“Let’s get back to the unpleasantness at the Nemean Games,” I said.
“Why ask me?” he evaded.
“Because you’re the one who first mentioned it. Just before the chariot race,” I said.
“You’ll have to ask the ones involved.”
“Nothing escapes the eyes of the famous Pindar,” I wheedled. A little flattery wouldn’t hurt to deal with a man with an ego the size of Pindar’s. “I need to see through your eyes, brilliant Pindar, because you see what other men miss. Surely the greatest poet since Homer would notice the subtle relationships between men: who hated whom, who was jealous, who was plotting. Come on, Pindar, greatest of bards, tell me what really happened.”
“Good Gods, man, are you trying to butter me up?” His tone was angry.
“Er … yes.”
“Listen, flattery will get you nowhere with me. I lay it on thick with honeyed words better than any man alive. I could teach you tricks of sycophancy that would make your eyes water. What do you think it means to be a praise singer?” Pindar stood and drew himself up to his full height to announce, “I, Nicolaos, am a professional flatterer.” He sat down again. “So don’t try to cozen me with your amateur efforts. It would be like attacking a well-armed Spartan with a blunt knife.” He looked me up and down before adding, “A very blunt knife.”
Pindar drained the cup. Again. It was my plan to loosen his tongue with wine, but I was starting to wonder how many amphorae it would take. I took the cup from his hands without a word so I could be ripped off by the wine seller for a third time. “I hope you’re sober enough to answer questions,” I said when I returned.
“You asked about Nemea.” He burped. “Your friend Timodemus had an easy run to the final.” He paused, no doubt for dramatic effect. “A remarkably easy run. Every single man Timodemus faced, he disposed of in short order.”
“Timo’s good.”
“No one’s that good. Pretty soon everyone noticed that all the other bouts were fiercely fought, but against Timodemus, it was as if his opponents lay down for him like weak women. I wasn’t the only one to notice. Accusations were made, of cheating.”
Cheating happened. Men didn’t like to talk about it, but sometimes two pankratists would arrange a result in advance. Then money would change hands.
Pindar continued, “The judges of those Games looked into it. The only problem was, if he’d bribed his opponents to take a fall, then every single man must have been involved.”
“Were they?”
“Every one of them stood before the altar of Zeus at Nemea and swore there’d been no arrangement. In truth it’s hard to see how Timodemus could have suborned everyone. The judges decided there’d been no bribery. They swore every man present to secrecy that the question had ever arisen.”
“Then how come you know about it?”
“I was present at the swearing, as a witness. The judges wanted someone who could report later that all had been done according to the law.”
Pindar had begun the conversation with the claim he hadn’t been involved. I decided not to point out his obvious lie. Perhaps it was an attempt to be discreet, as his position required.
Pindar said, “The judges concluded that collusion was impossible, but no, that wasn’t the end of the matter. There was another explanation.”
“What was it?”
“Witchcraft.”
“Nico, do you think it could be true?” Diotima asked.
I found Socrates and Diotima at her tent, where we’d agreed to rendezvous. She’d searched for my errant brother and bought sweet cakes along the way. He’d been willing to go with her because, as he put it, “The chariots were fantastic, but not enough people get killed in the athletics.”
Now we nibbled on the cakes and discussed the revelation that Timodemus really might have cheated. To curse an enemy is so simple and easy, anyone could do it.
“I don’t know,” I said, glum. “A few days ago I would have laughed. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“I’m sorry.” She put a hand on my arm. This was why a man wanted a wife, for comfort. “There were too many good reasons for Timodemus to kill Arakos,” she said. “To silence his taunts, to silence his accusation that Timo cheated, or maybe even … to cheat.”
I winced.
“I know he’s your friend, Nico, but I have to tell you-”
“Yes, I know. Three days from now I’ll stand before the judges to condemn my own friend. Did I tell you, by the way, One-Eye demanded I bring the trial forward?”
“The man must be mad.”
“Merely willing to sacrifice his own son to reflect in Olympic glory. Diotima, you’re a priestess-this tale of witchcraft … is it possible?”
“Oh, Nico, priests and priestesses don’t do magic!”
“Magic is different?”
“Completely. Utterly. If a hundred people want to honor the Gods together, then someone has to perform the sacrifice, someone has to say the prayers, someone has to pour the libations and clothe the statue. They can’t all do it, so the priestess does it for them. That’s all being a priestess means, when you get down to it. But curse magic, that’s asking the Gods to hurt someone to your advantage.”
“How?”
“The curse is always written on a tablet.”
“Pindar didn’t say anything about curse tablets. Where would you look for one?”
“Down a well. Most curses invoke Hades, Lord of the Underworld, to do something nasty to the victim. The closer you can get the curse, to Hades, the more likely the God is to read it. Most people scratch it on a strip of lead.”
“That must be bad for the well.”
“It’s only lead; it can’t hurt you. Also, if you hire a professional to write your curse it has more chance of working.”
Did Timo know any magicians? “You said anyone could write a curse tablet.”
“True, but a professional magician knows what to write and how. Magic is all about persuasion. No one can coerce the Gods, no matter what some charlatans claim. Mortals can only ask and hope the Gods feel charitable that day. Does Timodemus know any magicians?”
“I have no idea. I doubt it. If he has been writing curses, what would they say?”
Diotima picked up her wax tablet and scratched some words, which she handed to me.
I call upon Hades, he who rules in the land of the dead, to whom all men must go, to bind my opponent Arakos in the pankration. May his arms grow weak. May his strength wane. May his hands fail to grasp. May his legs grow heavy and his knees fail. Do this for me, mighty Hades, Lord of the Dead, so that Arakos loses miserably and I am victor in the contest.
I put it down in shock. “This really is cheating.”
“Timodemus would write one of these before each fight,” Diotima said. “He’d name his opponent and say what he wants to have happen.”
“Why not write one generic curse? May all my opponents lose. Something like that.”
“Because it’s very unlikely to work. The Gods need a name to work with. If you wrote something like please make me rich, would you expect wealth to arrive at your door?”
“No.”
“Right. It’s too general. You’re asking the Gods to do your thinking for you. The Gods aren’t nannies looking out for us. But if you said, please Poseidon, make sure my merchant ship makes it to Chios this trip, then you’re in with a chance. He may or may not do it, but at least Poseidon knows exactly what you want.”
“I see. If the priests and priestesses don’t do magic, how do you come to know all this?”
“People beg priests and priestesses for an effective curse all the time. You’re not the only one to make the confusion. After a while I became interested and looked into it. You know how it is.”