I asked, “What are his chances, doctor?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes a man gets hit in the chest and the ribs cave in and then this happens. I was at the race. Iphicles took a big blow, and he didn’t let go. Those horses dragged him cruelly.”
“Iphicles did the right thing,” said Niallos. “If he’d let go, he’d have joined that fellow over there with the crushed arm, only he’d have lost his legs. Maybe worse.”
“Can he talk?” Markos asked.
“Doubt it.”
Iphicles moaned. The eyes rolled in his head.
I quickly knelt by his side and said, “Iphicles, is there something you wish to say?”
He nodded, slowly, and opened his mouth.
I said, “Markos, he’s going to speak!”
Markos said, “Zeus and Apollo favor us,” and leaned over, the better to hear.
Iphicles rolled toward me and coughed up a little blood.
He whispered, “My … my lucky whip …”
“He wants his whip.”
Niallos placed the whip in the right hand of Iphicles and gently closed his fingers about the handle.
Iphicles smiled for a moment and then gasped. I thought he must have cleared his airways. Then a great surge of blood came from his mouth and hit me right in the chest.
Iphicles died before our eyes.
I walked out, unable to stand it any longer. As soon as I emerged into clean air, I tried to wipe the sticky blood off my exomis, but it was no good. I undid the pins that held the material together, let it fall to the ground, and kicked it out of the way. I stalked off naked, with only the pins in my hand and anger at the Gods in my heart.
“Wait up there, Nicolaos.” Markos ran to catch up. He took my arm. “I don’t know about you, but I could use some wine about now. Let me buy you a drink.”
He led me toward the wine stalls of the agora, temporary, grossly overpriced stands there to rip off the tourists. Even so, it was hard not to enjoy the place. A normal agora is a fresh food market with household wares on the side; the agora at Olympia was an all-day carnival of entertainers and hot food sizzling in braziers.
A troupe of young women juggled balls. Markos and I stopped to watch in appreciation as various parts of the girls wobbled in time to the juggling. We tossed coins at their feet. A fat man sang and a thin man rode by while standing on the back of his horse. He flipped over to stand on his hands as the beast rode on. Strong men dressed as Heracles lifted heavy stones over their shoulders. A small man slipped through the crowd, and we came almost face-to-face. He took one look at me, said “Eek!” and ran off. It was my own Heracles, the scrawny fellow who had attacked Diotima and me the day before. Crowds gathered wherever there was something to see, which was pretty much everywhere.
I shook my head. “I wonder how many thieves there are in this crowd.”
Markos laughed. “I’ve already caught two hands searching for my purse.”
He bought the first round, and we downed our cups in one go. I said, “This was a great idea, Markos. I’ve seen some ghastly things, but that tent was one of the worst sights ever.”
He said, “We need to talk.”
“So we do.”
I bought a small amphora for the second round. He carried the cups and I carried the wine, and together we walked up Mount Kronos. It was a long way to go, but we both felt the need to escape the crowds. We found dry rocks to sit upon and a view of Olympia worth the effort of the climb. He poured, and together we drank, watching the activity below as if it were some play put on for our benefit.
I felt better. Being slightly drunk helped.
Markos said, “Nicolaos, back in the forest last night, you said you didn’t know what an ephor was. I told you it matters a great deal, but I don’t think you believed me.”
“I didn’t,” I admitted.
“You’re an Athenian; I guess you know about political factions and hidden agendas.”
“Conspiracy is in our blood,” I had to concede.
“Yet you really don’t know how it works with us Spartans, do you?”
Markos explained. His explanation took so long I poured him another cup to keep his throat smooth.
“Sparta has two kings, not one like in any normal kingdom.”
“Why two?”
Markos shrugged. “That’s the way it’s always been. They’re descended from two different ancient lineages. Then there’s the Gerousia, a council of old men who advise the kings, twenty-eight of them. You have to be sixty to be invited into the Gerousia, and then you’re a member for life, if you can call it life when you’re that old.”
I nodded. “I know what you mean. Why do they always leave important decisions to the old men? Everyone knows your mind turns to water when you get old.”
“Tell me about it.” He sighed. “But to continue, then there are five ephors, and they’re the scary ones. They’re elected annually from among all the Spartans. Their job is to be … auditors. The ephors see to it that the kings rule according to the law. Whenever a king leaves Sparta, two ephors must accompany him. Any two ephors together can overrule one king. All five ephors can overrule both kings.”
“So the ephors are the real rulers of Sparta.”
“No, because the ephors have no power to command, they can only veto.”
“Then the two kings rule.”
“Only so long as the ephors agree with them.”
“Then what of the Gerousia?”
“They advise the kings in the background and act as a final court. Did I mention the ephors consult the Gerousia on questions of the constitution?
“And I thought Athenian politics was complicated.”
“No, it’s really quite simple. The kings tend to be our progressive thinkers, because they have to rule for the long term. The Gerousia are conservatives to a man. The ephors are a throw of the dice; much depends on who’s elected in a given year, whether they support the kings, and we get progress, or block the kings, and we get conservatism. On any one issue the kings might have differing positions, in which case the ephors can veto one and support the other.”
I thought this over. “King Pleistarchus is here at Olympia. Where’s the other king?”
“King Archidamus is in Sparta. The Spartans like to keep one king at home at all times, in case of an emergency.”
“So useful to have a backup. Like having a spare knife.”
“Exactly. Your metaphor is more perfect than you know. That’s what our kings are: very dangerous knives. They’re capable of anything, for the good of Sparta.”
For the good of Sparta … the phrase resonated with a favorite saying of Pericles. He liked to justify his actions as being for the good of Athens.
I said, “There must be two ephors here with Pleistarchus.”
“Xenares and a fellow named Phalakrion. I wouldn’t call Phalakrion weak-willed, no one could ever say that of a Spartan, but he will go along with a strong opinion.”
“Xenares decides for them both.”
Markos nodded. “You see what I mean, Nicolaos? You do need to know about Spartan politics.”
“Thanks for taking the trouble, and call me Nico, will you? All my friends do.”
He smiled and said, “Nico.”
“I guess you’ve been looking into Arakos from the Spartan end?”
“Of course.”
“Tell me about him. If we’re lucky, this might turn out to be a run-of-the-mill domestic killing.”
“Then you’re out of luck already.” Markos grimaced. “Did you notice at the opening ceremony that Arakos had no father or brothers with him?”
“Yes?”
“Arakos was an orphan. His father was one of the Three Hundred who held the pass at Thermopylae, one of the heroes who died to the last man rather than surrender to the Persians. At the time, of course, Arakos was a babe in arms. There was a grown brother by a previous marriage, but the brother died in the fighting later. Our victim was raised by the state.”
“Tough childhood.”
“Yes and no. The orphans of the Three Hundred received special attention. But it makes things tricky for you and me. To assault a child of the Three Hundred is an insult to all Sparta. That makes this murder political.”