“At Nemea?” Thanks be to the Gods, he’d returned to something important.
“Nemea had its own problems, there was some unpleasantness, but there was no special antagonism between Arakos and Timodemus. Not that I noticed, in any case. No, Nicolaos, I refer to the march from Elis to Olympia, not two days ago. Arakos baited Timodemus every step of the way. It went beyond the usual athletic rivalry. There seemed to be real hatred on the part of Arakos. I wondered why, and until we reached Olympia, I wondered whether Arakos would attack Timodemus.”
I blinked at that.
“Did Timodemus return the feeling?” Since Pindar was a fine judge of men-it being an occupational skill-I thought he must have all the answers when it came to motive.
“Timodemus seemed to me both knowing and confused.”
“That’s a contradiction.”
“Welcome to human nature. Conflict, young man-the passions of great men in opposition, in sport as in war-it’s the stuff of great poetry.”
“But truth is what we need here.”
Pindar snorted. “What is truth? I seek something more important: inspiration for my art. I’ve been in the thick of every war, attended every great sporting contest. So when Exelon announced this contest between Athens and Sparta, one in which the life of a man hangs in the balance, I was instantly intrigued. My plan is to observe this battle of wits between you and the Spartan.” He looked me up and down. “Are you sure you’re prepared? Someone who’s never heard of allusion is hardly in a position to be solving crimes. Perhaps I can help you.”
“I doubt it.”
“That’s what your opponent said when I made him the same offer, but he changed his mind quickly enough.”
“What?”
Pindar did the eyebrow raise again. It was obviously a stock theatrical move for him, and it put me in mind that this man was accustomed to performance before thousands of men. “As you and Markos took the oath-I must say in passing his voice projection was better than yours-you should work on that …”
I felt myself about to explode.
“Where was I? Oh yes, as I say, I told him it was odd you should carry the whip of a racing chariot.”
Of course. It was so obvious now that Pindar said it. What other long whip would you find at the Olympics?
“I don’t suppose you know who owns this whip, do you great Pindar?”
“A driver, of course. May I?”
Pindar took the whip from me. He held it lengthways before him. “It’s a lucky thing for you I have observed hundreds of chariot races.” He ran his finger along the handle. “Observe the threads woven into the leather. This declares the team,” he said. “All the teams have their own racing colors, so the spectators can discern who is who in the thick dust of battle. See the distinctive checkered pattern in reds and greens? This is typical of teams from Thebes.”
“And you’ve already told Markos?”
“Yes.”
I seethed. That bastard Markos had tricked me. He’d asked me about witnesses, knowing I’d say what I had, so he could interview the chariot driver on his own in perfect innocence.
“Why didn’t you tell me the important part at once?” I said.
“I like you; I was enjoying our conversation. My dear lad, if poets got to the point immediately, then it wouldn’t be poetry, would it? The important thing is to savor the words along the way.”
I said through gritted teeth, “I must speak with the driver of the Theban team.”
“Then perhaps you should hurry. If I do not mistake, that trumpet we both hear is the summons to the hippodrome to observe the chariot race. The teams must be in the final stages of preparation.”
I had to find that driver. I had to find out if he was the killer; if he wasn’t, I had to find out if he knew anything.
Pindar beside me strode along at a good clip for such an old man. He needed to be at the race, he explained, in case the winner commissioned a praise song. “It helps if I’ve seen what I’m paid to describe,” he said. I left him at the gates and hurried to the stables behind the hippodrome.
“I’m looking for the chariot team from Thebes,” I said to one man after another amid the frantic preparations. They pointed me from one box to the next, until I came to the one that housed the Megarans, at the end of the line.
Markos was already there, next to a man in a pure-white chiton, which marked him as a chariot driver. They stood alongside the chariot, decorated in the same colors as the whip handle I carried. I silently cursed Pindar for telling my competitor first, but refused to let Markos see I was upset.
“Does this belong to you?” I asked, and proffered the whip.
“That it does.” The driver cast aside the whip he held and grabbed mine. He said, “This is my lucky whip; I’ve never run a race without it, so thanks. Where did you find it?”
“I wondered when you’d arrive,” Markos said to me.
“What did you get from my witness?” I demanded.
“Your witness?” Markos smiled the superior smile of a man who’d won a race to the man who’d come in second. “I found him first. What do the little boys say? Oh yes. Finders keepers.”
I grated. “We’ll interview this witness together.”
“Didn’t we just agree to compare notes later?” he said, in all apparent innocence. He even managed a slightly hurt tone.
“I’ll save you the trouble in this case. He might have vital information, and it’d be a pity if any of it unintentionally slipped your mind in the debrief.”
The Spartan gave me an evil grin. “Very well, we can question him together.”
The driver’s head had swiveled between Markos and me as we argued. He opened his mouth to speak, but an angry voice behind us got in first.
“No, you can’t. Not now.” A short, dark man who sweated freely and wore a harried frown stepped between us and the driver. The stress oozed from his voice. This had to be the team manager. He pointed to the hippodrome. “Iphicles is about to risk life and limb out there in a race that requires the utmost concentration, and you idiots want to bother him? Right when he needs to focus?”
“These are important questions,” Markos said. “King Pleistarchus commands they be asked.”
The manager snorted. “You think I care about kings now? You could be bum-boy to Zeus himself, and I wouldn’t halt the team for you.”
Iphicles said, “They found my lucky whip, Niallos. Look, they returned it.”
He held up the whip to be seen.
That stopped the manager. “They did, did they?” Niallos looked from one of us to the other. “In that case, I thank you. Chariot drivers are the most superstitious men alive. Well, you can see why; their lives depend on luck as much as skill. Iphicles was convinced he’d die in this race unless someone found that whip.”
Iphicles said, “Niallos, there’s nothing for me to do yet but stand here. I may as well speak to them. I owe them. I might win the Olympics because of these two.”
Niallos turned to Markos and me and said, “You have until the trumpets sound again.” He marched off to bellow orders at the crew.
I said, “Thanks, Iphicles.” The driver was as short as his team manager, but his shoulders were massive, and the muscles in his upper arms were like ropes. I glanced down. The middle two fingers of his left hand were missing. “What happened to your fingers?”
“Racing accident, years ago when I was young and reckless.”
“Now you’re older and wiser?”
“Just older.”
“Dangerous for you.”
“That’s where the luck comes in. I’m one of the veterans of this race. It’s the youngsters more likely to make mistakes, but we all have to watch out.”
Iphicles could not have been much older than me.
It was hard to think among the barely controlled chaos of the race preparations. The crew swarmed all over the chariot and the horses. Two grooms stood at the front to hold the bridles and prevent the team from bolting. Men checked leather straps, made minute adjustments, and checked again. A slave rubbed oil into the harness. Another slapped pig fat and oil about the axle. One man checked the coupling between the harness and the chariot, and another man checked the work of the first. If that coupling failed, it would be disaster. One man, his eyes closed, ran his fingers along every part of the reins to ensure there was not the slightest nick, nothing to snap under the intense pressure of the race.