Sacred Games (35 page)

“As were hundreds of men. Most of them are at Olympia.”

I ignored Festianos and said to Exelon, “Sir, I’ll need some other evidence. I call for Diotima, a lady of Athens.”

“You’re bringing in a
woman
?” Exelon said.

“Uh, two women actually, sir. The other one’s a pornê. I also have a doctor. Oh, and my little brother.”

Before Exelon could object, I opened the door, where stood waiting Diotima and Petale and behind them Socrates and Heraclides.

Diotima walked in and placed on the table before the judges a large canvas bag. It rattled and clattered. She untied it and pulled out the case of vials.

“Festianos, can you tell me what this is?” I said. Diotima opened the case for all to see the vials inside.

Festianos was bug-eyed. “Where did you get this?” he said.

“From your tent.”

One-Eye exclaimed, “You searched our tent?”

“For a good reason, One-Eye,” I said. “Bear with me.”

“This is medicine,” said Festianos. “For my arthritis and the shakes with which I am sometimes afflicted. A doctor prescribed it.”

“Is your doctor here at Olympia?”

“In Athens.”

“Then there’s no way to corroborate your story.”

“Why should there be? It’s medicine.”

“This is poison hemlock.”

“I don’t deny it,” said Festianos. “The doctor warned me not to take too much at a time.”

“Or else?”

“Or else it could kill me. I am to swallow a vial when the pain in my joints is particularly bad or if my body begins to shake, and at no time am I to take more than one vial every two days.”

Heraclides, who stood at the back of the room, nodded in approval. He said, “The statement of Festianos agrees with what many doctors would prescribe.”

I said, “Sirs, allow me to introduce Heraclides, a doctor from Kos. He told me that a potion made from a single leaf is medicinal, but that as few as six leaves are certain to be fatal.”

Festianos shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not a doctor.”

“How much hemlock is in each of these vials, Festianos?” I asked.

“I believe two leaves.”

“You don’t know?”

“All right, yes, it’s two.” Festianos wiped his brow.

“Heraclides?” I asked.

The doctor said, “Two leaves in a healthy man would not be a fatal dose.”

“But it would make a man sick?” I asked.

“He would feel lethargic, numb. He would be leaden-footed. Any movement would be a struggle.”

“Like an athlete having a bad day,” I said.

“The symptoms might resemble an athlete off his game,” Heraclides agreed.

“Sirs,” I turned to the judges, “I have spoken with the pankratists who competed at Nemea. They say that when they fought against Timodemus, they felt as if they had heavy legs.”

“Nicolaos, what are you thinking?” Pericles said, beside himself. He wrung his hands. “Have you forgotten your orders …?”

Pericles trailed off. He dared not admit his orders to me before the assembled personages.

I said, “My Olympic Oath requires me to prove or disprove Timo’s guilt in the matter of the death of Arakos. I can only do so by discovering what really happened at Nemea last year.”

Pleistarchus said, “We all know what he’s thinking, Pericles, and I must say the idea’s an interesting one. Do you intend to protect this man?”

“You know I can’t,” Pericles said testily.

“Nicolaos suggests this man Festianos gave mild poison to everyone except his own nephew,” said King Pleistarchus, plainly intrigued. He had followed the conversation closely. I was sure he knew where this was going. “It appears we may have been a little hasty in condemning Timodemus.” Pleistarchus was obviously enjoying every moment of this. “What do you think, Exelon?”

The Chief Judge looked at the King of Sparta with some irritation. “I think we need to hear the answer from Festianos.”

“This is ridiculous,” One-Eye protested. “First my son is accused of murder, then my brother of poison. This is nothing less than a conspiracy against my family and I demand—”

“You haven’t proven a thing,” Festianos interrupted. “How did I get the poison into the athletes?”

“In their water bottles,” I said promptly. “The relative of a competitor is almost invisible, and no one watches the water bottles. Why should they?” I faced the judges again and began to pace back and forth, a habit I’d picked up from Pericles. “Sirs, at midday today, I told Festianos that Timodemus had been given permission to contest the Games, if he’s found innocent.”

“Which is true,” said Exelon.

“Yes, sir. Festianos immediately poisoned the water of the other contestants.”

Festianos said, “You’re making this up.”

I smiled to myself. “I thought you might say that.” I stopped pacing. “Pindar?”

Pindar stepped forward to stand beside me. The Ten Judges stirred in their seats. The greatest living poet of the Hellenes was about to speak.

Pindar cleared his throat.

“Honored Judges of these Games most sacred to mighty Zeus,” he began in his beautiful voice, “as Apollo with well-strung lyre sung before the Gods of high Olympus, so I stand before you with these few simple words of—”

I stamped on Pindar’s toes. “Save the panegyrics for the paying crowd!” I hissed. “We have a man to redeem.”

“Er … to cut a long poem short …” Pindar glared at me and rubbed his foot. “I affirm that I, Pindar the Praise Singer, watched this man Festianos leave his tent, carrying the box you see. I observed him walk into the gym, where were assembled the athletes for the pankration. I saw him walk back to his tent soon after.”

“Lies,” said Festianos.

“The word of Pindar is beyond doubt,” said a minor judge.

Timodemus had watched his uncle’s testimony with something like horror in his expression. Now he walked in front of Festianos, turned his back on the judges, and thrust his face so close to Festianos that I thought they might kiss. Or bite.

“My win at Nemea wasn’t a fair fight?” Timodemus whispered.

“I didn’t poison the bottles, nephew,” Festianos rasped.

“It’s all been a lie. I’m not the best at all.” Timo turned away and hid his face in his hands.

Diotima reached into the evidence bag and withdrew a leather bottle. She placed it on the table. Festianos stared at it in surprise.

I said, “I took one of the contestant bottles after you left the gymnasium. Here it is.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Would you care to drink the water, Festianos?”

Festianos glared around at the assembly. He was a trifle wild-eyed. He reached for the leather bottle, opened the stopper, upended and drank it down in rapid gulps.

“There, you see?” he coughed a little. “River water mixed with wine. That’s all it is, and not very good wine at that.”

The faces about us showed disappointment. All except One-Eye, who registered confusion, and Pericles, who looked relieved.

Diotima reached into the evidence bag. Slowly, deliberately, she pulled out another bottle and placed it before Festianos.

“Now try this one,” she said. “Nicolaos took more than one bottle.”

Festianos stared at the bottle, at me, at the bag.

The room was totally silent.

Diotima reached into the bag for a third time. Without a word, she placed a third bottle before Festianos.

I said to him, “If you told the truth, your bladder will fill, and you’ll be a little drunk. Nothing more.”

We waited, but Festianos only stared at his doom.

“The bottle you drank can’t harm you, but three bottles is six
leaves, enough to kill a man. Of course, if as you say, there’s only water and wine in there, then there’s nothing that can hurt you, right?”

Festianos made no move.

“Drink the water, Festianos,” Exelon ordered.

Festianos reached forward. He took the next bottle and brought it to his lips. His hand shook. In one sudden motion he upended it onto the floor. The liquid splashed out. Droplets fell on our feet. Then he leaned forward onto the table, head in his arms, and cried.

“So it was Festianos who murdered Arakos,” murmured the Chief Judge.

“Oh no, sir,” I said. “That’s quite impossible. A man with arthritis like Festianos could never have raised his arms against Arakos.”

They all looked at me in shock. A judge shouted, “Are you playing with us, young man?”

The answer was yes. I deserved some revenge after what these men had put me through. But what I said was, “No, sir! It was necessary to demolish the motive that Sparta alleges against Timodemus.”

“How do you know Timodemus wasn’t in it with Festianos?” Xenares said.

“You need only look at him,” I said.

Everyone did. Timodemus had buried himself in the corner of the room, his head against the whitewashed wood of the wall, oblivious to everything.

I said, “No, sirs, Timodemus had an extremely good reason to murder Arakos, but this wasn’t it.”

“
Had a good reason
?” Pericles seemed close to apoplexy. Good. This would teach him to order me to fake an investigation.

I said, “Rivals in love, Pericles. But I’ll let someone else explain that.”

Diotima opened the door. Klymene stepped in, shaking. Her skin was the color of dough.

“Klymene, daughter of Exelon, has important evidence for us,” I told the assembled men.

Klymene said, “Timodemus could not have killed Arakos.” She drew a deep breath. “Timodemus could not have killed Arakos because he was with me.” She paused. “In my tent,” she added, to make the point clear. Then, in case anyone in the room was terminally stupid, she finished, “We were having sex. Lots of it.”

At least five judges dropped their cups of wine.

One said in a horrified squeak, “But this means the entire Games have been observed by a priestess in a state of pollution.”

“Yes.”

“The last four days are
invalid
?” If he hadn’t been sunburned, the judge would have turned dead white. “If the people find out, we’ll be slaughtered.”

The judge beside Exelon turned to him and said, “I’m sorry, Exelon my friend, but the penalty is prescribed. She must be thrown off Mount Typaeum.”

Exelon said merely, “No,” in the faintest of voices.

Klymene smiled bravely. “It’s all right, I’ve had my fun. Timo and I can go together.”

“Why do you tell us this?” another judge demanded. “Are you in love with this Timodemus?”

“If love is liking someone, in bed and out, then I suppose I am.”

To get us all back to the important point, I said, “Timodemus didn’t do it. This leaves us with the problem of who did kill Arakos.”

“I suppose you know who that is,” Exelon said sarcastically.

“I call upon Petale the pornê to give evidence. She will be assisted by—I’m very sorry about this—my brother.”

Petale explained that she had seen Arakos leave the women’s camp, and no one else.

I said, “My brother Socrates will now explain how he used the
coins in Petale’s jar to calculate what time Arakos was seen walking into the woods.”

Exelon stared in distaste at Petale and Socrates, a prostitute and a boy, holding hands. He muttered, “I think we’ll take your word for it, for the moment at least.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. The idea of Socrates trying to explain anything to anyone was terrifying.

“The evidence of Petale fixes the time of the murder,” I said. “Something the killer certainly didn’t want. He needed to ensure there was some moment during the night when Arakos might have died, and Timodemus had no alibi. You’ll notice the ostrakon that demands the meeting is deliberately vague about the time. How is this possible? How could they have met? The only possible answer is, the killer lured Arakos with a verbal message, one that gave a fixed time, and then planted the ostrakon later.” I paused to let that sink in. “Which means the killer went to all this trouble to frame Timodemus.”

“It means nothing,” Xenares the ephor said. “All we have is the word of a whore, and—” He stared at Klymene. “—and the word of a girl who should be.”

Pleistarchus said, “More to the point, it doesn’t necessarily imply the killer had anything against Timodemus, other than that the young man had made himself the perfect target for a false accusation.”

“I acknowledge the truth of what you say, Pleistarchus,” I said gratefully. “Let’s move on to the death of Iphicles the chariot driver.”

“An unfortunate accident,” said Markos.

“Very unfortunate, because Iphicles saw the murderer.”

“No, he saw Arakos.”

“Then why didn’t Petale see Iphicles?” I shot back. “Petale says she saw Arakos and no one else leave the women’s camp.”

I paused for them to consider.

“Iphicles, while blind drunk, followed a man through the women’s camp and into the forest. It must have been either
before or after Petale left her tent to relieve herself. The man directed Iphicles back onto the path to the river ford. That man must have been the murderer.”

“We’ll never know now,” said Markos.

“No, we won’t. There’s been an unfortunate tendency for witnesses to die. Let’s consider the fake Heracles, who was murdered in the Temple of Zeus.”

Markos turned to the judges. “I remind you, sirs, the question in hand is the murder of Arakos. Any other deaths, however regrettable, are incidental.”

Exelon nodded. “Markos makes a fair point. This trial is for the murder of Arakos.” Thus was the death of the pathetic little Heracles consigned to the same insignificance as his life.

I tossed my two ostraka on the table to rest with the one Markos had presented.

“The first message declares Timodemus innocent. The second asks for a meeting in the Temple of Zeus. Clearly the fake Heracles knew something about the murder.”

“The killer’s name?” suggested Pleistarchus.

“No, the murder weapon,” I said.

“There are no weapons at Olympia,” said Exelon at once.

“Yes, there are,” I replied. “The clubs carried by the Heracles imitators! Perfect to beat a man to death, even a top pankratist, if he doesn’t expect the blow, and especially if it comes from someone he has no reason to distrust. Arakos was stunned by the first blow to his forehead, just like the oxen in the sacrifice. After that it was a simple matter to finish him.”