When I knocked on the door, she thought I was a client. It was disconcerting.”
I nodded in sympathy. I’d had the same experience, and barely survived.
“Well, I explained who I was, and she remembered me, and there were tears, and she swore me to secrecy, and then she revealed that she was a mother. So proud and happy, she was.” He said to Diotima, “I held you in my arms when you were barely a newborn.”
Diotima wiped away a tear. “What was I like, as a baby?”
“You peed on me. Euterpe whisked you away, and that was the last I ever saw of you. Your mother had a comfortable life, and I’d fulfilled my duty as a male relative, so I wished her well and left. I’d always wondered what happened to her.”
As we went our separate ways—Diotima hugged Dromeus; Dromeus hugged me; Pythax, after an awkward moment of hesitation, stepped forward to hug Dromeus—my father pulled me aside and said quietly, “This puts your marriage to the woman Diotima in a different light.”
“It does?” My spirits lifted.
“The daughter of a prostitute is one thing,” said my father. “The cousin of an Olympic champion is quite another. The prestige of an Olympian in the family may overcome the defect of the mother. Of course it would have been nice if the Olympian had been anyone but Dromeus.”
My spirits fell. “Dromeus couldn’t help it if no one else came to fight him,” I said, oddly echoing his own defense.
“Hmmph.” Sophroniscus half-grunted. “There are still two problems, are there not?”
I stared at him blankly.
“There’s still the issue of the farm, and did you not tell me Dromeus is a suspect for this murder? We could hardly have a murderer in the family.”
It was a good point. Dromeus, so convenient a suspect for both Pericles and the Spartans, would now destroy my last chance of marrying of Diotima if he proved a murderer.
Diotima had no such fears. “I can barely believe it, Nico. I have a male relative, a respectable male relative.”
“Not merely respectable. He’s an Olympic victor.”
“I don’t care about that.” She brushed aside the highest accolade any man can win. “The important thing is I can mention him in public and not have to blush. Not a single taint. Not a slave, not a prostitute. Nothing but respectable.”
“That’s good?”
“Good? It’s wonderful. Don’t you see? All my life I’ve been saddled with this awful reputation that wasn’t my fault. Now suddenly I’ve got some respectability to balance it.”
“I thought you didn’t like Dromeus.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
I hoped it stayed that way when our investigation finished. But it would soon be dusk, so I left Diotima to contemplate her newfound relative while I departed for the secret meeting with the secret informant. I’d have to hurry, or I might be late, and this was a meeting I definitely didn’t want to miss.
THE NEW TEMPLE was a massive building, visible from anywhere within Olympia, and it only became more impressive as I approached. I stopped in the Sanctuary of Zeus to admire it. There, standing with his back to me, was Pericles. He too looked up at the massive temple.
I stopped beside him. Pericles turned his head, startled, saw it was me, and relaxed.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “Have you come to report progress?”
“No, but with any luck, I’ll have some good news for you before the night is out.”
“That would be nice, because we’re running out of time, in case you hadn’t noticed. The pankration is in less than a day. Timodemus will die the day after.”
Pericles and I stood side by side and gazed. The Temple of Zeus was painted in red and blue. A line of gold ran all around the outside of the roof.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“How can they make so much stone stand upright?” I marveled.
“Don’t ask me,” Pericles said. “I’m no architect. It’s impressive, isn’t it?”
I had recently come from Ephesus, where I’d seen its Temple of Artemis, said to be the most beautiful building in the world. The Artemision had beautiful lines and was covered in the finest sculpture, but for majestic awe this Temple of Zeus at Olympia with its stark, simple lines beat it hands down.
“It’s incredible,” I said.
Pericles nodded. “Athens needs something like this. Something that shows the world Athens is a f
orce to be reckoned with, not only in strength of arms, but that we lead the world in the arts and philosophy and culture.”
“Do we?”
“Not yet, but we will, if I have anything to do about it.”
I said, “Remember when we first met, Pericles? I was walking up to the Acropolis, to think about a new temple, and you were coming down—”
“Having considered exactly the same thing. And in between us was a dead body.”
“Can we do it again, do you think?” I asked him.
“You mean find a dead body?”
“No, think about building a new temple to Athena atop the Acropolis.”
Pericles looked at me curiously. “Why do you care so much, Nicolaos?”
It was a good question. There’d been a time when I wondered if Athens deserved my support. I’d even considered abandoning my city, not that I would admit that to Pericles. “Athens is my home,” I told him. “It’s my future. If I’m to have a position of any importance in the world, it’s in Athens, Pericles, and I’d rather my city were one of power. Who wants to be a powerful man in a weak city? Best to be powerful in a place of power.”
“You’re ambitious.”
“Yes.” I’d committed myself to Athens. Now I wanted Athens to commit to me.
We were not the only ones in awe of the new building. A constant trickle of men wandered in from the direction of the stadion and stopped in the Sanctuary where we stood. Every man did the same as us: stared up at the tall columns of stone and the massive roof.
The roof was tiled in marble. It must have cost a small fortune every time a tile slipped, but it was worth it. The play of light across the thin, polished marble gave the roof the sheen of a still, deep pond.
“I like the roof tiles,” I said. “Can we have tiles like that?”
“I’ll see what I can arrange,” Pericles said.
“You know we’re wasting our time even talking about it, don’t you?” I said. “Athens can’t afford anything like this.”
“We’ll have to see. Certainly the state coffers are low. But Nicolaos, a decent-quality Temple to Athena should not be beyond the Athenians.”
“Who paid for this one?” I asked.
“The Eleans, using booty they pillaged long ago during their war against the Pisans.”
“Then all we need to do is pillage someone,” I said lightly.
“Yes, I’d come to the same conclusion,” Pericles said in all seriousness. “I must think about that.”
Dear Gods, I would have to think about that. Was Pericles serious?
“I must leave you,” I said. “I have an appointment.”
The entrance to the Temple of Zeus faced east, as most temples do, so that Apollo’s first rays of the day can shine within. I avoided the ramp and instead climbed the three large steps.
A man stood inside. I didn’t notice him at first because it was much darker within and it took my eyes time to adjust. When they did, I saw he was a shifty-looking fellow with a black beard who wore the exomis of a tradesman. I wondered if he was the one I’d come to meet. I stood in the center to give him a chance to approach me, but he didn’t move, merely watched me from the side.
Looking around the inside, I could see spots where the builders hadn’t finished, areas not yet painted, decorations not carved, in the corners and out-of-the-way places. Torches hung in wall brackets, and braziers stood in the corners and along the sides, but none of them were lit.
“What do you think?” the man with the black beard asked.
“It’s amazing.” I rubbed my hand along the walls. “It looks like marble.”
“It’s not. It only looks that way. You touch stucco which has been craftily applied to have the look of marble. Beneath, it’s limestone.”
“You seem to know something about it,” I observed.
“So I should, young man. My name is Libon. I’m the architect.”
I realized I had just made a fool of myself.
“If it isn’t a rude question, Libon, what are you doing lurking in the shadows?”
“You stand in my life’s work, young man. I will do nothing greater. The reaction of the Hellenes to my temple over the next three days will decide whether my life has been worthwhile. If you faced that sort of judgment, what would you do?”
“I would lurk in the shadows and watch everyone’s reaction,” I said.
“Exactly.”
To talk to Libon would be the perfect cover while I waited for my meeting. I had no idea what the man looked like, but he obviously knew me. With Libon I could stand in the middle of the temple in perfect innocence, yet make it easy for the informer to spot me.
Libon was as eager as I was. “Let me show you my temple.” He dragged me across to the entrance through which I’d come.
“Main entrance,” he said, when we were outside on the steps. “Look up.” He pointed to the pediment, the triangular area that closed off the end of the roof. In a temple these are always filled with a sculpture in relief.
Though it was dusk, and the entrance faced east, there was still sufficient light by which to see, because it was the middle of summer and the moon was already rising bright. The relief sculpture showed two men and their attendants, each man before his chariot. Zeus stood in the center of the scene, from which position he took oaths from the two men, who were obviously about to race.
“Is this an Olympic chariot race?” I asked.
“Older than the Olympics,” Libon said. “Or perhaps the first Olympic race, depending on how you look at it. Do you know the story? Do you know who the drivers are?”
“No.”
Libon pointed to a very ancient ruined building to the north, halfway between the Temple of Zeus, where we stood, and the Temple of Hera.
“Do you see the ruined house over there, with only the shattered walls still standing? That is, or was, the megaron—the great house—of King Oinomaos. He ruled this land long ago, before even the time of Homer.” Then Libon pointed to the relief, at the figure beside the second chariot. “That is King Oinomaos there.”
“I see.”
Libon turned me slightly to the left. “Now see that mound beside the megaron?”
It was a large burial mound, of the kind used by the ancients, enclosed within a wall of five sides.
“That is the burial mound of the hero Pelops. The hero-king for whom this land is named, the Peloponnesian Peninsula.”
“Let me guess. The other driver in the relief is Pelops.”
“Correct. According to legend, King Oinomaos had a daughter, a girl of great beauty, by the name of Hippodamia. Whoever should marry Hippodamia would inherit the rule of the land.
“Needless to say, a great many unsuitable men asked for the hand of the beautiful Hippodamia, so many that it became an irritant. Oinomaos developed a way of discouraging suitors. He challenged them to a chariot race. If Oinomaos won, then he killed the foolish suitor with his bright spear. But if the suitor won, then the suitor would marry the girl and become heir to the kingdom. Many men died in the pursuit of beauty and wealth.
“Then the hero Pelops came along. He asked for the hand of Hippodamia. Oinomaos set the usual condition.
“Luckily for Pelops, Hippodamia fell in love with him. She bribed her father’s charioteer, a man by the name of Myrtilus, to remove the linchpins from the wheels of her father’s racing chariot. His reward if he did so would be half the kingdom and the first night in the bed of Hippodamia.
“And so the race was arranged. The hero and the king swore their oaths before mighty Zeus—it is the scene you see in the pediment—then the race began. Pelops surged to the lead. It seemed Pelops must win. But the chariot of Oinomaos made ground.
“Oinomaos raised his spear to slay Pelops as they raced, when at that moment the wheels of his chariot flew off. Oinomaos, caught up in the reins, was dragged to his death.
“Pelops married Hippodamia, became king at once, and they all lived happily ever after. Except for H
ippodamia’s father, who was somewhat dead.”
“What about the charioteer Myrtilus?”
“He reaped the usual harvest for treachery: Pelops murdered the fellow when he was brazen enough to claim his reward. Myrtilus was buried under the Taraxippus at the east end of the hippodrome. It’s the reason there are so many accidents at that turn. The psyche of Myrtilus remains to terrify the horses.”
I had looked about us as Libon spoke. He noticed my inattention and broke off.
“Am I boring you?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, Libon. The fact is, I arranged to meet someone here and I’m looking for him. But the problem is, I don’t know what he looks like.”
“Won’t that make it harder to find him?”
“You’ve spotted the nub of my problem. I rather hoped he would find me.”
“Ah, I understand. You humor an old bore like me so that you can be visible in the middle of the temple without at the same time being conspicuous.”
“No, it’s not like that at all …” I trailed off at the look of disbelief on his face and sighed. “All right, it is like that. But I was interested in everything you said. Truly.” Now I felt guilt that I’d used him. He seemed a nice man.
“Then let us see if we can find your anonymous friend,” said Libon, with more grace than I would have shown. “Is there anything you can tell me about this person?”
“Well, he’s probably a bit nervous,” I said nervously.
“We will begin at this end and work our way through,” said Libon. We reentered the building past the three large doors, all of them open.
The first room was the pronaos.
“I used a standard design for the temple, as you can see, Nicolaos,” Libon said, ending with my name in a loud voice. He had obviously decided to make my presence very obvious in the hope of attracting my informant. Every man in the room had jumped at the sudden loud voice. Everyone knew Nicolaos was present.
The room was full of men but empty of decoration, except for a burning brazier of bronze. This was the room where men, wishing to dedicate something precious, could offer it to Zeus by hanging it on the wall. There was only one such offering so far: at nose height beside me was a kynodesme, the cord an athlete used to hold down his penis while he competed. No doubt the kynodesme had belonged to one of the winners, and he wished to dedicate it to the God who had granted him the victory.