Sacred Games (6 page)

“Who are you?” he demanded of me.

“I am Nicolaos son of Sophroniscus, of Athens,” I said.

“This is the man Timodemus requested, Exelon,” said one the guards. “You said to bring him.”

“Oh. So I did.” Exelon the Chief Judge studied me for a long moment. “You’re a young man. Why?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll grow out of it.”

“I mean, why did Timodemus call for you? Why not a responsible older man?”

“Is Timodemus also dead, sir?” I asked, anxious for my friend. “Is he hurt? Where is he?”

I looked around. I counted at least thirteen men within the clearing, in various states of visibility, depending on their proximity to the torches and their obscurity behind the thick vegetation. The moon was bright above us, so that the clearing itself was well lit. Yet the coverage of leaves upon the surrounding trees was such that in some parts of the perimeter I couldn’t see if anyone was there. The body lay in one of those shadows.

The Chief Judge of the Games said, “You are here at the request of the accused. It seems only fair to give him a chance to explain, if he can.”

“Timodemus is accused?”

At that moment Pericles bustled into the clearing, accompanied by One-Eye, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I agreed with Exelon the Chief Judge on one point: this was no place for a young man to represent Athens.

“One-Eye’s told me what happened.” The usually elegant Pericles was unkempt by his high standards. His hair was uncombed. He wore no himation—Pericles owned one made of the finest Milesian wool, and he normally would not be seen dead
out of doors without it. He did wear a formal chiton, but it was smudged and crumpled. Was it possible that Pericles, like any normal man, dropped his clothes on the floor when he went to bed? He’d forgotten to put on sandals.

Exelon banged his forked staff on the ground again and said, “I blame Athens for this disaster, Pericles. Your man attacked Arakos this morning, and now Arakos is murdered.”

“A scuffle in the morning does not necessarily mean murder in the evening,” Pericles said.

“There’s more,” said the Chief Judge. He moved a step to the side.

Over the shoulder of the Judge I saw Timodemus with his head bowed and a guard to either side of him. The guards held his arms tight. It was the second relief for me for that night. I’d been afraid that Timodemus too lay dead or dying.

Timodemus looked up at that moment, and our eyes met. His were unreadable. The expression on his face was identical to the one he wore in the pankration, the same expression I’d seen right before we’d fought that very morning.

Pericles said, “What do you have to say about this, Timodemus?”

“There’s nothing I can say,” Timodemus said. “I didn’t kill him. I haven’t even seen Arakos since this morning.”

I said to the Chief Judge, “Did you find Timodemus here?”

“Close by, in the women’s camp. Hiding.”

“Hiding?” That didn’t sound like Timodemus.

“Guards found him in the tent of Klymene, the High Priestess of Demeter,” the Chief Judge said grimly.

Uh-oh. The Priestess of Demeter was an integral part of the Sacred Games; the contests could not be held without her. If Timodemus had hurt or polluted the priestess by his presence, then the Games would be delayed, and ten thousand angry sports fans would butcher Timo before the day was out. I decided not to ask the obvious question.

“What he was doing in the women’s camp is irrelevant,” said Exelon. The Chief Judge seemed equally reluctant to follow that line of thought. “The fact is the women’s camp is the shortest of runs from where we stand, and that is meaningful in the extreme.”

“The implication is obvious,” Pericles said. “But that’s all it is: an implication. How many other men were in the women’s camp tonight? Hundreds, at least, probably thousands. No court would convict a man for that.”

“You’re not in Athens now, with your courts and your rhetorical tricks,” said Exelon. “This is Olympia, where the Ten Judges decide. It’s in our power to ban Athens from the next Olympics.”

Pericles said at once, “I apologize, Exelon. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

Pericles contrite was a sight to behold, but not at the cost of Timodemus, which was the way this was headed. Something had to be done. I asked, “How did Arakos die?”

“See for yourself.” The Chief Judge stepped back to let me pass.

The body lay in half darkness. I knelt down. It was impossible to see detail.

“Can I have some light here?”

One of the torchbearers stepped over beside me, and suddenly the scene was revealed. The flame was fresh and still smoked considerably and burned with a strong yellow light that was hot and eerie in how it revealed the ghastly corpse.

Arakos had been laid out straight, a scarlet cloak placed under his head. It was the standard-issue cloak beloved of the Spartans. Blood had dribbled from his crushed nose and mouth and now dried on his cheek. His jaw hung slack, and there were bloody gaps where teeth had been. But the worst was his eyes had been gouged out, both of them. The sockets were bloody holes.

I looked behind me at once, to where Socrates stood. He’d never seen violent death before. Well, now he had. I worried what effect the ugly sight had on my little brother.

“What happened to his eyes?” Socrates asked in the same casually clinical tone he used for all his questions.

So much for worrying about my little brother’s mental health.

But it was a good question. Where were Arakos’s eyes?

Something small and sharp jabbed under my knee. There were some front teeth, in a small pool of blood. But not enough teeth. I opened his mouth and felt about inside, with a finger. Yes, I felt a few more teeth lying loose. Whoever had hit Arakos had done a thorough job.

“Who found him?”

A man stepped forward. “I did.”

He spoke with a Spartan accent. Terrific.

“What were you doing in these woods so late at night?”

Another man said stepped forward and said, “I was with him.” He took hold of the first man’s hand.

“Er … right. Nice night for a walk, I guess. Is this how you found him?”

“No, he was alive. We tried to save him.”

“How did he lie?”

“Curled in on himself, knees drawn up, arms wrapped about his torso, facedown in the dirt.”

It was the position of a man being beaten who has no way to fight back.

Arakos couldn’t fight back?

I inspected his wrists and his ankles. There were no tie marks, no indents into the skin that might have been caused by the pressure of a tight thong. His arms and legs were also clear of all but the bruises any fighter carries.

There was a large clot of blood in his hair. I pressed on it, gently at first, then harder. The scalp, and the bone beneath, moved inward under the pressure. In fact it wobbled. This was probably what had killed him.

I asked the group in general, “Did Arakos say anything before he died?”

“He was unconscious most of the time.” A man in the outer shadows spoke up. “He breathed in a funny way. Really labored, you know? And he blew bubbles of blood.”

Everyone knew what that meant. Arakos had been struck in the chest, and the ribs had pierced his lungs. I lifted his chiton and probed. There were no open wounds, but there was movement beneath the skin where there should not have been.

By all appearances, Arakos, one of the finest bare-handed fighters in all Hellas, had been beaten to death.

I stood up and dusted off my knees. “This is impossible.”

The man who stood next to the Chief Judge said, “It seems obvious enough to me. The Athenian surprised Arakos, perhaps in an ambush, and hit him from behind. There are many trees and other places from which to leap. He knocked out Arakos with the first blow and then proceeded to beat an unconscious man to death.” The man who spoke was middle-aged, perhaps fifteen years older than me, but his shoulders were broad, and he looked fit. He had a rich, dark beard and black, curly hair that was well kept. He stood straight and wore a cloak of the deepest scarlet.

I said to him, “With no weapon, not even a knife? Why wouldn’t the killer wait until Arakos had passed and stab him in the back?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time things didn’t go to plan in an ambush,” he replied. “Especially in a night attack.”

“In my experience it’s unlikely,” I said, doing my best for Timodemus. “And I have some expertise in these matters; I’ve examined more than one crime scene.”

He said, “In my judgment it makes perfect sense, and I know something about ambushes.”

“Who are you to be making judgments?” I demanded.

He said mildly, “I am Pleistarchus, son of Leonidas, of Sparta.”

My stomach lurched. Dear Gods, I had challenged a King of Sparta, one of the most powerful men in Hellas. This man’s father was the Leonidas who had led the Three Hundred at
Thermopylae and died the most revered warrior of our times. With a word, Pleistarchus could have an army of Spartans at his back—there was one available in their camp—and the dead man before us was one of his own. I swallowed.

“I’m sorry, King Pleistarchus,” I said, as apologetic as I could be. “I didn’t recognize you. But I don’t think your idea can be right.”

“Why not?” He didn’t seem offended.

I touched the body’s head. “See this wound? It’s toward the front, almost on the forehead, and slightly on the left-hand side. This wound could not have been made from behind. It was almost certainly made by a right-handed man from in front.”

King Pleistarchus leaned over and examined the body with an air of genuine curiosity. “You’re right. Is there any wound behind?”

I was already running my hands around the back of the head. “Nothing there.”

“What of his back?” Pleistarchus waved to two soldiers, who together rolled over the heavy, awkward corpse. We all three felt about.

Nothing. No wounds. In the combined torchlight and strong moonlight we could see bruises, but with death there would be bruising in any case.

Another Spartan stepped forward. “Pleistarchus, I remind you this man who examines the body of our comrade is an Athenian. He will say or do anything to get another Athenian off the charge.”

The man spoke as if to a difficult and slow child. I waited for the King of Sparta to explode, but all he said was, “I know this, Xenares. Trust me, I will keep it in mind.”

The man named Xenares was dressed in the style of formal chiton that covered him from neck to ankles in one long, flowing robe. He had a small, pinched mouth that looked like it was set in a permanent expression of distaste. Or perhaps it was the cares
of office, for he seemed to be an official of some sort. He turned to one of the Spartan soldiers and said, “Send for Markos.” The soldier scampered off as if he’d received a command from Zeus.

“This whole question of the guilt of Timodemus can be put away at once,” Pericles declared. “Nicolaos has watched over Timodemus like a hungry eagle, every moment since he was reinstated to the competition. He can certainly swear that Timodemus was nowhere near Arakos.”

Every eye turned to me.

Suddenly I was very nervous. I felt myself blush.

“Er … Pericles, that might not be entirely true.” I had to admit it; there might be a witness to prove otherwise if I lied. “After Timodemus went to bed I handed over the watch to someone else.”

“What!” Pericles fairly screeched.

“Well, Timodemus was asleep. It wasn’t like there was much to do, and it was someone reliable,” I said in my defense. “His uncle, Festianos.”

“So reliable we found the killer in the women’s camp,” Xenares pointed out.

Pericles turned to me and said, “Watching like a hungry eagle, were you?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Pericles was being grossly unfair. But nor could I provide Timo with an alibi, so I obviously hadn’t been watching him closely enough. Pericles had spent his precious political capital for nothing, and it was I who had advised him to do so. I had no choice but to accept his withering stare.

“Where is this uncle now?” Exelon the Chief Judge asked.

“Asleep before our tents,” said One-Eye, his first contribution. “Chief Judge, I swear before Zeus my son had nothing to do with this. You mustn’t let this incident interfere with the Games—”

I think my jaw hit the dirt. The Chief Judge stared at One-Eye as if he were some strange creature suddenly in our midst, and so did everyone else.

“Interfere with the Games? Incident?” the Chief Judge repeated in shock. “One-Eye, do you understand what’s at stake here?”

“Is Timodemus permitted to compete in the pankration on the fourth day?” One-Eye asked.

How could he ask about such a thing with the life of his son forfeit?

“A man with blood guilt upon him? Not only that, an oath breaker before Zeus Herkios? Don’t be ridiculous.” The Chief Judge stamped his staff hard upon the earth.

“This is terrible,” One-Eye wailed. The death of a man didn’t affect him. The thought of sacrilege at the Sacred Games moved him not at all, but the thought of his son unable to compete caused him to cry.

Everyone stood speechless, embarrassed by his behavior.

“You’re looking for a friend of the dead man,” said Socrates into the suddenly frosty silence.

I’d forgotten he was even there. “Be quiet, Socrates. This is a business for men.”

“Who is this boy?” said the Chief Judge. “And what is he doing here? Is this disaster some sort of show for children?”

“He’s my little brother. I’m sorry, he was in the tent when your men came to fetch me. I’ll send him home at once. Socrates, disappear.”

Pleistarchus raised his hand. “No, let the boy speak.”

“Very well, what do you mean, Socrates?” I demanded.

“You said it yourself, Nico. The dead man was attacked from the front.”

“So?”

Socrates looked at us quizzically. “It’s just that if you met a man in the woods at night, and if he’d attacked you that same day, would you stand still to be hit again? It doesn’t seem likely, does it?”

“I was about to say the same thing,” I lied.

“Your brother makes a good point,” said Pleistarchus. “If Arakos had seen Timodemus, he would certainly have expected another attack. He would have been ready to defend himself.”