Gary Corby - Sacred Games

“I’m sorry, King Pleistarchus,” I said, as apologetic as I could be. “I didn’t recognize you. But I don’t think your idea can be right.”

“Why not?” He didn’t seem offended.

I touched the body’s head. “See this wound? It’s toward the front, almost on the forehead, and slightly on the left-hand side. This wound could not have been made from behind. It was almost certainly made by a right-handed man from in front.”

King Pleistarchus leaned over and examined the body with an air of genuine curiosity. “You’re right. Is there any wound behind?”

I was already running my hands around the back of the head. “Nothing there.”

“What of his back?” Pleistarchus waved to two soldiers, who together rolled over the heavy, awkward corpse. We all three felt about.

Nothing. No wounds. In the combined torchlight and strong moonlight we could see bruises, but with death there would be bruising in any case.

Another Spartan stepped forward. “Pleistarchus, I remind you this man who examines the body of our comrade is an Athenian. He will say or do anything to get another Athenian off the charge.”

The man spoke as if to a difficult and slow child. I waited for the King of Sparta to explode, but all he said was, “I know this, Xenares. Trust me, I will keep it in mind.”

The man named Xenares was dressed in the style of formal chiton that covered him from neck to ankles in one long, flowing robe. He had a small, pinched mouth that looked like it was set in a permanent expression of distaste. Or perhaps it was the cares of office, for he seemed to be an official of some sort. He turned to one of the Spartan soldiers and said, “Send for Markos.” The soldier scampered off as if he’d received a command from Zeus.

“This whole question of the guilt of Timodemus can be put away at once,” Pericles declared. “Nicolaos has watched over Timodemus like a hungry eagle, every moment since he was reinstated to the competition. He can certainly swear that Timodemus was nowhere near Arakos.”

Every eye turned to me.

Suddenly I was very nervous. I felt myself blush.

“Er … Pericles, that might not be entirely true.” I had to admit it; there might be a witness to prove otherwise if I lied. “After Timodemus went to bed I handed over the watch to someone else.”

“What!” Pericles fairly screeched.

“Well, Timodemus was asleep. It wasn’t like there was much to do, and it was someone reliable,” I said in my defense. “His uncle, Festianos.”

“So reliable we found the killer in the women’s camp,” Xenares pointed out.

Pericles turned to me and said, “Watching like a hungry eagle, were you?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Pericles was being grossly unfair. But nor could I provide Timo with an alibi, so I obviously hadn’t been watching him closely enough. Pericles had spent his precious political capital for nothing, and it was I who had advised him to do so. I had no choice but to accept his withering stare.

“Where is this uncle now?” Exelon the Chief Judge asked.

“Asleep before our tents,” said One-Eye, his first contribution. “Chief Judge, I swear before Zeus my son had nothing to do with this. You mustn’t let this incident interfere with the Games-”

I think my jaw hit the dirt. The Chief Judge stared at One-Eye as if he were some strange creature suddenly in our midst, and so did everyone else.

“Interfere with the Games? Incident?” the Chief Judge repeated in shock. “One-Eye, do you understand what’s at stake here?”

“Is Timodemus permitted to compete in the pankration on the fourth day?” One-Eye asked.

How could he ask about such a thing with the life of his son forfeit?

“A man with blood guilt upon him? Not only that, an oath breaker before Zeus Herkios? Don’t be ridiculous.” The Chief Judge stamped his staff hard upon the earth.

“This is terrible,” One-Eye wailed. The death of a man didn’t affect him. The thought of sacrilege at the Sacred Games moved him not at all, but the thought of his son unable to compete caused him to cry.

Everyone stood speechless, embarrassed by his behavior.

“You’re looking for a friend of the dead man,” said Socrates into the suddenly frosty silence.

I’d forgotten he was even there. “Be quiet, Socrates. This is a business for men.”

“Who is this boy?” said the Chief Judge. “And what is he doing here? Is this disaster some sort of show for children?”

“He’s my little brother. I’m sorry, he was in the tent when your men came to fetch me. I’ll send him home at once. Socrates, disappear.”

Pleistarchus raised his hand. “No, let the boy speak.”

“Very well, what do you mean, Socrates?” I demanded.

“You said it yourself, Nico. The dead man was attacked from the front.”

“So?”

Socrates looked at us quizzically. “It’s just that if you met a man in the woods at night, and if he’d attacked you that same day, would you stand still to be hit again? It doesn’t seem likely, does it?”

“I was about to say the same thing,” I lied.

“Your brother makes a good point,” said Pleistarchus. “If Arakos had seen Timodemus, he would certainly have expected another attack. He would have been ready to defend himself.”

“Yes, it’s very confusing, isn’t it?” Socrates shrugged. “Because on the face of it, only Timodemus could have killed Arakos.”

“Whose side are you on here?” I demanded.

Socrates looked puzzled. “But Nico, isn’t the idea to work out the truth?”

I ground my teeth and managed not to shout at him.

“Sorry, Nico,” he said meekly.

“The boy makes sense again,” said Pleistarchus. “The only man ever to best Arakos in the pankration was Timodemus of Athens. Who else could have taken him on without a weapon and killed him?”

Unfortunately the King of Sparta was right: what Socrates said made sense.

“Would you all excuse me for a moment?” I marched over to Timodemus, grabbed him by the arm. The guards watched me drag him out of their earshot.

“Did you kill him?” I hissed in the lowest voice.

“Nico!” he said, obviously hurt. “How can you ask such a thing?”

“I’m asking,” I said through gritted teeth, “because when I defend you, I need to know what I have to deal with. Are they going to find any evidence against you? Tell me true, Timo, and swear by Zeus.”

“I didn’t kill Arakos. I swear this by Zeus, may he destroy me if I lie.”

“All right.” I let go of his arm and walked back to the body, stood over it, turned around. I wanted to see what Arakos saw, the moment before he was attacked.

Another man strode into the clearing; he pushed his way into the inner ring. The new arrival stood opposite me over the freshly murdered corpse. He glanced down, and said, “It looks like the pankration started early this year.”

Xenares said, “None of your wit please, Markos. You can see this is a crisis.”

The man Xenares had named Markos was slightly taller than me, which meant neither tall nor short. He stood with a straight back, his face by torchlight pleasant but unremarkable. Our gazes met, and he smiled. His intelligent eyes were so deeply blue as to be almost black.

“We seem to have a problem here,” he said to me, as if he’d walked into a room where someone had spilled the wine.

I didn’t know who this Markos was, but Xenares had called for him, and that made him an enemy. For that matter, I didn’t know who Xenares was, except that he hated Athens, and a king of Sparta treated him with respect.

“There is another issue,” said King Pleistarchus. “It’s important to determine whether Arakos died fighting.”