Gary Corby - Sacred Games

The crowd quieted at his words. They sensed this was a fair judgment.

“They report to me and the other judges, not to their cities. I call upon them to take their oath.” Exelon nodded to me. “You first.”

Suddenly I felt nervous again. I stepped forward and spoke my words. Whether anyone heard me I don’t know, because I spoke quickly to get it over with, and I fear I mumbled.

“I swear by mighty Zeus that I, Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus, shall contest the Sacred Games fairly and with honor, when I compete in the event of-” I staggered over the next words. In a sudden panic, I realized nobody had told me what to call this strange new event. “In the Olympic event of … murder investigation.”

The crowd stirred and murmured. It is the right of the judges to create any event they like, but this was a new one for everyone present.

Exelon gave me a stern look. I continued in a louder voice over the hubbub of the crowd. “I shall obey the orders of the Judges of the Games. I shall do everything in a way that is right. May mighty Zeus of the Oaths destroy me if I do not.”

I saw Pericles wince as I spoke and wondered what his problem was.

The sacrifice wasn’t the traditional giant boar but a small piglet. There were only two of us, and anything larger would have been a waste. The animal had probably been picked up from the festival agora and was destined for a meal in any case. The man with the piglet laid it on the altar and stroked the little animal gently but firmly. It squealed as the knife went in and struggled for the briefest instant but relaxed for a last time as its lifeblood flowed away.

“The sacrifice went willingly,” I heard someone in the front row say. “It’s a good sign. Unlike what happened yesterday.”

I took a slice of piglet from the altar-the Butcher of the Games had begun his bloody work-and with thumb and forefinger threw the dripping meat into the burning brazier. The meat sizzled at once, and I smelled burned flesh. My oath to Zeus was complete.

Markos stepped forward and proceeded to make the same oath I had. He spoke slowly in a clear, carrying voice and didn’t stumble at all.

The oath was complete. Criminal investigation was an Olympic event for the first time in history.

I had thought, when the Chief Judge set the requirement in the night, the oath would be a mere administrative detail that would keep me from my work for a short time and then could be forgotten. Now that I was upon the steps, I was overcome by the importance of what I had sworn, and understood his wisdom. The Olympic Oath is a sacred dedication, and by speaking it before the Hellenes my investigation was removed from the realm of politics and became a part of the Games themselves. I was no longer Nicolaos of Athens; I had become Nicolaos of Olympia.

The heralds, their voices so loud they could be heard across all Olympia, announced the first event of the day: the chariot race at the hippodrome.

The crowd before us instantly broke. Thousands of men elbowed to be first to the best vantage points. It was like a mob of particularly vicious goats on their way to the feed bin. As I stood and watched the chaos, it occurred to me that whoever had killed Arakos had done it in a remarkably confined space. All my life I’d heard men speak of Olympia-after the sacred sanctuary at Delphi, it was the most famous place in all of Hellas-now I was here for the first time, and I saw it was much smaller than its enormous reputation. The permanent buildings covered a tiny area; the tent city was larger, but still no larger than a village. Crowded into this space were more men than you would find in a medium-sized city. To kill Arakos must have been for the murderer like trying to scratch his nose in a closet full of men.

One would have thought that would make catching the killer easier, but I had no idea who might have done it. Unless of course, it really was my friend.

Timodemus had exactly four days left to live.

I stood and considered what to do next until everyone was gone.

Well, almost everyone.

“It’s not fair,” Socrates whined. “How come you get to be an Olympic contestant and I don’t?”

“It wasn’t my idea. The Chief Judge insisted.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, but we should consider ourselves lucky. Exelon didn’t have to permit an investigation, you know. He could have condemned Timo out of hand.”

As I spoke, I caught sight of the fake Heracles. He took the steps up the Bouleterion, I suppose for a shortcut though to the hippodrome. He swerved away when Socrates turned and I stared at him. He probably remembered how easily I’d disarmed him.

“Nicolaos of Athens?” It was the Spartan Markos. He’d wandered up to me from behind. It occurred to me Markos could be very quiet when he chose.

“What do you want?” I said, more abrupt than I intended because he’d startled me.

He said, “Now that we’ve sworn the oath, we’re required to share our witnesses. I only wanted to know, do you have any plans? Shall I come with you?”

The polite inquiry wasn’t fooling anyone. I had no more wish to work with Markos than he did with me. I particularly didn’t want Markos in the room when I interviewed Timodemus. I said, “Why don’t we follow our own paths, then share notes. If we don’t trust each other, we can always check by talking to the same people.”

“As you wish.” He smiled thinly, turned on his heel and walked away.

I wondered if I’d been rude, but I wasn’t sure.

The old man with the look of a priest approached me and Socrates. “Your voice is a disaster,” he told me.

“What?”

“I witnessed your oath. Who taught you rhetoric?”

“No one.”

The old man nodded. “It shows.”

Pericles had once promised to teach me to speak before the people, but he’d never gotten around to giving lessons.

To change the subject, I said, “I am Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus, of the deme Alopece of Athens.”

“ Kalimera Nicolaos,” he said. “Good morning. I wish to know if Timodemus, son of Timonous One-Eye, is a murderer.”

“Don’t we all,” I muttered.

He raised an eloquent and somewhat-bushy eyebrow. “You haven’t formed a view? Surely you cannot have long to investigate this dreadful crime, a few days at most.”

“Have you talked to the judges?” I demanded.

“No, but your deadline is obvious. In a few days the Games will be over, and everyone will depart. You must be swift as the stadion runner if you wish to catch this killer.”

Whoever this old man was, he was sharp. “Who are you, sir?”

He smiled. “Ahh. When you stared at me during the sacrifice I suspected you didn’t recognize me. I am Pindar the praise singer.”

Merely the greatest living poet of the Hellenes.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Pindar,” I said, and meant it. Everyone knew the songs of Pindar. To be praised by him was to be immortalized. “But I must ask, sir, do you have an interest in this?”

“After the Nemean Games, the father of the accused, One-Eye, commissioned me to praise the young man Timodemus in song. I took the money of One-Eye and praised Timodemus. So I ask myself, did I waste my words on a cheat? I hate to think it.” He put a hand to his head, like a tragic actor who hears bad news.

“Thank you, Pindar. At least there are two of us who don’t believe he’s guilty.” Pindar was an influential man. His support would be invaluable to save Timo.

“No, young man, you misunderstand my words. I said I hope he’s not a killer, not that I believe it.”

“Oh.” I felt deflated.

Pindar didn’t seem to notice my disappointment. “I must be neutral in this matter. The victim and the accused are both known to me.”