Gary Corby - Sacred Games

Pericles nodded with visible reluctance.

Pleistarchus considered for a moment. Xenares the ephor grabbed the arm of his King. There was furious whispering between them. Xenares was obviously unhappy and wouldn’t let go. Pleistarchus shook him off. The King of Sparta nodded agreement to the judges.

The Chief Judge said, “Name your men.”

Xenares the ephor spoke for Sparta. He said, “Sparta nominates Markos, son of Glaukippos.”

“Very well. Pericles?” the Chief Judge prompted.

“Athens nominates Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus.”

“Then it is decided. We grant you until the end of the Games. You will convene before us to argue your cases after the closing ceremony. If you cannot prove his innocence, Timodemus of Athens will be thrown from the mountain.”

I remained to examine the scene. So did Markos. I said nothing to him; he said nothing to me. In the absence of outraged Olympic officials, the forest was eerily silent.

Markos and I both wandered about the perimeter of the clearing, looking high and low. I had no idea what I was searching for, and I doubt he did either, but I was cursed if I’d be the first to leave the scene of the crime. If Markos felt the same way, it was going to be a long night.

He whistled cheerful hymns, which quickly became irritating.

Just when I thought I couldn’t stand it any longer, my eye caught on something. Ten steps down the track to Olympia was the longest snake I’d ever seen. I halted and stared.

The snake didn’t move.

Maybe it wasn’t a snake, maybe it was something else. A dark rope?

I walked down the way to touch whatever it was. When it didn’t leap at me, I picked it up. It was thin leather, and as I pulled on it, something longer and heavier emerged from beneath the bushes.

“What’s this?” Markos had seen me.

Now I knew what I had. “It’s a whip.” I held it by the wooden handle, about which a leather grip had been wound.

“Were there any whiplashings on Arakos?” Markos asked.

The Spartans had removed their fallen comrade. Fortunately I had examined the body carefully. I cast my mind back over what I’d seen. I said there’d been plenty of beating marks, but none that were long lacerations, nothing that looked like a whip mark.

Markos took the whip from my hands and flicked his wrist. The thong entangled among leaves and branches no matter what direction he faced. “It’s long.”

So it was. The referees in the pankration use whips to control the contestants, but a referee’s whip is shorter and less flexible.

“What’s a whip doing here?” I wondered.

He shrugged. “I suppose someone must have dropped it.”

“Yes, but who carries a whip around Olympia?”

The Spartan shrugged. “It might have nothing to do with the murder. I’ll show it around, see if anyone recognizes it.”

I snatched back the whip. “I’ll keep it, if you don’t mind.”

“What if I mind?”

“Finders keepers.”

“Thanks a lot, Pericles,” I said, after I’d tramped back to the main grounds. I’d caught up with Pericles at the Bouleterion. The moon was on the way down. Soon Apollo would rise upon his chariot of fire. “But I must warn you, I’m not sure I can do this.”

“Yes, you can,” he said. “You’ve done it twice before.” He turned and began a quick step south, toward the Athenian camp and, presumably, his tent.

Indeed I had. My first investigation had been such a success that I’d made it my trade. But this time there was an important difference.

“That’s not the point,” I told him. “Timodemus is my friend. I can’t possibly do this and remain objective.”

“Objectivity isn’t the requirement. You’re supposed to get him off.”

“But what if he did it?”

Pericles stopped his fast, angry walk and turned on me. “Listen, Nicolaos, I don’t give a curse if-” He broke off to see who of the men staggering back and forth in the cold early morning might be listening in. He dragged me into an alcove of the nearby gymnasium, where we wouldn’t be overheard.

“I don’t give a witch’s curse if one of our people murdered some Spartan. If your friend’s innocent he deserves justice, and if he’s guilty I don’t want the rest of the world to know it. If you feel strongly about it, we can punish him in the privacy of our own city, but not here at Olympia. There are political considerations, and I’ll point out we wouldn’t have this problem if you’d watched that overmuscled, underbrained friend of yours like I told you.”

“You didn’t say to watch him every moment. You said to make sure the Spartans didn’t eliminate him. Well, they didn’t.”

“He looks pretty eliminated to me!”

I had to concede Pericles was right. Pericles saw he’d won, as he’d surely known he would. He stalked off with his final words: “Stop arguing. Get out there and save Timodemus.”

There were too many things to do and, as Pericles had pointed out to the Chief Judge, not enough time to do them. Day Two of the Sacred Games was about to begin; four days, then, to find the man who killed Arakos, or at least prove it was not Timodemus. Or-and I had to be honest, though I wanted to believe him-perhaps prove my friend was a murderer; for Socrates and the Chief Judge were right; on the face of it, Timodemus looked as guilty as any man could be.

Two actions were pressing: I needed to talk to Timo, who had been led away, and I needed to interview that priestess of Demeter in whose tent Timo had been discovered. The testimony of a woman of her stature would hold great weight at judgment time.

The Priestess of Demeter from Elis was the only woman permitted to observe the Games. Indeed, she was required, and once the Games began at dawn, she would be ensconced in her box, in full view of the crowd, and unapproachable until the night-a whole day lost.

But a strange man could hardly expect to be admitted to her tent. I needed help, and luckily for me I knew just the person. I went to pay a call on my Diotima.

I’d learned my lesson. I wasn’t rash enough to poke my head through the tent flap without warning. Instead I stood outside Diotima’s tent, where flying knives couldn’t hit me, and called, “Diotima, it’s me. Is it safe to come in?”

Not a word in reply.

Of course. Normal people were still asleep at this time. It was only slaves and investigators who tramped the cold, damp ground of Olympia before the sun was up.

I crept into Diotima’s tent, so as not to wake her, then realized how silly that was, since the entire point was to wake her. There she lay, curled up fast asleep, as innocent as a small child. In sleep she was lovely. Her red lips were slightly parted, her dark tresses fell across her face, and her chest rose and fell as she breathed softly.

I wondered how I’d been so lucky as to get her. An awful lot had gone wrong in my life, but Diotima was my one victory. At least, I hoped she was; there were still some parents to overcome.

I reached out an arm and shook her gently.

“Diotima, honey, wake up. It’s me-aaarrggh!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Nico!”

Diotima had turned and plunged a short, sharp knife straight into my arm: her priestess knife, which she used for sacrifices and always kept in a pouch about her. She’d only stopped her stab as the curved point sliced my skin. Blood trickled down my forearm.

“I’m so sorry,” she said again. “I thought you were a man creeping into my tent.” She paused. “Well, actually, come to think of it, you were.”

But it was the first part of her statement that grabbed my attention. “Diotima, have men been creeping into your tent?”

She grimaced. “There’ve been one or two incidents. The drunks who stagger into the women’s camp seem to think every tent has a pornê in it. They don’t bother to look for hanging sandals.”