One-Eye saw me, but he didn’t stop his practice. If anything, his momentum increased ever so slightly. Had he picked up the pace to impress me?
I said nothing but waited for the routine to slow to a halt, which finally it did.
“Nicolaos,” he acknowledged me. He began to alternate jogging in place and straining his arms against a large piece of granite.
“Very impressive, sir. Are you finished?”
“The heavy, useful part of the routine is over, yes. I must cool down slowly now, or the muscles will knot.”
“Does Festianos exercise like this, too, sir? Where is he?”
One-Eye laughed, but without humor. “My brother has let himself go these last years. But perhaps I shouldn’t criticize too much,” he allowed. “My brother has been afflicted with poor health. No, Festianos has gone to the stadion to watch the pentathlon.”
“Oh, of course.” I’d forgotten for a moment there were Games on. “I don’t suppose you know where I could find him on the hill?”
“He left late. I imagine he’ll be toward the back, close to the entrance.” One-Eye continued his warm-down exercise without pause while we talked.
“Don’t you want to watch, too, sir?” I asked.
“There’s only one sport I care about, young man, and it’s not the pentathlon.”
“I see.”
“You’re the one assigned to free my son. Why aren’t you out doing it?”
“It’s why I’m here, sir. There are some questions I have to ask.”
“I know nothing about the killing,” One-Eye said at once. “Except that it was thoroughly deserved.”
“Arakos didn’t deserve to die,” a voice said. Markos came to a halt beside me. He was surprisingly calm considering One-Eye had just consigned a Spartan to Hades.
One-Eye looked him over. “You’re the Spartan they assigned to make sure my son dies.”
Markos said mildly, “I’m the Spartan assigned to investigate a murder.”
“Then perhaps your time would be better expended elsewhere. Chasing the killer, for example?”
The tension oozed between One-Eye and Markos, between One-Eye and me. I said, “One-Eye, I understand your love for your son makes you anxious-”
“My love? When I learned my wife was pregnant, I sacrificed to Zeus for a son. I sacrificed every day of her term. Do you understand why?”
“Er … because you wanted a son?”
One-Eye snorted. “If that’s your idea of incisive deduction, then my son is doomed. Yes, you idiot, I wanted a son so that I could pass onto him the family tradition of the pankration.”
“Why did you say just now that the death was deserved?” Markos asked, then added, his voice dripping with irony, “Please don’t mind my feelings in your answer.”
One-Eye turned to me. “I know you’ve talked to my son. He must have told you what transpired on the march here.”
I knew, because Pindar had told me. Timo hadn’t thought to mention it. It occurred to me that my friend Timo hadn’t told me everything. I said, “I heard. Arakos harassed Timo.”
“Arakos had it coming. Like most Spartans, he was an arrogant bastard.” One-Eye glared at Markos, daring him to interject. Markos kept his face a carefully controlled mask. He was a superb interrogator. One-Eye went on, “Whoever got him, I’ll wager it was someone understandably angered beyond control.”
I wondered if he realized that description might apply to him or to his son. For the first time I noticed how Timo’s propensity to wild anger had been inherited from his father.
I asked, “Did Dromeus really prescribe sex as part of the training regimen?”
One-Eye frowned. “Dromeus says it keeps the athlete’s muscles relaxed, and I have to admit the results seem to prove him right. It’s one of those newfangled theories, like the meat-only diet everyone swears by these days.” One-Eye shook his head. “It’s unbelievably expensive. Do you know what red meat costs?”
“So you disagreed with Dromeus on Timo’s training regimen.”
“Oh no, I’m not getting into that argument! Haven’t you wondered why I, an expert in the pankration, hired an expensive personal trainer for my son?”
“I did wonder.” In fact, it had never occurred to me, but I didn’t want to appear stupid.
“It’s because a father is not always the most objective when it comes to his own son. A more dispassionate eye can see and correct faults an indulgent father might pass over.”
One-Eye thought he was indulgent?
“You were my son’s friend-”
“I still am.”
“And for that I forgive you these impertinent questions. But there will be no more from either of you. Free my son, Nicolaos. Preferably by tomorrow. Being cooped up in that room is terrible preparation for the contest.”
Markos said, “Sir, the Judges of the Games set Timo’s trial for the last day of the Games.” Markos didn’t add the obvious: that they’d done so in order to execute him at once if the judgment went against him.
“Then bring forward the trial.”
“What?” I couldn’t believe him.
“You heard me. The pankration is the last event on the fourth day. Timodemus must be free by then, or he won’t be able to compete.”
I said, “Sir, it’s for the judges to decide.”
“But if you told the judges you could prove his innocence they would hear you early, would they not?”
“I suppose so,” I said, with the greatest reluctance. “But One-Eye-”
“Good, then tell them.”
“Wouldn’t it help if we solved the crime first?”
“Young man, you don’t need to find this killer. You merely need to prove it could not be my son. Surely you can do that.”
Markos and I looked at each other in disbelief. For the first time, Markos was at a loss for words.
“Right now, One-Eye, I can do no such thing. In fact, on the face of it, Timodemus did kill the Spartan.”
“You don’t believe that.” He tossed weights into the air and caught them.
“No, sir, but it’s what any impartial judge will decide. Let me do my job in the time allotted, sir, and if Zeus grants me the victory, then your son will return home with you, alive and free.”
“I hoped for more than that.”
“More? I don’t understand, One-Eye.”
“Timo won at Nemea last year, no matter what they say. You should ignore the ugly rumors.”
I blinked. “What rumors?”
“I just told you to ignore them. If Timo wins here at the Sacred Games, then it remains only for him to win at Corinth and Delphi-both easier competitions-and he will have won every major title on the competition circuit. Those who achieve such a feat are entitled to name themselves paradoxos.”
Paradoxos-“the marvel”-Timodemus the Marvel, because to achieve four straight victories is almost impossible.
Dear Gods, his son was held in a prison awaiting execution, and One-Eye could only think of how they would win the next contest.
“The advantages that accrue to a paradoxos are great indeed,” One-Eye went on.
Had the man no grip on reality? He’d be lucky if Timo still breathed come the next contest, let alone won it.
Markos said, “Then it would help, sir, if you could give us any clue as to who might have killed Arakos. You’ve been around the pankration all your life. You know everyone in the sport. What do you think?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if Dromeus killed the Spartan.”
I blinked. Had One-Eye just shopped his own head coach for the crime? He’d said it as easily as if he discussed the weather.
“Are you serious?” I had to ask.
“Certainly I am.”
“Why would Dromeus want to kill Arakos?” Markos asked.
“Dromeus saw some hard times after his Olympic crown. He was widely considered the weakest Olympic victor ever. He turned to coaching to bolster his reputation, and he achieved some success, which is why I hired him, but Timodemus is the first of his charges to have a real chance at the crown. Dromeus is desperate for this win.”