Sacred Games (37 page)

T
HE JUDGES LED
us in, followed by Timodemus, then King Pleistarchus and Pericles, and the rest of us followed in a confused gaggle. Timodemus now wore that same bored expression that he always did before a fight. He was about to do what he was born for: compete at the Olympics.

Klymene took her box.

The stadion was packed to overflowing with men. The trial of Timodemus had taken longer than everyone but Diotima and I had expected, and now from the loud buzz I deduced there was a certain amount of irritation with the judges for their delay. The murmurs rose higher when men in the crowd noticed Timodemus among us.

The other pankratists and their trainers stood in a group; among them I saw Korillos, Aggelion, and Megathenes. They were shocked to see Timodemus enter.

“You allow him to compete?” Megathenes asked.

“We have determined two things,” Exelon the Chief Judge said to the pankratists and the trainers. “First, that Timodemus did not kill Arakos. Second, that this will be a fair contest.”

Timo didn’t break step. He walked over to his fellow pankratists. He spoke in his normal conversational voice so that they and those of us near him could hear, “Men, I’ve only this day discovered that I won unfairly at Nemea. I never knew; may Zeus slay me where I stand if I lie.” Timodemus drew in a deep breath. “I revoke my Nemean crown, which means the victor of Nemea becomes Arakos of Sparta.”

The men murmured among themselves.

“And I promise you I will compete today with the same disadvantage that you suffered at Nemea. That’s only fair.” Timo turned around to face me. “Nico!”

“Yes, Timo?”

“If I know your cleverness, you have more than three of the poisoned bottles in that bag, don’t you?”

“Yes, I have them all.” Diotima and I had swapped every
poisoned bottle, fearing that Festianos might manage to slip some to the athletes.

“Good, because I’m thirsty.”

I blinked. “What? But Timo, you mustn’t—”

“I said I’m thirsty, Nico. Give me something to drink.” I had never heard such command in his voice. I could see the strain he was under, the tension in his neck muscles. I hesitated. Timo repeated, “Nico.” He held out his hand.

Against my will, but unable to deny him, I handed over a bottle of hemlock.

Timodemus held the poison to his lips and drank it down, swallowing over and over until he’d drained it to the last drop. Timo threw the bottle to the side and said, “Now let’s fight.”

A voice behind me said, “I forbid it.” One-Eye pushed past me to stand before his son. “Timo, stop this now.”

“Isn’t this what you want, Father? Isn’t this what I was born for? Didn’t you train me every moment of my childhood for this one moment when you could see me at the Olympics?”

“Not like this,” said One-Eye. “I expected you to … to …”

“Survive?” Timo smiled, a grim, grim smile. “Did you know about Festianos?”

“No, son, I didn’t.”

“But you suspected, didn’t you?”

One-Eye looked away.

Timo said, “This time there’ll be no cheating. This time, Zeus really does grant the victory.”

One-Eye hesitated for the longest moment, then he nodded and did something I am sure he had never done in his life: he took Timo in his arms and held him tight. They hugged for the longest time, while all the Hellenes watched them.

Timo broke away and walked over to me. “Thank you, Nico,” he said.

“You don’t have to do this, Timo,” I said, quiet but urgent.

He smiled sadly and said, “You of all people know I can’t abide a fight that isn’t fair.”

“What happened at Nemea wasn’t your fault.”

“It wasn’t a fair fight.”

They were the same words he’d used when he’d saved me as a boy, all those years ago.

“Listen, Nico, I want you to do something for me.”

“Sure.”

“Look after Klymene, will you?”

“Er … look after her how?”

“She might be in trouble with her father, when all this is over. I don’t want her hurt, and with Arakos dead and with me … well, the pankration’s dangerous, you know that.”

“I thought she was just for fun. Good in bed, you said.”

“Maybe I like her a little bit. You’re my only friend. Swear you’ll do your best to protect Klymene. That’s all I ask.”

“I swear it.” I felt like I pronounced a death sentence.

I stepped back to join Heraclides alongside the box where the trainers stood. It meant I was among the officials, where I could see and hear everything, but at this point no one seemed to care.

Timo walked over to the other pankratists. The lots were drawn for the bouts.

The Chief Judge called, “Begin.”

There were four matches, to be held at the same time, in four circles set out in a line along the stadion.

At the call to begin, all eight pankratists advanced. Timo downed his opponent quickly with some swift kicks and a hard punch to the neck. The man went down unconscious, and Timo was declared the winner. He waited by the side while the other fights, more evenly matched, came to their completion. Two bodies were carried away, neither dead, both merely unconscious.

I said, “How is it, Heraclides, that Timo hasn’t collapsed?”

“You forget that he’s taken but a medicinal dose, the equivalent
of two leaves. As the poison seeps through it will slow his reactions but not kill him. But I fear … oh yes, he’s doing it now.”

Timodemus had picked up another of the bottles and downed it. For the next bout.

“Four leaves is survivable,” Heraclides said. “Unless the person is old or weak, and your friend is certainly neither of those.”

Timodemus was noticeably slower in the next fight. He faced Megathenes. Megathenes hit out and landed some hard blows, though everyone could see Timodemus try to react.

Dromeus leaned over the box where he stood with the other trainers and said to us, “You see what’s happening? Timodemus sees the blows coming but he’s not fast enough to dodge.”

Heraclides said, “It’s the drug.” He shook his head.

The skill of Timodemus showed despite his slowed reflexes. He allowed Megathenes to come at him, grabbed him about the waist, and rolled backward. Megathenes rolled over him. Timodemus finished on top. He struck Megathenes in the head, one, two, three, four times. When Timodemus climbed unsteadily to his feet, Megathenes remained down and unconscious.

Exelon called the final round.

Timodemus picked up the final bottle.

“No!” Klymene stood in her box. “No!” she shouted again, and the whole stadion of men looked at her in stunned surprise.

The Priestess of the Games had spoken. She stepped out of her box and went to the judges, who were clustered next to where I and Heraclides and the trainers stood.

“I refuse to see these Games,” Klymene declared.

“What?” The Chief Judge could not have appeared more surprised if his daughter had declared herself to be a Gorgon. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do. Don’t you see Timodemus plans to kill himself with the poison?” Klymene demanded.

“As long as the Games proceed, that’s the important thing. Daughter, he might well have died in the contest in any case.”

“But he was to be your son-in-law!”

“We may be revising that plan.”

“Timodemus is a good man. He’s a better person than I am.” Klymene looked abashed.

Timo had walked over when Klymene abandoned her box. He seemed preternaturally calm. Now he said, “That’s not true, Klymene, you’re a better person than you know. You saved my honor in the court.”

“Timo, don’t do this,” Klymene begged. “Our lives are brief enough as it is, don’t go making them any shorter.”

Timo winced. He said, “This is a matter of honor, Klymene.”

“What honor? Your uncle cheated, Timo. You want to make up for his crimes? Then go ahead and lose these stupid Games. But your uncle didn’t kill anyone. You don’t have to die for what he did.”

“Don’t you understand, Klymene?” Timo said, perplexed at her words.
“It wasn’t a fair fight.”

Klymene threw her arms up in despair. “You men are idiots. If you’re bent on suicide, I’ll not help you.”

Klymene stalked off without another word, leaving her father to stand there alone while the assembled Hellenes watched a man unable to control his own daughter. Klymene couldn’t be stopped: the Chief Judge didn’t dare beat the Priestess of the Games; to do so would have brought down the worst luck imaginable.

Exelon slowly turned to face the crowd, his face gray. He drew in a great breath and shouted, in a voice that carried across the stadion, “Hellenes, we have no priestess to observe the Sacred Games. Therefore I must declare—”

“Yes, you do,” Diotima called out. She stood at the stadion’s entrance. Everyone turned to stare at her.

The Chief Judge said, “Women are not permitted—”

“I’m a priestess,” she said loudly, so that the whole stadion could hear her words.

Diotima waited at the entrance for an invitation to enter. Every
man present watched in silence as the Chief Judge walked the hundred paces across the field, to speak to her in private. I hurried across, too, anxious to find out what Diotima thought she was doing.

“Are you a priestess of Demeter?” the Chief Judge asked her quietly.

“Artemis,” she said. “Do you have time to be choosy?”

“The priestess of the Games must serve Demeter. When the crowd finds out they’ll—”

“I won’t tell them if you don’t. Why don’t we pretend you never asked me that question.”

Exelon looked at her for a moment, then at the crowd, and I could see the rapid calculation racing through his mind. If he stopped the Games now there would be a riot. Already we could see a few ripples in the crowd, where scuffles had broken out.

Exelon said, “Take the stand.” He walked to the stadion center to tell the crowd that the Goddess Demeter in her wisdom had seen fit to send a replacement.

To the background of loud cheers I said, “Diotima, you know what you’re doing, don’t you? Timo wants to poison himself.”

“How would you feel if your life’s greatest moment turned out to be a lie?” she asked. “Timo needs this extirpation.”

“Even if it kills him?”

“That’s his choice,” said my Priestess of the Hunt. “What do you think Timo’s life will be like if he lives? What will men say of him? Besides, I seem to recall two men who battered each other almost to death in public, and
you
refused to stop it.”

I could only hang my head. Diotima stepped past to take her place in the box Klymene had vacated. She spurned the chair and stood, her hands gripped the railing like a judge about to pass sentence. She was every bit the haughty priestess.

I went back to the cluster of people from the trial.

Timodemus drank down the final bottle.

“Six leaves,” Heraclides said to me. “A fatal dose.”

The Chief Judge of the Sacred Games looked to Diotima for permission.

Diotima nodded.

“Begin,” Exelon called.

The referees took their positions, and Timodemus began the contest that would kill him.

Heraclides scratched a note into an ostrakon. “Socrates, I want you to take this note to my wife. Tell her I want these medicines and instruments laid out before I arrive.”

Socrates took the note and ran.

“Will Timo make it to the end, do you think?” I asked.

Heraclides said, “I don’t know which is stronger, the poison or his remarkable reserves of willpower.”

Korillos punched Timo, hitting him in the same spot in the diaphragm, over and over, obviously hoping to deprive him of any chance to breathe.

Timodemus doubled over and spewed.

“Good,” said Heraclides. “We can hope that’s taken out some of the poison with it.”

“You mean he might live?” I said.

“Who knows? His extreme exertions spread the poison much more quickly, and he’s a small man. But he’s also in outstanding condition, and there’s no telling how much of the poison that vomit might have brought up.”

Korillos landed a massive kick against Timo’s leg. Everyone saw it coming, but Timo couldn’t move. The whole stadion heard Timo’s leg snap. They could see the bone poking through his skin. Every man gasped and waited for the inevitable moment when Timo raised his arm in defeat.

But Timo didn’t. He kept on fighting.

“Dear Gods, he’s fighting with his bones sticking out!” I heard someone exclaim. I looked beside me for the voice and saw it was Pericles. He looked distinctly ill at the ugly sight. In the crowd behind me, someone retched.

“He doesn’t feel a thing,” Heraclides said in astonishment, and then, “Oh, but of course! The poison’s deadened all feeling in his legs! While he’s in this state, there’s nothing Korillos can do to hurt him.”

Timodemus stood there on his broken leg and ignored the blows raining down upon him. He grabbed the throat of Korillos and squeezed. There was no art in what Timodemus did, but he had no time for art.

Korillos fell to his knees. Timo didn’t relent for an instant. He grinned the rictus smile of supreme effort.

Any moment now, Korillos would expire for lack of air. His face turned blue. It was surrender or die.

Korillos raised his arm in defeat.

Timodemus let go, staggered sideways, forward, backward, forward. He dribbled uncontrollably, then doubled over and vomited again. He gasped for breath. His eyes rolled up, and he collapsed.

The crowd gasped. Men wept and beat each other.

“Timodemus of Athens is the victor,” the Chief Judge called. He stood over the inert form as if this had been nothing but a normal bout.

Heraclides said to me, “There might still be time. As soon as the ceremony is over, bring him to the iatrion as quick as you can. I’ll wait there for you.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

Heraclides picked up the skirts of his ground-length chiton and ran out of the stadion and down the path like a woman.

One-Eye walked to the center of the ring. I thought he too might collapse, but he picked up his son, who was entirely limp, and carried him to the altar where the Olympic crown waited.

One-Eye laid his son on the altar as if he were a sacrifice. There was nowhere else to put him.