“Where were you on the night Arakos died?” Diotima asked.
“In bed,” said Aggelion.
“That’s not much of an alibi.”
“In bed together. All three of us.”
“Oh.”
“Please don’t tell our trainers.”
“The case seems clear,” Markos said, after the three friendly pankratists had made their way off. “Timodemus of Athens cheated at Nemea. Not only cheated, but used witchcraft to curse his opponents, a terrible crime. He continued his ways here at Olympia, only now he’s graduated to murder.”
“Why wouldn’t he continue to use curses?” Diotima asked. She and I knew the truth, that Timo could not have been in the clearing with Arakos, but we couldn’t tell Markos that.
“Perhaps Arakos had proof Timodemus had cheated before. That would be more than enough motive for murder.”
Indeed it would, if it were true.
“I’m not sure I believe Timo cursed anyone, Markos,” I said.
“You’ll have to believe it if everyone who fought against your friend tells the same tale. You realize, I’m sure, the evidence of those pankratists make it certain your friend practiced witchcraft. Heavy legs, indeed! It sounds like a typical binding spell.”
“I don’t even know if curses work,” I said.
“Oh, come on, Nico. I know you have to do your best for your friend, raise every reasonable doubt, but everyone knows curses work.”
“Have you ever tried one?” I challenged him.
“No, of course not,” he said. “That would be immoral.”
“Then you don’t really know.”
“Everyone’s heard of a case.”
“Right. You hear the stories, but you never see one.”
“Well, now you are seeing one, and you refuse to believe it,” Markos said, reasonably enough.
I shook my head. There was something wrong with that logic, but I couldn’t work out what it was. Perhaps Socrates could tell me.
“I just feel we need to look for a more rational explanation,” I insisted.
“You’ve been hanging around too many of those philosophers you have in Athens,” said Markos.
“Ain’t that the truth,” I told him, and I nudged Diotima, who considered herself to be a philosopher.
“He’ll be hanging around one for a lot longer,” she said, and took my arm.
Markos laughed. “It’s a pleasure to work with the both of you. I’m sorry that I must prosecute your friend. I hope you understand, my liking for you won’t prevent me from doing my utmost to see him punished.”
“You keep calling him my friend,” I said.
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
And of course, Markos was right. No wonder people didn’t trust me. It made me wonder if perhaps Markos was right, if my friendship for Timo had blinded me to the evidence, because he was right about that, too. On the face of it, those pankratists had been cursed.
We needed to know more about Dromeus of Mantinea, the trainer of Timodemus. Dromeus had been at Nemea. He was here at Olympia. He had every reason to want to see Timodemus win. And another thing: everyone assumed only Timodemus could have beaten Arakos, but what about a previous victor? Surely a man who’d won the crown and kept himself in good condition could take on a current contender, especially in a surprise attack in the dark.
But who was Dromeus, really, and what sort of man was he? I knew just the people to ask. Heralds not only have the loudest voices, but every one of them is a sports fanatic.
Diotima and I bid farewell to Markos and wished him a happy feast in the evening. Then we went to find the Heralds of the Games.
The heralds sat in a cluster at one corner of the stadion. It was one of the perks of the job that they had access to the field. When I approached, I saw they were eating a picnic on the most hallowed sporting ground in the world. Most of them carried paunches over which their chitons had to detour on the way down. It seemed odd that men who loved sport should themselves be in such poor condition.
“I’d like to ask you a few-”
“Shhh!” They waved at me to be quiet. “Can’t you see we’re playing kottabos? He’s about to throw.”
“Oh.” I shut up.
Now that they mentioned it, I saw they lounged in a ring around a central point, where they’d placed the upright stand necessary for the party game called kottabos. The stand was half the height of a man, a polished wooden pole set into a wide, bronze base. A small hook had been placed in the top of the pole, from which hung an ornate bronze disk. Carved into the disk was the image of Dionysos, the God of Wine.
One of the heralds drained his wine cup down to the dregs. Then, using only the forefinger of his right hand to hold the cup handle, he took careful aim and flung the dregs at the kottabos stand. The dregs sailed through the air as one alcoholic glob to hit the small bronze. The disk wobbled back and forth, once, twice, three times, then came loose of the hook and fell into the bronze base, where it landed with a loud metallic clatter.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!”
He pumped his hands in the air. If he’d won the Olympics he couldn’t have been any happier. I struck while there was joy all around.
“You heralds are the world’s greatest experts on sport,” I said.
“Of course we are,” said the kottabos winner. “That’s ’cause we watch it most.”
“Right. What can you tell me about Dromeus?”
“Which one?”
“Dromeus the Olympic victor.”
“Yeah, which one?”
It took me a moment to realize what he meant. “You mean there are two Olympic victors named Dromeus?” I asked.
“Of course, there are. Don’t you know nothing? There’s Dromeus of Stymphalos who won the diaulos-”
I looked at him blankly.
“The diaulos, where they race two lengths of the stadion. Diaulos-two lengths-get it?”
“Sure.”
“Well, he’s the Dromeus what said athletes should eat nothing but meat, and he won, so ever since athletes have been on meat-only diets. That philosopher who preached this morning, the one with the bread cow-”
“It was an ox.”
“He’ll be lucky to leave these Games alive if he keeps talking against meat. That bread cow was a laugh, though.”
“What about the second Dromeus?”
“That’s Dromeus of Mantinea. He won the pankration in the seventy-sixth Olympiad.”
“I’m after Dromeus of Mantinea.”
“You’re wrong,” another herald spoke up. “Dromeus won in the seventy-fifth.”
“It was the seventy-sixth,” said the first.
“You’re both wrong. It was the seventy-fourth,” said a third man.
“Don’t tell me what’s what. I can name every Olympic victor in every event going back to the days of my father.”
The second man spat in the dust. “That’s nothing. I can name every running victor since the days of my grandfather. My grand-daddy memorized the winners in his own day, and he passed it on to me dad, and me dad passed it on to me. And when my son is grown he’ll know the victors for four generations.”
Diotima spoke up. “Gentlemen, could we get back to the issue at hand?”
“What’s she doing in the stadion?” one of the heralds demanded. He stared at her like she was some creature from the underworld.
“Are the Games on?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then she can be here.” I was right, and he knew it. Women were only barred during competition. “So as my wife says, what was Dromeus like, as a competitor? Aggressive? Smart? Tough?”
“You mean, how he fought? Ha!” They shared a good chuckle before one of them deigned to explain. “You know how Dromeus won his crown, don’t you?”
“I imagine by beating his opponents.”
Now all the heralds guffawed.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said the kottabos winner. “Dromeus won without raising a fist.”
“That’s impossible.”
“No, it ain’t. That year there was only one other contestant for the pankration.” He shrugged. “It happens, some years. Anyways, the other man was Theagenes of Thasos, and he’d also entered for the boxing. Theagenes won the boxing, then claimed he was too exhausted to fight the pankration.”