I said to the Chief Judge, “Did you find Timodemus here?”
“Close by, in the women’s camp. Hiding.”
“Hiding?” That didn’t sound like Timodemus.
“Guards found him in the tent of Klymene, the High Priestess of Demeter,” the Chief Judge said grimly.
Uh-oh. The Priestess of Demeter was an integral part of the Sacred Games; the contests could not be held without her. If Timodemus had hurt or polluted the priestess by his presence, then the Games would be delayed, and ten thousand angry sports fans would butcher Timo before the day was out. I decided not to ask the obvious question.
“What he was doing in the women’s camp is irrelevant,” said Exelon. The Chief Judge seemed equally reluctant to follow that line of thought. “The fact is the women’s camp is the shortest of runs from where we stand, and that is meaningful in the extreme.”
“The implication is obvious,” Pericles said. “But that’s all it is: an implication. How many other men were in the women’s camp tonight? Hundreds, at least, probably thousands. No court would convict a man for that.”
“You’re not in Athens now, with your courts and your rhetorical tricks,” said Exelon. “This is Olympia, where the Ten Judges decide. It’s in our power to ban Athens from the next Olympics.”
Pericles said at once, “I apologize, Exelon. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
Pericles contrite was a sight to behold, but not at the cost of Timodemus, which was the way this was headed. Something had to be done. I asked, “How did Arakos die?”
“See for yourself.” The Chief Judge stepped back to let me pass.
The body lay in half darkness. I knelt down. It was impossible to see detail.
“Can I have some light here?”
One of the torchbearers stepped over beside me, and suddenly the scene was revealed. The flame was fresh and still smoked considerably and burned with a strong yellow light that was hot and eerie in how it revealed the ghastly corpse.
Arakos had been laid out straight, a scarlet cloak placed under his head. It was the standard-issue cloak beloved of the Spartans. Blood had dribbled from his crushed nose and mouth and now dried on his cheek. His jaw hung slack, and there were bloody gaps where teeth had been. But the worst was his eyes had been gouged out, both of them. The sockets were bloody holes.
I looked behind me at once, to where Socrates stood. He’d never seen violent death before. Well, now he had. I worried what effect the ugly sight had on my little brother.
“What happened to his eyes?” Socrates asked in the same casually clinical tone he used for all his questions.
So much for worrying about my little brother’s mental health.
But it was a good question. Where were Arakos’s eyes?
Something small and sharp jabbed under my knee. There were some front teeth, in a small pool of blood. But not enough teeth. I opened his mouth and felt about inside, with a finger. Yes, I felt a few more teeth lying loose. Whoever had hit Arakos had done a thorough job.
“Who found him?”
A man stepped forward. “I did.”
He spoke with a Spartan accent. Terrific.
“What were you doing in these woods so late at night?”
Another man said stepped forward and said, “I was with him.” He took hold of the first man’s hand.
“Er … right. Nice night for a walk, I guess. Is this how you found him?”
“No, he was alive. We tried to save him.”
“How did he lie?”
“Curled in on himself, knees drawn up, arms wrapped about his torso, facedown in the dirt.”
It was the position of a man being beaten who has no way to fight back.
Arakos couldn’t fight back?
I inspected his wrists and his ankles. There were no tie marks, no indents into the skin that might have been caused by the pressure of a tight thong. His arms and legs were also clear of all but the bruises any fighter carries.
There was a large clot of blood in his hair. I pressed on it, gently at first, then harder. The scalp, and the bone beneath, moved inward under the pressure. In fact it wobbled. This was probably what had killed him.
I asked the group in general, “Did Arakos say anything before he died?”
“He was unconscious most of the time.” A man in the outer shadows spoke up. “He breathed in a funny way. Really labored, you know? And he blew bubbles of blood.”
Everyone knew what that meant. Arakos had been struck in the chest, and the ribs had pierced his lungs. I lifted his chiton and probed. There were no open wounds, but there was movement beneath the skin where there should not have been.
By all appearances, Arakos, one of the finest bare-handed fighters in all Hellas, had been beaten to death.
I stood up and dusted off my knees. “This is impossible.”
The man who stood next to the Chief Judge said, “It seems obvious enough to me. The Athenian surprised Arakos, perhaps in an ambush, and hit him from behind. There are many trees and other places from which to leap. He knocked out Arakos with the first blow and then proceeded to beat an unconscious man to death.” The man who spoke was middle-aged, perhaps fifteen years older than me, but his shoulders were broad, and he looked fit. He had a rich, dark beard and black, curly hair that was well kept. He stood straight and wore a cloak of the deepest scarlet.
I said to him, “With no weapon, not even a knife? Why wouldn’t the killer wait until Arakos had passed and stab him in the back?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time things didn’t go to plan in an ambush,” he replied. “Especially in a night attack.”
“In my experience it’s unlikely,” I said, doing my best for Timodemus. “And I have some expertise in these matters; I’ve examined more than one crime scene.”
He said, “In my judgment it makes perfect sense, and I know something about ambushes.”
“Who are you to be making judgments?” I demanded.
He said mildly, “I am Pleistarchus, son of Leonidas, of Sparta.”
My stomach lurched. Dear Gods, I had challenged a King of Sparta, one of the most powerful men in Hellas. This man’s father was the Leonidas who had led the Three Hundred at Thermopylae and died the most revered warrior of our times. With a word, Pleistarchus could have an army of Spartans at his back-there was one available in their camp-and the dead man before us was one of his own. I swallowed.
“I’m sorry, King Pleistarchus,” I said, as apologetic as I could be. “I didn’t recognize you. But I don’t think your idea can be right.”
“Why not?” He didn’t seem offended.
I touched the body’s head. “See this wound? It’s toward the front, almost on the forehead, and slightly on the left-hand side. This wound could not have been made from behind. It was almost certainly made by a right-handed man from in front.”
King Pleistarchus leaned over and examined the body with an air of genuine curiosity. “You’re right. Is there any wound behind?”
I was already running my hands around the back of the head. “Nothing there.”
“What of his back?” Pleistarchus waved to two soldiers, who together rolled over the heavy, awkward corpse. We all three felt about.
Nothing. No wounds. In the combined torchlight and strong moonlight we could see bruises, but with death there would be bruising in any case.
Another Spartan stepped forward. “Pleistarchus, I remind you this man who examines the body of our comrade is an Athenian. He will say or do anything to get another Athenian off the charge.”
The man spoke as if to a difficult and slow child. I waited for the King of Sparta to explode, but all he said was, “I know this, Xenares. Trust me, I will keep it in mind.”
The man named Xenares was dressed in the style of formal chiton that covered him from neck to ankles in one long, flowing robe. He had a small, pinched mouth that looked like it was set in a permanent expression of distaste. Or perhaps it was the cares of office, for he seemed to be an official of some sort. He turned to one of the Spartan soldiers and said, “Send for Markos.” The soldier scampered off as if he’d received a command from Zeus.