Sacred Games by Gary Corby Read Free Book Online Page B

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 atThermopylae 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 caresof 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.
    “This whole question of the guilt of Timodemus can be put away at once,” Pericles declared. “Nicolaos has watched over Timodemus like a hungry eagle, every moment since he was reinstated to the competition. He can certainly swear that