“I acknowledge the truth of what you say, Pleistarchus,” I said gratefully. “Let’s move on to the death of Iphicles the chariot driver.”
“An unfortunate accident,” said Markos.
“Very unfortunate, because Iphicles saw the murderer.”
“No, he saw Arakos.”
“Then why didn’t Petale see Iphicles?” I shot back. “Petale says she saw Arakos and no one else leave the women’s camp.”
I paused for them to consider.
“Iphicles, while blind drunk, followed a man through the women’s camp and into the forest. It must have been either before or after Petale left her tent to relieve herself. The man directed Iphicles back onto the path to the river ford. That man must have been the murderer.”
“We’ll never know now,” said Markos.
“No, we won’t. There’s been an unfortunate tendency for witnesses to die. Let’s consider the fake Heracles, who was murdered in the Temple of Zeus.”
Markos turned to the judges. “I remind you, sirs, the question in hand is the murder of Arakos. Any other deaths, however regrettable, are incidental.”
Exelon nodded. “Markos makes a fair point. This trial is for the murder of Arakos.” Thus was the death of the pathetic little Heracles consigned to the same insignificance as his life.
I tossed my two ostraka on the table to rest with the one Markos had presented.
“The first message declares Timodemus innocent. The second asks for a meeting in the Temple of Zeus. Clearly the fake Heracles knew something about the murder.”
“The killer’s name?” suggested Pleistarchus.
“No, the murder weapon,” I said.
“There are no weapons at Olympia,” said Exelon at once.
“Yes, there are,” I replied. “The clubs carried by the Heracles imitators! Perfect to beat a man to death, even a top pankratist, if he doesn’t expect the blow, and especially if it comes from someone he has no reason to distrust. Arakos was stunned by the first blow to his forehead, just like the oxen in the sacrifice. After that it was a simple matter to finish him.”
Silence while everyone absorbed that. I could almost feel the ideas rearrange themselves in the minds of my audience.
I said, “Someone took the club from the fake Heracles and used it to kill Arakos.”
“You still have no proof,” said Exelon.
“You’re right, Chief Judge. It’s not certain proof, but it was enough to make me look for certain proof.”
I held up the twisted bit of metal for everyone to see. “This is the linchpin from Iphicles’s chariot.”
Then I turned to the murderer.
“You made one mistake, Markos. As soon as you knew Iphicles had seen you, the chariot driver had to die. You remembered the story of Pelops and King Oinomaos, and how the groom Myrtilus pulled the linchpin. So you pulled the linchpin straight after the crew had checked the equipment. I even watched you crouch to do it. The entire pit crew can swear you were the only man who could have pulled this pin.”
Silence. Everyone waited for Markos to speak. His expression gave nothing away.
Without a word, Markos pulled out a handful of coins. He placed them in a single pile on the table, where everyone could count them. Fifty drachmae.
Markos was no fool; he knew the door would be heavily guarded.
So he ran for the window.
Gorgo stood between him and his escape. Markos raised his arm to strike her out of the way, and I gasped. Even a slight blow could kill the weak queen, but there was no time to reach him.
Diotima threw her priestess knife. The blade slid across his arm and sliced the skin. Markos yelped and skipped around Gorgo and dived through the open window.
“After him!” A dozen voices shouted.
I ambled over to watch.
Markos ran down the narrow lane. Standing at the end, blocking the path, was Pythax. Pythax snarled. Markos had no club with which to beat a larger man now. He skidded to a halt, turned, and sprinted in the other direction.
Straight into Dromeus, who advanced from the other end. Dromeus hammered him hard. Markos staggered back.
Pythax and Dromeus converged on Markos. They beat him with their fists. As far as they were concerned, Markos was a dead man. Markos, to his credit, took it in silence and hit back when he could. I’d always admired him.
“Gentlemen! If we could have him alive, please?” I shouted.
“Here’s what I think happened,” I said, after a dazed, bruised, and bleeding Markos had been hauled back between Pythax and Dromeus.
“Even before the Games began, Xenares gave Markos orders to stir up trouble between Athens and Sparta, because the ephors want a rallying cry to take down Athens.”
“But Markos is a member of the hippeis!” Pleistarchus objected. “Not the krypteia.”
“Actually, Pleistarchus, he works for both. A double agent. When we interviewed Xenares about the krypteia, Xenares assumed automatically that Markos had told me there were krypteia at Olympia. He hadn’t; it was your mother, Queen Gorgo, who discovered it through her own sources. Markos belongs to the hippeis, and the krypteia are famously secretive. Why would Xenares assume Markos could say where they are? On its own it might not have meant much, but combined with the proof that Markos had performed the killings, and that Gorgo confirmed there was no particular motive for any Spartan to murder Arakos, and that Markos barely knew his victim, the only remaining reason was to cause trouble between Athens and Sparta, which it certainly did. The man at Olympia who hates Athens the most is Xenares, and the krypteia take their orders from Xenares.”
Every eye turned to Xenares. He stood, unrepentant. “I remind you, Pleistarchus, that a serving member of the ephors cannot be indicted for any crime.”
“Your term has only six months left to run,” said Pleistarchus coldly. “Then you are vulnerable.”
“That’s as may be. Much can change in six months.”
Pleistarchus and Xenares stared at each other, both men full of hatred. It was going to be a frosty trip back to Sparta.
I said, “Arakos wasn’t killed for rivalry in either sport or love. He was killed to start a war between Sparta and Athens. The philosopher Empedocles told me strife and love move everything. Arakos wasn’t killed for love; he was killed for strife. It almost worked, too. How close are we to open fighting?”
“Close. Very close,” Pericles said, and Pleistarchus nodded.
“So Markos arrived at Olympia already with an eye out for opportunities to cause trouble. What’s the first thing he sees? Timodemus attacks Arakos during the opening ceremony, in front of thousands of witnesses. It was a genuine case of rivalry between two great athletes, in a squabble over a woman. Then and there, Markos has his plan. He will murder Arakos in such a way that everyone believes only Timodemus could have done it.
“My guess is, Markos was inspired when he ran into the fake Heracles. Weapons are banned under the Sacred Truce, but no one considers those clubs a weapon. Markos snatched the club from the fake Heracles, just as I did when he swung it at Diotima and me earlier that same afternoon. I imagine Markos threatened the fake Heracles. He said the krypteia would slit his throat if the Heracles said anything, and the fake Heracles, being from the Peloponnese, would be aware of the charming Spartan custom known as the krypteia, of cutting the throats of irritating locals.
“Markos lured Arakos into the woods with the false message, then beat him to death with the club. Astonishingly simple, really. But Olympia is a very crowded place. There was always the risk someone would see something.
“Iphicles, dead drunk, followed a man into the forest. As soon as Iphicles told us this, before the race, Markos crouched, ostensibly to inspect the chariot, but in fact to hide his face before Iphicles recognized him. While he crouched, Markos had to think quickly. He pulled the linchpin, with the reasonable hope Iphicles would have a terrible accident on the track, and so it proved.