Gary Corby: Sacred Games

“Yes, One-Eye, I do.” In recent times, Pericles had risen to great prominence as the most influential statesman in Athens, largely on account of his honeyed tongue. It was he who had commissioned my first job as an investigator. We had something of an uneasy relationship.

“You’re a friend. You have influence with him.”

“Not exactly-”

“Pericles will help me, won’t he, if I mention your name? Yes, of course he’ll help.”

“I’m more like an acquaintance,” I said, suddenly worried. Somehow this had gotten out of hand. “One-Eye, with the best will in the world I can’t ask Pericles-”

“You want to help Timodemus, don’t you?” He said it as if I’d suggested otherwise. I would have been offended if I weren’t worried for Timo’s future.

“Of course I do, One-Eye,” I hurried to assure him.

“Then you can have no possible objection to recommending me to Pericles.” His tone was commanding.

If I demurred, it would sound as if I was scared to help. If I said yes, it would look to Pericles as if I’d claimed the power to command his support.

Pericles would ignore any reference of mine anyway. He knew my true value for political influence. It came to about half an obol.

On the other hand, it couldn’t hurt if One-Eye mentioned that he knew me. I could explain to Pericles later what had happened.

I said, “No, but … well, certainly if it will help Timo.”

“Good. I’ll tell him that.” One-Eye strode out of the gymnasium without a thank-you or a backward glance. I’d never known a man more difficult to refuse.

Timo walked across to where I stood and said quietly, “Nicolaos.” He hung his head in shame.

“Timo. What happened back there? What in Hades was that all about?”

“You saw. That bastard Arakos kept baiting me until I reacted. He did it the whole time we walked in the procession from Elis.”

“You know him?”

“We fought last year for the crown at the Nemean Games. I won; he didn’t.”

“What did he say to anger you so?” For all he was a master of the martial art of pankration, my friend Timodemus was the mildest of men-unless he was angered, at which point he became one of the Furies.

Timodemus hesitated. “I’d rather not say.”

It must have been something very embarrassing to Timodemus, because it could hardly be a secret; the men around them would have heard every word.

“So you might face him again. Are you worried he’ll tear you apart? The man’s built like a boulder.”

“Timodemus has nothing to fear from Arakos,” a voice beyond us said. This was Dromeus, from the city of Mantinea, Timo’s trainer, who himself had won the crown for the pankration at the seventy-fifth Olympiad, and now was hired by One-Eye at enormous expense to ensure his son won it at the eightieth. He was a big man, but more than that, he was a wide one. What you noticed most about Dromeus was the way the muscles bulged across his arms and shoulders. I made a mental note not to annoy him.

“As the young idiot says, he faced Arakos at the Nemean Games and won handily,” Dromeus said.

“But Arakos must be twice his size,” I objected.

Dromeus and Timo had a good laugh at my expense.

“Big means slow, Nico,” my friend explained. “Arakos can flail about all he likes. If I dodge the blows, all he does is tire himself out.”

“Quite right. The trick against Arakos is don’t let him close on you. Avoid the grapple.” Dromeus glared at Timo. “This idiot has much more to fear from himself. Timodemus is the only man who can beat Timodemus.”

“It wasn’t Timo’s fault,” I said. “The Spartan provoked him.”

“Rubbish. The first lesson of any serious fighter is self-control. The moment you react to taunts, you hand control to your opponent, and then you lose. I see you’re not a pankratist,” he said, looking me up and down. “Pity.”

“Me?” I said, surprised. “No. Why?”

“Timodemus needs to fight out his anger. We’ll have to wait until the contest for the heralds is over and then see if anyone who can fight is willing to spar with a man who’s on the verge of being banned from the Games.” Dromeus glared at Timodemus again. “I doubt anyone will take the risk.”

I said, “Let me do it.” Anything to help my friend.

Dromeus laughed. “You just admitted you can’t fight.”

“I can fight.”

“Not the way you have to if you want to match an expert.”

“Timodemus and I used to spar when we were boys.”

Dromeus blinked. “You did, did you?” He glanced at Timo, who nodded.

Timodemus said, “Nico, are you all right with this?”

“Sure I am.”

Dromeus the trainer considered me like a horse for sale. “You’d be doing him a favor, and it’s only for exercise, not even a real fight.”

I wore an exomis , the short tunic favored by artisans because it leaves the arms and legs free. But even that’s more than a pankration fighter wears. I pulled the exomis over my head and dropped it to the ground. Timodemus was already naked. He was smaller than me and thinner, but what there was of him was all muscle and speed. He stood at the edge of the ring, his face a polite, unsmiling mask, seemingly bored, perhaps even arrogant. I’d seen him wear the same face many times before, whenever a fight was to begin and he was about to demolish someone.

Then it occurred to me Timo was not merely my friend but also a highly trained machine for hurting people. All of a sudden I was nervous. I told myself it was a friendly fight and jumped from spot to spot, flexing my arms as if that would somehow help me.

A few men had trickled in as we spoke, like me not interested in the heralds. They’d come to the gymnasium to watch the athletes exercise, to compare the form of this one versus that, and no doubt to lay a few side wagers. More than one of these spectators glanced at Timo with obvious curiosity. They were bursting to ask him what had happened on the steps of the Bouleterion. None dared approach him, but when they saw a practice fight about to begin, they quickly crowded around the border of the training patch to watch.

Two of these men offered to act as referees. They seemed to know what they were about, so Dromeus nodded. Each picked up a short whip, walked around us, and called, “Start.”

Timodemus and I advanced to the middle of the ring, crouched low, knees bent. He pushed one straight hand forward for attack and kept the other behind for defense. His left foot was forward and his right behind; from that position he could advance quickly. I kept both hands in line, hoping to deflect a blow and riposte.

I knew Timo liked to attack, and it came almost immediately: a blade-like hand slashed at my face. It was almost perfect for my plan. I blocked the attack with my open left palm and grabbed his wrist with my right. I exulted; his attacking hand was out of action already, and I had the better of a top pankratist. All I had to do was hit him with my left, and I had plenty of options. I could punch his nose or his throat, or grab his balls and twist.

This was the pankration: the roughest, toughest, most brutal, and frequently the most fatal of the Olympic sports. There are no rules in the pankration, except it’s illegal to gouge eyes or bite, and many a desperate pankratist has broken even those few strictures. The only punishment for an offender is a whipping from the referees. A match ends when one man is unconscious or dead or raises his arm in defeat. At Olympic level, to raise an arm is considered shameful.

Pain sheared down my right shin. He’d kicked me. I realized too late his attack had been a feint to keep my hands occupied while he came in low. I looked down in time to see him lift his foot again and in a lightning movement slam it into my kneecap. It didn’t crack, but the pain was searing. My right leg collapsed.