The other teams had to rein in or join the wreckage. They lost time edging about the inside.
The dust rising from the hippodrome had enveloped the racers. Now the slight breeze carried it over the crowd, and men sneezed as they screamed. Tears ran down our cheeks. Markos beside me gasped and banged on his chest. I looked at him in alarm, but he shook his head.
“Don’t mind me. This always happens when the air is thick. I’ll be better when it clears.”
Corinth-Cyrene-Argos-Athens. Then a confused mêlée of teams, and Iphicles of Thebes bringing up the rear.
But Iphicles had an advantage over every other team: there was no one to interfere with his drive; he accelerated into the race as if it were an exercise.
Iphicles caught up with the main pack over the next six laps-there are twelve in all, plus the half lap to start. As he did so, Iphicles passed the rapidly growing tail of failed teams: teams with horses lamed in the scrimmage; chariots with damaged wheels, so easy to happen in the grind of the pack; teams that couldn’t maintain the punishing pace set by the leaders; and teams whose drivers had failed at this ultimate test, unable or afraid to compete against the best of the best. None of the failures would give up, but soon they would be lapped.
Iphicles passed all these and by the next turn was at the back of the pack. Markos wheezed but watched in intense concentration.
At the next turn Iphicles came out wide and whipped his team like a madman. He surged past all the main pack but the team from Chios, leading the group, which saw Iphicles pass and charged with him. Thebes and Chios were half a lap behind the leaders. The Athenian must have heard the renewed cheers of the crowd, because he looked behind him-something even I knew you should never do-to see the challenge coming fast upon him.
Iphicles’s chariot seemed to stagger for a moment. Then suddenly his outer wheel came loose and ran alongside before it veered to the right and sped out of the hippodrome and into the crowd. A few spectators were bowled over.
I gasped. So did everyone else.
The disaster happened so slowly it was like watching a shipwreck rather than a chariot crash. Iphicles had automatically flung himself to the left, so his weight was over the remaining left wheel. I supposed he’d endured such an accident in training, because his response was immediate. He kept his balance long enough that some fools in the crowd thought he could stay that way and cheered him on. Inevitably the remaining wheel wobbled over a piece of wreckage that lay in the dirt, and Iphicles was flung off.
He didn’t let go of the reins. Iphicles looked back and saw his danger. The Chian team was right behind him and behind the Chian, a small pack of chariots that couldn’t see him in the dust and wouldn’t stop even if they could. If Iphicles let go, they would run him over and serve out the same fate he himself had delivered to the first man to fall.
The frightened horses dragged Iphicles along the ground, tearing away his skin, but he was still conscious and held on to avoid being trampled. The pain must have been excruciating.
The turning post at Taraxippus was coming up fast. If he didn’t do something, his horses would slow at the end, and Iphicles would be crushed, if the drag didn’t kill him first. All the Hellenes watched, almost silent despite the race, as Iphicles the charioteer fought for his life.
My witness was about to die.
“Come on!” I said to Markos. I jumped over the low wooden fence that served as barrier.
“What are you doing?” Markos shouted at me.
“That’s our witness out there. You want to lose him?” I ran for Iphicles.
“Nicolaos, you idiot, wait!” Markos cursed, jumped the barrier and ran after me.
Iphicles had fallen near the hippodrome’s entrance, but we were closer to the Taraxippus end. If I ran at an angle, I could catch them despite their speed. I picked a spot by eye and ran for it. The Chian had seen Iphicles’s disaster ahead of him, but that wasn’t going to stop him from driving straight for the turn. It was a question whether I could reach Iphicles before the Chian horses trampled him.
Iphicles had finally lost it. The reins slipped from his hands, and his unconscious body lay there for the chariots behind to crush him.
The four stampeding beasts of the Spartan team rushed past me. I ignored them.
I reached the body. With one movement I scooped up Iphicles and tossed him onto the center line between the turning posts. He was safer there than on the track.
His limp weight had made me lean into the throw, and as he left my arms, I fell face forward into the dust.
Somewhere outside myself men screamed. Were they screaming at me? I shut it out. I knew that, somewhere to my left, the Chian chariot was fast approaching. I recalled the body of the driver that Iphicles had run over, how his body had flopped in the dirt like a rag doll. I pulled in my legs and hoped.
I felt the rush of air as the Chian chariot passed me by.
I laughed in triumph and at the relief of still being alive. Then I scrambled up.
Right into the path of the back markers, the final three racers. They were three abreast, twelve horses in a row, headed straight for me.
I can’t explain how I felt. Something rooted me to the spot, and I could only watch the drivers whip their horses as my end approached. They were too wide to avoid.
I was about to die. I hoped Diotima would forgive me.
Something hard and heavy hit me and threw me to the side. At that instant the final three chariots passed by. I could hear their drivers cursing. The screech of their wheels was in my ears and their dust in my mouth.
I suddenly realized I was shaking.
“What in Hades were you thinking, you idiot?” Markos screamed from on top of me; our faces were so close I could have kissed him. He had dived into me to save my life, and if he’d made a mistake, he would have gone to Hades with me.
“I’m sorry, Markos, I was-”
“No time for that now.”
He was right. The front-runners were making their turn at the end. They’d soon be on top of us.
We scrambled up, and I spat the gritty circuit dust from my mouth. We each took one of Iphicles’s arms and dragged him to the edge of the ring, where a recovery team hovered and cursed and abused us for interfering. We handed over our vital witness. They carried him away to the iatrion-the aid station-still swearing at Markos and me.
A fat man who sweated profusely waddled over from the judges’ box, a mighty scowl upon his face. He snarled that the judges would see us when the race ended and ordered us to the room behind the official stand. We nodded our understanding.
Markos and I helped each other along the way. We were both bruised and bleeding, but I hoped it had been worth it. I didn’t know if Iphicles would live or die, but for the moment at least our vital witness still breathed.
“All we can do is pray to the Gods that he survives,” I said.
“He doesn’t have to survive,” Markos replied. “All he has to do is live long enough for us to question him.”
Which I thought was a trifle callous, if accurate.
Behind the stand where the judges stood to watch the race was a low wooden building. We sat on the floor and nursed our cuts and bruises while the rest of the race was run. All we could do was listen to the roar of the crowd over the squeal of the chariot wheels and the cries of the horses.
Trumpets announced the end of the race, after which everything quieted down for the presentation of the crown. I wondered which team wore the olive wreath of victory. Presently, Exelon the Chief Judge entered the room, followed by the other judges. None of them smiled.