The indoor sports facilities at Olympia were as grandiose as you would expect. Yesterday we had spent most time admiring the gymnasium; that sumptuous facility had a mighty triple-arched gateway, leading to a vast interior where running could be practised on a full-size double track, safe from rain or excessive heat. It was so large that in its central area discus and javelin practice could occur, even while races took place on the perimeter.
Attached to the gym was the palaestra - more intimate, yet still impressive. It had four grand colonnades, each housing rooms with specialist functions, around a huge central workout space that was open to the skies. In one preparatory room athletes oiled themselves or were oiled by their trainers - or their boyfriends. Another contained bunkers of fine dust which was slathered all over them on top of the oil. It came in different colours. After practice, the dust and oil and sweat would all be scraped off. Because there were splendid full-scale baths elsewhere in the complex, washing facilities here were basic - a clinical stingil-and-splash room and an echoing cold bath.
The main courtyard was used for contact sports. During the Games this area would be jam-packed, but it was quieter off-season. Upright wrestling was carried out on a level sanded area, called the skamtna, also sometimes used by the long-jumpers, which could lead to arguments.
Ground wrestling, with competitors flailing on the floor, took place in a crude mudbath where the sand had been watered to the consistency of sticky beeswax - a sure draw for exhibitionists. Both types of wrestling were considered refined in comparison with boxing, where - with the aid of spiteful arm-protectors with great hard leather knuckle-ridges - opponents might have their faces mashed so badly that none of their friends recognised them. It was in boxing, the ancient sport of beauteous, golden-haired Apollo, that a savage fight occurred where a man going down from a great blow to the head somehow retaliated by jabbing his opponent so hard he tore out his entrails with his bare fingers.
Even boxing paled beside the vicious no-holds-barred Greek killer of a sport they called pankration. Pankration fighters used a mixture of boxing and wrestling, plus any blow they liked. Only biting and eye-gouging were against the rules. Breaking the rules was much admired, however. So was the breaking of ankles, arms, heels, fingers and anything else that would snap.
Being peopled by brutes who gloried in these hard sports, the palaestra had its own atmosphere, one I did not like. It had its own smell too, as all sports halls will. Yesterday Glaucus and I had agreed not to bring Helena, Albia, and my young nephews in here - even if it had been possible. Today I stared at the occupants, but this was definitely not my kind of hole.
Back home, Glaucus senior’s gym at the rear of the Temple of Castor was just as exclusive, yet it had an air of civilisation - not to mention a peaceful library and a man on the steps selling hot pastries. Nobody came here to read. It was just a fighting pit for bullies. Glaucus had somehow talked his way in, on the strehgth of his size and visible prowess, but in an official year of the Games neither Young Glaucus nor I would have got anywhere near the inside.
I wondered whether Phineus ever managed to infiltrate the men on his tours. I bet he did. I bet that was why they all thought he was good
Working around the open court, I had to sidestep around several slobs looking for a quarrel. I had outsider written all over me. I only hoped my name and mission had not been passed on to these bruisers, as it had been passed yesterday to the guides in the sanctuary.
Glaucus liked the longjump. He had told me where to find him at practice today - a long room off the southern colonnade, which had side benches for spectators, though it was possible to look in from the corridor too. A musician who was playing double pipes which he had tied to his brow with headbands in a curious traditional way. He was meant to assist the athletes with their concentration and rhythm. The fluting sounds were an odd contrast to the mood of aggression elsewhere. I almost expected to discover a roomful of dancing girls.
No chance of that. I could not imagine what I considered normal sex ever happening here. Two centuries of Roman rule had not changed the atmosphere in any Greek palaestra. The erotic charge was automatic. A palaestra was where young men congregated and older men openly came to gape at their beauty and strength, hoping for more. Even I was being sized up. At thirty-five, scarred and sneering, I was safe from old goats wanting to ask my father for permission to sponsor, seduce, and smooch me. Just as well. Pa would probably bellow with laughter, extract a big bribe, and hand me straight over.
It was a relief to sidle into the sanded practice room.
‘Falco! You all right?’ Glaucus looked nervous. He was supposed to be my bodyguard. I could see him regretting that he had told me just to turn up.
‘Don’t worry; I can handle those idiots.’ He believed it. His father trained me. ‘You watch yourself, Glaucus!’ Glaucus shrugged, unfazed. He was good-looking enough to be a target, but seemed utterly unaware of it.
Before he joined me on the spectators’ bench, he finished his next jump. No run-up; the skill is in the standing start. I watched, as he prepared himself on a take-offboard. The musician went into a strong rhythmic beat. Glaucus fixed his mind on the jump. In each hand he was holding a weight. He swung them back, then swept his arms forwards, using the weights to propel himself. He was good. He flew across the sand, straightened his legs, and flexed, making a clean landing. I applauded. So did a couple of sleek young bystanders, attracted by this handsome dark-skinned stranger. I waved them away. I didn’t care if they thought Glaucus and I were lovers, so long as they slunk off and left us to talk privately.
Weights were hanging on the walls - lead and iron varieties, in pairs, mostly boat-shaped at the bottom, with top handles to grip. These were familiar to me. My father sold a popular range of fake Greek vases and amphorae, which he claimed had been prizes at the Panathenaic Games; his discus and javelin throwers were most popular but there was one version which showed a longjump competition. Pa’s artist was quite adept at red-figure Greeks, bearded, with pointed noses, slightly hooked shoulders, and outstretched legs as they completed throws or leaps. Many an over-confident connoisseur had been bamboozled into buying.
Glaucus saw me inspecting the displayed weights, and shook his head. Opening his left palm, he showed me one he had been using. It was a different design. This was made of stone, a simple double-ended cylindrical shape, like a small dumb-bell, with fingers carved into the body to grip. ‘These are what we moderns use, Falco! Those old things are just hung up as a historical memento.’ He passed me the modern weight; my hand dropped. It must have weighed five or six Roman pounds. ‘About twice as much as the old kind. And you can get some even heavier.’
‘Is this your own?’
‘Oh yes. I use the ones I’m used to.’
‘I know jumping is difficult - but don’t these make life even harder?’
Glaucus smiled. ‘Practice, Falco!’
‘Do they really help propel you further?’
‘Oh yes. They add several extra feet to a jump.’
‘They certainly turn you into a sand flea!’ I applauded him, grinning. Then I became serious. ‘I wonder which type was used on Valeria?’
Glaucus was ahead of me. He signalled to the musician, who stopped piping. He was a pallid wisp, malnourished and insignificant, who had been improvising while we talked; his tuneless drivel told us he was the off-season act. ‘Falco, I’d like you to meet Myron.’ The musician started a bow, then lost confidence. ‘Myron, tell Falco what you told me.’
‘About the woman who was killed?’
‘Valeria Ventidia, a Roman visitor. Was she known around here in the practice rooms? Had she been hanging about the athletes?’ I asked.
‘No. It’s not allowed.’
‘Was the palaestra busy at that time?’
‘It’s very quiet this year. Just a few stragglers and people who turn up on spec.’
‘So tell me about the murder. You heard how it happened? Did the weigh
t used in the murder belong to someone in particular?’
‘No, it was taken from the wall here. It was found in the porch afterwards, covered with blood and strands of the girl’s hair.’
‘Tell him about the weight, Myron,’ Glaucus urged.
‘It was very old, historic, very unusual. Formed in the shape of a wild boar.’
‘Any chance I could see it?’ I would have liked to examine it, even after all this time, but Myron said the bloodstained weight and its partner had been taken away.
‘Where was the young woman found? In the porch too?’
‘The slaves who come at first light to clean and to rake the sand found her lying in the skamma.’
‘She was killed inside the palaestra?’
‘It seems so.’
‘Was there any evidence at the scene?’ If she was battered, there would have been blood.
Both Glaucus and the piper laughed.’ Falco, the skamma is the practice ground for boxing and pankration!’ Glaucus was shaking his head at my gaffe.
‘There is blood in the skamma sand every day.’ The piper had to emphasise the point. ‘Who knows whose blood it is?’ He chortled, showing the casual heartlessness that might have been encountered by Caesia’s father and Valeria’s husband when they appealed for help.
‘So, what’s the story? What do people think?’ I demanded. ‘Look, if a museum-piece weight was used, it may have been taken down from the wall display to show to the girl. There are plenty of the new ones lying around-‘
‘To show her?’ Glaucus was clearly an innocent.
‘I imagine,’ I told him, feeling old, ‘it is a well-worn chat line in athletics circles. Approach an attractive young lady, who looks easily impressed. Try out the enticing ploy. Come to the palaestra and see my jumping weights.’
‘Ah!’ Glaucus had rallied, though he coloured. ‘Well, I suppose that’s better than: ‘Look at my big discus, little girl.’
XIII
I asked the piper to introduce me to the palaestra superintendent. Glaucus removed himself, in case he was detected as an interloper in their high-grade club. He took himself off to the gymnasium for a spot of javelin practice.
Myron performed the introduction I had requested.
The palaestra chief lived in a small office that smelt like a cupboard full of very old loincloths. He was a six-foot monster, whose neck was wider than his head; he could only have started life as a boxer. He still wore a leather skullcap as his daily headgear. From the state of his face, he was not particularly successful and had suffered at the hands of rivals. He had two cauliflower ears and a broken nose, with one eye permanently closed. When Myron saw me adding up the damage, the musician whispered, ‘You should see his opponents!’ Then he slid off somewhere else fast.
I spoke to the superintendent very politely, in his own language. ‘Sorry to bother you. My name is Marcus Didius Falco. I have come from Rome to look into what happened to Valeria Ventidia, the young woman who was murdered here.’
‘Stupid little bitch!’ His voice was less powerful than his stature suggested. His attitude lived up to expectations.
‘I know it’s a nuisance.’ I kept my voice level. It was certainly possible she had behaved stupidly. ‘Can you tell me the background?’
Suspicion slowly worked its way into his one eye. ‘You working for the family?’
‘Worse than that, I’m afraid. I’m looking for a story to stop the family petitioning the Emperor - if a good story exists. I gather that a fuss was made here at the time and now the stink has wafted all the way back to Rome. I am supposed to find out whether we can blame the girl, or better still of course, blame her husband.’
‘Blame her,’ he snorted.
‘You know that for sure?’
‘Nobody knows anything for sure. My people found her cluttering up the skamma. I had her thrown out into the porch. I don’t allow women - alive or dead!’
I quashed an indignant retort. ‘Someone must have brought her in behind your back?’
‘If it was up to me, I would bar women for a twenty-mile radius.’
‘Plenty of people feel the same way?’ If his attitude was common among competitors and male spectators, it could make life very uncomfortable for women visitors.
‘We ought to go back to the old days - women were hurled from the Typaean cliffs!’
‘Bit drastic?’
‘Not drastic enough.’
‘And now?’
‘They get refused entry to the events. But the silly whores come wandering all over the place. If I catch the bastard who sneaked one in here, I’ll break every bone in his body.’ He meant it.
As for the woman, if this tyrant had caught her in his precious palaestra, would he go as far as killing her? I reckoned if he had done, he would be boasting more.
‘I take it your palaestra stays open after normal hours?’
‘We never lock up. The porter knocks off but we leave out a few lamps, in case competitors are desperate for a last practice.’
‘Why should anyone be desperate this year?’
‘What’s your point, Falco?’
‘No Games, no competitors. No competition, no need for late-night practice. The aficionados aren’t coming till next year. I bet this place was deserted. Anyone could slip in a girlfriend and hope for his fun undisturbed.’
The superintendent glowered. His bad eye watered. ‘Athletes who come here are dedicated. They practise full time.’
‘You can’t have it all ways. If athletes were in here, I want to know who they were, and I’ll question them…’ The superintendent was not going to tell me. I guessed they weren’t around that night, so I left it. ‘Had the woman been bothering your members, all doe-eyed?’
‘I’d like to see her try! My members have only one thing on their minds.’
‘Really?’
‘You haven’t got the first idea. Dedication. They go in front of the statue of Zeus Horkios to swear they have been in training for ten months. That’s just the start. The judges have to confirm that accredited contenders have practised, at Elis or here, for a whole month, under Olympic supervision. They are got in shape by coaches and doctors, they have diet and exercise regimens laid down for every minute of the day - bugger it, they even have their sleep regulated.’
There was no mileage in restating that this was not an Olympic year; I went along with him. ‘So the last thing those boys want is some skirt messing with their brains?’
The superintendent was still giving me the ‘looks can kill’ glare he had developed for the start of his fights, when each man paces around trying to make his opponent concede from sheer terror. ‘Let me tell you - they tie a tight piece of string around their prick and even if they have any energy to spare for screwing, they can’t get it up!’
I winced. Anyone who has ever entered a gymnasium has heard that story. Nobody I ever knew had really seen it done. Even so, I knew the slang. ‘Putting the dog on the lead?’
‘Get you!’ The superintendent had a punch-drunk brain. There was so little undamaged sweetbread in his skull, only one idea could feature. ‘The brazen bride must have been meeting a lover, but it was not one of my members. Some bastard outsider slipped her in after hours, then she played him up and he cracked her one.’
‘Several, as I heard. Can I see the weight that killed her?’
‘It’s not here.’ I did not believe him. I bet he had snaffled it to gloat over. However, he was too big to argue with. ‘She deserved a bashing,’ he reckoned.
Helena Justina would protest that no woman ‘deserves’ murder. Until I knew just how Valeria was lured here, I would reserve judgement. If she flaunted herself, she was stupid. ‘Tell me about afterwards, then. Wasn’t there a magistrate dabbling with the investigation?’
‘Aquillius. From Corinth. Thank the gods he’s taken himself back there.’
‘On the governor’s staff?’
‘Bloody quaestor.’ Some youngster in his first ever sen
atorial post, then. In fact, not even ensconced in the Senate; just serving in a minor finance post in order to show he was fit for election. Bound to know nothing. Bound to have messed up. Bound to get uppity if I ever told him so.
‘Anybody here on the site I ought to report to?’ I asked. ‘Don’t want to step on toes. Who took the most interest here?’
‘Lacheses. In the Altis. At the Priests’ House.’
‘Chief priest?’
‘Zeus, no, Chief priest has better things to worry about.’
I thanked him, though it hurt to do so, and he swore at me again. I got out of there, with cold sweat running down my back.
I went to see the priest. This was about as useful as scratching a gnat-bite with a feather. Still, it had to be done.
The Priests’ House was on the north side of the Altis, in the shadow of the Hill of Cronus, near the Prytaneion where victory feats took place. It was not the main administrative centre for the Games, but it contained council rooms where meetings could be held. Presumably the shrine attendants could use it as a secular drop-in when they were off duty. I was so secular I was kept in the porch. It took nearly an hour for Lacheses to deign to appear.
He was lean and louche. Few priests are as venerable as you imagine; this one was about thirty - some winner in the social lottery who could as easily have ended up with a tax-farming concession instead of a religious post. He wore a long tuft of beard, twirled up at the end, and he really thought he looked good with it.
I had told him, in Latin, that I represented Vespasian. He replied in Greek. ‘I am here to help.’ He had a special slimy tone for dismissing intruders who came asking awkward questions. ‘The death of the young woman was deeply regrettable. Everybody grieved for her. Please transmit our assurances to the Emperor: it was properly investigated at the time. A senior official from Corinth concluded there was no evidence to bring charges. Nothing more could be done. Nothing more can be said.’ He said it anyway. ‘We would prefer that the sanctity of this holy place should now be allowed to resume undisturbed.’
‘So would I. I had given up and agreed to use Greek. There was grit in my throat.’ I mean, I would prefer that young females from Rome should stop dropping dead at your sanctuary.’
See Delphi And Die Page 7
