It was my turn to shrug. “It was political already.”
“True enough. But there are Spartans who are going to take this personally.”
“Did you know Arakos before this?” I asked.
“Not the way you know the accused. No.”
I paused. “Tell me, do you think Timodemus killed Arakos?”
“Not enough evidence,” Markos said promptly, earning my immediate approval. “But on what we’ve got, the answer is probably yes.”
“We don’t have anything.”
“Nico, we might have to agree to disagree on our politics, and the Gods and all men know your city and mine are mortal rivals, but fortunately we don’t have to agree on such things to run an investigation. Surely we two can agree on facts, even if our interpretations are at odds?”
“I was about to suggest the same thing,” I said. The shared danger on the hippodrome had brought us together, and Markos struck me as a man very like myself. “But Markos, what if we find Timodemus is not the killer?”
Markos shrugged a third time. “Then that’s what I report, and it’s up to my leaders to make of it what they will. More important, Nico, what if we prove your friend killed Arakos?”
I gulped wine, and it went down the wrong way. “In that case,” I choked, “it’s what I report, and Timo is a dead man. But I repeat, there’s nothing connecting Timo with the scene.”
Markos nodded. “I was sure you’d say that. You seem to be a man much like myself.” He hesitated. “I … er … I’m not sure you’re going to like this, but I know if it were me I’d want all the evidence …”
“Yes?” I prompted.
“I’m afraid that connection you mentioned exists. The first thing I did after I left the scene was search the tent of Arakos. I found this.” He handed me an ostrakon, a pottery shard into which a note had been scratched with the point of a knife. People used ostraka all the time to write short notes. This one was larger than normal.
Timodemus says this to Arakos: I offer to meet you in the woods across the river tonight.
As I read, wild cheering erupted from the stadion behind us. Someone had just won an Olympic crown.
“Markos has a perfect set of evidence.” I groaned. “I’m sure he only showed me that ostrakon to rub it in.”
“It doesn’t look good, does it?” said Diotima. “Maybe he’s hoping you’ll give up?”
I’d gone to consult with her at once, to reveal my fears and hear her news. We’d met at the agora to compare plans and to eat honeycomb. Diotima had discovered a stall that sold the sweetest food you could find in Hellas. On our previous job, we’d both been spoiled by the decadent Persian desserts, but Diotima in particular couldn’t get enough of sweet foods now. It was a good thing she was an heiress, because I could never have afforded the stuff. We sat on rocks with honeycomb in our hands and on our lips and sticking our teeth together. It made kisses an interesting challenge.
“We’re doing this the wrong way,” Diotima said. “We have to find realistic evidence against someone. Someone other than Timodemus, that is.”
“Good idea,” I said. “How do you suggest we do it?”
“I only think of the plans. It’s up to you to make them work.”
I said, “If Timodemus wanted to destroy Arakos in a fair fight, why wouldn’t he wait a mere four days for the pankration? Then he could kill Arakos in full view of thousands of men and not only get away with it but even be praised for his technique.”
“That’s easy,” said Diotima. “Because Timodemus didn’t think he could win.” She saw my expression and said at once, “Sorry, Nico, but that’s what Markos will say: Timodemus decided on an early murder because he didn’t think he could win in the ring.”
“Timo had already beaten Arakos, at the Nemean Games.”
“Maybe the contest at Nemea was lucky. Maybe your friend didn’t think he could do it again.”
I knew she was wrong, but I couldn’t prove it.
Diotima had been checking the evidence at the women’s camp while I dealt with the men. After all, Timodemus had been arrested there. I said, “Did you discover if anything suspicious happened at the women’s camp?”
“Among hundreds of drunk men looking for sex? What do you think? Everything that happened that night was suspicious.”
“Isn’t that reverse logic?”
“I asked among the pornoi,” Diotima said. “Not easy, by the way. The girls are all exhausted.” She finished licking her own fingers clean and began on mine, taking each and sucking on it gently. The effect was … distracting.
“Late nights?” I asked, trying to keep my mind on the subject and failing miserably. We were out of sight of anyone else; I put my free arm around her and cupped her breast.
“Doing a roaring trade. The more popular ones had men queuing outside the tents. Timo’s story that he blundered into Klymene’s tent rings true. It happened to me, you’ll recall; it could have happened to Klymene, too.”
I played with her nipple beneath the material of her chiton. Diotima breathed a little more heavily.
“Did anyone spot Timo?” I asked.
“One man among many? No. But one of the girls did see someone interesting.”
“Oh?”
“Arakos.”
“What!”
I unhanded her. Diotima grabbed my hand and put it firmly back.
“One of the pornoi saw Arakos in the women’s camp.”
“We’d better see her at once.”
“No, Nico, we have to go to my tent at once.”
“Why?”
Diotima gasped. “Because my other nipple is feeling jealous. The rest of me needs attention, too. Come on. Quickly!”
“What I really want to be,” said Petale the pornê, “is a hetaera. Those girls have it made: their own house, regular clients, big money.” She twisted a stray brunette tress around her little finger and looked thoughtful. “I’m working my way up, gonna have my own place someday.”
Would Petale make it? I glanced at Diotima for her reaction, because Diotima was the daughter of a hetaera, and a highly successful one at that. Diotima might cringe at her mother’s history, but she knew the business as few respectable women did. When Diotima nodded, ever so slightly, I knew she rated Petale a chance to reach the top of her profession. I wondered why; it certainly couldn’t be based on her possessions.
We sat in Petale’s tent, patched and barely large enough for its purpose. A man could stand if he hunched. A couple could lie on the rug, a trifle worn but thick enough and scattered with cushions to cover the stains and the spots where moths had eaten holes. Petale had produced cheap pottery cups and served us wine, which somehow she had managed to chill despite the heat of the day. She had served us with grace, and perhaps this was what Diotima saw. Petale was poor-everything she owned could be rolled up within the canvas of her tent-but she did the best with what she had.
I glanced at Diotima. She glanced at me.
“Did I say something funny? How come you’re both smiling?” Petale asked.
“We’re naturally happy people,” I said. “Where are you from, Petale?”
“Corinth.”
“Long way to haul your tent,” Diotima commented.
“There’re men with big carts and donkeys. We girls rent space for our stuff and walk alongside. The bastards charge a small fortune, but what can you do?”
“Pay in kind?”
She laughed. “Not them. They want the money.”
“Listen, Petale, it’s important we know about the man you told Diotima about.”
“The huge guy, built like a small fort?”
“That’s him. What time did you see him?”
“You think I watch the time?” She gave me a pitying look. “I was in this tent from the moment the Games ended for the day until the middle of the night. The guys couldn’t wait to get across the river and at the girls.”
“So how did you see Arakos? Was he a customer?”
“I had to piss. A girl can only take so much before the pressure starts to tell. So I crawled out of my tent and there he was.”