“Where are they up to?” Markos asked. He seemed to be easily distracted by the sport.
“They’ve finished the discus and the javelin. The long jump will start at any moment.”
Even as Festianos said it, the athletes emerged from the tunnel carrying their weights, accompanied by an aulos player with his V-shaped flute. They walked single file across the stadion to the long side immediately before us, where the skamma lay, a long strip of soft earth in which the long jumpers would land.
While the athletes stretched and warmed up, I said, “That night outside Timo’s tent. You said you’d keep an eye on him after I went to bed. What happened?”
Festianos groaned. “I knew you’d ask that eventually.”
The pentathletes were naked, of course, but for the only item of wear allowed: the kynodesme-the “dog leash”-a leather cord that tied around the tip of the penis and then wrapped around the scrotum, to stop bits from jiggling while the athletes competed. They carried in each hand heavy weights to assist with their jumps.
The first man to jump stepped up to the line.
The aulos player put his V-shaped flute to his lips and played a hymn to Apollo. The hymn was catchy and the rhythm so regular that I found myself tapping my foot.
The first jumper swung his weighted arms back and forth in time to the music, stared intently at the skamma, and bent his knees in preparation. The swings became progressively more violent till I thought he must surely be lifted off his feet. At the next swing forward he leaped, arms and legs outstretched.
The moment his feet landed in the softened ground, he swung his weighted arms back, bent his knees, and barely managed to hold his place. If he’d fallen or taken a step forward, he would have been disqualified.
Immediately one of the judges rushed to the landing spot with a measuring rod. The athlete walked back to the group with head hung low. Men about me shook their heads and muttered. One of them was Markos.
“Not the best,” he said.
“No,” Festianos agreed. “But he needn’t worry yet. He still has four more attempts.” He paused. “The tent, yes, I know. I’m not avoiding the question. The truth is I went for a walk to clear my head. To be honest, I knew Timodemus wanted to sneak off.”
“And you let him?” I couldn’t believe it. After all the effort I’d gone to.
Festianos snorted. “I’m a middle-aged man. Middle-aged men don’t stop young men when they want to party with the women.”
“You knew he was looking for women?”
The next pentathlete had stepped up to the line, and the aulos player picked up the tune. The athlete made a huge leap-well beyond the first-but try as he might he couldn’t stop himself from taking the tiniest step. The crowd jeered, and he walked away without a measurement. Like the first man, he still had four tries.
Festianos resumed the conversation. “Timo has been creeping from our rooms in Elis for the best part of a month. Where else do young men go in the dead of night?”
“But the Spartans might have been out to get him.”
“I was a trifle worse the wear for drink. You probably noticed. I suppose it affected my judgment.”
I felt like throttling Festianos. If he’d done what he’d said he’d do, Timodemus wouldn’t be in trouble now.
“So you let him go to the tents of the pornoi.”
“The pornoi? Timo has better taste than that. No, the lad’s picked up a girlfriend.”
That wasn’t what he’d said to me! I was careful not to let my surprise show. In the most neutral voice I could manage, I said, “What’s this girlfriend’s name?”
“I’ve no idea. He got her in Elis. Apparently she followed him here.”
I thought of how Festianos had promised me he’d watch Timodemus, then let him out on his own the moment my back was turned. Festianos was capable of lying.
“You sure you don’t know this girl’s name?”
“I swear by Zeus,” Festianos said. “Why don’t you ask Dromeus? I bet he knows. That bastard never takes his eye off Timo. I don’t know who’s more driven for my nephew to win: my brother or Dromeus.”
Dromeus sat in a corner of the gym with four other trainers. It seemed the ban against Team Timo didn’t extend to a former Olympic champion. Dromeus and his friends had laid wet cloths across their heads, no doubt to keep them cool in the heat. Even with the open courtyard to let in the breeze, the gym was like an oven.
Dromeus had won the pankration twenty years ago; among these men he was a celebrity. I wondered how much it had cost One-Eye to hire his services. The Timonidae were a wealthy family, but to hire a man like Dromeus must have stretched even their fortunes.
The trainers spoke among themselves. They sat upon the benches that lined the walls. There were bowls of food scattered between them and wineskins in their hands. Markos and I were about to interrupt their lunch. The thought made me realize that I’d probably be missing my own; there was too much to do.
As we approached, I heard Dromeus speak the words, “If you ask me, I reckon it was one of those two what did it-” He broke off his conversation when he saw us. “What do you want?”
They all five looked at Markos and me, standing side by side.
I said, “Dromeus, we need to ask you what happened in the procession.”
“You were there?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know.” He turned his back on us.
I stood my ground. “Dromeus, what did Arakos say?”
Dromeus turned. “Listen, kid-”
“My name’s Nicolaos.”
“Listen, kid, I’ve got a reputation to think of. You understand?”
I nodded. “You don’t want to be associated with a killer.”
The trainers burst into laughter. Dromeus said, “This young idiot thinks I don’t want to be seen with killers. Hey Theo, when did you last kill a man with your bare hands?”
Theo scratched his head. “Eight, nine months ago? At that contest in Thebes. I got this guy in a real neat choke hold, and he just wouldn’t give up. Bastard grabbed my balls and twisted, so I jerked his-”
“Thanks, Theo,” Dromeus broke in. “Eosilos, how many men you killed?”
“You know I can’t count high, Dromeus! I’m an athlete, not a philosopher.” They all grinned while Eosilos counted on his fingers, slowly. “Reckon I’ve done for eight men as I recall.” He paused. “Not counting Persians, of course.”
“Barely worth the effort of killing,” Dromeus agreed with a straight face. He turned back to me. “You see, kid? Every man here has killed with his own hands, except for you and your friend.”
He was wrong, in my case at least. I’d killed two men, but neither was something I could talk about. Markos kept his expression carefully neutral and hadn’t said a word, but I felt rather than saw his muscles tense, and I guessed he too had seen his share of mayhem.
Dromeus had made his point.
“Murdering don’t mean a thing, kid. You know what they do before the pankration? They give us a blanket pardon for murder. Because all those kids you saw take the oath? Chances are one of them’s going to kill another before these Games are over.”
“One of them already has,” Theo said.
“But the next one will be fair and square.”
“Where were you when Arakos died?” I asked.
“You’re not suggesting I-an Olympic champion-had something to do with this, are you?”
“As it happens-”
Theo and Eosilos raised their fists.
“Er … no, of course not, Dromeus.”
“Good.”
Markos cut in smoothly, “But consider, sirs, if we know where everyone was, then it helps us to eliminate the innocent from suspicion, you see? Also, anyone you saw must be innocent.”
Markos, the calm voice of reason; once again he was doing better than I in an interview. This was becoming a habit I didn’t want to continue.