Sacred Games (22 page)

The tent seemed extraordinarily well appointed. Because he traveled to so many contests, he lived under canvas more often than any man but a military officer. He needed the comforts to keep his body in condition. Though I’d known him all my life, I’d never thought of this before, and Timodemus didn’t like to talk about himself.

Diotima had unrolled a bundle of papyrus sheets on the small table, using her palms to prevent the sheets from curling. She frowned as she read.

“What do you have there?” I asked.

“Love poetry,” Diotima said.

“Timo reads
love poetry
?” I said, aghast.

“I don’t know about reading, but he certainly writes it.” She looked up at me. “And it’s very, very bad.”

“Give it to me,” I said, intensely curious to see what my best friend had written. I grabbed the pages.

“No!” Diotima snatched them back before I could see a word. “I can’t let you do that, Nico. It’s personal.”

“Then how come you’re reading it?”

“That’s different; I’m a woman.”

There were no curse tablets, nor strips of lead, nor an engraving tool to inscribe into the lead we didn’t find. There wasn’t even anything to write with.

“This is awful,” Diotima said. “I was so sure we were on the right track.”

“I’m relieved,” I admitted. If Timodemus had been practicing witchcraft, what would I have done?

Diotima understood. She hugged me. “Timodemus might have hidden his curse equipment somewhere else,” she said.

“In this crowded place?”

“Buried it in the woods, maybe? What do we do now?”

I said, “I want to look into the tent next door.” Where One-Eye and Festianos slept.

“Why?” Diotima was puzzled.

“There’s a demon on my shoulder, whispering in my ear.”

The tent of Timo’s father and uncle was barely furnished. Two camp stools. Two camp beds. Two traveling chests, pushed together in the center of the space to make a table.

“Where are the books?” Diotima asked at once, perplexed. The tent was far too utilitarian for her taste.

“I don’t think they’re the reading sort.”

Diotima looked at me as if such a thing was beyond her comprehension. Which it was. For her, the marks that men made were a gift of the Gods, and only the sacrilegious ignored them. Diotima was one of the few women who could read; she read so often she could even do it without having to say the words out loud or move her lips, a level of expertise few men ever achieved.

I opened one of the chests, Diotima the other. Within mine
were jars of ointments, leather gloves like the ones used in boxing and for practice, spare clothing, expensive and well used.

“I’ll bet this belongs to One-Eye,” I said.

Diotima rummaged through hers. “Nico, I’ve found a wooden case.” She pulled out a box, wide, deep, and flat. The sort of thing in which you might carry paper-writing tools. It was the right size. She hefted it. “It’s too heavy to hold papyrus,” she said, following the same thoughts. “In fact,” she said, and gave me a meaningful look, “it’s heavy enough to contain lead.” She jiggled the box. Something inside rattled.

“Open it!”

Diotima pressed on the lid, but it wouldn’t open. “There’s a catch.”

I tried to take it from her, but she pulled it close to her chest. “Oh no, you don’t. Finders keepers.” She ran her fingers around the edge, probing. “Ah.” She pushed a tiny lever. I heard a click within. Diotima slowly lifted the lid while I crowded close to see over her shoulder.

Lying within, in neat rows, were vials. They were ceramic, in a nondescript red with no decoration, and each stoppered tightly.

“What are they?” I asked.

Diotima picked one up and—keeping her thumb over the stopper—she shook it.

Something sloshed. She removed the stopper.

“Careful,” I warned her.

Diotima took a gentle sniff, then a longer one. She screwed up her face in distaste.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” she said, “but I think this is hemlock.”

W
E HURRIED BACK
to the closest private place—my own tent—with the evidence in hand and pulled the flap closed behind us so we could inspect the booty. Diotima had developed a new theory: that Arakos had been fed hemlock.

“All right,” I said. “Tell me how Uncle Festianos persuaded Arakos to drink it. You think Festianos went up to Arakos the Spartan and said, ‘Here, old chap, there’s hemlock in this cup. Quaff it off like a good chap, would you now?’ I don’t think so. We don’t even know for sure this is truly hemlock.”

“I’m sure it is, Nico,” said Diotima. “Everyone knows hemlock tastes like a dead mouse.”

“Do they? How could anyone know such a thing?” I demanded.

“Well, it doesn’t kill at once,” Diotima said. “Anyone who’s been executed with it could tell you before he expired.”

“Have you ever spoken to a man dying of hemlock?” I asked.

“No.”

“I could try it and see,” offered Socrates. He picked up the poison.

“Don’t be stupid, Socrates,” I said. I snatched the vial from his hand. “You’re not to go anywhere near hemlock, you hear me?”

“Yes, Nico.”

Diotima said, “There are doctors who use hemlock to treat patients with aching joints.”

“Don’t the patients die?”

“I didn’t say they were
good
doctors.”

“So these vials might be—”

“Medicine.”

“Then the whole thing could be totally innocent. How do we know if the dose in the vials is fatal or therapeutic?” I asked.

“A doctor could tell us if this is medicine,” Diotima said. “But where will we find a doctor?”

I smiled. “Leave that to me,” I said. “I know just the man.”

“Y
ES
, I
REMEMBER
you,” said Heraclides of Kos. “You were in the tent when I operated on the chariot driver.”

“What happened to him?”

“He’s still alive.”

“I’m pleased.”

“So am I. There’s more chance I can squeeze my fee out of his father. What can I do to help you?”

Diotima, Socrates, and I sat before him on three folding stools in his expansive tent. Heraclides himself sat on a chair.

He was a man in his prime years, strong and healthy looking. I supposed that was important for a doctor. Who’d trust a physician who couldn’t keep himself healthy? The most unusual aspect about Heraclides the doctor was the writhing, squirming thing on his lap that he struggled to contain.

“Is that a baby?” I asked.

“Clever of you to notice. I see you have the makings of a doctor. This is my son.” Heraclides smiled proudly. “My wife left me to amuse him while she went to the agora.” He jiggled the creature up and down and cooed. It was obvious Heraclides was more than happy to entertain his son.

“We need to consult you,” I said to him, in an attempt to keep his attention.

“Is one of you ill?” Heraclides held the baby’s tiny hands, wiggled them back and forth, and went, “Coo—coo—coo—”

“We aren’t ill, Heraclides,” I said, wondering if there might be another doctor in the camp city.

“Your wife is pregnant, then.”

“The Gods forefend!” Diotima interjected.

Heraclides turned to her. “I’m afraid the Gods are usually uncooperative on that score,” he said.

“I’m not pregnant,” Diotima said with finality.

“In fact we only have some questions for you,” I said.

“Questions count for the usual consultation fee,” he said at once.

I said, “Oh, of course, being a doctor, your only concern is—”

“The health and welfare of your patients,” Diotima broke in. “How much for your wise and knowledgeable advice, worthy Heraclides?” she asked smoothly.

“Twenty drachmae for the consultation.”

“Agreed,” I choked, and hoped One-Eye would pay. After all, we were doing this to save the life of his son, whose brains might soon be dashed out on the rocks of Mount Typaeum. If that didn’t count for a medical emergency, I didn’t know what would.

“We have this vial, Heraclides,” I said. We had brought it along inside a canvas bag to conceal the evidence. I pulled it out to show him. “Is this hemlock? And if so, is it strong enough to kill someone?”

Heraclides threw the baby into the air and caught him with practiced confidence. The baby giggled and smiled. Heraclides threw the baby again, so high he almost bounced off the canvas roof.

“Is that good for him?” I asked.

“Perfectly,” Heraclides said. “Babies enjoy the sensation of flying. It’s because the throw takes the baby closer to Apollo, who is a god of healing and health. The theory’s perfectly sound, I assure you. Why do you ask?”

“My mother says babies shouldn’t be tossed in the air.”

“An old wives’ tale.”

“My mother’s a midwife,” I told him.

“Is she now? In that case, here, hold the baby for a moment, would you?” Heraclides passed the child over as if it was the most natural thing in the world to hold a baby. I put my hands out by reflex, without a chance to object. I’d never held a baby before in my life.

The baby immediately tried to crawl off my lap.

I was afraid he’d fall and hit his head on the ground and die. I held on tighter. The baby cried at once. I was suddenly afraid I’d hurt the thing and relaxed my grip. The baby fell off my lap.

“Whoa!” I grabbed him as he fell.

Diotima laughed at me.

“Here, Diotima, play with this baby, would you?” I dumped the baby in her lap before she could object.

Diotima, being a woman, knew exactly what to do with it.

“Here, Socrates,” she said, passing over the child. “Play with this baby, would you?”

“How come I’m the one left holding the baby?” he whined.

“Because I’m bigger than you are,” Diotima said coolly.

“Then how come Nico dumped it on you?”

“Because he’s bigger than me,” Diotima said, delivering an important lesson in power politics.

“He vomited on me!” Socrates said.

“Babies do that,” Heraclides said absently as he searched through a leather case full of scrolls. “He’ll be all right. Cute, isn’t he?” Heraclides pulled out a scroll and began to read. “Ah, yes.”

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m just reminding myself about hemlock. I myself don’t usually prescribe it. Those who do use it to treat severe pain in the joints and uncontrollable tremors.”

He took the vial from my hands and held it close to his eyes.

“What makes you think this contains hemlock?” he asked.

“The smell,” Diotima said.

“This vial is of a type used by doctors to contain medicine. It might be a prescribed dose.” Heraclides opened the stopper and took the lightest sniff. He made a face and put back the stopper. “It’s hemlock, all right.” He rummaged once more through the scroll jar beside him. He pulled one out and unrolled it. “Ah yes. The normal dose for medicinal use is one leaf, two at most.”

“What would be a fatal dose?” Diotima asked.

“Six leaves, according to the authorities. I can’t say of my own knowledge. A man taking hemlock to kill himself will typically make sure of it by taking much more, ten or twelve leaves. The roots and berries are more toxic than the leaves.”

“How long would it take to kill a man?” I asked.

Heraclides shrugged. “It’s highly variable. A man who drank a cup of the potion and then exercised vigorously might die quite quickly. But a large man who lay still could take as much as half a day.”

“But a man wouldn’t drop dead on the spot?”

“No.”

“Can you tell the dose in these vials?”

“Do you have a spare dog you don’t want?”

“No.”

“Then you’re out of luck. The only way is to try it.”

“Let’s say this is medicine, a leaf per dose,” I said. “Does that mean if I drink six vials in a row that I’ve taken a fatal dose?”

“Yes. Don’t do it.”

Diotima asked, “What should a man do, if he accidentally takes a fatal dose?”

“Say farewell to his friends.”

“There’s no cure?”

“There are things you can try. I once had to.”

“To save a man from hemlock?”

“It was back at my home on Kos, where I have some small renown for my skills. I had only sat down to supper, when the door of my house crashed open and a wild-eyed fellow ran in, a young man, he could not have been more than thirty. He barged into my courtyard before the house slave could even announce him, fell upon his knees, and begged me to save his sire. It seemed his aged father had decided to end it all with an infusion of hemlock. The practice is well established on the islands—traditional even—the man who has chosen to die eats a final meal in pleasant surroundings, says farewell to his friends and family, makes any last bequests, and then downs the cup of hemlock. All perfectly reasonable.”

“Of course.” The practice is illegal in Athens, where to commit suicide is considered a crime against the state, but I knew some of the islands preserved the ancient custom.

Heraclides said, “Do you know what the bloody fool did then? He changed his mind. There he was, surrounded by his family, his son at his side. He’d drunk the infusion to send him peacefully to Hades, and
then
he gets scared. He started to cry and grabbed
his son by the hands and begged his son to save him. He behaves in this cowardly fashion before his friends.”

“Oh dear.”

“Indeed. It must have been a pitiful spectacle, and it put the poor son in a dreadful position. If he refused to help his father, he’d risk the curse of the Gods, but if he tried in good faith and failed, men might have wondered if the son had helped along the father for his inheritance. I should add this fool was a wealthy one.”

“Tricky. So the son ran to you,” said Diotima.

“Sensible of him. If
I
killed the old man, no guilt attached.”

“What did you do?”

“Tripled my fee at once. Then I induced vomiting, to remove as much of the poison as I could. It’s the nature of hemlock that it’s a relatively slow death. Unfortunately considerable time had passed before I was called. The patient had already lost feeling in his feet, which meant much of the poison had already entered his body.”

“Is that normal?”