Markos the Spartan stood beside me. His blond hair hung to shoulder length, in the manner of the Spartans, and like the Spartans he wore a scarlet cloak of fine wool, which kept him warm in the chilly dawn. He looked relaxed but serious, the very picture of a responsible young man about to assume an important burden. I on the other hand nervously sprang from one foot to the other, my arms wrapped about to stop me from shivering too visibly. I knew I made a poor impression compared with the Spartan.
A crowd milled about before us. The men of Sparta and Athens were up in force to watch the unprecedented oath. News of the murder and the investigation had spread faster than plague.
The men of Sparta clustered together in the center of the crowd, easy to spot because, like Markos, they’d assumed their vermilion cloaks. The Spartans normally forswore their famous cloak at the Games, to blend into the crowd and be less divisive, but now they wore them as a badge of honor.
The Athenians, too, were easy to recognize. They were the nervous ones. They stood in clusters with their backs to one another. A few seemed angry.
Pericles stood at the fore of the crowd. He looked tired. He hadn’t slept any more than had I.
One belligerent fool among the Athenians waved a wineskin and declared loudly that no one cared about a dead Spartan; in fact, those were the best kind. Pericles turned quick as lightning to push his way through the crowd. I saw him speak to the drunk fool, not with harsh words, but soft ones, and I saw him gently remove the wineskin from the man’s grasp. That was a riot averted.
I could see King Pleistarchus, and beside him Xenares, hanging about like a bad case of the gripes. A knot of younger men surrounded these two; there was no doubt what they were: Spartan bodyguards.
At the back I saw the weedy fake Heracles who’d attacked Diotima and me. He still wore his ill-fitting lion skin, but at least he wasn’t carrying his club. He stared at Markos and me, his jaw hanging. He probably hadn’t expected to see me again, let alone standing where I was.
My father, Sophroniscus, pushed his way to the front of the crowd. I’d had no chance to speak to him since the murder; I hoped Socrates had brought him up to date. What he thought of this I couldn’t tell. Father had permitted me against his better judgment to pursue my career as agent for Pericles for a period of two years, a period that now was more than half gone, under the condition that if at the end I could not make it pay, then I was to return to the family trade of sculpting. Now he saw his son standing at the Olympic altar. It occurred to me I’d come a long way in a very short time from that first, perilous mission, which had almost ended in my death and his ruin. Our eyes met for a moment and he nodded. Socrates stood beside him and for once he didn’t fidget. My little brother looked up at me in wonder.
Pythax, the huge barbarian from the north, chief of the Scythian Guard of Athens, former slave and now a new-made citizen, stood in the throng. As a barbarian he was forbidden to compete-not that he wanted to, he was too old-but as a citizen of Athens he had every right to be here. I stood to attention at the sight of him, desperate to make a good impression.
Timo’s uncle Festianos looked up at me from the crowd with a quizzical expression; beside him, One-Eye scowled.
The old man with the bright face was there, too, the man whom I’d noticed yesterday at the first swearing in. He held a long walking staff, and I saw him look from me to Markos and back to me again. I wondered who he was. Other men seemed to know him, for they made way for the old man wherever he chose to go. Or perhaps they were merely being polite to an elder.
The giant brazier had been rekindled. I took a step closer to it to try to catch some of its warmth. No one else seemed to be cold, but I shivered.
Exelon, the Chief Judge of the Games, emerged from the Bouleterion behind me. As he walked past the Spartan Markos and me, he muttered, “Look confident and put on a decent show, you two.”
We both nodded that we understood.
Exelon stood with his back to Markos and me. He banged his Y-forked staff on the steps until he had the attention of the crowd. “Hellenes! I know you’ve heard what passed during the night. A competitor has been murdered. I know that feelings will run high because of this, it’s only natural, and I remind you all, here and now, that the Sacred Truce remains in force. Anyone who transgresses will be punished.”
The Chief Judge was tense. I saw it in the set of his shoulder muscles and the knuckles that stood out on the hand that gripped his staff.
“That’s all very well, but what of the killer Timodemus?” a faceless voice in the crowd shouted. “Will you punish him?”
“Timodemus is innocent!” another man yelled. “You just have it in for us Athenians.”
“Hold!” Exelon shouted into the argument and banged his staff once more. “If Timodemus is guilty, he will pay the debt of blood as custom demands, under the laws of Elis in whose domain we stand. To that end, two men will investigate the crime: one an Athenian, the other a Spartan. The Judges of the Games will make the final decision based on their reports.”
The crowd quieted at his words. They sensed this was a fair judgment.
“They report to me and the other judges, not to their cities. I call upon them to take their oath.” Exelon nodded to me. “You first.”
Suddenly I felt nervous again. I stepped forward and spoke my words. Whether anyone heard me I don’t know, because I spoke quickly to get it over with, and I fear I mumbled.
“I swear by mighty Zeus that I, Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus, shall contest the Sacred Games fairly and with honor, when I compete in the event of-” I staggered over the next words. In a sudden panic, I realized nobody had told me what to call this strange new event. “In the Olympic event of … murder investigation.”
The crowd stirred and murmured. It is the right of the judges to create any event they like, but this was a new one for everyone present.
Exelon gave me a stern look. I continued in a louder voice over the hubbub of the crowd. “I shall obey the orders of the Judges of the Games. I shall do everything in a way that is right. May mighty Zeus of the Oaths destroy me if I do not.”
I saw Pericles wince as I spoke and wondered what his problem was.
The sacrifice wasn’t the traditional giant boar but a small piglet. There were only two of us, and anything larger would have been a waste. The animal had probably been picked up from the festival agora and was destined for a meal in any case. The man with the piglet laid it on the altar and stroked the little animal gently but firmly. It squealed as the knife went in and struggled for the briefest instant but relaxed for a last time as its lifeblood flowed away.
“The sacrifice went willingly,” I heard someone in the front row say. “It’s a good sign. Unlike what happened yesterday.”
I took a slice of piglet from the altar-the Butcher of the Games had begun his bloody work-and with thumb and forefinger threw the dripping meat into the burning brazier. The meat sizzled at once, and I smelled burned flesh. My oath to Zeus was complete.
Markos stepped forward and proceeded to make the same oath I had. He spoke slowly in a clear, carrying voice and didn’t stumble at all.
The oath was complete. Criminal investigation was an Olympic event for the first time in history.
I had thought, when the Chief Judge set the requirement in the night, the oath would be a mere administrative detail that would keep me from my work for a short time and then could be forgotten. Now that I was upon the steps, I was overcome by the importance of what I had sworn, and understood his wisdom. The Olympic Oath is a sacred dedication, and by speaking it before the Hellenes my investigation was removed from the realm of politics and became a part of the Games themselves. I was no longer Nicolaos of Athens; I had become Nicolaos of Olympia.
The heralds, their voices so loud they could be heard across all Olympia, announced the first event of the day: the chariot race at the hippodrome.