Sacred Games

by Gary Corby

  “Were they?”

  “Every one of them stood before the altar of Zeus at Nemea and swore there’d been no arrangement. In truth it’s hard to see how Timodemus could have suborned everyone. The judges decided there’d been no bribery. They swore every man present to secrecy that the question had ever arisen.”

  “Then how come you know about it?”

  “I was present at the swearing, as a witness. The judges wanted someone who could report later that all had been done according to the law.”

  Pindar had begun the conversation with the claim he hadn’t been involved. I decided not to point out his obvious lie. Perhaps it was an attempt to be discreet, as his position required.

  Pindar said, “The judges concluded that collusion was impossible, but no, that wasn’t the end of the matter. There was another explanation.”

  “What was it?”

  “Witchcraft.”

  “NICO, DO YOU think it could be true?” Diotima asked.

  I found Socrates and Diotima at her tent, where we’d agreed to rendezvous. She’d searched for my errant brother and bought sweet cakes along the way. He’d been willing to go with her because, as he put it, “The chariots were fantastic, but not enough people get killed in the athletics.”

  Now we nibbled on the cakes and discussed the revelation that Timodemus really might have cheated. To curse an enemy is so simple and easy, anyone could do it.

  “I don’t know,” I said, glum. “A few days ago I would have laughed. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  “I’m sorry.” She put a hand on my arm. This was why a man wanted a wife, for comfort. “There were too many good reasons for Timodemus to kill Arakos,” she said. “To silence his taunts, to silence his accusation that Timo cheated, or maybe even … to cheat.”

  I winced.

  “I know he’s your friend, Nico, but I have to tell you—”

  “Yes, I know. Three days from now I’ll stand before the judges to condemn my own friend. Did I tell you, by the way, One-Eye demanded I bring the trial forward?”

  “The man must be mad.”

  “Merely willing to sacrifice his own son to reflect in Olympic glory. Diotima, you’re a priestess—this tale of witchcraft … is it possible?”

  “Oh, Nico, priests and priestesses don’t do magic!”

  “Magic is different?”

  “Completely. Utterly. If a hundred people want to honor the Gods together, then someone has to perform the sacrifice, someone has to say the prayers, someone has to pour the libations and clothe the statue. They can’t all do it, so the priestess does it for them. That’s all being a priestess means, when you get down to it. But curse magic, that’s asking the Gods to hurt someone to your advantage.”

  “How?”

  “The curse is always written on a tablet.”

  “Pindar didn’t say anything about curse tablets. Where would you look for one?”

  “Down a well. Most curses invoke Hades, Lord of the Underworld, to do something nasty to the victim. The closer you can get the curse, to Hades, the more likely the God is to read it. Most people scratch it on a strip of lead.”

  “That must be bad for the well.”

  “It’s only lead; it can’t hurt you. Also, if you hire a professional to write your curse it has more chance of working.”

  Did Timo know any magicians? “You said anyone could write a curse tablet.”

  “True, but a professional magician knows what to write and how. Magic is all about persuasion. No one can coerce the Gods, no matter what some charlatans claim. Mortals can only ask and hope the Gods feel charitable that day. Does Timodemus know any magicians?”

  “I have no idea. I doubt it. If he has been writing curses, what would they say?”

  Diotima picked up her wax tablet and scratched some words, which she handed to me.

  I call upon Hades, he who rules in the land of the dead, to whom all men must go, to bind my opponent Arakos in the pankration. May his arms grow weak. May his strength wane. May his hands fail to grasp. May his legs grow heavy and his knees fail. Do this for me, mighty Hades, Lord of the Dead, so that Arakos loses miserably and I am victor in the contest.

  I put it down in shock. “This really is cheating.”

  “Timodemus would write one of these before each fight,” Diotima said. “He’d name his opponent and say what he wants to have happen.”

  “Why not write one generic curse? May all my opponents lose. Something like that.”

  “Because it’s very unlikely to work. The Gods need a name to work with. If you wrote something like please make me rich, would you expect wealth to arrive at your door?”

  “No.”

  “Right. It’s too general. You’re asking the Gods to do your thinking for you. The Gods aren’t nannies looking out for us. But if you said, please Poseidon, make sure my merchant ship makes it to Chios this trip, then you’re in with a chance. He may or may not do it, but at least Poseidon knows exactly what you want.”

  “I see. If the priests and priestesses don’t do magic, how do you come to know all this?”

  “People beg priests and priestesses for an effective curse all the time. You’re not the only one to make the confusion. After a while I became interested and looked into it. You know how it is.”

  With Diotima I certainly did. She absorbed knowledge like a sponge.

  She went on, “But this can’t be the answer, Nico. Arakos didn’t lose in a contest; he died in a forest.”

  In fact, if Timo had cursed Arakos, then he wouldn’t have needed to kill him. I said, “Strange as it may sound, if we can prove Timo cheated, then it might just save his life. Let’s say Timodemus cursed Arakos. Where would he put the tablet here in Olympia?”

  “There’s no well. Everyone gets their water from the river.”

  “In the river, then?”

  “Too shallow and too easy to see.”

  “Dig a hole?”

  “Wouldn’t that be obvious?”

  “Dig a hole in the woods?”

  “If he did, we’ll never find it.”

  I nodded glumly. “If we can’t find the tablet, it means nothing; merely that we couldn’t find it.”

  “Of course, you don’t have to find the tablet,” said Socrates. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet.

  “What do you mean?” I demanded. “Of course we do.”

  “But Nico, if Timodemus planned to curse his opponents, doesn’t he need a lead strip for each one?” Socrates said. “Diotima said so. All you have to do is search his tent for the other lead strips.”

  Diotima and I looked at each other in despair.

  “I hate it when he’s right,” she said.

  WE BURGLED THE tent of my best friend at once while the Games were in full swing and there were few around to see us. If Timodemus had belonged to any other city, it would have been a problem—strangers walk into an empty tent, questions are asked—but Timo was Athenian, and the men of the neighboring tents had seen me before. We didn’t even have to sneak in Diotima. It was forbidden for women to view the contests, but the tent camp was fair game.

  We left Socrates on guard outside—I ignored his bitter protests—and went in.

  There was a camp table in the middle, the kind an officer might take with him on campaign. A camp bed lay along the far side. I tested it. Quality stuff, well strapped, and made of solid wood. This thing was heavy. How did they transport it? Ah yes, that explained the long line of donkeys tethered outside.

  The tent seemed extraordinarily well appointed. Because he traveled to so many contests, he lived under canvas more often than any man but a military officer. He needed the comforts to keep his body in condition. Though I’d known him all my life, I’d never thought of this before, and Timodemus didn’t like to talk about himself.

  Diotima had unrolled a bundle of papyrus sheets on the small table, using her palms to prevent the sheets from curling. She frowned as she read.

  “What do you have the
re?” I asked.

  “Love poetry,” Diotima said.

  “Timo reads love poetry?” I said, aghast.

  “I don’t know about reading, but he certainly writes it.” She looked up at me. “And it’s very, very bad.”

  “Give it to me,” I said, intensely curious to see what my best friend had written. I grabbed the pages.

  “No!” Diotima snatched them back before I could see a word. “I can’t let you do that, Nico. It’s personal.”

  “Then how come you’re reading it?”

  “That’s different; I’m a woman.”

  There were no curse tablets, nor strips of lead, nor an engraving tool to inscribe into the lead we didn’t find. There wasn’t even anything to write with.

  “This is awful,” Diotima said. “I was so sure we were on the right track.”

  “I’m relieved,” I admitted. If Timodemus had been practicing witchcraft, what would I have done?

  Diotima understood. She hugged me. “Timodemus might have hidden his curse equipment somewhere else,” she said.

  “In this crowded place?”

  “Buried it in the woods, maybe? What do we do now?”

  I said, “I want to look into the tent next door.” Where One-Eye and Festianos slept.

  “Why?” Diotima was puzzled.

  “There’s a demon on my shoulder, whispering in my ear.”

  The tent of Timo’s father and uncle was barely furnished. Two camp stools. Two camp beds. Two traveling chests, pushed together in the center of the space to make a table.

  “Where are the books?” Diotima asked at once, perplexed. The tent was far too utilitarian for her taste.

  “I don’t think they’re the reading sort.”

  Diotima looked at me as if such a thing was beyond her comprehension. Which it was. For her, the marks that men made were a gift of the Gods, and only the sacrilegious ignored them. Diotima was one of the few women who could read; she read so often she could even do it without having to say the words out loud or move her lips, a level of expertise few men ever achieved.

  I opened one of the chests, Diotima the other. Within mine were jars of ointments, leather gloves like the ones used in boxing and for practice, spare clothing, expensive and well used.

  “I’ll bet this belongs to One-Eye,” I said.

  Diotima rummaged through hers. “Nico, I’ve found a wooden case.” She pulled out a box, wide, deep, and flat. The sort of thing in which you might carry paper-writing tools. It was the right size. She hefted it. “It’s too heavy to hold papyrus,” she said, following the same thoughts. “In fact,” she said, and gave me a meaningful look, “it’s heavy enough to contain lead.” She jiggled the box. Something inside rattled.

  “Open it!”

  Diotima pressed on the lid, but it wouldn’t open. “There’s a catch.”

  I tried to take it from her, but she pulled it close to her chest. “Oh no, you don’t. Finders keepers.” She ran her fingers around the edge, probing. “Ah.” She pushed a tiny lever. I heard a click within. Diotima slowly lifted the lid while I crowded close to see over her shoulder.

  Lying within, in neat rows, were vials. They were ceramic, in a nondescript red with no decoration, and each stoppered tightly.

  “What are they?” I asked.

  Diotima picked one up and—keeping her thumb over the stopper—she shook it.

  Something sloshed. She removed the stopper.

  “Careful,” I warned her.

  Diotima took a gentle sniff, then a longer one. She screwed up her face in distaste.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, “but I think this is hemlock.”

  WE HURRIED BACK to the closest private place—my own tent—with the evidence in hand and pulled the flap closed behind us so we could inspect the booty. Diotima had developed a new theory: that Arakos had been fed hemlock.

  “All right,” I said. “Tell me how Uncle Festianos persuaded Arakos to drink it. You think Festianos went up to Arakos the Spartan and said, ‘Here, old chap, there’s hemlock in this cup. Quaff it off like a good chap, would you now?’ I don’t think so. We don’t even know for sure this is truly hemlock.”

  “I’m sure it is, Nico,” said Diotima. “Everyone knows hemlock tastes like a dead mouse.”

  “Do they? How could anyone know such a thing?” I demanded.

  “Well, it doesn’t kill at once,” Diotima said. “Anyone who’s been executed with it could tell you before he expired.”

  “Have you ever spoken to a man dying of hemlock?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “I could try it and see,” offered Socrates. He picked up the poison.

  “Don’t be stupid, Socrates,” I said. I snatched the vial from his hand. “You’re not to go anywhere near hemlock, you hear me?”

  “Yes, Nico.”

  Diotima said, “There are doctors who use hemlock to treat patients with aching joints.”

  “Don’t the patients die?”

  “I didn’t say they were good doctors.”

  “So these vials might be—”

  “Medicine.”

  “Then the whole thing could be totally innocent. How do we know if the dose in the vials is fatal or therapeutic?” I asked.

  “A doctor could tell us if this is medicine,” Diotima said. “But where will we find a doctor?”

  I smiled. “Leave that to me,” I said. “I know just the man.”

  “YES, I REMEMBER you,” said Heraclides of Kos. “You were in the tent when I operated on the chariot driver.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He’s still alive.”

  “I’m pleased.”

  “So am I. There’s more chance I can squeeze my fee out of his father. What can I do to help you?”

  Diotima, Socrates, and I sat before him on three folding stools in his expansive tent. Heraclides himself sat on a chair.

  He was a man in his prime years, strong and healthy looking. I supposed that was important for a doctor. Who’d trust a physician who couldn’t keep himself healthy? The most unusual aspect about Heraclides the doctor was the writhing, squirming thing on his lap that he struggled to contain.

  “Is that a baby?” I asked.

  “Clever of you to notice. I see you have the makings of a doctor. This is my son.” Heraclides smiled proudly. “My wife left me to amuse him while she went to the agora.” He jiggled the creature up and down and cooed. It was obvious Heraclides was more than happy to entertain his son.

  “We need to consult you,” I said to him, in an attempt to keep his attention.

  “Is one of you ill?” Heraclides held the baby’s tiny hands, wiggled them back and forth, and went, “Coo—coo—coo—”

  “We aren’t ill, Heraclides,” I said, wondering if there might be another doctor in the camp city.

  “Your wife is pregnant, then.”

  “The Gods forefend!” Diotima interjected.

  Heraclides turned to her. “I’m afraid the Gods are usually uncooperative on that score,” he said.

  “I’m not pregnant,” Diotima said with finality.

  “In fact we only have some questions for you,” I said.

  “Questions count for the usual consultation fee,” he said at once.

  I said, “Oh, of course, being a doctor, your only concern is—”

  “The health and welfare of your patients,” Diotima broke in. “How much for your wise and knowledgeable advice, worthy Heraclides?” she asked smoothly.

  “Twenty drachmae for the consultation.”

  “Agreed,” I choked, and hoped One-Eye would pay. After all, we were doing this to save the life of his son, whose brains might soon be dashed out on the rocks of Mount Typaeum. If that didn’t count for a medical emergency, I didn’t know what would.

  “We have this vial, Heraclides,” I said. We had brought it along inside a canvas bag to conceal the evidence. I pulled it out to show him. “Is this hem
lock? And if so, is it strong enough to kill someone?”

  Heraclides threw the baby into the air and caught him with practiced confidence. The baby giggled and smiled. Heraclides threw the baby again, so high he almost bounced off the canvas roof.

  “Is that good for him?” I asked.

  “Perfectly,” Heraclides said. “Babies enjoy the sensation of flying. It’s because the throw takes the baby closer to Apollo, who is a god of healing and health. The theory’s perfectly sound, I assure you. Why do you ask?”

  “My mother says babies shouldn’t be tossed in the air.”

  “An old wives’ tale.”

  “My mother’s a midwife,” I told him.

  “Is she now? In that case, here, hold the baby for a moment, would you?” Heraclides passed the child over as if it was the most natural thing in the world to hold a baby. I put my hands out by reflex, without a chance to object. I’d never held a baby before in my life.

  The baby immediately tried to crawl off my lap.

  I was afraid he’d fall and hit his head on the ground and die. I held on tighter. The baby cried at once. I was suddenly afraid I’d hurt the thing and relaxed my grip. The baby fell off my lap.

  “Whoa!” I grabbed him as he fell.

  Diotima laughed at me.

  “Here, Diotima, play with this baby, would you?” I dumped the baby in her lap before she could object.

  Diotima, being a woman, knew exactly what to do with it.

  “Here, Socrates,” she said, passing over the child. “Play with this baby, would you?”

  “How come I’m the one left holding the baby?” he whined.

  “Because I’m bigger than you are,” Diotima said coolly.

  “Then how come Nico dumped it on you?”

  “Because he’s bigger than me,” Diotima said, delivering an important lesson in power politics.

  “He vomited on me!” Socrates said.

  “Babies do that,” Heraclides said absently as he searched through a leather case full of scrolls. “He’ll be all right. Cute, isn’t he?” Heraclides pulled out a scroll and began to read. “Ah, yes.”

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m just reminding myself about hemlock. I myself don’t usually prescribe it. Those who do use it to treat severe pain in the joints and uncontrollable tremors.”