Gary Corby - Sacred Games

At almost the same moment a man on the other side raised his arm and called, “Left wheel. Check!”

Markos had crouched down to admire the chariot. “It’s a remarkable piece of machinery,” he said, rising and wiping the pig fat of the axle grease from his hands onto his tunic. “So small, so light.”

“The horse team barely knows I’m there,” Iphicles said. “As long as I’ve somewhere to put my feet and a leading panel to brace myself against the pull of the reins-that’s all I need.”

All along the line, race crews were doing the same as Team Thebes. Men stepped back from the chariots with raised arms to show they were ready, an action easily seen and understood no matter the noise and chaos of the race start.

I had only moments. Iphicles must have seen more than he’d said, something he probably didn’t even know was important. I said to Iphicles, “Quickly, what I really want to know is-”

Trumpets drowned me out. The herald called the contestants to the starting line.

Iphicles stepped up to his chariot. “If you want to talk to me, it’ll have to be after the race.”

Markos said, “By the orders of my king, you must tell us-”

Iphicles grabbed the reins of the two leftmost of his horses in his left hand and the reins for the others in his right. I wondered what happened if a driver dropped his reins, but this didn’t seem a good time to ask.

Iphicles flicked his lucky whip. “I have a race to win. Poseidon preserve me and bring my team home first.”

“Step back there!” The team manager pushed Markos and me out of the way.

Iphicles flicked the reins, and his eager team started forward. We watched him depart without a backward glance, shoulders braced to control the uncontrollable: four peak racing horses that ached to run.

Markos shook his head. “We never had a chance. Bad luck. I hope the rest of the investigation doesn’t go like this.”

“What do we do now?” I said.

“The only thing we can. We watch the race.” Markos took off without a backward glance to see if I followed. “There might still be time to find a good spot.” I hurried to catch up with him. And that is how I came to see the first event of the Olympics in the company of a Spartan.

Most of the crowd was clustered about the two turning posts, particularly the one at the east end, which had a reputation for producing the most spectacular crashes. There was no room at either end, so we elbowed our way to the front at the middle of the field, where we would have a good view of the sprints between posts. There was plenty of room for anyone who wanted to watch; the hippodrome is three times larger than the stadion where the running races and the fights are held.

The judges were already seated, ten abreast in their special box on the opposite side of the field.

I nudged Markos. “There’s Klymene.” She stood alone in a box beside the judges. I told Markos about the interview Diotima and I had held with her. His eyes brightened at Klymene’s parting words, and he studied her from afar. “Now there’s a girl I’d like to meet. Do you think she’s doing it now?”

“Control yourself until after the Games,” I told him. “Have you any idea what would happen to the man who polluted the Priestess? They’d have to suspend the Games while they replaced her.” I thought about it. “I wonder if it’s ever happened?”

“Not that I’ve heard of,” Markos said.

I looked at the sports-crazed Hellenes all about us. “Imagine telling this lot they have to wait because some guy had it off with the Priestess of the Games. They’d impale him.”

“If he was lucky. Maybe they’d remove the offending organ first. All right, you’ve made your point.”

The trumpets sounded again. Each chariot made a single turn around the track, stopping before the judges, where the driver reached into a jar held up by attendants and withdrew a lot.

The drivers took their places according to their lots in the stalls of the hippaphesis, the horse-starter, which ensured every team had a fair start even though not everyone could begin at the center line. The hippaphesis was a huge V-shaped frame, with stalls built into it to hold the teams; the apex of the V pointed at the start of the course. Teams of horses four abreast, massive beasts bred for power and speed and aggression, stamped and snorted and pawed the ground in their eagerness. The beasts had been born and lived their whole lives for this moment when they would run this race. Each team of four pulled a chariot so small and light that one man on his own could lift it. Drivers braced themselves in the flimsy vehicles and waited for the hippaphesis to release them.

In the center of the V was an altar to Poseidon, into which a cunning machine had been built, with a silver rod, at the top of which the figure of a silver dolphin played. Taut ropes ran from the machine within the altar to the starting gates for the race.

The moment the last chariot team was locked in its stall, the Chief Judge stood up-the horse teams must not be kept waiting any longer than necessary, lest they injure themselves in the confined space-then the Chief Judge held high a white cloth for all to see, and dropped it.

At once the assistant starter, who stood at the altar, turned the silver rod. The silver dolphin at the top end fell. At the other end a silver eagle with wings spread wide rose into the air. The turn of the rod caused a wheel within the altar to turn, which pulled the ropes that ran to the horse-starter. The ropes operated the first two of the releases, one at each wing of the V. As the releases dropped, the two outer teams surged off with whips flying. They were at opposite ends of the V, but they were racing each other. Those two were the only ones running until they reached the next stalls along the V. At that moment the restraining ropes dropped for the next two teams, the waiting drivers flicked their whips, and now there were four in the race. They continued like this-teams released as front runners reached them-until everyone was out of the stalls. The system ensured every team had an equal start, and an equal chance of gaining the inner line of most advantage.

“That’s a brilliant device,” Markos marveled.

“Of course, it’s brilliant; it was invented by an Athenian,” I said.

The racers reached the apex of the V, the rope restraining the last two teams fell away, and now forty chariot teams jostled for position, all down the centerline of the course in a perfect start.

The crowd screamed and cheered.

“Ten drachmae says Sparta beats Athens,” Markos shouted to me over the noise. The racers were clumped so tight, it was impossible to see who was in the lead, but I could clearly see Iphicles in his chariot toward the back of the pack-he had drawn one of the center stalls and got off to a slow start. The chariot bearing the owl of Athens was on the outside but moving up well and shortly behind the rich red of Sparta. I knew nothing about chariot racing, but one thing I was sure of: I wouldn’t let this Spartan go one up on me at anything.

“Done,” I said. “And five drachmae says Athens wins.” It was a foolish bet. In this race there was no certainty Athens would even finish, but my blood was up.

“Only if you give me the same for a Spartan victory.”

“Done.”

“And done.”

The cluster of chariots drove into the glare of the morning sun, approaching the turning post at the east end of the course. At this end, too, was the ancient stone altar called Taraxippus-the “horse-terror”-whose power caused even experienced beasts to panic.

No driver was willing to let another have first turn at the post. They all drove straight for it, wielding the whips and cursing. Forty teams of four frantic horses each tried to fit into a space for one. Metal-rimmed wheels ground against each other producing sparks and a mass squeal that set every man’s teeth on edge. Drivers close to one another struck out with their whips, hoping to distract their opponents. Maddened, frothing horses ran shoulder to shoulder; even with the bits in their mouths they tried to bite the drivers in the chariots ahead. Every driver whipped his team.