CHAPTER XIII
The crowd erupted into new heights of wild screaming and waving as the athletes
entered the hippodrome through the gate in the wall.
Only the charioteers entered the track area itself. The owners either stayed in the roped enclosure or hurried back to their advantageous seats in the stands, some torn between the desire to be recognized as an entry owner or to obtain the best view of the race itself.
Arms raised high over their heads the drivers rotated this way and that to the delight of the crowd, as they strode to their waiting chariots. This was one of few events not conducted in the nude at the Panionic Games, and each athlete sported a tunic in the colors of his patron. This was extremely unusual, in that Ionian men normally wore tunics of white or brown, so the effect heightened the feeling of difference and excitement. The only driver I could see not colorfully arrayed was Usthius in his raiment of black in recognition of his brother's recent demise. I also noticed that his hair, while shorter than the average man's, was not shorn off as mine was. A fleeting thought, quick as the feet of Hermes the messenger god, fled through my mind that my mother need not have been quite so traditional, when she gave me a mourner's haircut.
I recognized several of the charioteers as they proceeded to their carts, and climbed aboard, most still waving and grinning at the throng. Usthius walked all the way back to the fourth row to claim his chariot and was gazing in apparent bewilderment
at his fellow contestants. In the second row in a chariot of crimson I watched Habiliates brandish his whip over his head to the howls of the hundreds of screaming Miletians. Endemion stood in his orange and white gig in a tunic of identical colors in the third row, gesticulating and pointing at people he knew along the walls. There were three other
contestants from Priene in the contest, but the majority of the racers were from mighty Miletus or from the great horse city of Colophon. Kreton's stocky, little driver stood grim and resolute in a cart in the last row, his hands already wound tightly about his reins.
The increasingly restless horses were now being held in place by the slaves and trainers by main force. In the second and fourth rows, teams of horses reared and bucked, swinging their holders about like leaves clinging to a thrashing branch in the midst of a strong wind. When these chariot races lurched into action one or more of the desperate holders were usually trampled in the charioteers' mad rush to surge forward, but this merely served to whet the mob's appetite for more blood and excitement. The trick, of course, was for the holders to run straight back toward the rear of the chariot lines in the hope that they could pop out of the back end before the drivers began maneuvering their horses for better position.
The interior wall of the track surrounded the grassy oval in the middle of the hippodrome. This wall, in contrast to the chest-high exterior fence, was only waist high, and was designed to keep the chariots on the track. Its height also allowed paid rescuers and debris cleaners to sprint onto the racing floor to hopefully snatch up fallen charioteers and drag off smashed chariots before the remaining teams completed another circuit. Sometimes they were successful in their endeavors and sometimes not. I must admit I have seen several charioteers along with their supposed rescuers ground under hoof and wheel, if they were a tad slow in getting out of the way. Every 20 paces or so down both lengths of the hippodrome track pairs of slaves waited for the event to commence, their apprehension at being designated as rescuers clearly evident in their tense stance and anxious attitude.
In the center of the grassy middle oval stood a small wooden tower, the height of two tall men. A ladder rested along one of its sides, and I now spied a man in a flapping chiton climbing up to the top. He reached the summit, slowly stood up straight, and
raised his hands for the crowd to quiet itself. This took several minutes, but eventually the watchers grew silent enough for the starter's satisfaction. All eyes in the throng were upon him as he raised a red scarf above his head and allowed it to wave in the wind for a moment. I stole a quick glance at the athletes and noticed all of them were staring fixedly at the starter, their hands twined about their reins and their bodies straining backwards against the pull of their horses. Most of the holders, in contrast, were gazing unblinking at their driver, waiting for an undefined signal to release the horses and begin their mad sprint toward the rear.
The starter, an old man whose white beard flapped in the breeze in perfect harmony with the red rag, suddenly released his hold on the cloth. It fluttered for the merest heartbeat above his head, and then the noise of the crowd blasted forth like an explosion of sound from a volcano!
The chariots lurched forward, as if all propelled by a single hand of the giant Atlas, and the holders frantically sprinted in the opposite direction. A blue and white wagon in the third row canted to its right just as its horses bounded off, catching a pair of holders on its railing as they tried to speed past. The rest of the slaves and trainers popped out of the dust at the far end of the starting rows, leaving only those two lying in the dirt as the chariots careened toward the far end of the hippodrome. Four slaves bounded over the low interior wall, scooped up the fallen holders between them, and dragged them unceremoniously back into the safety of the grass enclosure.
This race was to be ten circuits of the hippodrome, which gave the charioteers plenty of time and opportunity for their carts to be smashed to pieces and themselves flung under the hooves of madly galloping horses. Of all the events at the Panionic Games the chariot race was far and away the most dangerous. Granted one could get beaten up very thoroughly in the boxing ring or have bones snapped in the wrestling circle, but these injuries were seldom fatal. On the other hand men could and did get killed with great regularity within the confines of the great hippodrome.
Having swerved around the far end of the circuit with no accidents as yet, the carts were now barreling back down the other side of the track. Frenzied drivers lashed their animals, as they jockeyed recklessly for position, since early possession of the innermost position could mean the difference between a win and a loss. Second or third place in the great games did not exist---the only place that mattered was first. I saw the strained faces of Habiliates and Endemion flash by, their whip arms rising and falling as if signalling the gods for assistance.
The first accident occurred when the racers crowded up at my end of the hippodrome. Attempting to gain an interior position a red and black entry from Ephesus made its move too soon and was instantly reduced to a bundle of flying sticks, when its near wheel caught on the projecting axle of a competitor from Clazomenae. The driver was catapulted into the path of a team of nervous horses from Miletus, who tried to shy away from the sudden object, only to collide with the next cart over. Both of those chariots immediately went down, the horses and drivers disappearing in a cloud of dust, chariots, and screaming animals. As the rest of the teams streamed past, the rescuers rushed out to secure the three athletes and drag off the destroyed wagons. One of the injured drivers was stumbling about on his own feet, but the other two lay still and silent.
A horse with an obviously broken leg was thrashing on the ground a short distance down the track, having broken free of its comrades in harness, but none of the rescuers was intrepid enough to try and tackle that problem. The other freed horses either continued to run in the race with nobody to direct them, or bounced around the inside of the oval, scattering rescuer slaves to the four winds.
Two, three, four circuits completed! The number of competitors on the field shrank away as more accidents took out the foolish or the overly bold. I saw an athlete from Erythrae flung at least ten paces into the air, when his chariot smashed headlong into a disabled cart. He came crashing down on the top of a team of horses from Priene, maddening them and causing them to leap the small fence and run down three rescuers inside the interior oval. Their Prienean driver was tossed to the ground inside the grassy area, and shakily rose to his feet to the thunderous cheers of
the crowd. The noise was deafening, steadily rising like a stiffening gale buffeting a ship at sea. Individuals in the throng were yelling themselves hoarse, some tearing at their clothes and hair as their favorites went down beneath the hooves of their rivals.
By the seventh circuit only sixteen chariots remained in the race. Destroyed carts, bits and pieces of wood, and dead and injured horses littered the track, making it appear like a battle had taken place there. The rescuers were able to snatch up all the drivers with only one of their number being run down on the track itself, but there had been too many accidents for them to be able to clear the racing arena of all the rapidly accumulating debris. It seemed like there was some object for the careening chariots to try and avoid at every step of the race now.
Instead of screaming with the many other viewers, I had gone deathly silent.
I could not utter a word. It was as if my tongue had been torn away with the lives of the fallen drivers and horses, and I could only stare in fascinated obsession as the chariots continued to rush around the hippodrome.
A massive pileup in the middle of the eighth circuit eliminated another six chariots, including that of Euphemius, which had been whipped along by the boyish Usthius. The first cart to swing around the near side of the curve collided with a deranged set of driverless horses galloping in the wrong direction, causing instant chaos as the following teams smashed into the pile one by one. I watched in horrified fascination as Usthius gallantly tried to swing his team out of the way to the right, only to have his leftmost horse nearly climb onto the chariot of the man in front. His chariot became hopelessly entangled, as he was flung off to the side. When the remaining teams had swept by and the rescuers pelted onto the track, I noticed with mixed feelings that he was stumbling toward the interior wall under his own power.
Habiliates of Miletus had hung on staunchly in the middle of the charging mass of racers the whole time, and now made his move in the ninth circuit. Whipping his horses, as if he was pursued by the hounds of Artemis, he flew to the lead position as he rounded the near corner, closely pursued by Endemion and a competitor from Erythrae. What happened next was as apparently inexplicable as it was dramatic. As Habiliates' chariot swerved violently around the corner, it rose up on the outside wheel, and then simply disintegrated, as the wheel snapped cleanly off at the hub. I had never seen anything like it. At one moment he was leading the field, and at the next moment his chariot was no longer there at all. I saw him hit the ground running, and it looked like he had actually had a chance to avoid the two teams bearing down on him from behind. As I have said before, I believe he was the fastest man I ever saw. But this last time he was not fast enough. Just as he was within leaping distance of the exterior wall the rightmost horse of Endemion clipped him on the shoulder as it surged past. Knocked violently to the ground he half rose to his knees, when the team from Erythrae dashed over him, crushing him to the dirt, and then throwing his mangled body against the chest-high wall. The rescuers rushed to drag him out as the other competitors bounded by.
Endemion now held the lead and he kept it to the end, just holding off the Erythraean, whose team had been momentarily slowed down by its encounter with the charioteer from Miletus. Our charioteer swept past the finish line one length ahead of his rival, his horses streaming blood from their many whip cuts, as they responded to his frantic urgings. Endemion and Priene had triumphed in the chariot race.
I turned back from the spectacle of hundreds of cheering fans pouring over the far wall onto the track and surrounding the victor and his exhausted team. Fighting my way
through the crowd, I at last found myself staring down at Habiliates, as he lay broken and twisted at the edge of the stone fence. His bloody head lay in the lap of a distraught Ossadia, who was clasping him tightly and rocking back and forth, the red staining her white chiton as she wailed. The small magistrate Valato stood a few paces away, watching helplessly, his bewildered eyes begging me for assistance with his hysterical daughter.
It took a while for the crowds to melt away and head back to the city for further entertainment or back to their houses and campsites to begin preparing the evening dorpon meal. I initially helped Valato disentangle Ossadia from Habiliates. The magistrate could not understand why his daughter was so beside herself with grief over a Miletian athlete, and I was not about to be the one to tell him that I suspected it was because the two might be lovers. The scene from my dream kept intruding on my consciousness. We finally succeeding in tearing her from the charioteer's body, and it was borne away by the servants of his rich patron, Polearchus of Miletus. Valato's wife Myrnia took charge at this point, and showing surprising strength of purpose, gathering up Ossadia in her arms, and crooning softly to her, until she quieted down enough to be led away herself. An emotionally exhausted Valato thanked me profusely for my assistance, and trailed off despondently after his wife and daughter, still no wiser as to why the girl had temporarily lost her sanity.
I hung about the grounds for a time, congratulating Nolarion for his son's victory.
The big aristocrat was all smiles and good feelings, and had bluff, kind words to say about everything. He was sorry for the untimely demise of Habiliates, but not overmuch, I thought. After all, he was well aware that this fortuitous death considerably improved his son's chances of becoming the games' champion. But he had enough breeding and good manners to avoid being outwardly happy at the tragedy. Endemion himself apparently just considered it the fortune of the gods, and chalked it up to being Apollo's favorite for the day. On some other day it might be his turn to be killed in the competition, but not today.
My family left for home while I was assisting Valato, for which I was quietly grateful. I did not much feel like participating in a drawn out discussion of the intricacies of the race with my father, who tended to view competitions scientifically and would probably have dissected each point about each athlete's death with dispassionate relish. My mother expressed the opinion that she was glad the accidents had been far enough away for the girls not to have been exposed to unnecessary bloodshed. Arlana, tightly grasping the hands of Tirah and Tapho as they climbed down the wobbling stands, commented loudly that she was convinced that the whole contest was merely a sop to the gods of men, as opposed to the sensible sacrifices demanded by goddesses. Risalla regarded me with great disdain and refused to answer, when I asked her how she felt as Usthius was eliminated from the race.
As the last of the spectators were belatedly departing from the hippodrome, and the last of the horses and chariots being bundled away back to their stables, I was confronted by a dark-visaged slave. Appearing in front of me like a wraith and bowing low, he inquired if I was Bias of Priene. When I admitted that I was indeed the holder of this dubious honor, he politely asked me to follow him, as his master Polearchus desired to speak with me. Recognizing the name of Habiliates patron, I acquiesced and padded behind him over to an entourage at the far end of the hippodrome. Seeing me approach Polearchus rose to his feet, offered me a welcome kylix of wine, and motioned for me to be seated at a duplicate chair. He was a short, compact man with a dark, spade-like beard, and rather reminded me of a Lydian rather than an Ionian. He wasted no time, but proceeded directly to his point.
”You watched the race, of course?” he asked gently. His eyes were black and
luminous, and stared directly into mine.
”Of course, noble Polearchus. Let me express my condolences over the death of your driver, Habiliates. He was a superb athlete, and I am sure he would have brought much glory to Miletus had he lived and competed further.”
”He was more than my driver,” stated the Miletian baldly. “He was my nephew, the only son of my only sister. I regarded him almost as a son, since I have no children myself. I believe he would have been the games champion had this not happened. I do not know how my sister will bear his death. He was all she lived for.” He paused, and considered the line of the horiz
on, as he regularized his breathing and battled for composure. He won, but it took him a few moments.
”I hear you have been given a warrant by the city fathers of Priene to investigate the death of one of your own athletes, the noble Tyrestes,” he continued, smiling sadly. “He was the competitor I was most afraid would beat Habiliates, you know. I admit I did not mourn overmuch when he died. But now I view things differently. I would like you to see something in your capacity as investigator.” He spoke the last word as if it were a foreign term, and he did not approve of it very much.
We rose and walked over to the wreckage of a chariot, where a servant was waiting expectantly. The servant bowed low to both of us and stood waiting.
”This is Machus, my Carian carpenter and chariot maker,” Polearchus gestured at the servant. “He is the best man with wood I have ever known. I think perhaps the nymphs of the trees are in love with him, he can accomplish so much with wood.” The compact Miletian paused again, and then motioned for Machus to pick up the conversation.
”Illustrious Bias of Priene, I am the individual who constructed the chariot that raced today with the team of Polearchus. It is undoubtedly the best work I have ever done. I shall never make one so fine again, now that we are burdened with the
shade of Habiliates crying out for justice.”
”What do you mean?” I asked curiously. “Why should Habiliates' shade cry out for justice.”
”Observe, noble Bias,” Machus said, and led me to the wheel of the destroyed chariot. Bending down, he touched the axle lightly and traced his finger around the area where it had broken away.
”Do you see how even and smooth this break is? He peered up at me with gentle eyes.
”Why, yes,” I replied, bending down and running my own fingers over the break.
”It is amazing that it broke off so cleanly, eh?”
"It is not amazing at all," the carpenter contradicted flatly. "The wheel did not just break off. The axle was sawed nearly through and dabbed with paint to hide the marks. It was simply a matter of time during the stress of the race that it would break off, and this is what happened. Since the most stress to this wheel would occur when it rounded a corner of the track, that is the most likely place the accident would occur. It did precisely that."
”You mean that somebody tampered with this chariot wheel? How would they know when it would break?” I tried to hide my incredulity from my tone of voice.
”They would not have to know,” replied Machus. “It was sufficient that it should break anytime during the race. Habiliates' injury or death was not necessary. The only thing that was necessary was that the wheel should break.”
”So you see why I asked you over here,” interrupted Polearchus harshly, staring at me with reddened, angry eyes. “My nephew did not just die in an accident of the games.
In effect, he was murdered, just as surely as your Tyrestes was murdered.”
Murder At The Panionic Games Page 12