Murder At The Panionic Games

by Michael B. Edwards

CHAPTER XX

  I stayed at the devastated site of the tent city for about an hour, gathering my strength for the walk back uphill to the city proper and steeling myself for a look at the two dead bodies. My benefactor servant brought me a cup of heady wine at his master's bequest, which I sipped gingerly. Many people were now milling about, having arrived from the stadium after the final event of the day. Those whose property had been destroyed or damaged could be heard cursing or wailing, while those who had been more lucky simultaneously laughed or clucked sympathetically at their neighbors' ill fortune. My rescuer had been correct, when he surmised that the destruction would have been much worse if not for the drizzling rain. It was certainly bad enough as it was, and the news filtered through the tent city that three or four other poor souls had perished in the conflagration.

  I finally fortified my nerves enough to move over to where the bodies of Polearchus and Machus lay covered by a cloth. Bending over to pull away the cloth immediately set the hammer and anvil in my head to banging again, so I plopped down on the wet ground to inspect the corpses.

  Paradoxically, their was a vast difference in the condition of the two bodies. Polearchus had been seriously burned by the fire, while Machus appeared to be merely sleeping, albeit with a slightly smudged look to his skin. I could not bring myself to touch the head or torso of the Miletian aristocrat, as I feared his charred skin would slough away in my fingers. So I contented myself with inspecting his corpse by simply staring at him, my stomach growing more ill at ease with each passing moment. His body was too badly damaged by the fire to see any other wounds, but in my memory I recalled the sounds of struggling ended by a muffled cry.

  I turned gratefully after a while to Machus' poor remains, which were much easier to examine. He might have been one of the firefighters, now taking a well-deserved rest after heroically battling the blaze, so untouched was he by the flames. I could find no wound on his body, but there was a large lump on the back of his head. It was very much like my own, I thought, as I gingerly felt my wound. But why was he dead if he was not burned? I supposed that the blow, if that is what it was, to his head might have killed him, but the skull was not crushed. Why had he not awakened, as I had?

  ”He died of being poisoned by the smoke,” spoke a voice from behind me. I screwed my head around to see a well-dressed, middle-aged man peering down at Machus from above me. I climbed slowly to my feet.

  ”I am afraid I do not understand, sir,” I said. “Poisoned by the smoke? How is that possible?” The man stared at me as if I were an idiot.

  ”Have you never coughed when the smoke of a camp fire or hearth blew into your lungs?” he answered shortly. I nodded. He gestured at Machus with his hand. “It is the same thing in this case. If the body breathes in too much smoke, it poisons the lungs. Not enough air can get through the smoke, do you see?”

  ”You mean it is as if he were strangled?” I ventured, again looking down at the peaceful corpse. It was the man's turn to nod.

  ”Yes, exactly. I suspect it is a much easier way to die that being burned to death, as was poor Polearchus here.” Except that Polearchus was not burned to death, I thought morosely. His shade had already departed for the underworld, when the burning debris had fallen on him.

  ”May I ask who you are, sir?” the man inquired curiously. I waved a hand in the air.

  ”Merely an acquaintance of Polearchus,” I said quietly. “I had accompanied him back to his tents to partake of some wine, food, and conversation.”

  ”Ah, well, I am from Miletus, as are most of the people in this section of the tent city. I have known Polearchus many years. I and my colleagues will see that his body is transported back to Miletus for burial. These games have been nothing but bad luck for him and his family. You know that his nephew, Habiliates, was accidentally killed in the chariot race?” Again, I nodded my head.

  ”Had you spoken to him since his nephew's unfortunate demise?” I hoped my tone was deceptively innocent.

  ”Yes, just this morning, as a matter of fact,” said the Miletian. “He was very upset about the death, but in rather a cold and calculated manner. He hinted a few times that he believed it may not have been an accident at all, but I do not see how that could be, do you? I mean, after all, chariot racing is a risky business. People get killed and injured in the sport all the time. No, I think he was simply distraught underneath that calm exterior, and could not accept that the gods had allowed Habiliates to pass away before he could fulfill his glorious destiny of winning the Games for Miletus.”

  The man recovered the corpses with the cloth, bade me farewell, and sauntered back toward his own tents. I stared after him for a moment, considering what he had just told me. If all Polearchus had done was hint to his fellow Miletians that the death of Habiliates was deliberate, then there would be no revelation to the citizens of Priene nor to all the visitors that a guestslaying had occurred. He had apparently kept the information to himself, and with both him and his servant dead, the curtain of miasma that enveloped the city would remain unknown and unseen.

  Except that, now, I knew there had been three guestslayings, not one. The cloaked figure in Polearchus' tent had finished the Miletian aristocrat, as well as for his servant. It simply could not have been a coincidence, the two being killed by some robber or vagabond, could it? Well, I suppose that odder things have come to pass, that is for sure, but still...no, the stakes were too high. It was just too unlikely and the timing too convenient. These two murders, for that is what they were, had to be connected to the deaths of Tyrestes and Habiliates.

  And to top it all, the cloaked figure had obviously meant for the minor priest of

  Poseidon to perish in the flames as well. My aching head and ribs attested to that, as well as my seared lower legs and sore lungs. It was simply a case of the gods smiling on me, while they simultaneously frowned on Polearchus and Machus. The final frown.

  This speculation was causing my head to pound even more ferociously, and I decided to give it up for the moment and head back up the narrow, slanting streets to the city center. I trudged tiredly through the mourners, gawkers, and merely curious, out of the tent city. I considered purchasing something to eat from the still shouting street vendors, but the mere thought of food caused the bile to rise in my throat, so I determined to visit the baths again instead, and get myself cleaned up.

  It was still early in the evening, though it seemed to me that many hours had passed and that this was undoubtedly the longest day of my life. The baths sported wall-to-wall visitors, as I knew they would be, now that the games' events were over for the day. Dozens of citizens and visitors were clustered in the big andron room right off the pillared entrance, chattering, drinking, and having a fine old time. Asses, I thought sourly, as I edged through the andron toward the changing room door and noted several aristocrats staring at me in surprise due to my disheveled appearance. I quickly shed my singed and muddy mourning garments into the arms of a shocked slave employee, who stared at them and me in some dismay, wondering, no doubt, how he was ever going to make them halfway presentable. But he bowed and scuttled out a side door, where I knew there was a tub of soapy water waiting for the clothing of clods such as I.

  The hot room was not as full of patrons as the andron, but at least ten visitors were there, luxuriating in the hot pool or lazing around on the marble benches being massaged and oiled by at least a half dozen slave employees. Nobody I knew, thank the gods. A couple of them glanced at me quickly, noting the mud, blood, and growing bruises, but were too polite to say much.

  ”Rough day in the athletics today, eh?” one of them quipped, staring at me from his perch on a nearby bench. He winced as a slave kneaded his shoulders. “Looks like you got in over your head in the pancration or boxing?” I simply nodded wearily at him, which cut off any further conversation, and motioned to an employee to wash me down with a hot sponge, so that I could climb into the hot p
ool. The slave carefully sponged me down, scraped off the worst of the dirt with a bronze strigel, and assisted me into the pool. The water was scalding hot this time, the steam rising into the overheated air. I inched into it carefully, and settled myself gratefully on the marble lip set down in the water.

  ”Sir, if you desire, we have an iatros physician standing by, because of the games, who can examine your wound,” said the slave softly in my ear, as I eased into the water. I assented to this suggestion, and he ghosted away to fetch the follower of Aesclepius.

  A short while later, he returned with a small, rotund man carrying a bag and clucking impatiently at the condition of my body. When I assured him that my head wound was probably the only injury he could assist me with, he looked at me with some disapproval, but nevertheless examined the lump behind my ear. Bathing it with a sponge dipped in vinegar set it to smarting, but he pronounced importantly that it was a minor injury and probably did not need sewing. When he saw me catch my breath several times if I took in too much air, he insisted on prodding and poking my ribs with a pudgy finger. He then pontificated to all the admiring onlookers that I had several cracked ribs, but nothing broken. He advised me to wrap my chest with tight binding upon returning home, and leave the binding on underneath my tunic for at least one month. With a smile of condescension, the iatros accepted ten stater from my purse as a fee and bustled his way back out of the room.

  Sighing, I resettled myself back into the pool to relax my battered muscles. My slightly burned legs could not take too much of the hot water, however, and began to protest vehemently at the increased temperature. I considered that my protesting lower limbs might enjoy the cold pool a little more, and decided to sit on its edge and dangle them within.

  Moving through the covered door into the cooler air of the cold room, I immediately noted a dozen or so occupants splashing in the cold water or rubbing themselves down with olive oil to be scraped off with a strigel. It was apparent they were all athletes -- all of them had splendid physiques spotted with bruises and scrapes here and there, and were chattering animatedly among themselves about today's contests. In the far corner next to the small hearth, Usthius sat with a cup in his hand and a contented smile on his youthful face. His look of happiness changed instantly to one of apprehension when I appeared in the doorway. On a bench next to him two other competitors relaxed, laughing between themselves. They were Endemion and Mycrustes, and enthusiastically waved me over when they spotted me. I shuffled over to their bench, keeping a wary eye on Usthius, who was watching me nervously as I approached, and accepted a kylix of wine from Mycrustes. Perching on the edge of the cold pool, I lowered my smarting legs into the chilly water. Immediately my limbs ceased their vociferous protests, and thanked me for my solicitude.

  ”Ho, Bias! “ greeted Mycrustes loudly. “You must congratulate us. Endemion and I have both qualified for the finals tomorrow in the discus, and young Usthius here actually won the horse race for Priene!” Endemion grinned broadly and punched Mycrustes on the shoulder, and even Usthius produced a hesitant smile.

  ”Congratulations, indeed, then,” I answered warmly. “Well done, all of you, especially you, Usthius.” I stared at him, and a dark flush spread over his face.

  ”Euphemius is very pleased,” he muttered, taking a gulp of his wine.

  ”I should say he is,” boomed out Mycrustes. “I do not think he will take off that crown of laurel leaves for the next several days, eh? His horse and Usthius did the work, but he gets the credit! I am glad I am not a horse racer!” He howled with laughter and was joined wholeheartedly by Endemion, and hesitantly by both Usthius and myself.

  ”It looks as if you had been in the Games yourself, Bias,” observed Endemion, noticing my own bruises and battered appearance. “You did not compete today, did you?

  I did not think you were overly interested in that sort of thing.”

  ”Oh, I enjoy athletics well enough,” I said. “But I am not in the same league as you fellows. No, I was involved in a fire in the city of tents down by the shore of the Meander. Have you heard about it up here yet?”

  ”Why, yes, word had reached us not long ago about a fire,” exclaimed Endemion eagerly. “So you were in it, eh? Was anybody hurt? You do not look as if you fared any too well yourself!” His chest muscles rippled as he leaned forward to hear the news.

  ”At least four or five people were killed and some more injured,” I replied softly.

  “I was with two of the individuals who died. One was Polearchus of Miletus, the uncle of the athlete Habiliates.”

  ”What ill fortune!” moaned Mycrustes in sympathy for the departed Milesian.

  “First the nephew, then the uncle. That family should never have come here. They must have mightily offended some god to be used thus.”

  ”Offended some god,” I mused, peering at him as he took a large gulp of wine.

  ”Yes, indeed. Or some instrument of a god.” Endemion looked at me curiously for a moment, and then turned to Usthius.

  ”Were you not down in that area after the horse race, Usthius?” he asked. “After we cheered you on your victory and got back to the stadium, I remember you saying you had some business down by the Meander and would not be able to see us compete in the discus. You did not mention that you saw the fire.”

  Usthius glanced sharply at Endemion, and then answered in an offhand manner.

  ”Yes, I was down near the city of tents, but my business was with a sheep merchant, whose corrals are at the river's edge a little further to the east.”

  I eyed Usthius with interest at this last statement.

  ”So you never made it to the tent city?” I asked quietly, transfixing him with my gaze and forcing him to stare back at me.

  ”I never intended to go to the tents,” he replied archly,” and so I had no reason to 'make it there,' as you so quaintly put it. I never saw any fire, and did not hear of it until I arrived here at the baths and overheard people talking about it.”

  I continued to glower at him, until he broke off his reply in some confusion, and went back to drinking his wine. Both Mycrustes and Endemion looked at me with mild interest, but when I did not pursue the matter, turned back to a topic of unceasing concern to them, the competitions scheduled for tomorrow. Endemion was in a number of final events and was worried he would not be able to sustain himself for the pentathlon the next day, but Mycrustes, entered only in the discus final, brushed away his misgivings and soon had him chuckling and confident again. I remained for a few minutes more, keeping my gaze steadfastly on Usthius, but finally decided to leave when he refused to meet my eyes but simply kept steadily drinking. The other two athletes bid me a cheerful farewell, as I exited the cold room back into the changing area.

  The baths employee had done a creditable job on my clothing, having washed away the worst of the blood and mud stains and then apparently attempted to dry the garments by the huge hearth in the hot room. They were still damp to the touch, but I did not mind that so much, and was grateful enough to reward the slave with a stater coin.

  He sniffed and turned away to help another guest entering the room from the andron.

  Stifling a sudden spurt of anger that I realized had been caused by Usthius but would have been directed at this harmless servant, I hurried out of the baths and turned in the

  street in the direction of home.

  Endemion's mention of Usthius' whereabouts during the fire set me to thinking anew. If I spoke to the various people involved in the situation so far, who would not be able to account for their location at that time? If some of my suspects were not able to produce a witness to account for their whereabouts, that might considerably help reduce the number of possible people who could have killed Polearchus and Machus. That is, of course, if the person who did kill the Miletian and his servant was the same one who murdered Tyrestes and Habiliates. Come to think of it, I ruminated, I guess it is possible that th
ey were not the intended victims, but that I was.

  This thought was so startling that I stopped in my tracks, causing a visitor behind to collide with me. Muttering my apologies, I moved on down the street and out of Priene's western gate, grappling with this new revelation.

  Yes, suppose it was I the killer intended to stop. Perhaps he or she had seen me with Polearchus, overheard that I was proceeding to his temporary home to talk about the mystery, and preceded us to the tent city. There the interloper could have entered the tent, rendered Machus unconscious, and waited for our coming. If this was the case, then any of my suspects could be the Miletian's murderer!

  But again, in that case, if one or more of them could not verify his or her location during the fire, I could make some real progress in closing in on the killer. I cursed myself that I had been unable to see the identity of the shadowy intruder in the tent after being struck down.

  And then, the idea hit me. It revealed itself to me in such a simple fashion that I am sure that Poseidon finally took pity on me and sent this consideration into my head.

  The killer did not know that I could not identify him or her. It was possible that he or she did not even know I was still alive. If I were a killer, would I have remained in the vicinity of the fire to insure that my victims were truly dead? It would be a tempting thing to do, but the danger of doing so would be incredible. Suppose somebody saw me in the immediate area. How could I explain my way out of it? No, I would not have stayed. Too risky. Therefore, I would simply have hoped that nobody of any consequence saw me, and that all my intended victims were dead, no matter who they were.

  If the killer did not know I was alive, he or she would be able to find out very shortly as news of the fire's victims spread through the city. But the murderer still would not know if I could identify him or her!

  That was it then . The game was just about played out. I was in deadly danger all the time now. The murderer, in my mind having struck four times already, could not possibly allow me to live. I had to bring the investigation to a close immediately, and reveal the murderer's identity, so that the magistrates and the victim's family could bring the culprit to justice. But I did not know who it was! How to do it, how?

  Be calm, I told myself sternly. There must be a way. Just as I did not know the killer's identity, he or she conversely did not know how much I knew or if I could identify him. Poseidon, help me again, I begged silently. Agonizing moments stretched by.

  Then suddenly, Poseidon revealed it to me! It would be extremely hazardous, but I was in mortal danger in any case. I had no time to check into the whereabouts of all the possible suspects in the case. I had no idea when the murderer might strike at me. Therefore, I had to gamble everything on one throw of the bones.

  I had to set up a trap, and hope that it would be the killer and not I that would be caught in it.

  Feverishly working out the details in my head, I turned up the path that led up to the estate of Holicius and hurried home to grab a bite to eat for a very late dorpon. I was suddenly ravenously hungry.

  Edwards—Murder At The Panionic Games