Sacred Games (11 page)

“You carried a horsewhip to meet women?” My imagination ran wild.

“It’s a
lucky
whip. When I woke this morning without it in my hands, I almost died.” He shuddered. “I realized I must have dropped it when I fell, and like a fool I was so wasted I hadn’t noticed. I went back for it, but it was gone.”

Because Markos and I had taken it for evidence.

“Would you recognize this man if you saw him again?”

“I dunno. Maybe. Ask me later. Right now I’m all nerves.”

And there I’d been expecting the owner of the whip to solve the case for me. He knew almost nothing. But who was it he’d followed? The murderer? Or Arakos?

As we spoke, a crewman beside us scooped out a large handful of grease from a bucket, slopped it onto the chariot’s right axle where it joined the wheel, and spread it around. When he was
satisfied, the crewman raised his arm and called. “Right wheel. Check!”

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.

One driver in the middle of the pack was too aggressive, or misjudged the turn, or perhaps his team was spooked by the curse of Taraxippus. His left wheel caught the turning post and tore off. The wheel bounced high into the air and flew into the crowd at the far end, where it struck down several spectators. The chariot overturned to the right, spilling the driver, whose right arm was caught in the reins. The chariot twisted and broke its coupling and tumbled into the altar, where it smashed to pieces. The driver somersaulted in the air and hit the ground headfirst. His unconscious body was tossed to the side like a broken doll while his team continued to race inside the pack. Directly behind came Iphicles. He had no time to swerve. His horses trampled the fallen driver, and then his wheels drove over the body. If the driver hadn’t been dead when he hit the ground, he certainly was now. Iphicles’s chariot swerved from side to side over the uneven bump, and for a moment I thought he would tumble, too, but Iphicles pulled with one arm and then the other, using his main strength against the tension in the reins and the pressure of his feet on the platform to stabilize his vehicle. Everyone shot by as he swerved to the outside to regain control. Men cheered his skill.

“Good driving,” Markos said, and I had to agree. He’d lost time, but Iphicles had done well to stay in the race. The moment the last driver had passed, a recovery team ran onto the course to drag away the corpse and manhandle the driverless horses to the
side. Another group picked up as many pieces of shattered chariot as they could before the racers returned from the other end.

The first turn forced the pack to string out. Corinth was in the lead; neck and neck behind them were Argos and Cyrene.

As they approached the turn, the Corinth driver hauled hard on his left rein and threw his body to the inside. His chariot actually rose on its inner wheel, and for a moment the crowd gasped as we all thought he’d fall. But his outer beasts were pulled, and the chariot almost spun on the spot. When it righted with a bounce, the chariot had turned on a drachma and the driver whipped the team into a sprint down the straight.

Men in the crowd beat one another in excitement and screamed.

Cyrene was to the outside of Argos. As things stood he was certain to come out of the turn third, but the Cyrene took aim for the corner and whipped. He cut across the path of Argos, and the Argos driver had a choice: ram his opponent or brake. His nerve failed for an instant, and he hauled reins. It was a tight squeeze; the Cyrene got around first, but his momentum took him out wide and the slower Argosian made the tighter turn. When they straightened, Cyrene was ahead by a neck. Both drivers whipped their horses as if they didn’t care whether they lived or died—in the lust for victory, they likely didn’t.

Athens had forced his way through the center of the pack. Cyrene pulled ahead to a clear second.

Athens led the main pack and made the second turn without incident, but the chariot immediately behind flipped. The driver screamed as his flimsy vehicle slammed into the team coming up on the outside and sent them both into the outer wall, a tangled wreck of thrashing horses.

Recovery teams ran out to retrieve what they could. I saw one driver still move as they carried him off. The other dangled limp between two men. Three men with swords appeared and finished the horses with broken legs. They sliced the harness so
the survivors could be stood to walk off. The owners must have cried. A fortune in pedigree beasts had been reduced to dog meat. Indeed several dogs had already smelled the blood and hovered at the edge of the ring. An attendant chased them away.

The other teams had to rein in or join the wreckage. They lost time edging about the inside.

The dust rising from the hippodrome had enveloped the racers. Now the slight breeze carried it over the crowd, and men sneezed as they screamed. Tears ran down our cheeks. Markos beside me gasped and banged on his chest. I looked at him in alarm, but he shook his head.

“Don’t mind me. This always happens when the air is thick. I’ll be better when it clears.”

Corinth-Cyrene-Argos-Athens. Then a confused mêlée of teams, and Iphicles of Thebes bringing up the rear.

But Iphicles had an advantage over every other team: there was no one to interfere with his drive; he accelerated into the race as if it were an exercise.

Iphicles caught up with the main pack over the next six laps—there are twelve in all, plus the half lap to start. As he did so, Iphicles passed the rapidly growing tail of failed teams: teams with horses lamed in the scrimmage; chariots with damaged wheels, so easy to happen in the grind of the pack; teams that couldn’t maintain the punishing pace set by the leaders; and teams whose drivers had failed at this ultimate test, unable or afraid to compete against the best of the best. None of the failures would give up, but soon they would be lapped.

Iphicles passed all these and by the next turn was at the back of the pack. Markos wheezed but watched in intense concentration.

At the next turn Iphicles came out wide and whipped his team like a madman. He surged past all the main pack but the team from Chios, leading the group, which saw Iphicles pass and charged with him. Thebes and Chios were half a lap behind the leaders. The Athenian must have heard the
renewed cheers of the crowd, because he looked behind him—something even I knew you should never do—to see the challenge coming fast upon him.