I thought Pythax would strike-he turned angry red-but instead he said, “I reckon Nicolaos got it right. A man who wins a crown for nothing ain’t worth much.”
Dromeus flushed. “I earned my victory!”
“A real man would’ve refused the crown, ’less he had to fight for it.”
“Anytime, barbarian.”
They squared up to each other like two angry Titans.
“The agora. Before the light closes. I like to see a man when I kill him.”
“I’ll see you there, barbarian.”
Pythax and I backed out of the gym; it was that sort of tension. When we were out the door, I said to him, “You realize you just agreed to take on a professional fighter?”
“I had to, little boy. That bastard questioned my right to be here. Me, a citizen of Athens.”
And who was I to question that? Pythax had defended the greatest privilege any man could have.
“Pythax, when you meet Dromeus, let me back you up.”
He clapped me on the back, and I almost fell over. “I knew you’d say that.”
“At least I discovered something important.”
“What?”
“That Dromeus was capable of killing Arakos. I didn’t even know he was about to attack me until my head hit the wall.”
Pythax shook his head. “You picked a dangerous trade, little boy.”
This, from a man who was about to face a trained bare-handed killer.
The feeling between us at that moment was intense. If we’d both been Hellenes, we would have hugged. But I refrained. Pythax was a barbarian, and I didn’t want to embarrass him. Then I remembered Pythax was trying so hard to be Hellene.
But the moment had passed. I watched Pythax’s back as he strode to the agora.
“You look rather depressed,” a voice said from behind.
I turned around to see Markos.
“I am.”
“The man you were speaking to, when I saw you just now, that’s the father of your fiancée, isn’t it?”
“That’s Pythax, and that’s why I’m depressed. The wedding with Diotima is officially off.”
“What’s this?” Markos asked, surprised.
“They can’t agree on the dowry,” I said shortly, unwilling to tell him the details.
“I see.” He rubbed his chin. “Well, it happens, even among the Spartans, but I’m sorry for you. They say fathers know best about these things. What happens to Diotima now?”
“Pythax hopes to find her a suitable husband here at Olympia.”
“A girl like her, she’s bound to get offers before the Games are over.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I asked.
He put a hand on my shoulder.
“Nico! Nico!” Socrates ran up, stopped in front of us, panting. “Another message! It was dropped in our tent, just like the last one.”
Socrates handed it to me. Into this ostrakon, scratched in shaky, barely legible letters, were these words:
Why haven’t you arrested them? I’m scared but I have to do something. Meet me at the Temple of Zeus at dusk and I’ll tell you but only you or I’ll run away.
“Did anyone see him?” I asked.
Socrates shook his head.
I said, “Who is this man?” But there was no answer. I would have to find out when I met him.
It was unfortunate Socrates had found me in the presence of Markos. Though we were supposed to share everything, this meeting was an advantage I could have held. I turned the new ostrakon over and over, in hopes of gleaning something more.
“The shard was taken from the side of a broken amphora,” I said, and Socrates nodded.
“How can you tell?” Markos asked.
I held it up for him to see, vertical and sideways. “See the curve of the clay? If it came from a small pot, then the curve would be tighter. This comes from an amphora, or some other pot of similar size.”
“I see. Then it might also be from a krater for mixing wine?”
“No. Kraters are always decorated on the outside.” I turned the shard to show the outer face. “It’s not glazed. Only the dull red of the original clay.”
“Very good, Nicolaos! I understand exactly.”
“Thanks, Markos.” I was oddly pleased by his approval. “The only problem is, it doesn’t help us at all. There must be hundreds of broken amphorae all over Olympia. A distinctive glazed decoration and a maker’s mark would have been so much more useful.”
“Your correspondent has been careful to remain anonymous. Yet he arranges a meeting. Why didn’t he simply come to you?” Markos asked, puzzled. “It would be as easy as to leave the message.”
“I don’t know. I wonder why he sent this to me, and not you?”
“Because I’m a Spartan,” Markos said ruefully. “He’s afraid I’ll suppress any evidence that exonerates an Athenian.”
“Markos, do you want to be there?”
Markos hesitated. “Do you swear to tell me everything he tells you?”
“I swear it, by Zeus and Athena.”
“Then I won’t go. I might scare him off.” Markos looked up at the sun and squinted. “You have a while before you need to be there.”
“That’s good, because I have a fight to referee.”
Pythax and Dromeus met at the field of the agora. There was nothing unusual in that. The agora was the site for all manner of sideshows. For two men to test themselves against each other was nothing special, except these men were Pythax and Dromeus.
By the time Dromeus arrived, word had already spread and a ring had formed, defined by the men who had come to watch the weakest pankratist ever take on a mere barbarian with pretensions to Hellenism.
Pythax had stripped and stood waiting. Dromeus did the same as he arrived, flanked by the pankratists from the gymnasium. They backed their man for the honor of the pankration.
Pythax spat in the dust. I stood at his side.
“Gentlemen,” I called. “The contest is between Dromeus of Mantinea and Pythax of Athens. The rules are those of the pankration-”
“No rules,” Dromeus said.
Pythax nodded. “No rules,” he agreed.
I stepped back. So did the friends of Dromeus. I hoped this didn’t turn into a free-for-all, because there was only me to back Pythax.
In the crowd I saw my father, Sophroniscus. His eyes were impossible to read from the distance. I hoped Father would stay out of this. He was an old man, in no condition for these games.
Pythax’s eyes were dark and angry. For some reason I noticed how thick and bushy was his beard.
“Begin,” I said.
Pythax took a swing at Dromeus and knocked his head around. Dromeus returned the blow with a swift punch to the neck. Pythax dodged, but the blow hit him over the heart, and he grunted.
Pythax knew every dirty trick there was. I knew, because he’d taught me most of them, but he used none of them now. He was determined this was to be a test of pure strength. Dromeus likewise eschewed every technique of the pankration and concentrated on battering Pythax into submission. Blow after blow they traded, until I was sure one or the other must fall.
The two men staggered back and forth, barely on their feet. Blood streamed from their noses, their mouths, their ears, and gashes on their faces. Their chests had taken a pummeling that would have killed lesser men.
“Dear Gods, what’s happening!” A voice behind me. Diotima.
“What are you doing here?”
“I realized I don’t care what happens to me; I refuse to hide like a weak woman in my tent. I heard about this in the women’s camp. All of Olympia is talking about the fight. You got Pythax into this, didn’t you?”
I told her what happened as the pummeling continued. Dromeus had his head down and smashed Pythax in the diaphragm over and over while Pythax hammered the head of Dromeus.
“Nico, if you love me, you have to stop this,” Diotima said. He voice sounded strained.
“Why?” I asked.
“I was cursing Pythax because he won’t give in to your father’s demands and let me marry you. Then I thought about Klymene and her vitriolic relationship with her father, and I realized that I might not like it, but Pythax has looked out for my interests like I was his own birth-daughter, and I love having him as my father, and Nico, you have to stop that fight.”