Timodemus continued, “When we moved to Elis, in preparation for the Games, it became a problem. No handy slave girls, and I could hardly use respectable women. Which left the pornoi.”
“I’m not seeing the problem. Sex every night at your father’s expense? It’s every man’s dream.”
“You might find this hard to believe, but it became sort of like, well, work.”
He was right. I found it hard to believe. “So when you walked into Klymene’s tent you were on your nightly excursion …”
“I thought the tent belonged to a pornê, a wealthy one. I wasn’t the only one doing this, by the way. Other trainers tell their charges to go have sex. Mostly they hit the brothels.”
“Why didn’t Festianos stop you?”
“Festianos?”
“When you sneaked out of the tent, after I left?”
“Festianos wasn’t there.”
“He wasn’t?” I blinked, and moved on quickly. “I guess you must be anxious to get out of here,” I said.
“Lying in damp straw isn’t the best training regimen.”
“Worried?”
“No, I’m not, oddly enough. Want to know why? Because while I’m stuck in here, no one has any expectations for me. No one’s wishing me good luck. I don’t have Father constantly on my back, encouraging me to train a little bit harder.”
I could see his point.
“You know what, Nico? Lying here with nothing to do, I’ve been thinking. I could get used to being a normal person.”
That worried me. “Timo, I have to ask this. You didn’t deliberately attack Arakos in front of everyone to get out of having to compete, did you?” Because in a bizarre way, I could see how being too aggressive might be an honorable way to avoid the Olympics without having to admit he didn’t want to go on.
Timodemus laughed. “You know me, Nico. I’m not that clever. That sounds like something only you’d think of. No one else thinks the way you do.”
I’d known Timo since we were boys, and this was the first time he’d ever accused me of originality. Did he really think of me like that? I was just another young man, trying to get by; I didn’t think of myself as all that unusual. On the other hand, speaking of unusual acts …
“That reminds me, do me a favor, will you, Timo? If you meet Diotima, don’t tell her about your fun with the slave girls. Diotima was almost exposed herself as a baby, and she has strong feelings about it.”
I’d brought a flask of watered wine and some garlic lentils and bread. I knew Timo would be hungry. We took turns dipping our hands into the wooden bowl to eat. As I licked my fingers, I said, “What was Arakos like? Did you get on?”
“Arakos didn’t have friends; he had targets. Not that I cared. I was only there to win. It’s easier if you dislike the man you’re hurting. Arakos was abusive.”
“Why did Arakos abuse you on the walk from Elis?”
Timo wriggled again. He plainly wasn’t comfortable. “Playing mind games, I suppose, before the contest. I was his main rival. If he could have disposed of me, he’d probably have won.”
A flash of inspiration struck. “With you and Arakos both out of it, who’s likely to win the pankration?”
Timodemus thought. “Korillos,” he said. “Maybe Aggelion. But my money would be on Korillos. He’s good. What are you thinking, Nico?”
“That a man who wanted to win the pankration would improve his chances by killing one of you and framing the other.”
“Nah. They’re honorable men; they fight fair.” Timo paused, then said, quite abashed, “Nico, I’m sorry to spoil your Games like this. You came to Olympia for fun, and here you are at work. I really am sorry, Nico.”
They fight fair, Timo had said. It was the highest praise he could give a man. It was the reason I didn’t want to believe he had murdered Arakos; because if Timo was the killer, it meant he’d abandoned a code of honor that he’d maintained ever since we were children.
Once upon a time a boy was lying in the street, bruised and bleeding. He was surrounded by a small gang. The boy tried to stand, but his persecutors pushed him down again. He called for help, but the men in the street walked on. After all, they were only boys playing. The boys taunted, called him coward and girl. They trod on him, and he ate the dust of the street.
He didn’t see what happened next; he only knew the boys had taken their feet off his back, and there was shouting. When he lifted his head, he saw another boy who hadn’t been there before. The new boy shouted and punched and kicked, and the gang was scared of this little terror. He fought like a whirlwind; he was incredibly fast, never where his enemy struck, always hitting hard and bouncing out of the way. They were many, and he was one, and even lying in the dirt the first boy could see that, if only the gang coordinated, the boys could have surrounded their tormentor, but they fought like individuals and lost like little boys. The gang yelled insults and ran down the street.
“Are you all right?” the new boy asked, bending down to help up the one in the dirt.
“Yes.” He sat up. “Thank you. They were going to beat me.”
“I know. Cowards. They should have fought you one at a time, not all in a gang like that.”
“What would you have done, if they had?”
“Let them, and watched what happened. If they fight you one at a time, then it’s honorable. That’s what my dad says.”
“Is that why you helped me?”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t a fair fight, them beating you up all together,” said the small boy who had taken on a dozen and won. “Besides, I saw you try to hit them, even when you knew they were going to beat you. You didn’t give up like a coward.”
Timodemus became my firm friend from that day on, two lonely boys together. By rights every boy in the city should have admired him, but they didn’t. They feared him. Timodemus was mild until someone pushed him a step too far, and then he had a terrible temper, which always ended in someone else getting hurt. I think I was the only boy he never hit in anger. Because of that, we often sparred together when he needed to practice-no one else his own size would face him-and though I never had Timo’s natural talent I came to know something of the art of pankration.
I know why I liked and admired Timodemus. I had never before met anyone so completely unaware of his own virtues. I don’t know what he saw in me, a boy who didn’t get on with other boys.
I said, “Don’t worry about it, Timo. Investigation is what I do. You know I’m happy to help.”
Timo was depressed. “I didn’t kill Arakos, but there’s no way I can prove it. They’re going to execute me, aren’t they?”
I thought of the boy lying in the street, and I said, “No, they’re not, Timo. I’m going to save you.”
I’d agreed to meet Markos at the Athenian camp so we could interview One-Eye and Timo’s uncle Festianos together. I got there first. A slave took great delight in telling me I’d wasted my time; Festianos wasn’t there, and One-Eye had walked out of the camp, heading south. I left a message for Markos with the slave and threaded my way south, crouching so my head didn’t show over the height of the tents to avoid my father.
My head was so low I ran into a man as he walked north to the Games.
“There you are,” Father said. “Have you lost something?”
“I, uh …”
“I almost died when I saw you run onto the chariot track. What in Hades were you thinking? Never do such a thing again.”
“Sorry, Father.”
He put a hand on my shoulder. “It was well done. All the men around me remarked on your bravery. I was proud to tell them you were my son.” He paused and looked me over. “Are you all right?”
I was shaking, not from the recollection of near death under the wheels of a chariot, but because they were the first words of praise I’d heard from my father in a long time.
I swallowed and said, “Yes, Father. I’m fine. Scratched and bruised, but fine.”