Gary Corby - Sacred Games

“Then you know Timodemus hasn’t the personality of a murderer,” I said.

Pindar raised an eyebrow, and that one expressive movement told me I’d said something stupid. “On the contrary. Both these young men are highly aggressive. Both are capable of the greatest violence.”

I hadn’t thought of it like that, but Pindar was right. By definition, a top pankratist was a potential killer.

Pindar went on, “And yet I flatter myself as a fair judge of men-it’s an occupational skill, you know-and that’s the funny thing. If one of them was to kill the other, I would have expected Arakos to murder Timodemus.”

“Pindar,” I said, “let me buy you a drink.”

In most places, to buy a man a drink at dawn is tricky. In Olympia, you need only stretch out your hand to grab one of the passing fast-food merchants. I did that and noticed that Pindar wasn’t averse to drinking under the rosy-fingered dawn. We sat on the steps of the Bouleterion.

“So you were there at Nemea,” I said to him.

“I attend all four of the major Games: the Nemean, the Isthmian, the Pythian, and, greatest of them all, the Sacred Games here at Olympia. At Nemea I saw Timodemus fight for the first time. I predicted then that he would win these Sacred Games. Do you want to hear my verse?” Before I could decline with thanks, he launched into this:

“Those were my words at Nemea, the first stanza anyway, that I wrote about your friend Timodemus. What do you think?”

Pindar stared at me, his left and right legs jittering in turn. If he’d been anyone but a world-famous poet, I’d have said he was nervous for my reaction. The only problem was I’d lost attention after the first few words.

“I thought it was, er … very nice,” I said, desperately trying to remember anything he’d said.

He pounced. “Nice? What were the nice bits?”

“Well, er … I liked your choice of words, and-”

“Was there anything you didn’t like? Don’t be afraid to critique! I’m very good at taking criticism.”

“No! No! I loved it. I’d definitely buy a scroll with this-”

“Does the allusion work? I was pleased with it myself.”

“It’s terrific!”

He gave me a stare. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Er …”

He sighed. “We praise singers always open our songs with a few words in praise of Zeus. Because it would be impious to praise a man before a God, you see.”

“Yes?” I wondered how I could politely excuse myself.

“Just as the words addressed to Zeus presage the hero who is our real subject, so does the victory of Timodemus at Nemea presage his ultimate destiny here at Olympia. Your friend is good. Very good. I’ve rarely seen better, and believe me, I’ve seen them all.”

A small party of Spartans passed us by, recognizable by the scarlet cloaks. Pindar drank deep of his wine. When the Spartans had passed, he said, “But I’ve rarely seen such antagonism between contestants.”

“At Nemea?” Thanks be to the Gods, he’d returned to something important.

“Nemea had its own problems, there was some unpleasantness, but there was no special antagonism between Arakos and Timodemus. Not that I noticed, in any case. No, Nicolaos, I refer to the march from Elis to Olympia, not two days ago. Arakos baited Timodemus every step of the way. It went beyond the usual athletic rivalry. There seemed to be real hatred on the part of Arakos. I wondered why, and until we reached Olympia, I wondered whether Arakos would attack Timodemus.”

I blinked at that.

“Did Timodemus return the feeling?” Since Pindar was a fine judge of men-it being an occupational skill-I thought he must have all the answers when it came to motive.

“Timodemus seemed to me both knowing and confused.”

“That’s a contradiction.”

“Welcome to human nature. Conflict, young man-the passions of great men in opposition, in sport as in war-it’s the stuff of great poetry.”

“But truth is what we need here.”

Pindar snorted. “What is truth? I seek something more important: inspiration for my art. I’ve been in the thick of every war, attended every great sporting contest. So when Exelon announced this contest between Athens and Sparta, one in which the life of a man hangs in the balance, I was instantly intrigued. My plan is to observe this battle of wits between you and the Spartan.” He looked me up and down. “Are you sure you’re prepared? Someone who’s never heard of allusion is hardly in a position to be solving crimes. Perhaps I can help you.”

“I doubt it.”

“That’s what your opponent said when I made him the same offer, but he changed his mind quickly enough.”

“What?”

Pindar did the eyebrow raise again. It was obviously a stock theatrical move for him, and it put me in mind that this man was accustomed to performance before thousands of men. “As you and Markos took the oath-I must say in passing his voice projection was better than yours-you should work on that …”

I felt myself about to explode.

“Where was I? Oh yes, as I say, I told him it was odd you should carry the whip of a racing chariot.”

Of course . It was so obvious now that Pindar said it. What other long whip would you find at the Olympics?

“I don’t suppose you know who owns this whip, do you great Pindar?”

“A driver, of course. May I?”

Pindar took the whip from me. He held it lengthways before him. “It’s a lucky thing for you I have observed hundreds of chariot races.” He ran his finger along the handle. “Observe the threads woven into the leather. This declares the team,” he said. “All the teams have their own racing colors, so the spectators can discern who is who in the thick dust of battle. See the distinctive checkered pattern in reds and greens? This is typical of teams from Thebes.”

“And you’ve already told Markos?”

“Yes.”

I seethed. That bastard Markos had tricked me. He’d asked me about witnesses, knowing I’d say what I had, so he could interview the chariot driver on his own in perfect innocence.

“Why didn’t you tell me the important part at once?” I said.

“I like you; I was enjoying our conversation. My dear lad, if poets got to the point immediately, then it wouldn’t be poetry, would it? The important thing is to savor the words along the way.”

I said through gritted teeth, “I must speak with the driver of the Theban team.”

“Then perhaps you should hurry. If I do not mistake, that trumpet we both hear is the summons to the hippodrome to observe the chariot race. The teams must be in the final stages of preparation.”

I had to find that driver. I had to find out if he was the killer; if he wasn’t, I had to find out if he knew anything.

Pindar beside me strode along at a good clip for such an old man. He needed to be at the race, he explained, in case the winner commissioned a praise song. “It helps if I’ve seen what I’m paid to describe,” he said. I left him at the gates and hurried to the stables behind the hippodrome.

“I’m looking for the chariot team from Thebes,” I said to one man after another amid the frantic preparations. They pointed me from one box to the next, until I came to the one that housed the Megarans, at the end of the line.

Markos was already there, next to a man in a pure-white chiton, which marked him as a chariot driver. They stood alongside the chariot, decorated in the same colors as the whip handle I carried. I silently cursed Pindar for telling my competitor first, but refused to let Markos see I was upset.