I put my hands under my exomis and checked my chest. I had to admit, there were men with broader, better muscled chests, especially around here. Maybe I should ask Timo’s coach Dromeus for some exercises to make my own chest more manly.
But that would have to wait until tomorrow. It was getting late. Even the parties in the distance had quietened as the drunks fell by the wayside.
I yawned and lay back to relax.
“Are you all right?” a voice said in my ear.
I sat bolt upright. A man stood beside me. It was Festianos, Timo’s uncle. His cheeks were flushed enough that it showed in the bright moonlight. A garland of flowers sat askew atop his thinning hair.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said when he recognized me. “You’re Timo’s friend, aren’t you? I thought you must be a drunk who’d passed out beside our tents. You were asleep.”
“I wasn’t asleep. I merely rested my eyes.”
Festianos laughed. “Then you’re one of the few men who snores when he’s awake.”
I never snore. But Festianos had worried me. I lifted Timo’s tent flap quietly to peer inside. There was Timodemus, on his camp bed. The blanket that covered him rose and fell softly. I let the flap fall back.
“It’s good news about the lad, isn’t it?” Festianos said.
“Yes, it is.”
“We’re very proud of him, my brother and I.”
I yawned. I couldn’t stop myself.
“Why don’t you go get some sleep?” Festianos said.
“I have to keep an eye on Timodemus.”
“I can do that. Old men like me don’t need as much sleep as you young ones.”
I hesitated. My head ached. My eyes felt like someone had rubbed grit in them. I could indeed use some sleep, and wouldn’t I be a better guard for Timodemus in the morning if I was rested? He was safe enough with his uncle.
“I’ll do that. Thanks, Festianos.”
I left him sitting outside their tents, with his head back, the garland circlet crooked on his head, watching the moon and stars.
I staggered into the small tent I shared with my brother Socrates. Our father snored in an even smaller one beside us. Socrates was already asleep. It was chilly. I pulled my traveling cloak over me and edged close enough to my brother to steal some of his warmth. I was so tired I don’t remember falling asleep.
“Wake up! Wake up, Nico!” That was Socrates, his voice anxious.
“Huh. What?” I rolled over. “Go to sleep, Socrates.”
“Get up!” Someone swore mightily and kicked me in the back. Hard. Not Socrates.
I sat bolt upright while my hand scrabbled around for a knife it couldn’t find. “Who is it?”
My eyes focused. Two men stood in our tent. Both wore light armor but held no weapons in hand. The one leaned over me, and I wished he hadn’t because he’d been eating garlic. “Get up. You’re wanted.”
I struggled not to gag. “By whom?”
I expected him to say Pericles.
“Timodemus asked for you. Better hurry if you want to be there for the death.”
I moved.
I grabbed my exomis and pulled it over my head as we marched. The almost-full moon was high, the sky cloudless. It was easy to step among the tents and equipment left lying on the ground. A few men were still awake, clustered around fires drinking, talking, singing, and arguing. They watched us pass, the two guards and me, with Socrates trailing behind. I let him come; there wasn’t time to stop to argue with him.
To my surprise we left the Athenian camp altogether and followed the path that snaked past the camp of the Spartans, and I choked with fear. Had they dragged Timodemus within?
Apparently not, because we hurried by the entrance without pause.
The Sacred Truce meant even mortal enemies could pitch their tents side by side in perfect safety, but still the Spartans arranged their own tents in regular clusters, and they left nothing loose on the ground for men to trip over if there were a sudden call to arms. I suppose they knew no other way.
The guards led me to the river Kladeos, which flows north to south along the western edge of Olympia. We crossed the ford without a word to the sentries, who in silence watched us pass by. The water was chilled and moved with relative speed, enough that a hurrying man might slip, but the people of Elis had long ago placed strong stepping-stones; it was easy to cross with only damp feet.
The path on the other side forked. To the left was the women’s camp, to the right a forest that had been there in the days of Heracles. We went right.
I could see our destination now. A group of men clustered among the trees, easy to spot because two or three carried torches despite the moonlight.
I discerned a lump on the ground. The lump became a man, the man a body, lying all too still.
A body large enough to look like a mound.
A man with his back to us turned as we stepped into what I now realized was a small clearing.
“You’re too late,” said the Chief Judge of the Games. “Arakos has died.”
The flicker of the torchlight across his face made the Chief Judge look like one of the Furies, and he was approximately as angry. He held in his right hand the badge of his office: a long staff, which forked into a Y, and this he stamped into the ground.
“Who are you?” he demanded of me.
“I am Nicolaos son of Sophroniscus, of Athens,” I said.
“This is the man Timodemus requested, Exelon,” said one the guards. “You said to bring him.”
“Oh. So I did.” Exelon the Chief Judge studied me for a long moment. “You’re a young man. Why?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll grow out of it.”
“I mean, why did Timodemus call for you? Why not a responsible older man?”
“Is Timodemus also dead, sir?” I asked, anxious for my friend. “Is he hurt? Where is he?”
I looked around. I counted at least thirteen men within the clearing, in various states of visibility, depending on their proximity to the torches and their obscurity behind the thick vegetation. The moon was bright above us, so that the clearing itself was well lit. Yet the coverage of leaves upon the surrounding trees was such that in some parts of the perimeter I couldn’t see if anyone was there. The body lay in one of those shadows.
The Chief Judge of the Games said, “You are here at the request of the accused. It seems only fair to give him a chance to explain, if he can.”
“Timodemus is accused?”
At that moment Pericles bustled into the clearing, accompanied by One-Eye, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I agreed with Exelon the Chief Judge on one point: this was no place for a young man to represent Athens.
“One-Eye’s told me what happened.” The usually elegant Pericles was unkempt by his high standards. His hair was uncombed. He wore no himation-Pericles owned one made of the finest Milesian wool, and he normally would not be seen dead out of doors without it. He did wear a formal chiton, but it was smudged and crumpled. Was it possible that Pericles, like any normal man, dropped his clothes on the floor when he went to bed? He’d forgotten to put on sandals.
Exelon banged his forked staff on the ground again and said, “I blame Athens for this disaster, Pericles. Your man attacked Arakos this morning, and now Arakos is murdered.”
“A scuffle in the morning does not necessarily mean murder in the evening,” Pericles said.
“There’s more,” said the Chief Judge. He moved a step to the side.
Over the shoulder of the Judge I saw Timodemus with his head bowed and a guard to either side of him. The guards held his arms tight. It was the second relief for me for that night. I’d been afraid that Timodemus too lay dead or dying.
Timodemus looked up at that moment, and our eyes met. His were unreadable. The expression on his face was identical to the one he wore in the pankration, the same expression I’d seen right before we’d fought that very morning.
Pericles said, “What do you have to say about this, Timodemus?”
“There’s nothing I can say,” Timodemus said. “I didn’t kill him. I haven’t even seen Arakos since this morning.”