“What in Hades did you think you were doing?!” the Chief Judge shouted at us. Markos and I stood at attention before him. I was used to being shouted at by Pericles, but it made a nice change having Markos for company. The Chief Judge was louder than Pericles but not nearly so cutting.
“Saving the life of a witness, sir,” I said. I quickly explained why we needed Iphicles alive.
“You had no business to be on the hippodrome in the middle of a contest. Spectators are not permitted on the field, even to save a life.”
Markos said, “If I may point out, sir, you did induct Nicolaos and me as Olympic contestants.”
“Not in the chariot race, you idiot.”
The Judge had a point.
“Sir,” said Markos, “it was your express order that we must do everything possible to solve this crime. If we had stood by and watched while an important witness died-a witness Pindar the poet had told us had information-what would you have said to us then?”
“The word of Pindar is like the word of the Gods,” said one of the other judges, rubbing his chin, a tall scrawny man. “It’s true, Exelon, such young men as these could hardly be expected to use sound judgment in such a situation.”
“That’s why they were chosen,” Exelon said. “Because, contrary to current evidence, they’re supposed to be smart.”
“The contest ground for the chariots is the hippodrome, is it not?” said Markos.
“Certainly.”
“And the contest ground for the athletics is the stadion.”
“Of course. What’s your point?” said Exelon.
“That the contest ground for Nicolaos and me is all of Olympia, sir,” said Markos. “There is no boundary.”
The Chief Judge growled. “Let me make this clear. You took the oath, so you are beholden to us judges, and not to your own cities. That doesn’t give you the right to meddle in the Sacred Games. Understand?”
“Yes, sir!” we said in unison.
“Any questions?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Who won the race?”
The Chief Judge glared at me. “The team from Cyrene. Athens was second. Sparta third.”
I held out my hand.
Without a word, Markos put a hand beneath his exomis and withdrew a money bag. He untied the leather thong and made a great show of counting out ten coins. Then he spat on the coins and slapped them into my palm.
I grinned. “A pleasure doing business with you.”
“I’ll win it back next time.” He grinned back.
The judges stared at us as we both broke into hysterical laughter. It was the shock and relief of being alive.
“Get out. Both of you get out.”
“Yes, sir.”
As we walked from the building, I said to Markos, “If you ever want a job in the law courts at Athens, let me know and I’ll introduce you around.”
He laughed. “I’m happy in Sparta, thanks.”
Men covered the hippodrome in the aftermath of the race. They congratulated one another or stood silent and glum, according to whether their teams had finished or lay among the carnage. My own father, Sophroniscus, was across the other side of the field. He stood among a cluster of men who waited to congratulate the owner of one of the teams.
Pieces of chariot and dead horses littered the arena. The cleanup crews had begun to pick up the mess. As soon as the wreckage was cleared, the next event could begin: the bareback horse races.
“At least Iphicles is still alive. Speaking of which, we should go to him straightaway. He might tell us something.”
“He won’t be conscious for hours, I should think,” said Markos. “Not if he’s lucky. I felt a few broken bones when we moved him.”
“We have to check,” I insisted.
Markos sighed. “Very well.”
I had no idea where to find the iatrion. We asked. Someone eventually pointed us to a large tent erected between the stadion and the hippodrome. We could hear the screams as we approached. Markos and I shared a look. This was going to be unpleasant.
“I hope that’s not Iphicles.”
We pushed through the flap. The tent material smelled new. Inside was a row of camp beds, and on six of them lay chariot drivers. The man who screamed was closest to the entrance. His right arm pointed straight into the air, or, rather, what was left of it did. I could actually see the bone sticking out past the elbow. The flesh from that point was simply gone, to leave a ragged end.
I swallowed to hold back the bile.
Two men pressed him back onto the bed. Another man stood over a brazier that burned hot.
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“Lost his grip and came off his chariot backward. The one behind ran over his arm.”
I’d seen it happen. I’d had no idea the injury was as bad as this. Markos peered at the wounded arm curiously but showed no reaction. Perhaps these Spartans were as tough as everyone said.
“Since you’re here, you can help,” said the man at the brazier.
“We actually came for Iphicles,” Markos said.
“I need you now. This man will die if we don’t act at once. Then you can see your precious Iphicles.”
Markos nodded assent.
“Are you a doctor?” I asked.
“Heraclides of Kos, yes. How do you do?” he said mildly, as if we’d just met at a symposium and not over the mutilated body of a screaming man. “What we need to do,” he said as he pushed the bar about inside the fire, “is close the wound so the poison can’t get in. If we do it right, he might even live.” He looked over to the man who held a wineskin to the lips of the driver. “How’s he doing?”
The other man shook his head. “Too busy screaming to drink.”
“Oh, well. We’re hot enough here. You two”-he pointed at Markos and me-“you hold him down. I need the other two to keep his arm steady. Unlike you, they know what they’re doing.” He gave us a searching look. “Can you do it?”
Markos said, “Of course.”
I swallowed and nodded. I told myself we were saving this man’s life.
“Right. Keep his body still. Don’t worry about the legs; I’ll avoid them. Ignore the noise; this one’s a screamer.”
Markos and I made ready on either side of the driver. We pressed down.
“Harder. He’ll jerk like a dying fish.”
I pressed harder. The other two assistants held the arm with two strong hands each and grim expressions. The man at the brazier wrapped wet rags about the end of the bar to make a handle, pulled it out, and in a single smooth motion pushed it against the wound. It sizzled. I smelled the flesh burn and gagged.
“Hold him down!”
The man had been right; the driver jerked like a dying fish. I pushed with all my might and turned my head to avoid seeing what happened so close to my eyes.
When it was finished, the driver curled up in a ball and whimpered. The end of his arm was a blackened stump.
“That was awful,” I said to the man as he put the iron bar, now cool, back in the brazier. “But at least he’ll live.”
The man shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes they sicken anyway and die in a fever. Who knows? You said you wanted Iphicles. He’s in the bed at the end.”
Iphicles lay there and gasped. Niallos the team manager crouched beside and trickled cool water on his driver’s head. Niallos looked up as we approached.
“Is he all right?” I asked.
“Of course he’s not all right,” Niallos snapped. “Look at the man. He can barely breathe.”
Iphicles coughed, tried to scream but couldn’t, and coughed again. Flecks of blood spattered the face of Niallos.
“I’ll kill those bastards on the crew! Did you see the way the wheel came apart? Without being hit, even.”
“The chariot drove over some wreckage, and a body, on the first lap,” Markos pointed out. “Perhaps it was damaged then.”
Niallos spat his disdain. “Maybe. But the wheels are built to handle that, or they bloody well should be. It’s a chariot race, curse it, you expect to hit wreckage.”
Heraclides joined us.