Sacred Games

by Gary Corby

  “Look at the floor,” Libon instructed.

  The floor had been paved in tiny colored pebbles. The pebbles had been artfully arranged to make a scene: silver fish in a blue sea, white seabirds and, in the middle, a Triton.

  “Now let us move on.”

  We walked from the pronaos to the naos. The naos was the main room of the temple. Two rows of seven pillars each supported the ceiling, which was high-quality wood, oiled and polished till it gleamed. The naos was divided into four sections.

  “The statue of Zeus will go in the third of the four quarters,” Libon said. “They haven’t begun it yet.”

  I peered into the darkness of the large room, and I wondered if this was why the mysterious informant had specified dusk. In this light, he could speak to me, and it would be difficult to recognize him later.

  “The statue is planned to reach halfway up,” said Libon.

  I looked up; it was a long, long way to that wooden ceiling.

  “Zeus will be sculpted sitting on his throne. If the God stood up, his head would hit the ceiling.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t, then,” I said. “A God with a bad headache is to be avoided.”

  Libon and I had made as much noise as possible and called attention to ourselves.

  “Are there any more parts to this temple?” I asked.

  “There’s the opithodomos, of course,” he replied. “It’s a room about the size of the pronaos, but on the west side. It has no connection to the inside; it’s more like a covered porch with a bench running along the back wall.”

  “What’s it good for?”

  “Meeting your friends in bad weather.”

  Libon led me out the entrance and around the building to the west side. Many men were there to talk and admire the sunset. Libon and I again made a fuss of ourselves, but no one approached, except to ask us to speak more quietly.

  “Are you sure this person is coming?” Libon asked. “I’m afraid, Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus, that you have been stood up.”

  “I am afraid, Libon, master architect, that you are right. Could we make one final sweep in the naos? It makes sense that is where he would go.”

  “Why so?”

  “Because it is darkest there, and so easiest to hide.” As I said it, Apollo dipped below the forest on the other side of the Kladeos to begin his journey around the underside of Gaia.

  “Not anymore,” Libon said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When Apollo descends, the slaves light the torches within the temple. The naos will soon be as bright as day.”

  We hurried back to the other side for the entrance. I grabbed a torch from a passing girl slave. She wanted to protest, but when she saw Libon she subsided.

  Men began to leave for whatever parties they had planned for the evening. It made my job easier. I walked all around the edge of the room. There was no one who looked like he might be skulking.

  I said, “Libon, I notice some flagstones are pulled up where the statue is destined to go.”

  “The flooring is receiving extra reinforcement to support the weight to come. Those are limestone blocks you see raised.”

  “Mind if we have a look?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Together we looked down into the space created where the floor stones had been raised. There, lying in a pool of blood, was the weedy man in the Heracles costume.

  I heard Libon gag. But that didn’t stop him from leaning over for a closer look in the semi-dark.

  “There’s something odd about him,” Libon said, puzzled.

  “So there is,” I agreed. “He has four eyes.”

  HIS EYES WERE wide open. Many people died like that. But the killer had carefully placed an extra eyeball facing upward on each cheek. Combined with the ragged lion skin, he had the look of some strange creature out of myth.

  He stared at me accusingly (with all four eyes), as if his death was my fault. For all I knew, he might be right.

  The slave from whom I’d snatched the torch took one look and screamed. She had to be led away, sobbing.

  “What is this?” Libon exclaimed, and then, “Who is he? Is this your friend?”

  “I think he must be. As to his name, I have no idea, though we met once. I don’t suppose you know him?”

  “Not I.”

  I gave a slave directions to the tent of Diotima and ordered him to bring her. It was rude of me—the slave wasn’t mine to command—but Libon gave no protest. Perhaps it was because of the torchlight, but his skin had noticeably grayed.

  “I’m sorry if the presence of the corpse disturbs you, Libon,” I said. “I wouldn’t have had it happen after your kindness.”

  Libon’s voice was harsh when he said, “I manage a building site, young man. I’ve seen dead men aplenty in accidents.”

  “This was no accident.”

  “No, and that’s what disturbs me.”

  A disturbance at the entrance. Heads turned. Diotima ran in, followed by a panting Pindar.

  “I saw this young lady of yours race across the sanctuary, and I knew something of importance must have occurred,” he explained between gasps. “I’m getting too old for this sort of thing. What’s happening?”

  I told them both of the note and the meeting.

  “I suppose you’ve let the informant get killed.” Diotima got straight to the point.

  “Thanks very much for your confidence.”

  “Is it the informant?”

  “Well, yes.” I had to concede. “But I didn’t let him die. He got himself killed without my permission. Remember the weedy-looking fellow who accosted us at the agora? It’s him, Diotima.”

  She looked down at the corpse. She turned pale.

  “The eyes,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  We looked at each other, no need to say a word. The eyes of Arakos had been removed. Here they were.

  “Notice anything else strange?” Diotima asked.

  I looked carefully but saw nothing beyond. “He’s dead?” I suggested.

  Diotima glared. “Thank you, Asclepius. Where’s his club?”

  “Club?”

  “He swung a club at us.”

  “Maybe he didn’t bring it.”

  “A pity. He could have defended himself.”

  The blood had poured from a gash in his throat.

  “We’ll never know what he had to say,” Diotima said. “And the Temple of Zeus is polluted, right in the middle of the Sacred Games. Have you any idea the damage it does when someone dies in a temple? They’ll be up all night ritually cleansing the place. What a mess. Well done, Nico,” she accused me.

  “Me? I didn’t do anything.”

  “Why must you always get there after the witness has been killed?”

  Pindar had listened to our argument with something like a half smile. Now he asked, “Has this sort of thing happened before?”

  “All too often,” Diotima grated.

  Pindar said, “Perhaps if in the future Nico could arrive at secret meetings early?”

  Markos ran in. He was hot and sweaty. “I just heard.” He looked down at the corpse. “Unfortunate. Who is he?”

  Diotima said, “You knew about this meeting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then each of you is as bad as the other. Why weren’t you here, Markos?”

  “My presence probably would have scared him off.”

  I added, “The note specifically said only me.”

  “I don’t suppose it occurred to either of you that Markos could have covered the outside of the building? You might even—” She glared at me. “—have considered telling me. I could have visited the Temple of Hera, which is right next door to the Temple of Zeus. Between Markos and me we could have observed everyone who went in and out, and we could have been in place long before the meeting time. We could have spotted any man going in who looked nervous. We could have noted anyone who followed another man. As it is, anyone could have walked in and
out of the building without Nico seeing him.”

  A long silence followed. Markos broke it with the words, “I think we’ve been told off, my friend.”

  “Diotima’s right,” I said.

  “She is indeed. I’ll never conduct an investigation without her approval again. You’re lucky to have her.”

  It was the worst thing he could have said, because Diotima wasn’t mine. We both froze.

  Markos looked from one to the other of us, then he remembered. “Oops,” he said. “Nico told me, but I forgot. I apologize.”

  “You told Markos about the dowry problems?” Diotima said. I could hear her anger.

  “Er … yes.”

  “How could you?”

  “Let’s concentrate on who could have killed the fake Heracles.” I said hastily, to change the subject. “Who knew he’d be here?”

  “You and Markos, but not me,” Diotima said pointedly. “Does anyone know who he is? Other than a fake Heracles, I mean.”

  Silence.

  “Perhaps we should wait to see who reports a missing man,” Diotima said.

  Markos and I both stared at her in surprise.

  “In Olympia?” I said. “That’s like waiting for one particular drunk in a dockside inn.”

  “Men wander between the camps all the time,” Markos added. “You could go missing and no one would notice until the Games were over.”

  “I’ll wager that happens,” I said.

  Markos nodded. “It does. At the end of every Games there are always a few tents still standing when all the others have been pulled down. That’s when men look at each other and say, ‘Where’s Ariston?’ Or ‘Where’s Lysanias?’ Or whatever the fool’s name is. So they search for Ariston or Lysanias, and they find him dead drunk in a ditch. Or they find he fell into the river when he was dead drunk, and now he’s just dead.”

  “You sound like you speak from experience,” Diotima said gently.

  “I do. I was assigned to the security detail in the Spartan camp at the last Games. One of the missing men was my own father. We found him floating under the weeds by the bank.”

  “I’m sorry, Markos,” Diotima said.

  Markos shrugged. “There’s nothing anyone can do about it now.”

  I said, “No, and there’s nothing we can do about this murder either. Probably our best witness just died.”

  DAY 4 OF THE 80TH OLYMPIAD OF THE SACRED GAMES

  NEWS OF THE second murder spread like plague. The temple slaves took great delight in telling anyone who’d listen that the corpse had been discovered with four eyes. The gory detail was enough to make men shudder.

  Men began to say that the Games were cursed. The body had been found in the brand-new Temple of Zeus; surely there could be no stronger confirmation that Zeus had deserted us.

  I had to admit, when you put it all together, it didn’t look good. First the murder of Arakos—a cursed event if ever there was one—the Games are first and foremost sacred to the Gods. Then the affair of the ox of dough. At any other Olympics it would have been laughed off. Now, it was another item on the list of sacrilegious disasters. Empedocles had to quietly leave Olympia that night, for his own safety. I thanked the Gods no one had recognized me; the crowd had been too busy watching the more interesting philosopher.

  As to why Zeus had abandoned us, men didn’t look far for a reason. Too many at Olympia had also been at Nemea: the pankratists, Pindar, probably the heralds, no doubt others. People began to talk. By the time the moon had reached its peak, every man at Olympia had heard the ugly rumor, as One-Eye had called it, that Timodemus, the man accused of murdering Arakos, had somehow cheated at the Nemean Games.

  Clearly, Timodemus had cursed the Sacred Games.

  The guards, who had been set to keep Timodemus in, now found themselves keeping a lynch mob out.

  Spartans, Skarithos vocal among them, claimed that Athens was to blame. The Athenians were as vocal in claiming a conspiracy against them. The men of other cities supported one side or the other, as their alliances or inclinations led them. What had been a predominantly Sparta-Athens dispute now consumed every man present.

  Overnight, Olympia deteriorated into islands of armed camps. Men moved carts, packing boxes and supplies—anything they could find—to create low walls around the tents of each city. With so many blacksmiths and weapon-makers present, it was a simple matter to turn tent poles into serviceable spears. Despite the Sacred Truce, a few forbidden swords appeared as if from nowhere. Where a man might the day before have walked between camps unhindered, now guards protected each entrance. They stopped and questioned every visitor and passed through only the men of allied cities.

  A strange thing had happened.

  “Olympia has turned into a microcosm of Hellas,” Pericles said to me within the privacy of his own tent, next morning, the dawn of Day Four. He was bleary eyed. Pericles had spent the night consulting with the leaders of the other cities and doing what he could to keep men calm. Despite which, he was oddly exhilarated. Sport might have bored Pericles senseless, but he lived for politics.

  “Is that bad?”

  “It’s fascinating. I’m beginning to think there might be a point to the Olympics after all. Do you realize, Nico, what we’re seeing here is how each city would react if it came to general war between the Hellenes? What happens here will inform our foreign policy for years to come.”

  “And what is happening?”

  “The cities of the Aegean Islands are supporting us, for the most part. It’s in their best interests. They’re closest to Persia; they need a strong Athens to protect them. The cities of the Peloponnese are supporting Sparta. No surprise there. If they didn’t, they could expect a Spartan army at their gates. All except Argos.”

  “The men of Argos don’t fear Sparta?”

  “The men of Argos have hated Sparta since time immemorial.”

  “Oh. What of the cities to the north?”

  “The opportunists from Thebes are negotiating with both sides. Delphi is staying out of it.”

  “Is anyone playing any sport through all this?”

  “Apparently, but I’m not paying any attention. We must consider the alignment of forces if a fight breaks out.”

  “At Olympia? With the Sacred Truce?”

  “I know. But Nico, the way things are going, it could come to blows between Athens and Sparta. If it does, every other city will be drawn into it. We should be thankful the Sacred Truce forbids bringing arms into the district. If it does turn into a fight—and I wouldn’t put it past the Corinthians to egg everyone on—then the lack of weapons will limit the deaths.”

  I had a sudden thought. “Do the Spartans have any better idea than us on how to control this?”

  “No. Worse, if anything. Spartans make excellent bullies, but terrible diplomats.”

  “Then no one knows what will happen if it comes to blows.”

  “I sincerely hope no one wants to find out. But we must prepare, Nicolaos. We must prepare for the worst.”

  “What should we do?”

  “There’s only one thing you should do.” He glared at me. “Find the answer to who killed Arakos. And it had better be the right answer. Without that, I can guarantee a war inside Olympia.”

  DESPITE ALL OUR theories, we were no closer to proving a killer. There was only one thing left that I could try. Libon’s guided tour of the temple had inspired me. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but I’d discussed it with Diotima anyway, late last night, after everyone else had left the temple and before she’d returned to her tent in the women’s camp. I always talked things through with her. I wondered how I’d cope when she was some other man’s wife. Diotima and I had both agreed my idea was unlikely, but with so little time, any hope was better than none.

  I took Socrates with me to the Sanctuary of Zeus, where Niallos continued his mission to drink himself to oblivion. Luckily for me, it was early morning. Niallos had had most of the night to sleep off the previous day
’s effort. Even so, the smell was horrendous.

  I slapped him around until he came to. Niallos peered at me with eyes that were red from excessive drink and copious tears, and he mumbled, “You again? Go away. Every time you turn up, it’s bad luck for someone else.”

  That was so true I didn’t bother arguing. Instead I said, “Maybe not this time. Listen, Niallos, do you want to do something for Iphicles?”

  “There isn’t anything anyone can do for Iphicles.”

  “Yes, there is, but only you can do it.”

  “What? Why me?”

  “Because you know better than anyone all the parts that make up a chariot. You’d recognize even the tiniest piece, wouldn’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “I want you to go with this boy—his name’s Socrates. He talks a lot, but try to ignore that—and I want you to search the hippodrome for pieces from Iphicles’s chariot.”

  Niallos looked at me as if I were mad.

  I told him what to search for, and why. It was the first Socrates had heard of my idea. When I finished, Socrates looked at me in admiration and said, “Nico, that’s brilliant.”

  Niallos rubbed his chin and sat up straighter. “I see. If this were true—”

  “I don’t know, Niallos, but do this for me, will you? Socrates will help.”

  Niallos dusted off his clothing. He looked human again already. “If you’re right, we can do this quickly.”

  I WAS TORN over what to do about Diotima. With the fighting that was about to break out, would she be safer in the women’s camp or in the middle of the Athenians? I went to see her.

  Pythax was with her in her tent. He was black and blue from the beating Dromeus had delivered. There was a lump over one eye, and his hair was still matted with traces of blood. But I was relieved to see him. If it came to a battle, Pythax would see Diotima safe.