Gary Corby: Sacred Games

The festival agora lies to the north of the sports grounds, on the east side of Mount Kronos, where the market catches the sun in the morning. We heard the sound of the people before we saw the market itself, just around the bend.

“Yaah!”

A man in a lion’s skin jumped out in front of us. He swung a gnarled club at our heads. Diotima and I leaned back instinctively. The madman missed us by a wide margin.

I stepped forward into the swing, hooked my leg behind our assailant’s, and pushed him to the ground. I snatched the club from his hands as he fell.

“What do you think you’re doing!” I shouted at him.

He picked himself up. I expected another attack and gripped the club in both hands to use on its owner. But when he only stood there, head hung low, I asked, “Who in Hades are you?”

“I’m Heracles,” he said.

“Wasn’t Heracles larger and”-I looked him up and down-“slightly better muscled?”

The man before us was dark-haired, small and weedy. A faded and somewhat patchy lion skin draped over his left shoulder fitted him like a tent. Now that he no longer swung the club, I saw he had the muscle tone of a dead chicken.

The weedy character said, “You’ve never heard of the Heracles imitators?”

Diotima and I both shook our heads.

“Milo of Croton did it first. Men at the Games have been dressed as Heracles ever since. We do it for fun. Playacting, you know? And to impress the crowd.”

“Who’s Milo of Croton?” Diotima asked.

“He was the strongest man who ever lived, barring Heracles himself. You’ve never heard of Milo?” said the fake Heracles.

“This is our first Olympics,” I said.

“This is my fifth.” He smiled. He’d scored a point over us. “I’m from Elis. I come to every Games.”

I inspected the club. It really was a solid piece of twisted wood. I handed it back.

“You should be careful with that; you might hurt someone.”

The club hung limply from his hands. “It’s just a game. I’ll be more careful. So, what do you think of the festival agora?”

“I don’t know,” said Diotima. “You’re standing in my way.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Fake Heracles stepped back to reveal a vista of the festival ground of Olympia.

Men and women in gaudy festival clothes moved like a flowing rainbow among the stalls and displays. Jugglers wandered among the crowd, tossing and catching balls with blinding speed. Flute girls swayed and played their lilting tunes.

“Oh, Nico,” Diotima breathed. She took my hand and stepped into the swirling crowd.

We wandered from stall to stall. Vendors had come from all over Hellas to sell every imaginable thing: fine jewelry, beautiful cloths of many colors and patterns; bronze ware that shone in the sun, plus fine food. A man stirred a large kettle of sizzling spiced lentils. His wife handed out steaming bowls to those with coin. Every second stall sold wine.

I bought silver earrings for Diotima, because they matched her headband, and a bronze mirror because I knew she didn’t have one with her. The earrings were in the shape of bears, the animal sacred to the goddess Artemis, whom my Diotima serves as priestess.

We came across three more Heracleses. One of them lifted a vast block of stone, his every muscle straining to burst through his skin, before he tossed it over his shoulder to the applause of the onlookers.

“This is what I imagine it must be like every day for the Gods on Mount Olympus,” Diotima said. “Can you imagine walking through such a crowd and coming face-to-face with a goddess?”

“I already have,” I told her, and she blushed.

Naked acrobats tumbled and somersaulted past us.

I put my arm around Diotima’s waist and squeezed tight. It wouldn’t have been proper to kiss my wife in full public view, but the temptation was almost overwhelming.

“Why don’t we go back to your tent for some tumbling of our own?” I whispered into her ear.

“What will you do if Pythax catches us? He’s already furious with you.”

“I’ll point out you can only break a pot once,” I told her.

Diotima smiled, but she hesitated. “I’d love to, Nico, but … let’s use your tent. I wouldn’t want the other women to think you were a custom … er, that is, not my …”

Diotima had a horror of anything that could possibly be misconstrued to suggest she was a professional woman, as her mother once had been. Her background, paradoxically, had made her more prim and proper than the most natural-born of citizen women.

I said, “Wouldn’t it look even worse if you were seen walking into a tent in the men’s camp?”

“Men don’t notice. The women have nothing better to do than spy on one another and gossip.”

When we returned to my tent, a message awaited me, scrawled untidily into a wax tablet and left to lie on the ground. It read:

Pericles says this to Nicolaos: Timodemus has been reinstated. The Spartans are furious. Keep a close eye on your friend .

Diotima had rested her chin on my arm and read along with me.

“I’ll have to go at once.” I sighed.

“How long do you think this tablet has been here?” Diotima asked.

“Could be as long as half the afternoon.”

“Then he can wait a little longer,” said Diotima. She pressed her body against me, put her arms about my neck, and raised her face to be kissed. I was instantly aroused. I pulled the shoulder pins from her dress, and it fell to the floor.

“Now Timo, do you promise me you’ll go into that tent and not come out until morning?”

Timo laughed. “What are you, Nico, my mother?”

A mother wouldn’t have trailed as close to Timodemus as I had that afternoon. I’d caught up with him at the gym, where he was being congratulated by friends. The friends had been strangely absent in the morning, when Timo was in trouble, but were exceedingly visible after the judges announced his rehabilitation. Man after man said that Timo was sure to win, for he must have the favor of the Gods, and all of Athens was behind him.

I knew how uncomfortable such talk made him feel. I waved from the back of the crowd and said in a loud voice that Timo was wanted at the Bouleterion. Timo edged away, and we made our escape. When we were out of sight, we diverted to the agora, where I bought a few wineskins to celebrate, and we found a quiet spot by the river.

We were both in a more relaxed state than we had been in the morning. We stayed there until it was well and truly dark, after which we meandered back to the campsite. An athlete needs his sleep.

When we came to Timo’s tent, I insisted he stay there and not go wandering about. “I promised Pericles I’d keep an eye on you. I can’t do that if you go partying across Olympia in the middle of the night. What if some Spartan tries to get revenge?”

“You are protecting me?” Timodemus was too polite to point out that he had beaten me to a pulp that morning. Instead his eyes lingered on my bruised neck and my aching knee-Diotima had wrapped a wet rag around it to reduce the swelling-and he smiled.

“I thought you were sticking with me to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid again.”

“Perhaps a little of both,” I conceded. “I know you could destroy me with your little finger, Timo. But has it occurred to you that even the weakest man could knife you as you sleep? Or attack you from behind as you walk through the crowds? I can watch your back. Pericles said he spent political capital on you, and he doesn’t like his property damaged.”

Timodemus laughed. “All right, Nico. I’ll stay in the tent.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good night, then.”

Timodemus stepped into his tent and closed the flap.