The crowd before us instantly broke. Thousands of men elbowed to be first to the best vantage points. It was like a mob of particularly vicious goats on their way to the feed bin. As I stood and watched the chaos, it occurred to me that whoever had killed Arakos had done it in a remarkably confined space. All my life I’d heard men speak of Olympia-after the sacred sanctuary at Delphi, it was the most famous place in all of Hellas-now I was here for the first time, and I saw it was much smaller than its enormous reputation. The permanent buildings covered a tiny area; the tent city was larger, but still no larger than a village. Crowded into this space were more men than you would find in a medium-sized city. To kill Arakos must have been for the murderer like trying to scratch his nose in a closet full of men.
One would have thought that would make catching the killer easier, but I had no idea who might have done it. Unless of course, it really was my friend.
Timodemus had exactly four days left to live.
I stood and considered what to do next until everyone was gone.
Well, almost everyone.
“It’s not fair,” Socrates whined. “How come you get to be an Olympic contestant and I don’t?”
“It wasn’t my idea. The Chief Judge insisted.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but we should consider ourselves lucky. Exelon didn’t have to permit an investigation, you know. He could have condemned Timo out of hand.”
As I spoke, I caught sight of the fake Heracles. He took the steps up the Bouleterion, I suppose for a shortcut though to the hippodrome. He swerved away when Socrates turned and I stared at him. He probably remembered how easily I’d disarmed him.
“Nicolaos of Athens?” It was the Spartan Markos. He’d wandered up to me from behind. It occurred to me Markos could be very quiet when he chose.
“What do you want?” I said, more abrupt than I intended because he’d startled me.
He said, “Now that we’ve sworn the oath, we’re required to share our witnesses. I only wanted to know, do you have any plans? Shall I come with you?”
The polite inquiry wasn’t fooling anyone. I had no more wish to work with Markos than he did with me. I particularly didn’t want Markos in the room when I interviewed Timodemus. I said, “Why don’t we follow our own paths, then share notes. If we don’t trust each other, we can always check by talking to the same people.”
“As you wish.” He smiled thinly, turned on his heel and walked away.
I wondered if I’d been rude, but I wasn’t sure.
The old man with the look of a priest approached me and Socrates. “Your voice is a disaster,” he told me.
“What?”
“I witnessed your oath. Who taught you rhetoric?”
“No one.”
The old man nodded. “It shows.”
Pericles had once promised to teach me to speak before the people, but he’d never gotten around to giving lessons.
To change the subject, I said, “I am Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus, of the deme Alopece of Athens.”
“Kalimera Nicolaos,” he said. “Good morning. I wish to know if Timodemus, son of Timonous One-Eye, is a murderer.”
“Don’t we all,” I muttered.
He raised an eloquent and somewhat-bushy eyebrow. “You haven’t formed a view? Surely you cannot have long to investigate this dreadful crime, a few days at most.”
“Have you talked to the judges?” I demanded.
“No, but your deadline is obvious. In a few days the Games will be over, and everyone will depart. You must be swift as the stadion runner if you wish to catch this killer.”
Whoever this old man was, he was sharp. “Who are you, sir?”
He smiled. “Ahh. When you stared at me during the sacrifice I suspected you didn’t recognize me. I am Pindar the praise singer.”
Merely the greatest living poet of the Hellenes.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Pindar,” I said, and meant it. Everyone knew the songs of Pindar. To be praised by him was to be immortalized. “But I must ask, sir, do you have an interest in this?”
“After the Nemean Games, the father of the accused, One-Eye, commissioned me to praise the young man Timodemus in song. I took the money of One-Eye and praised Timodemus. So I ask myself, did I waste my words on a cheat? I hate to think it.” He put a hand to his head, like a tragic actor who hears bad news.
“Thank you, Pindar. At least there are two of us who don’t believe he’s guilty.” Pindar was an influential man. His support would be invaluable to save Timo.
“No, young man, you misunderstand my words. I said I hope he’s not a killer, not that I believe it.”
“Oh.” I felt deflated.
Pindar didn’t seem to notice my disappointment. “I must be neutral in this matter. The victim and the accused are both known to me.”
“Then you know Timodemus hasn’t the personality of a murderer,” I said.
Pindar raised an eyebrow, and that one expressive movement told me I’d said something stupid. “On the contrary. Both these young men are highly aggressive. Both are capable of the greatest violence.”
I hadn’t thought of it like that, but Pindar was right. By definition, a top pankratist was a potential killer.
Pindar went on, “And yet I flatter myself as a fair judge of men-it’s an occupational skill, you know-and that’s the funny thing. If one of them was to kill the other, I would have expected Arakos to murder Timodemus.”
“Pindar,” I said, “let me buy you a drink.”
In most places, to buy a man a drink at dawn is tricky. In Olympia, you need only stretch out your hand to grab one of the passing fast-food merchants. I did that and noticed that Pindar wasn’t averse to drinking under the rosy-fingered dawn. We sat on the steps of the Bouleterion.
“So you were there at Nemea,” I said to him.
“I attend all four of the major Games: the Nemean, the Isthmian, the Pythian, and, greatest of them all, the Sacred Games here at Olympia. At Nemea I saw Timodemus fight for the first time. I predicted then that he would win these Sacred Games. Do you want to hear my verse?” Before I could decline with thanks, he launched into this:
“Those were my words at Nemea, the first stanza anyway, that I wrote about your friend Timodemus. What do you think?”
Pindar stared at me, his left and right legs jittering in turn. If he’d been anyone but a world-famous poet, I’d have said he was nervous for my reaction. The only problem was I’d lost attention after the first few words.
“I thought it was, er … very nice,” I said, desperately trying to remember anything he’d said.
He pounced. “Nice? What were the nice bits?”
“Well, er … I liked your choice of words, and-”
“Was there anything you didn’t like? Don’t be afraid to critique! I’m very good at taking criticism.”
“No! No! I loved it. I’d definitely buy a scroll with this-”
“Does the allusion work? I was pleased with it myself.”
“It’s terrific!”
He gave me a stare. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
“Er …”
He sighed. “We praise singers always open our songs with a few words in praise of Zeus. Because it would be impious to praise a man before a God, you see.”
“Yes?” I wondered how I could politely excuse myself.
“Just as the words addressed to Zeus presage the hero who is our real subject, so does the victory of Timodemus at Nemea presage his ultimate destiny here at Olympia. Your friend is good. Very good. I’ve rarely seen better, and believe me, I’ve seen them all.”
A small party of Spartans passed us by, recognizable by the scarlet cloaks. Pindar drank deep of his wine. When the Spartans had passed, he said, “But I’ve rarely seen such antagonism between contestants.”