Gary Corby - Sacred Games

Iphicles had finally lost it. The reins slipped from his hands, and his unconscious body lay there for the chariots behind to crush him.

The four stampeding beasts of the Spartan team rushed past me. I ignored them.

I reached the body. With one movement I scooped up Iphicles and tossed him onto the center line between the turning posts. He was safer there than on the track.

His limp weight had made me lean into the throw, and as he left my arms, I fell face forward into the dust.

Somewhere outside myself men screamed. Were they screaming at me? I shut it out. I knew that, somewhere to my left, the Chian chariot was fast approaching. I recalled the body of the driver that Iphicles had run over, how his body had flopped in the dirt like a rag doll. I pulled in my legs and hoped.

I felt the rush of air as the Chian chariot passed me by.

I laughed in triumph and at the relief of still being alive. Then I scrambled up.

Right into the path of the back markers, the final three racers. They were three abreast, twelve horses in a row, headed straight for me.

I can’t explain how I felt. Something rooted me to the spot, and I could only watch the drivers whip their horses as my end approached. They were too wide to avoid.

I was about to die. I hoped Diotima would forgive me.

Something hard and heavy hit me and threw me to the side. At that instant the final three chariots passed by. I could hear their drivers cursing. The screech of their wheels was in my ears and their dust in my mouth.

I suddenly realized I was shaking.

“What in Hades were you thinking, you idiot?” Markos screamed from on top of me; our faces were so close I could have kissed him. He had dived into me to save my life, and if he’d made a mistake, he would have gone to Hades with me.

“I’m sorry, Markos, I was-”

“No time for that now.”

He was right. The front-runners were making their turn at the end. They’d soon be on top of us.

We scrambled up, and I spat the gritty circuit dust from my mouth. We each took one of Iphicles’s arms and dragged him to the edge of the ring, where a recovery team hovered and cursed and abused us for interfering. We handed over our vital witness. They carried him away to the iatrion-the aid station-still swearing at Markos and me.

A fat man who sweated profusely waddled over from the judges’ box, a mighty scowl upon his face. He snarled that the judges would see us when the race ended and ordered us to the room behind the official stand. We nodded our understanding.

Markos and I helped each other along the way. We were both bruised and bleeding, but I hoped it had been worth it. I didn’t know if Iphicles would live or die, but for the moment at least our vital witness still breathed.

“All we can do is pray to the Gods that he survives,” I said.

“He doesn’t have to survive,” Markos replied. “All he has to do is live long enough for us to question him.”

Which I thought was a trifle callous, if accurate.

Behind the stand where the judges stood to watch the race was a low wooden building. We sat on the floor and nursed our cuts and bruises while the rest of the race was run. All we could do was listen to the roar of the crowd over the squeal of the chariot wheels and the cries of the horses.

Trumpets announced the end of the race, after which everything quieted down for the presentation of the crown. I wondered which team wore the olive wreath of victory. Presently, Exelon the Chief Judge entered the room, followed by the other judges. None of them smiled.

“What in Hades did you think you were doing?!” the Chief Judge shouted at us. Markos and I stood at attention before him. I was used to being shouted at by Pericles, but it made a nice change having Markos for company. The Chief Judge was louder than Pericles but not nearly so cutting.

“Saving the life of a witness, sir,” I said. I quickly explained why we needed Iphicles alive.

“You had no business to be on the hippodrome in the middle of a contest. Spectators are not permitted on the field, even to save a life.”

Markos said, “If I may point out, sir, you did induct Nicolaos and me as Olympic contestants.”

“Not in the chariot race, you idiot.”

The Judge had a point.

“Sir,” said Markos, “it was your express order that we must do everything possible to solve this crime. If we had stood by and watched while an important witness died-a witness Pindar the poet had told us had information-what would you have said to us then?”

“The word of Pindar is like the word of the Gods,” said one of the other judges, rubbing his chin, a tall scrawny man. “It’s true, Exelon, such young men as these could hardly be expected to use sound judgment in such a situation.”

“That’s why they were chosen,” Exelon said. “Because, contrary to current evidence, they’re supposed to be smart.”

“The contest ground for the chariots is the hippodrome, is it not?” said Markos.

“Certainly.”

“And the contest ground for the athletics is the stadion.”

“Of course. What’s your point?” said Exelon.

“That the contest ground for Nicolaos and me is all of Olympia, sir,” said Markos. “There is no boundary.”

The Chief Judge growled. “Let me make this clear. You took the oath, so you are beholden to us judges, and not to your own cities. That doesn’t give you the right to meddle in the Sacred Games. Understand?”

“Yes, sir!” we said in unison.

“Any questions?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Who won the race?”

The Chief Judge glared at me. “The team from Cyrene. Athens was second. Sparta third.”

I held out my hand.

Without a word, Markos put a hand beneath his exomis and withdrew a money bag. He untied the leather thong and made a great show of counting out ten coins. Then he spat on the coins and slapped them into my palm.

I grinned. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

“I’ll win it back next time.” He grinned back.

The judges stared at us as we both broke into hysterical laughter. It was the shock and relief of being alive.

“Get out. Both of you get out.”

“Yes, sir.”

As we walked from the building, I said to Markos, “If you ever want a job in the law courts at Athens, let me know and I’ll introduce you around.”

He laughed. “I’m happy in Sparta, thanks.”

Men covered the hippodrome in the aftermath of the race. They congratulated one another or stood silent and glum, according to whether their teams had finished or lay among the carnage. My own father, Sophroniscus, was across the other side of the field. He stood among a cluster of men who waited to congratulate the owner of one of the teams.

Pieces of chariot and dead horses littered the arena. The cleanup crews had begun to pick up the mess. As soon as the wreckage was cleared, the next event could begin: the bareback horse races.

“At least Iphicles is still alive. Speaking of which, we should go to him straightaway. He might tell us something.”

“He won’t be conscious for hours, I should think,” said Markos. “Not if he’s lucky. I felt a few broken bones when we moved him.”

“We have to check,” I insisted.

Markos sighed. “Very well.”

I had no idea where to find the iatrion. We asked. Someone eventually pointed us to a large tent erected between the stadion and the hippodrome. We could hear the screams as we approached. Markos and I shared a look. This was going to be unpleasant.

“I hope that’s not Iphicles.”

We pushed through the flap. The tent material smelled new. Inside was a row of camp beds, and on six of them lay chariot drivers. The man who screamed was closest to the entrance. His right arm pointed straight into the air, or, rather, what was left of it did. I could actually see the bone sticking out past the elbow. The flesh from that point was simply gone, to leave a ragged end.