Sacred Games by Gary Corby Read Free Book Online Page A

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