Before I went and rolled into my cloak – alone, again, damn it – I had a whispered conversation with Sekla, Brasidas and Alexandros. We made our plans – to protect Polypeithes. It was – and is – funny to consider the four of us plotting to protect a Spartan, but something told me that not all Spartans were united in this.
In the morning, I took a staff and went for a long walk. I went up into the hills and talked to some sheep and came home by a roundabout course intended to put me on the plain in time to meet the Queen of Sparta out for her morning ride. I am as male as most men, and sometimes more so, and I won’t deny that I looked forward to seeing her, but I had some business to transact, as well.
I saw her in the distance, already done and turning back, and I came down into the valley to meet her, as if by chance. I waved and she rode to my side.
‘Good morning. You look like . . . one of the more equestrian goddesses.’ I smiled too broadly, and she frowned.
‘Wouldn’t it be a better compliment if you named one?’ she asked.
I shook my head. ‘No – that would only offer you more opportunity to disclaim the compliment and the giver. Aphrodite? No. Hera? Too presumptuous. Athena? Un-Spartan. Artemis?’ I shrugged. ‘In truth, you do not remind me of Artemis.’
Gorgo laughed. ‘You are not like most Greek men,’ she said.
I shrugged. ‘I travel. Listen, o Queen. Do you have an idea who tried to kill Polypeithes?’
She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Will he try again?’ I asked.
She shrugged.
‘You don’t care?’ I asked.
She looked away. ‘I cannot be seen to care,’ she said. ‘For some very complicated reasons that have little to do with the matter at hand.’
I nodded, although in truth I didn’t understand. ‘Adamenteis of Corinth?’ I guessed.
She blushed. Almost all of her.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘How do you know?’ she asked.
I shrugged. ‘I don’t, but I saw the look he gave your chariot the other day, I saw his charioteer talking to Ka and asked Ka to ascertain a few things – and I saw the glare he levelled at your husband.’
‘He hates Themistocles ten times as much as he hates my husband,’ she spat. ‘He wants his team to win any way he can arrange it, and he has accepted a fat bribe from the Medes.’
I nodded. ‘Well,’ I said. ‘My second question is purely personal. Why do you want me to take your heralds to Susa?’
She looked at me as if I were a fool. ‘So that they won’t be killed, of course,’ she said. She smiled – it changed her expression from serene self-possession to a nymph-like wonder. ‘Do you really think that a pair of Spartan gentlemen who can make themselves disliked merely by walking are going to be a triumph at the court of the Great King? They are my friends, and my cousins. They are my husband’s friends. They are making a brave sacrifice for our city – I’d like to keep them from paying too high a price.’
I looked into those laughing, nymph-like eyes, and somehow failed to say ‘no’.
By the time we were entering the main valley, Gorgo and I, it was plain that something had happened at the edge of the encampment. Gorgo raced away – for the Spartan tents. I ran as best I could.
The cluster of men in the early light proved to be gathered around a corpse – a dead man with three feet of black arrow protruding from his head. He was quite dead. A pair of Olympian priests were already mourning him, and complaining that the blood shattered the truce and defiled the games. Even while I stood there, more priests came, and some of the judges. They were angry – even fearful.
A killing in the Olympics was no small matter. The impiety – the sacrilege – was so intense that men in the crowd spoke of the games being cancelled.
No one knew who the dead man was until one of the Argosian trainers identified him as one of the Corinthian grooms.
I said as little as possible and kept moving after that, because the dead man had a heavy south Egyptian arrow in him, and it virtually had to be one of Ka’s. I jogged back to my camp, cursing my wounds, and found Sekla directing operations.
‘I’m releasing the last two amphorae of wine,’ he said. ‘I’ve sent Ka to the coast to buy more.’
I understood immediately – Ka was out of camp and thus difficult to catch or question.
‘I arranged for him to have a horse,’ Sekla continued.
While Sekla spoke, I noted that Leukas had a sword under his chlamys – a long Keltoi sword – and several other men were unobtrusively armed. Sittonax was lounging on a spear, his wrist and left leg both curled lovingly around the shaft. Some men still used spears as walking staffs back then – Sittonax was taking advantage of that.
‘What happened?’ I asked quietly. I took Sekla by the arm and towed him into the back of the wine tent.
Quite loudly he said, ‘It’s foolishness to keep two amphorae for our own use. We can get a drachma a cup today.’
Then he lowered his voice. ‘The man had a sling, and he went to use it on the Spartan charioteer. That’s all I know. Ka made the call and killed him.’
It was an act of gross impiety – an attack on the Olympic grounds, during the truce. On the other hand, as far as I know, Ka had never believed in our gods, so perhaps he is immune. But if the attack were traced to me . . .
It is a difficult thing, having men who serve you. I gave them orders to protect Polypeithes. They did. Ka acted as he thought was correct, and now we had a corpse and some very angry Elisians.
‘What is done is done,’ I said. ‘On my head be it. How is the Spartan?’
‘I doubt he even knows there was an incident,’ Sekla responded. ‘Leukas followed him all the way to his encampment, dressed as a slave. He says the Spartans have thrown a cordon around their camp since the chariot returned.’
I poured myself a precious cup of our wine and sat on a leather stool. I beckoned to Sittonax, Harpagos and Leukas, all waiting visibly close. They came into the small back area of the tent.
I popped out and walked all the way around the tent to make sure we were alone. I caught Hector’s arm – he was carrying a basket of bread for Gaia – and sent him to watch the tent from a little distance, to make sure we were not overheard. I took Alexandros off his duties running our watch against theft and placed him at the door of the tent. I summoned Brasidas to our meeting. Behind me, Sekla and Leukas continued a fairly unconvincing haggle about what to charge for wine.
Committing an act of impiety at the Olympics raised the stakes enormously. Suddenly, it was all life and death.
‘Gentlemen,’ I said when I went back. ‘This is family only. Oikia, yes? Not for Cimon. Not even Paramanos.’ I looked around, and everyone nodded. ‘If Ka were to be taken, he would be tortured and then executed.’
That got to them. The south Egyptian was a very popular man.
‘Sekla – well done getting Ka away. Now – what’s our next step? It is five hours before the chariots run.’ I waved at the Spartan camp in the distance.
Brasidas did not hesitate. ‘Put a watch on the Corinthians. We have the manpower to do it.’
I had thought in terms of protecting Polypeithes. I had to smile at the Spartan-ness of his solution. I was prepared to defend, and Brasidas was, in effect, ready to attack.
‘We watch them, but what more can we do? If two slaves leave their camp . . .’ I shrugged.
Sekla smiled. ‘Every one of theirs who leaves camp is followed by a couple of ours. Do we have to be secret? Why not make it obvious? There are fewer than a hundred Corinthians here.’
I scratched my beard. ‘We could end with a war between Corinth and Plataea,’ I said.
Brasidas shook his head. ‘Look – send a few men – led by me – to watch the Corinthian camp. And some boys as runners. Do the same for the Lacedaemonian camp. If the chariot leaves their camp – then we can act.’ He shot me a hard smile. ‘I doubt the Corinthians will try again, but if they do
– we need to catch them at it.’
Hector’s high-pitched voice shouted outside, ‘Lord Aristides, master!’ and I was outside in a heartbeat, smiling falsely.
Aristides looked as angry as an outraged husband. ‘I would hate to think . . .’ he began, and I came out to find that I had half the noblemen of Athens in my camp. I sent Hector for stools and wine. Cimon gave me a sign that I needed to talk fast.
‘They are saying in the camp that the Spartans killed the Corinthian groom. Other men say it was a Plataean. Others that it was an African,’ Aristides said. ‘This impiety must be punished.’
The problem with Aristides is that he was completely honest, and thus, he saw most issues in simple terms.
‘I saw the corpse,’ I said. ‘Heavy arrow. Not anyone local.’ I shrugged. ‘Perhaps a Cretan or a Cypriote.’
Cimon’s eyes applauded my lies. ‘Cretans do use heavy shafts like that one,’ Cimon drawled. ‘I had forgotten that.’
Other men responded with the sort of spontaneous expertise that every man is capable of when he knows nothing – suddenly a dozen of them were experts on Cretan arrows.
Aristides didn’t sit. He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘I feel in my bones that you have something to do with this,’ he said. ‘I saw you look at the corpse. Tell me immediately, please.’
I shook my head. ‘I can tell you only that the Corinthians have been trying to harm the Spartans,’ I said quietly.
Understanding flooded Aristides. His body stiffened. He narrowed his eyes.
I shook my head. ‘I’m looking into it,’ I said. In truth, he was very difficult to lie to, and I was struggling, but with the stakes so high, I managed.
I turned to Cimon. ‘Someone should watch the Corinthians, and someone else should watch the Spartans. To keep them apart, if nothing else.’
‘You think the Spartans killed the groom?’ Aristides asked.
I shrugged. ‘You know that someone struck Polypeithes the charioteer with a sling stone – right?’
Aristides shook his head. ‘I see,’ he said, face closing.
Cimon took his arm. ‘A slave is dead, not a Greek,’ he said. ‘Let’s not make too much of this.’
He drank down his wine and dragged Aristides away, leaving me with Themistocles. The orator glanced at the Spartan encampment. ‘You’ve taken . . . measures?’ he asked.
‘No idea what you are talking about,’ I said. ‘But I have agreed to escort the Spartan ambassadors.’
‘Heralds,’ Themistocles said. ‘Not ambassadors.’
We spent the morning and the afternoon watching the Corinthians. We had help from a dozen Athenians and we didn’t hide ourselves particularly – that is to say, Cimon and I were quite open, and so was Themistocles – so open that Adamanteis came out in a cloak.
‘We can see to our own affairs,’ he said. ‘We don’t need Athenians interfering in our preparations.’
Themistocles shrugged. ‘It is a fine place to stand and watch the games,’ he said. ‘And free to all men, I think.’
Adamanteis looked as if he might explode.
‘Sir,’ I asked, ‘do you by any chance own in the chariot racing today? The four-horse team with the African charioteer?’
He nodded curtly.
I smiled. ‘Ah, I see,’ I said. I meant it. I did see. Gorgo had it all correct. ‘May the best chariot and team win, then,’ I said.
‘I repeat – you needn’t be here. We can protect ourselves,’ Adamanteis said.
Themistocles shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is not you that we protect.’
The Corinthian spun on his heel and walked back among his tents. Several men pointed at us.
I wondered whether he was enough of a fool to provoke a fight. At the Olympics, no less.
Meanwhile, we missed Astylos’s day of triumph altogether, which galled me. We heard the roar from the stadium as he won the stadia, and Hector found us to tell us of the victory. Most of my oarsmen were in the south end of the stadium, roaring their lungs out for the Italian.
Two hours later, we caught the excitement even three stades away. Hector came to tell us that Astylos had won his first heat at the diaulos. Cimon and I cursed that we were missing a great moment. Themistocles made an excuse and left us to watch. He loved the running, and he wasn’t doing anything but provoking the Corinthians. He and Adamanteis clearly loathed each other.
It broke my heart to miss the final race. More so as two Plataeans made the last heat.
But we accomplished our objective, because when two grooms departed the Corinthian camp, they did so just as the cheering reached a fever pitch, late in the day. They avoided our position by slipping under the edge of their back tents and creeping slowly along the ground until clear of the camp. Then they ran into the trees to the south of the river and began to make their way along the high ground towards the Spartans. We never saw them.
But Brasidas and Leukas did. The two were dressed as slaves, Leukas hawking wine and Brasidas serving it. Leukas’s tattoos and barbaric Greek accent covered them both. They sent their pais – an Egyptian boy – running to us. I sent Alexandros and a dozen marines, all unarmed, to join Brasidas.
Then I put Leukas back on duty, this time with Sittonax and Harpagos pouring for him. It seemed possible that the first pair was a diversion.
With every possible arrangement made, I sauntered down to the stadium to embrace Astylos, who was so elated that he was with the gods. He had won two Olympic events in a single day. It had happened before, but no one could remember when, and he was, that night, the most famous man in the Greek world. And for many years thereafter.
Somewhere in the woods north of the sanctuary, Brasidas caught the two slaves. They didn’t fight. He tied them to trees, questioned them, and then Alexandros took them to the Spartan camp. I would love to have been present when they were handed over, but it was all done very quietly and I didn’t want my hand to be seen too broadly in it.
We ate and drank. The last of the wine was gone. The sun set. We changed the watch on the Corinthians. Brasidas assured me that the Athenians were watching the Spartans.
I went to my cloak, too tired to sit up with Astylos and Polymarchos and enjoy their moment of triumph. But the young man glowed, and Polymarchos look ten years younger.
I went to sleep. And rose in the dawn, to the last day. The day of the pankration, and of the chariot races.
I wasn’t intending to miss the pankration, so I made my arrangements early and put Cimon in charge. And he dumped his command responsibilities on Themistocles, who, you will remember, had walked off to see the races. It would have been the perfect moment for Adamanteis to sneak an assassin out, but the world seldom works that way.
After all, Adamantheis had no idea whether his grooms had succeeded or not. Their orders – according to Brasidas, who questioned them fairly extensively (I’m sparing your finer feelings) – their orders were to injure the horses. They had slings, a bow and knives.
Enough. My point is that the enemy is not always all-knowing. In this case, I think Adamanteis was outmatched. He was one arrogant rich man facing a dozen arrogant rich men. Hah!
At any rate, the pankration was superb. Agias of Pharalas won in just four bouts – only six men were willing to match him, and two of them were out – badly injured – in two rounds. He was tall, heavily built, beautifully muscled, and very fast. He always attacked, and his movements were fluid and graceful – almost impossible for a man so big.
I was lying on the green grass of the stadium bank with a number of my friends, including Polymarchos and Astylos – crowned with laurel and bathing in the admiration of every man in the crowd, I can tell you. But Polymarchos pointed out the Pharsalians early.
‘Rhadamanthius of Pharsala trains them,’ he said. ‘Men say he’s the greatest warrior alive. He’s a freedman – a former slave. You can always tell the men he trains – the way they move. Look at the lumbering bastard – he won’t last a moment . . .’
In
deed, as we watched, Agias took his opponent’s left wrist in his right and rotated it up – just a little – and made his opponent rotate on his hips – again, just a little – and at exactly the right moment, he seemed to step through the other man. Agias knelt suddenly, and pulled his opponent down – the man was forced against his will to rotate, to lose his balance, and to collapse back across Agias’s outthrust knee. He fell, and Agias rolled across him, a forearm across the downed man’s throat. The big man was brave and strong – he struggled until he was unconscious. But the pin was complete.
Sadly that was the best of his matches. There really wasn’t anyone who was worthy of him. One man he put down with a single, well-placed punch, and another he caught in a foolish extension and flipped over his head. All with an air of almost casual elegance.
Another Pharsalian won the wrestling. The two men enjoyed our plaudits, and walked the stadium receiving cheers and flowers and wreaths and small statues. Euthymos of Lokroi won the boxing. He was a fighter, and he fought three other men as good as he – well, not quite as good – but his fights offered more drama than the Pharsalians had. He seemed to just barely manage his wins, and yet, in the end, he had the same wreath of laurel on his brow and the same immortality. There’s a lesson there.
And then it was time to walk down to the hippodrome and watch the chariots.
The order of events is not immutable, and I know that in other years, the chariots have run on different days. As men emphasise – or forget – the role of old Pelops in founding the games, the chariot races gain in importance or lose it again. Some new event – such as the hoplitodromos – will catch everyone’s interest, or a particular athlete will capture the imaginations of the judges – and that can change the way the games are scheduled. In that year, with the fate of Greece blowing on the winds of fate, the chariot race for four horses was last.
Of course, we’d already had all the horse races, the donkey race, the race for colts, and the two-horse chariots. Oh, yes. Greeks will watch almost any kind of race.
But as I’ve already said, the four-horse chariot race is considered a sacred event. It takes a fantastically rich man to enter a team – to get four matched horses, you need to raise fifty, or so I’m told. Matched teams sold for enough money to buy a fleet or a small city.
Long War 04 - The Great King Page 16