The judges sat behind a long bench table. At once slaves placed cups of watered wine in their hands. As one they downed the drink and held out their cups for more. If the red skin on their faces and necks was any indication, being under the sun for four days had given them all severe sunburn.
Exelon opened the proceedings. “I have a pounding headache. Can we make this quick?”
Quick, to consider a man’s life?
“The situation is unusual,” Exelon continued with the understatement of the Games. “But we will proceed along normal lines.” Exelon nodded at Markos. “We begin with the prosecution case against Timodemus.”
Markos stepped forward and said suavely. “I’ll be brief.” Ten judges nodded in appreciation. Under my breath, I cursed his self-assurance. Why couldn’t I be like that?
“Gentlemen, we can twist and turn all we like,” began Markos. “We can consider one hypothesis or another. We can list suspects. We can check their alibis. We can consider motive until the Gods themselves go gray of advanced age. We can do all these things, but we can’t escape one fact: who could beat to death the second-best unarmed fighter in Hellas, other than the very best? That, gentlemen, is the heart of the issue. I need hardly mention that everyone saw Timodemus attack Arakos on the morning of the murder.”
Markos spoke with such authority, his words measured and reasoned, that I found myself unconsciously nodding in agreement. When I realized what I was doing, I stopped. But I knew what effect his words must be having on the others.
“And the motive for this killing?” Xenares the ephor asked.
“Timodemus cheated at the Nemean Games. Arakos knew it and intended to expose him.”
Exclamations from the judges, though I knew at least half of them must have heard the rumors.
“And the method of cheating?” Xenares prompted. The two must have prearranged this dialogue.
“Witchcraft,” Markos said.
Gasps, and murmurs of shock.
“Is this true?” one judge demanded.
“I believe so, sir,” said Markos. “Arakos, who had been at Nemea and lost to Timodemus in the last round, stood ready to expose what had happened there. Of course such news would disqualify the accused for the Olympics.”
“These are lies!” Timo shouted.
“The rumors about Nemea are rife,” Markos said calmly. “You can check them for yourselves.”
Several men nodded. It seemed they already had.
“The final evidence is this.” Markos tossed onto the bench the ostrakon he’d found in the tent of Arakos. It clattered across the wooden top, loud in the sudden silence of the room. A judge picked up the broken pottery to read the message I’d seen two days ago: Timodemus says this to Arakos: I offer to meet you in the woods across the river tonight.
“The implication is clear,” said Markos. “Timodemus lured Arakos to the woods with this message. Timodemus struck Arakos on the forehead without warning-you’ve all seen the body-then beat him to death.”
Markos stepped back.
“A brilliant summary, Markos. Short, succinct, conclusive,” said Xenares.
“What says Athens?” Exelon demanded.
“I can explain this, sirs,” I said. “But … uh … it might take a little while.”
Ten judges frowned. I licked my lips, and tasted salty sweat. I hadn’t realized until that moment how hot and close was the room.
I plowed on. “Timodemus stands accused of cheating through witchcraft, a charge for which there’s no defense; it’s all but impossible to prove innocence in such cases.”
I paused.
“I call upon Festianos, the uncle of Timodemus, to give evidence.”
“What’s this?” Festianos stepped to the center. He looked worried.
“Only that you were at Nemea, Festianos.”
“As were hundreds of men. Most of them are at Olympia.”
I ignored Festianos and said to Exelon, “Sir, I’ll need some other evidence. I call for Diotima, a lady of Athens.”
“You’re bringing in a woman?” Exelon said.
“Uh, two women actually, sir. The other one’s a pornê. I also have a doctor. Oh, and my little brother.”
Before Exelon could object, I opened the door, where stood waiting Diotima and Petale and behind them Socrates and Heraclides.
Diotima walked in and placed on the table before the judges a large canvas bag. It rattled and clattered. She untied it and pulled out the case of vials.
“Festianos, can you tell me what this is?” I said. Diotima opened the case for all to see the vials inside.
Festianos was bug-eyed. “Where did you get this?” he said.
“From your tent.”
One-Eye exclaimed, “You searched our tent?”
“For a good reason, One-Eye,” I said. “Bear with me.”
“This is medicine,” said Festianos. “For my arthritis and the shakes with which I am sometimes afflicted. A doctor prescribed it.”
“Is your doctor here at Olympia?”
“In Athens.”
“Then there’s no way to corroborate your story.”
“Why should there be? It’s medicine.”
“This is poison hemlock.”
“I don’t deny it,” said Festianos. “The doctor warned me not to take too much at a time.”
“Or else?”
“Or else it could kill me. I am to swallow a vial when the pain in my joints is particularly bad or if my body begins to shake, and at no time am I to take more than one vial every two days.”
Heraclides, who stood at the back of the room, nodded in approval. He said, “The statement of Festianos agrees with what many doctors would prescribe.”
I said, “Sirs, allow me to introduce Heraclides, a doctor from Kos. He told me that a potion made from a single leaf is medicinal, but that as few as six leaves are certain to be fatal.”
Festianos shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not a doctor.”
“How much hemlock is in each of these vials, Festianos?” I asked.
“I believe two leaves.”
“You don’t know?”
“All right, yes, it’s two.” Festianos wiped his brow.
“Heraclides?” I asked.
The doctor said, “Two leaves in a healthy man would not be a fatal dose.”
“But it would make a man sick?” I asked.
“He would feel lethargic, numb. He would be leaden-footed. Any movement would be a struggle.”
“Like an athlete having a bad day,” I said.
“The symptoms might resemble an athlete off his game,” Heraclides agreed.
“Sirs,” I turned to the judges, “I have spoken with the pankratists who competed at Nemea. They say that when they fought against Timodemus, they felt as if they had heavy legs.”
“Nicolaos, what are you thinking?” Pericles said, beside himself. He wrung his hands. “Have you forgotten your orders …?”
Pericles trailed off. He dared not admit his orders to me before the assembled personages.
I said, “My Olympic Oath requires me to prove or disprove Timo’s guilt in the matter of the death of Arakos. I can only do so by discovering what really happened at Nemea last year.”
Pleistarchus said, “We all know what he’s thinking, Pericles, and I must say the idea’s an interesting one. Do you intend to protect this man?”
“You know I can’t,” Pericles said testily.
“Nicolaos suggests this man Festianos gave mild poison to everyone except his own nephew,” said King Pleistarchus, plainly intrigued. He had followed the conversation closely. I was sure he knew where this was going. “It appears we may have been a little hasty in condemning Timodemus.” Pleistarchus was obviously enjoying every moment of this. “What do you think, Exelon?”
The Chief Judge looked at the King of Sparta with some irritation. “I think we need to hear the answer from Festianos.”
“This is ridiculous,” One-Eye protested. “First my son is accused of murder, then my brother of poison. This is nothing less than a conspiracy against my family and I demand-”
“You haven’t proven a thing,” Festianos interrupted. “How did I get the poison into the athletes?”