by Gary Corby
“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.
&
nbsp; 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.”
“Yes, it’s very confusing, isn’t it?” Socrates shrugged. “Because on the face of it, only Timodemus could have killed Arakos.”
“Whose side are you on here?” I demanded.
Socrates looked puzzled. “But Nico, isn’t the idea to work out the truth?”
I ground my teeth and managed not to shout at him.
“Sorry, Nico,” he said meekly.
“The boy makes sense again,” said Pleistarchus. “The only man ever to best Arakos in the pankration was Timodemus of Athens. Who else could have taken him on without a weapon and killed him?”
Unfortunately the King of Sparta was right: what Socrates said made sense.
“Would you all excuse me for a moment?” I marched over to Timodemus, grabbed him by the arm. The guards watched me drag him out of their earshot.
“Did you kill him?” I hissed in the lowest voice.
“Nico!” he said, obviously hurt. “How can you ask such a thing?”
“I’m asking,” I said through gritted teeth, “because when I defend you, I need to know what I have to deal with. Are they going to find any evidence against you? Tell me true, Timo, and swear by Zeus.”
“I didn’t kill Arakos. I swear this by Zeus, may he destroy me if I lie.”
“All right.” I let go of his arm and walked back to the body, stood over it, turned around. I wanted to see what Arakos saw, the moment before he was attacked.
Another man strode into the clearing; he pushed his way into the inner ring. The new arrival stood opposite me over the freshly murdered corpse. He glanced down, and said, “It looks like the pankration started early this year.”
Xenares said, “None of your wit please, Markos. You can see this is a crisis.”
The man Xenares had named Markos was slightly taller than me, which meant neither tall nor short. He stood with a straight back, his face by torchlight pleasant but unremarkable. Our gazes met, and he smiled. His intelligent eyes were so deeply blue as to be almost black.
“We seem to have a problem here,” he said to me, as if he’d walked into a room where someone had spilled the wine.
I didn’t know who this Markos was, but Xenares had called for him, and that made him an enemy. For that matter, I didn’t know who Xenares was, except that he hated Athens, and a king of Sparta treated him with respect.
“There is another issue,” said King Pleistarchus. “It’s important to determine whether Arakos died fighting.”
“Why do you care?” Pericles said. “It doesn’t make him any less murdered.”
“It is the custom of our people. If my fellow Spartan died in combat then he is entitled to a headstone with his name upon it, so he will be remembered. But if he died without a fight, then his name is to be forgotten.”
I said, “He was beaten, as you see, but there are signs of a long struggle. Look at these bruises, here and here and here.” I touched different places on Arakos’s arms and neck. “All we have to do is look for a man who’s been in a fight.”
Markos said, “Of course there are signs of a struggle on him, he’s a pankratist! He’s been doing nothing but practice fighting for the last ten months.”
“Oh yes, of course.” I had no choice but to admit it; Markos was right and looked alert, while I had just made myself look like an idiot in front of these men.
“The same will go for Timodemus and every other contestant,” Markos continued. “There’s no point searching for evidence of a fight on any of our suspects.”
“What about looking for recent, fresh bruises?” a voice in the darkness asked.
“Was there anyone who didn’t train this morning?” Markos asked reasonably.
That was true. Why, even Timodemus, who had been thrown out of the contest, had picked a fight this morning. With me.
I wiped my hands, though there was very little blood on them—the wounds of Arakos had not bled much and were already quite dry—but there was another problem. “I’ve touched a dead body. I’m ritually unclean. Is there seawater?”
Exelon the Chief Judge said, “The water of the Kladeos is considered cleansing. You can wash on the way back to camp.”
During this conversation the other nine judges of the Games had trickled into the clearing, in varying states of wakefulness, and been apprised of what had happened. Now the Chief Judge turned to them, and they muttered together for an interminable time while some of the most powerful men in Hellas waited in silence.
“Here is our judgment,” said the Chief Judge, turning back to the main group. “The evidence against Timodemus, son of Timonous, is strong. For the murder of Arakos he is to be imprisoned in one of the ancient disused buildings, and after the closing ceremony he is to be tied hand and foot and thrown to his death from Mount Typaeum.”
Mount Typaeum is a place of high cliffs along the road from Elis. To be thrown from it is the punishment reserved for women who sneak into the Games. It is a particularly shameful death.
Pericles turned to the judges and said, in a voice trained to oratory, “This is not according to the law, which states there may be no executions during the Truce.”
“That is so,” the Chief Judge said. “But this is Day One, and the Sacred Games end on Day Five. Soon thereafter the Truce ends, when the Hellenes have had enough time to return to their homes. We’ll give ourselves dispensation to act early, while everyone’s still here to witness the consequences for sacrilege.”
Pericles said, “The men who compete in the pankration are issued a blanket pardon for murder. This is the law.”
Xenares spoke up. “The law provides immunity if one athlete kills another during the competition.”
Pericles opened his mouth to protest, but the Chief Judge held up his hand. “Wait, I’ve not finished. The Athenians raise seeds of doubt regarding the guilt of Timodemus. Perhaps they will grow to bear fruit, perhaps not. The Athenians may nominate a man to investigate this crime and, if they can, clear the name of their athlete. They have until the end of the Games to prove Timodemus innocent.”
“Four days is not enough time,” Pericles said.
“It’s all the time you have,” the Chief Judge said without sympathy. “After that, the people return to their own cities, and every witness and any suspects will be gone.”
Pericles could only nod at the truth of that.
Xenares scoffed, “Such an investigation can have only one outcome. Of course the Athenians will whitewash their own man.”
“You’re right, Xenares.” Pleistarchus turned to the Chief Judge. “Xenares, who is an ephor of Sparta, makes a good point. Sparta cannot accept this.”
I wondered if the Chief Judge would threaten Pleistarchus the way he had Pericles, but instead he held up his hand in a placating gesture a
nd turned back to his fellow judges. They conferred once more, in low voices. I strained to hear what they said but to no avail, until Exelon the Chief Judge announced, “We, the Judges of the Games, will appoint a third city to investigate this crime.”
Pericles and Pleistarchus both snorted at that.
“Every important city in Hellas is either for Athens or against her or allied with Sparta or allied against!” Pericles exclaimed.
Pleistarchus nodded. “For once I must agree with Pericles. There are no neutral cities of any importance. Moreover, if you appoint some minor city to oversee the investigation, the Athenians will immediately put pressure on them. The Athenians will offer generous trade agreements to save their man, or threaten to impose extra import taxes on the city’s merchant ships if they find against. That’s the way of Athenians, to cheat with their money.”
I nodded to myself. Yes, that was exactly what Pericles would do.
Pericles said, face-to-face with Pleistarchus, “And I suppose if the judges selected a minor city, you Spartans wouldn’t threaten to attack them if they don’t see things your way? The only cities free from Spartan bullying are the powerful ones or the ones far from Sparta on the islands in the Aegean Sea. The judges must select one of them to investigate.”
Pleistarchus objected, “That’s no good. They’re all pro-Athenian.”
“Because we protect them from the Persians,” said Pericles, “while you Spartans refuse to venture so far from your homes.”
“You have the ships, we don’t,” said Pleistarchus. “I don’t recall Athens whining so much when you needed us to defeat the Persians for you. If you protect the islands with your ships, it’s because we protected you on land with our army.”
“We fought the Persians together,” said Pericles. “And so did every other Hellene city. There was nothing special about Sparta.”
“Except that without us you would certainly have been conquered. My father died in that war, Athenian.”
“So did many fathers.”
“Enough. Silence, both of you.” The Chief Judge looked from Pericles to Pleistarchus, scowling. “This squabble between the Athenians and Spartans is irrelevant. You will wait while the judges confer. Again.”
