Sacred Games

by Gary Corby

  “Why did you?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “Because the whole point was to make Athens look guilty. With you alive, either you’d agree that Timodemus the Athenian was guilty, or you’d blatantly whitewash your man in a way no one believed; either way, Athens would look terrible, and Sparta would have her rallying cry, as my orders demanded. But if you’d died, then Athens would have looked less guilty, and other cities might have had some sympathy for Sparta’s enemy.”

  Gorgo was visibly shaken. She said, “You, a Spartan, chose to murder a child of the Three Hundred?”

  Hung between Pythax and Dromeus, Markos turned his head to speak to her. “It’s not murder when you’re acting under orders,” he said. “Is it not the case, Queen Gorgo, that sometimes an officer will sacrifice a man, perhaps many men, perhaps even himself, if it’s the only means to win the war?”

  “Do not seek to lecture me on the nature of sacrifice, young man,” Gorgo said.

  “Then you’ll understand, Queen Gorgo, that the death of Arakos served Sparta more than his life could ever have done. What would have happened if he’d lived? He would have come in second in the pankration. You said it yourself, my Queen: coming in second means coming in last. But by his death, Arakos gave Sparta the chance to come in first in a much more important contest: the competition for Hellas. That’s what my orders demanded, to begin that contest between Athens and Sparta.”

  Every eye turned to Xenares. The ephor remained impassive under our united glare. Xenares the ephor wasn’t on trial here. He couldn’t be, because he had killed no one. But I guessed from the expression of extreme anger on the face of Pleistarchus that the ephors of Sparta would be in some difficulty the moment the Spartans were all back home.

  Markos had spoken with no trace of remorse. There was no reason why he should. A good soldier doesn’t feel guilty for what happens on the field of battle, and Markos was the best of the best. The Spartan ritual of the krypteia was a test of silent killing, and Markos had excelled at it. That test had marked Markos for a duty far removed from the common lot of a soldier in the ranks. Markos had been given the most demanding duty any elite trooper can be asked to perform: targeted assassination for political ends.

  The difficulty was that Markos seemed to enjoy his work. But then, what man doesn’t take pride and pleasure from doing what he does best?

  Pericles cleared his throat for attention. The chatter ceased. He said, in a pleasant voice, “I think we can all agree Arakos was not killed by an Athenian?”

  Every eye turned to King Pleistarchus.

  Pleistarchus said, “Sparta acknowledges that the murderer was a Spartan. There’s no need to continue this trial. This is now an internal matter for Sparta. We’ll deal with it.”

  “No need to continue?” exclaimed Exelon, angry. “After all we’ve been through? After this man almost started a war on sacred Olympic soil? I don’t think so!” Behind him the other judges nodded. “The crime was committed at Olympia. It’s an Olympic matter.”

  “It’s Spartan,” said Pleistarchus. “The victim is Spartan. The murderer is Spartan.”

  “Olympic, I say,” Exelon repeated. “We can enforce this.”

  “You and whose army?” Pleistarchus said quietly.

  And there it was, out in the open. The threat of armed force against the religious authority of the Sacred Games.

  I noticed Pericles couldn’t keep the self-satisfied smile from his face. I should have been pleased at his happiness, but I wasn’t. I held my breath.

  Exelon said, “You wouldn’t dare. All of Hellas would fight such sacrilege.”

  “Wait.” It was the voice of an old woman. Gorgo stepped forward, slowly. Her steps hesitated for a moment, and Diotima took her arm to support the dowager queen of Sparta.

  Gorgo’s hawklike eyes took in the entire party as if we were prey. She said, “Before you men start slaughtering each other, let me make a point. If Sparta committed sacrilege, then you are right, Exelon; even our closest allies would turn against us. But think of this: have these Games truly been Sacred? Forgive me for mentioning it; I know the young woman is your daughter, but the Priestess of these Games is about as ritually clean as a sewer.”

  Ooh, that was a low blow. When it came to political pankration, Gorgo was Olympic strength.

  Klymene laughed. Timodemus scowled and stepped toward Gorgo, but One-Eye hauled him back.

  Exelon stood as if stunned.

  Gorgo said, “Is it not possible the Gods cursed these Games because of the state of the Priestess? If they heard the story, the other cities might think so. Better, don’t you think, for us to sort out these problems quietly?”

  Exelon looked ready to kill, but he whispered, “Perhaps, under the circumstances, this matter is best left to Sparta.”

  Gorgo smiled. “Very wise. Now, Exelon, I notice this beautiful new Temple of Zeus puts the rest of Olympia to shame. The place needs brightening up. My son was about to mention that.”

  “I was?” said Pleistarchus.

  “You were, my son,” said Gorgo firmly. “I’m sure Sparta would like to send a gift to Olympia. Something substantial.”

  “Oh! Yes, I see. Good idea, Mother. Exelon, Sparta would be pleased to donate. I’m not quite sure what yet. If you have any ideas—”

  “Perhaps some new statuary?” I put in quickly.

  Everyone looked at me in surprise.

  “I can recommend a good sculptor,” I explained.

  “You can?” Pleistarchus laughed. “I feel we all owe you, Nicolaos. Very well then, Sparta would love to commission new statuary for the grounds in the spirit of our eternal friendship. What do you say, Exelon?”

  “That would be agreeable,” Exelon grated. “And now, before my happiness at this outcome can grow too great to bear, I must insist we depart for the stadion. The next event is the pankration, and it’s long overdue.”

  THE JUDGES LED us in, followed by Timodemus, then King Pleistarchus and Pericles, and the rest of us followed in a confused gaggle. Timodemus now wore that same bored expression that he always did before a fight. He was about to do what he was born for: compete at the Olympics.

  Klymene took her box.

  The stadion was packed to overflowing with men. The trial of Timodemus had taken longer than everyone but Diotima and I had expected, and now from the loud buzz I deduced there was a certain amount of irritation with the judges for their delay. The murmurs rose higher when men in the crowd noticed Timodemus among us.

  The other pankratists and their trainers stood in a group; among them I saw Korillos, Aggelion, and Megathenes. They were shocked to see Timodemus enter.

  “You allow him to compete?” Megathenes asked.

  “We have determined two things,” Exelon the Chief Judge said to the pankratists and the trainers. “First, that Timodemus did not kill Arakos. Second, that this will be a fair contest.”

  Timo didn’t break step. He walked over to his fellow pankratists. He spoke in his normal conversational voice so that they and those of us near him could hear, “Men, I’ve only this day discovered that I won unfairly at Nemea. I never knew; may Zeus slay me where I stand if I lie.” Timodemus drew in a deep breath. “I revoke my Nemean crown, which means the victor of Nemea becomes Arakos of Sparta.”

  The men murmured among themselves.

  “And I promise you I will compete today with the same disadvantage that you suffered at Nemea. That’s only fair.” Timo turned around to face me. “Nico!”

  “Yes, Timo?”

  “If I know your cleverness, you have more than three of the poisoned bottles in that bag, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I have them all.” Diotima and I had swapped every poisoned bottle, fearing that Festianos might manage to slip some to the athletes.

  “Good, because I’m thirsty.”

  I blinked. “What? But Timo, you mustn’t—”

  “I said I’m thirsty, Nico. Give me something to drink.” I had never heard such comm
and in his voice. I could see the strain he was under, the tension in his neck muscles. I hesitated. Timo repeated, “Nico.” He held out his hand.

  Against my will, but unable to deny him, I handed over a bottle of hemlock.

  Timodemus held the poison to his lips and drank it down, swallowing over and over until he’d drained it to the last drop. Timo threw the bottle to the side and said, “Now let’s fight.”

  A voice behind me said, “I forbid it.” One-Eye pushed past me to stand before his son. “Timo, stop this now.”

  “Isn’t this what you want, Father? Isn’t this what I was born for? Didn’t you train me every moment of my childhood for this one moment when you could see me at the Olympics?”

  “Not like this,” said One-Eye. “I expected you to … to …”

  “Survive?” Timo smiled, a grim, grim smile. “Did you know about Festianos?”

  “No, son, I didn’t.”

  “But you suspected, didn’t you?”

  One-Eye looked away.

  Timo said, “This time there’ll be no cheating. This time, Zeus really does grant the victory.”

  One-Eye hesitated for the longest moment, then he nodded and did something I am sure he had never done in his life: he took Timo in his arms and held him tight. They hugged for the longest time, while all the Hellenes watched them.

  Timo broke away and walked over to me. “Thank you, Nico,” he said.

  “You don’t have to do this, Timo,” I said, quiet but urgent.

  He smiled sadly and said, “You of all people know I can’t abide a fight that isn’t fair.”

  “What happened at Nemea wasn’t your fault.”

  “It wasn’t a fair fight.”

  They were the same words he’d used when he’d saved me as a boy, all those years ago.

  “Listen, Nico, I want you to do something for me.”

  “Sure.”

  “Look after Klymene, will you?”

  “Er … look after her how?”

  “She might be in trouble with her father, when all this is over. I don’t want her hurt, and with Arakos dead and with me … well, the pankration’s dangerous, you know that.”

  “I thought she was just for fun. Good in bed, you said.”

  “Maybe I like her a little bit. You’re my only friend. Swear you’ll do your best to protect Klymene. That’s all I ask.”

  “I swear it.” I felt like I pronounced a death sentence.

  I stepped back to join Heraclides alongside the box where the trainers stood. It meant I was among the officials, where I could see and hear everything, but at this point no one seemed to care.

  Timo walked over to the other pankratists. The lots were drawn for the bouts.

  The Chief Judge called, “Begin.”

  There were four matches, to be held at the same time, in four circles set out in a line along the stadion.

  At the call to begin, all eight pankratists advanced. Timo downed his opponent quickly with some swift kicks and a hard punch to the neck. The man went down unconscious, and Timo was declared the winner. He waited by the side while the other fights, more evenly matched, came to their completion. Two bodies were carried away, neither dead, both merely unconscious.

  I said, “How is it, Heraclides, that Timo hasn’t collapsed?”

  “You forget that he’s taken but a medicinal dose, the equivalent of two leaves. As the poison seeps through it will slow his reactions but not kill him. But I fear … oh yes, he’s doing it now.”

  Timodemus had picked up another of the bottles and downed it. For the next bout.

  “Four leaves is survivable,” Heraclides said. “Unless the person is old or weak, and your friend is certainly neither of those.”

  Timodemus was noticeably slower in the next fight. He faced Megathenes. Megathenes hit out and landed some hard blows, though everyone could see Timodemus try to react.

  Dromeus leaned over the box where he stood with the other trainers and said to us, “You see what’s happening? Timodemus sees the blows coming but he’s not fast enough to dodge.”

  Heraclides said, “It’s the drug.” He shook his head.

  The skill of Timodemus showed despite his slowed reflexes. He allowed Megathenes to come at him, grabbed him about the waist, and rolled backward. Megathenes rolled over him. Timodemus finished on top. He struck Megathenes in the head, one, two, three, four times. When Timodemus climbed unsteadily to his feet, Megathenes remained down and unconscious.

  Exelon called the final round.

  Timodemus picked up the final bottle.

  “No!” Klymene stood in her box. “No!” she shouted again, and the whole stadion of men looked at her in stunned surprise.

  The Priestess of the Games had spoken. She stepped out of her box and went to the judges, who were clustered next to where I and Heraclides and the trainers stood.

  “I refuse to see these Games,” Klymene declared.

  “What?” The Chief Judge could not have appeared more surprised if his daughter had declared herself to be a Gorgon. “You can’t mean that.”

  “I do. Don’t you see Timodemus plans to kill himself with the poison?” Klymene demanded.

  “As long as the Games proceed, that’s the important thing. Daughter, he might well have died in the contest in any case.”

  “But he was to be your son-in-law!”

  “We may be revising that plan.”

  “Timodemus is a good man. He’s a better person than I am.” Klymene looked abashed.

  Timo had walked over when Klymene abandoned her box. He seemed preternaturally calm. Now he said, “That’s not true, Klymene, you’re a better person than you know. You saved my honor in the court.”

  “Timo, don’t do this,” Klymene begged. “Our lives are brief enough as it is, don’t go making them any shorter.”

  Timo winced. He said, “This is a matter of honor, Klymene.”

  “What honor? Your uncle cheated, Timo. You want to make up for his crimes? Then go ahead and lose these stupid Games. But your uncle didn’t kill anyone. You don’t have to die for what he did.”

  “Don’t you understand, Klymene?” Timo said, perplexed at her words. “It wasn’t a fair fight.”

  Klymene threw her arms up in despair. “You men are idiots. If you’re bent on suicide, I’ll not help you.”

  Klymene stalked off without another word, leaving her father to stand there alone while the assembled Hellenes watched a man unable to control his own daughter. Klymene couldn’t be stopped: the Chief Judge didn’t dare beat the Priestess of the Games; to do so would have brought down the worst luck imaginable.

  Exelon slowly turned to face the crowd, his face gray. He drew in a great breath and shouted, in a voice that carried across the stadion, “Hellenes, we have no priestess to observe the Sacred Games. Therefore I must declare—”

  “Yes, you do,” Diotima called out. She stood at the stadion’s entrance. Everyone turned to stare at her.

  The Chief Judge said, “Women are not permitted—”

  “I’m a priestess,” she said loudly, so that the whole stadion could hear her words.

  Diotima waited at the entrance for an invitation to enter. Every man present watched in silence as the Chief Judge walked the hundred paces across the field, to speak to her in private. I hurried across, too, anxious to find out what Diotima thought she was doing.

  “Are you a priestess of Demeter?” the Chief Judge asked her quietly.

  “Artemis,” she said. “Do you have time to be choosy?”

  “The priestess of the Games must serve Demeter. When the crowd finds out they’ll—”

  “I won’t tell them if you don’t. Why don’t we pretend you never asked me that question.”

  Exelon looked at her for a moment, then at the crowd, and I could see the rapid calculation racing through his mind. If he stopped the Games now there would be a riot. Already we could see a few ripples in the crowd, where scuffles had broken out.

  Exelon
said, “Take the stand.” He walked to the stadion center to tell the crowd that the Goddess Demeter in her wisdom had seen fit to send a replacement.

  To the background of loud cheers I said, “Diotima, you know what you’re doing, don’t you? Timo wants to poison himself.”

  “How would you feel if your life’s greatest moment turned out to be a lie?” she asked. “Timo needs this extirpation.”

  “Even if it kills him?”

  “That’s his choice,” said my Priestess of the Hunt. “What do you think Timo’s life will be like if he lives? What will men say of him? Besides, I seem to recall two men who battered each other almost to death in public, and you refused to stop it.”

  I could only hang my head. Diotima stepped past to take her place in the box Klymene had vacated. She spurned the chair and stood, her hands gripped the railing like a judge about to pass sentence. She was every bit the haughty priestess.

  I went back to the cluster of people from the trial.

  Timodemus drank down the final bottle.

  “Six leaves,” Heraclides said to me. “A fatal dose.”

  The Chief Judge of the Sacred Games looked to Diotima for permission.

  Diotima nodded.

  “Begin,” Exelon called.

  The referees took their positions, and Timodemus began the contest that would kill him.

  Heraclides scratched a note into an ostrakon. “Socrates, I want you to take this note to my wife. Tell her I want these medicines and instruments laid out before I arrive.”

  Socrates took the note and ran.

  “Will Timo make it to the end, do you think?” I asked.

  Heraclides said, “I don’t know which is stronger, the poison or his remarkable reserves of willpower.”

  Korillos punched Timo, hitting him in the same spot in the diaphragm, over and over, obviously hoping to deprive him of any chance to breathe.

  Timodemus doubled over and spewed.

  “Good,” said Heraclides. “We can hope that’s taken out some of the poison with it.”

  “You mean he might live?” I said.