Sacred Games (26 page)

“Is there nothing that betrays them?” Diotima asked quickly. She wanted to spare the queen of Sparta the indignity of tears before strangers.

“They live ordinary lives,” Gorgo said. “They’re only called upon to provide their special service when the need arises. The only thing that marks them is they must all be of the officer class. I speculate that the krypteia deliberately restrain their abilities in day-to-day life, so as not to be too obvious.”

“Terrific,” I said glumly. “We’ll never spot him. If he even exists, that is. There are at least two other ways to interpret the word ‘secrets’ in that anonymous note.”

Gorgo said, “Your next step is clear. You must speak with Xenares. Only he can tell you more.”

“Will he agree to see us?”

“He will, because I’ll order it, personally. For all his faults, Xenares is a good Spartan, and there’s one thing you can rely on from any good Spartan. Markos, what’s the first lesson of our people?”

Markos smiled. “To follow orders, Queen Gorgo.”

Gorgo returned his smile. “It makes life so much simpler.”

F
OLLOWING ORDERS MIGHT
make a man’s life simpler, but it certainly didn’t make him happier.

“There are no krypteia at Olympia,” Xenares said, or, rather, snarled. “And even if there were, I certainly wouldn’t discuss it with an
Athenian
.”

As Gorgo had predicted, Xenares the ephor of Sparta had
agreed to meet, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. We stood in a room at the Bouleterion, Xenares, Markos and I. Though there were couches along the walls, he remained standing in the center. Xenares clearly intended this to be a short discussion.

“I’ve heard otherwise,” I said.

“I can’t control what other people say. More important, how does an Athenian come to know of the krypteia and where its members might be?” Xenares looked pointedly at Markos, and there was no doubting whom he thought had talked.

Markos met his gaze with a bland expression.

“Markos told me nothing,” I said. “My source is higher up than any of us.”

Xenares frowned. “Higher than me?” He had no trouble guessing whom I meant. “Then this will be a subject for discussion at the next meeting of the ephors.”

I’d probably just caused trouble for Pleistarchus and Gorgo, but that was better than exposing Markos to the wrath of the ephors.

I said, “Tell me the names of the krypteia at Olympia.”

“What part of ‘no krypteia at Olympia’ did you not understand?”

“Do you want this killer punished?” I asked.

“This goes without saying.”

“Then why won’t you help us catch—”

“Because he’s already been caught. Let me ask you, if our roles were reversed, if Arakos had been an Athenian and this Timodemus were a Spartan, would you be looking so hard for evidence to exonerate him?”

I had no answer to that, because Xenares was right.

Markos said, “Xenares, may I remind you, Nicolaos has been ordered to do his best for the accused, as I have been ordered to do my best to convict him. We can hardly blame a man for following his orders, can we?”

That gave Xenares pause. “I see. Yes, Markos, you’re right. Very well then, it does not matter how many krypteia are here at
Olympia, nor who they are. They will never act without orders. Do you know what the krypteia are?”

“Assassins,” I said.

“Patriots,” Xenares corrected me. “Highly talented patriots, who have dedicated their lives to the good of Sparta.”

The way he said it reminded me of the saying of Pericles,
for the good of Athens
.

“So you’re saying the krypteia only act on the orders of the ephors,” I said.

“The Spartan system is one of balance,” Xenares said. “The ephors are elected to represent the people, the Gerousia represent the wisdom of age, and the kings act for us all.”

One thing struck me. “The ephors are elected by
the people
? You mean by all the Spartans?”

“Certainly.”

“I thought Athens was the only city with democracy.”

“Democracy?” Xenares shuddered. “Are you insane? Democracy is for weaklings. We ephors are elected by the people to act as a balance against the kings, so they cannot get above themselves. The system works. The kings make the best decisions they can because they know if they don’t, we ephors will veto them.”

“Does
veto
include tearing the skin off a man who’s out of his mind?”

Xenares looked like he’d swallowed something distasteful. “I see you’ve heard the rumors about Cleomenes, who was grandfather to our current king Pleistarchus. How should I know what happened back then? It was before my time. Whatever happened, I’m sure it was for the best for Sparta.”

“But the ephors could order such a killing?”

“We never discuss the government of Sparta with outsiders, and particularly not with an Athenian.”

“Why do you hate Athens so?” I asked, genuinely curious, because I’d never understood it.

“Is that a serious question?” Xenares said. “Athens disturbs the balance. Athens uses her wealth to bend other cities to her will. Every merchant from every city must deal with you, because you’re so rich. You set unfair rules that serve only to increase your wealth and power, and then the richer you get, the more you extend your unhealthy influence. Athens is like a cancer among the city-states.” Xenares was shouting now and waving his arms. He stopped abruptly when he realized what he was doing.

“Where were you, Xenares, when Arakos died?”

I thought for a moment he was going to strike me. “I didn’t even know the man,” he said at last.

“Purely for the record, Xenares, so we can eliminate you.”

“Eliminate me, eh? If you must know, I was with a delegation from Corinth. We talked through most of the night. They’ll vouch for me.”

Considering Corinth was a close ally of Sparta and a mortal enemy to Athens, that didn’t mean much. To test him, I asked, “Oh? What did you talk about?”

Xenares glared at me. “A subject dear to all our hearts: how best to destroy Athens.”

“H
E
’
S PROBABLY TELLING
the truth,” I said to Markos. “If he wanted to lie, he surely would have made up a story that put him in a better light.”

“I hate to have to tell you this, my friend,” Markos said, “but to many people in Hellas, wanting to destroy Athens
does
put him in a good light.” He thought for a moment, then said, “We must consider the possibility that the information Gorgo gave us, that there’s a krypteia agent assisting Xenares at Olympia, is tangled up in these negotiations with Corinth.”

I nodded. “If so, then he has nothing to do with Arakos, and we’ve gone down another dead end.”

“I’m sorry you had to hear all that from Xenares, Nico,” Markos said. “It can’t have been pleasant for you.”

“Do men truly praise Xenares because he hates us?”

“That’s how most Spartans see it.”

“Is that how you see it?” I asked him.

Markos hesitated for so long I thought he might refuse to answer, but he said, “How I feel doesn’t matter, Nico. I follow orders. You and I don’t get a say. Maybe one day, when we’re as old as Xenares, you and I will be able to sit down together and resolve all the differences between our cities.”

“I know what you mean,” I said, thinking of my orders from Pericles to get Timo off the charge at all costs. That in turn reminded me of my new idea. Empedocles had said that love and strife moved everything in the universe. To me, it sounded like two good motives for murder.

I left Markos behind and crossed the river, where I waited outside the tent of Klymene, under a nearby tree for the shade, until the tent flap lifted and the priestess’s personal slave—the girl with red hair, whom Klymene had called Xenia—emerged carrying a large jar with two handles. The girl settled the jar on her head, where it remained, perfectly balanced, and walked easily toward the river.

“Going for water?” I asked as I joined her on the path and matched her steps.

She glanced at me in contempt. “What a stupid question.”

“Then let me try a better one. Where do you sleep at night, Xenia?”

“Are you hitting on me?” She didn’t break stride for a moment.

“I’m a married man.”

“Well, at least you’re honest!”

“I only want to ask a few questions.”

Xenia scoffed. “That’s a different approach.”

We reached the riverbank. Xenia waded in. She stopped in the middle of the stream, took down the jar, and slowly submerged it in the river.

As the air bubbled up she said, “You’re the one who came to
the mistress’s tent with the pretty dark-haired girl, aren’t you? Why do you care where I sleep?”

“I think you’re like most slaves in a camp; you sleep outside your owner’s tent.”

She nodded. “All right, that’s true enough.”

“But in the women’s camp at Olympia, it’s not safe for a lovely girl like you to be asleep outside a tent, not with all those drunk men staggering about looking for a pornê.”

“So?”

With a grunt she heaved the jar back up on her head and waded out. I pulled her the last few steps up the bank.

“Thanks.”

We walked back toward the camp.

I said, “So I think you sleep in her tent, at the entrance, so that any man who blunders in will trip over you first and not bother the Priestess of the Games.”

Xenia walked on, saying nothing.

“Here’s the thing, Xenia. When Klymene screamed in the night and the guards came to take Timodemus, why weren’t you there first? In fact, why didn’t Timo trip over you?”

The jar fell from Xenia’s head. I almost caught it as it fell, but it was wet and slipped through my hands and hit the ground at my feet. I was sloshed head to foot.

“Gods curse it! Now I’ll have to fill it again.” Xenia bent to pick up the jar, which must have been beloved of the Gods because it hadn’t broken.

This was what I realized when Empedocles spoke of love and strife: that neither Klymene in her testimony nor Timodemus nor the guards had mentioned Xenia.

“What’s the answer, Xenia?” I said.

“You can’t make me talk.”

“I don’t have to. The judges will see to it if I call you as a witness. I suppose you know they torture slaves when they give evidence in court.”

Xenia went pale.

“A thumbscrew’s what they usually use.”

She said, “You mustn’t tell the mistress I told. Promise me.”

Aha! “I swear it by Zeus. May I lose the contest if I reveal.”

Xenia whispered, “Klymene sent me away.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think? Because a man was due. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Timodemus?”

Xenia nodded.

“Had he been to her before?”

“Not here at the Games.”

Which meant in Elis.

“Do you like your mistress?”

Xenia stopped to think about that. “Yes,” she said finally. “On the whole, I do. She’s had a tough life.”

This from a slave. I wondered what had been so tough for Klymene, but that didn’t matter now.

Xenia looked worried. “Remember you promised not to tell the mistress.”

“I promise.”

So now I had the alibi for Timo that I’d wished for right from the start. But Timodemus had lied to me about how he came to be in Klymene’s tent. What else had he lied about?

“I
T
’
S ALL LIES
” Klymene said. “There was nothing between Timodemus and me. I’m the Priestess of the Games, you know!”

“I know,” said Diotima. “If I were Priestess of the Games, and I’d been fooling around, I’d deny it, too.”

I’d brought Diotima the news, and together we’d waylaid Klymene at the Sanctuary of Zeus, where everyone had congregated to party and drink while they waited for the oxen to cook. Already the aroma of sizzling, well-cooked meat was drifting across Olympia.

Diotima and I dragged Klymene into the Bouleterion for a private discussion. The inside of the council house was divided into one large meeting hall and a number of small rooms. We chased a couple of slaves out of the smallest, quietest room, where they’d been hiding to shirk their duties, and then we accused Klymene, not of murder, but of lust.

She’d denied everything, over and over.

Diotima and I shared a look. We knew we were running out of time; even with my official status, we couldn’t keep a priestess locked away forever, especially not if they needed her when the Games resumed.

Diotima sighed. She said, “Very well, then. How do you explain the love poetry?”

“What?” Klymene was nonplussed. So was I, for a moment. Then I remembered.

“We searched his tent,” Diotima said. “Timodemus writes poetry about you. Did you know that?”

“Does he really?” Klymene said. Her expression was one of wonder. “You mean … he really likes me?”

“Shall I go fetch it?” Diotima said. “You can see for yourself.”

Klymene turned away to stare at the blank wall, ignoring us entirely.

I dragged Diotima to the other corner. “Why didn’t you tell me before about the poetry?” I hissed.

“I did,” Diotima said. “You saw me reading it.”

“You didn’t tell me he was writing about Klymene! You could have saved me having to question Xenia.”

“Er … there’s a slight problem there,” Diotima admitted, somewhat abashed. “The poetry doesn’t
actually
mention Klymene by name.”

I was appalled. “Then how can you possibly know it was meant for her?”

“I used some intuition. Also a bit of logic. Everything Timo has here at Olympia, he brought with him from Elis, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then he must have written the poetry beginning in Elis. Who did he meet there? Who else could it be for? Do you see any other nubile women around here, to use his words,
with breasts like melons
?”

“Timo wrote that?” I asked.

“I told you it was bad poetry. Listen, Nico, we can prove Timo wrote the words. Considering he was captured in her tent, that should be enough.”

Klymene turned around. “All right, I’ll admit it.” She twisted a tress around her fingers. “Timodemus and I were having an affair. How did you know to look for poetry? I suppose that little vixen Xenia told you all about us first. She’s hated me ever since we were children.”