Gary Corby - Sacred Games

I swallowed to hold back the bile.

Two men pressed him back onto the bed. Another man stood over a brazier that burned hot.

“What happened to him?” I asked.

“Lost his grip and came off his chariot backward. The one behind ran over his arm.”

I’d seen it happen. I’d had no idea the injury was as bad as this. Markos peered at the wounded arm curiously but showed no reaction. Perhaps these Spartans were as tough as everyone said.

“Since you’re here, you can help,” said the man at the brazier.

“We actually came for Iphicles,” Markos said.

“I need you now. This man will die if we don’t act at once. Then you can see your precious Iphicles.”

Markos nodded assent.

“Are you a doctor?” I asked.

“Heraclides of Kos, yes. How do you do?” he said mildly, as if we’d just met at a symposium and not over the mutilated body of a screaming man. “What we need to do,” he said as he pushed the bar about inside the fire, “is close the wound so the poison can’t get in. If we do it right, he might even live.” He looked over to the man who held a wineskin to the lips of the driver. “How’s he doing?”

The other man shook his head. “Too busy screaming to drink.”

“Oh, well. We’re hot enough here. You two”-he pointed at Markos and me-“you hold him down. I need the other two to keep his arm steady. Unlike you, they know what they’re doing.” He gave us a searching look. “Can you do it?”

Markos said, “Of course.”

I swallowed and nodded. I told myself we were saving this man’s life.

“Right. Keep his body still. Don’t worry about the legs; I’ll avoid them. Ignore the noise; this one’s a screamer.”

Markos and I made ready on either side of the driver. We pressed down.

“Harder. He’ll jerk like a dying fish.”

I pressed harder. The other two assistants held the arm with two strong hands each and grim expressions. The man at the brazier wrapped wet rags about the end of the bar to make a handle, pulled it out, and in a single smooth motion pushed it against the wound. It sizzled. I smelled the flesh burn and gagged.

“Hold him down!”

The man had been right; the driver jerked like a dying fish. I pushed with all my might and turned my head to avoid seeing what happened so close to my eyes.

When it was finished, the driver curled up in a ball and whimpered. The end of his arm was a blackened stump.

“That was awful,” I said to the man as he put the iron bar, now cool, back in the brazier. “But at least he’ll live.”

The man shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes they sicken anyway and die in a fever. Who knows? You said you wanted Iphicles. He’s in the bed at the end.”

Iphicles lay there and gasped. Niallos the team manager crouched beside and trickled cool water on his driver’s head. Niallos looked up as we approached.

“Is he all right?” I asked.

“Of course he’s not all right,” Niallos snapped. “Look at the man. He can barely breathe.”

Iphicles coughed, tried to scream but couldn’t, and coughed again. Flecks of blood spattered the face of Niallos.

“I’ll kill those bastards on the crew! Did you see the way the wheel came apart? Without being hit, even.”

“The chariot drove over some wreckage, and a body, on the first lap,” Markos pointed out. “Perhaps it was damaged then.”

Niallos spat his disdain. “Maybe. But the wheels are built to handle that, or they bloody well should be. It’s a chariot race, curse it, you expect to hit wreckage.”

Heraclides joined us.

I asked, “What are his chances, doctor?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes a man gets hit in the chest and the ribs cave in and then this happens. I was at the race. Iphicles took a big blow, and he didn’t let go. Those horses dragged him cruelly.”

“Iphicles did the right thing,” said Niallos. “If he’d let go, he’d have joined that fellow over there with the crushed arm, only he’d have lost his legs. Maybe worse.”

“Can he talk?” Markos asked.

“Doubt it.”

Iphicles moaned. The eyes rolled in his head.

I quickly knelt by his side and said, “Iphicles, is there something you wish to say?”

He nodded, slowly, and opened his mouth.

I said, “Markos, he’s going to speak!”

Markos said, “Zeus and Apollo favor us,” and leaned over, the better to hear.

Iphicles rolled toward me and coughed up a little blood.

He whispered, “My … my lucky whip …”

“He wants his whip.”

Niallos placed the whip in the right hand of Iphicles and gently closed his fingers about the handle.

Iphicles smiled for a moment and then gasped. I thought he must have cleared his airways. Then a great surge of blood came from his mouth and hit me right in the chest.

Iphicles died before our eyes.

I walked out, unable to stand it any longer. As soon as I emerged into clean air, I tried to wipe the sticky blood off my exomis, but it was no good. I undid the pins that held the material together, let it fall to the ground, and kicked it out of the way. I stalked off naked, with only the pins in my hand and anger at the Gods in my heart.

“Wait up there, Nicolaos.” Markos ran to catch up. He took my arm. “I don’t know about you, but I could use some wine about now. Let me buy you a drink.”

He led me toward the wine stalls of the agora, temporary, grossly overpriced stands there to rip off the tourists. Even so, it was hard not to enjoy the place. A normal agora is a fresh food market with household wares on the side; the agora at Olympia was an all-day carnival of entertainers and hot food sizzling in braziers.

A troupe of young women juggled balls. Markos and I stopped to watch in appreciation as various parts of the girls wobbled in time to the juggling. We tossed coins at their feet. A fat man sang and a thin man rode by while standing on the back of his horse. He flipped over to stand on his hands as the beast rode on. Strong men dressed as Heracles lifted heavy stones over their shoulders. A small man slipped through the crowd, and we came almost face-to-face. He took one look at me, said “Eek!” and ran off. It was my own Heracles, the scrawny fellow who had attacked Diotima and me the day before. Crowds gathered wherever there was something to see, which was pretty much everywhere.

I shook my head. “I wonder how many thieves there are in this crowd.”

Markos laughed. “I’ve already caught two hands searching for my purse.”

He bought the first round, and we downed our cups in one go. I said, “This was a great idea, Markos. I’ve seen some ghastly things, but that tent was one of the worst sights ever.”

He said, “We need to talk.”

“So we do.”

I bought a small amphora for the second round. He carried the cups and I carried the wine, and together we walked up Mount Kronos. It was a long way to go, but we both felt the need to escape the crowds. We found dry rocks to sit upon and a view of Olympia worth the effort of the climb. He poured, and together we drank, watching the activity below as if it were some play put on for our benefit.

I felt better. Being slightly drunk helped.

Markos said, “Nicolaos, back in the forest last night, you said you didn’t know what an ephor was. I told you it matters a great deal, but I don’t think you believed me.”

“I didn’t,” I admitted.

“You’re an Athenian; I guess you know about political factions and hidden agendas.”

“Conspiracy is in our blood,” I had to concede.

“Yet you really don’t know how it works with us Spartans, do you?”

Markos explained. His explanation took so long I poured him another cup to keep his throat smooth.