Sacred Games (20 page)

“But—”

“It’s not murder,” Pleistarchus said. “Every year, at their inauguration, the ephors declare war on our own helots, so that it’s legal to kill them at any time.”

“Oh, well! That’s all right then!”

“It’s been this way for centuries, Nico,” Markos consoled me. “If it makes you feel better, we only target the troublemakers who would have gotten themselves killed sooner or later anyway.”

Pleistarchus went on, “A few of the young men, the ones who demonstrate unusual aptitude at the helot-killing part of the test, and who are judged to possess the personality to match, are recruited by the ephors to join a secret organization of the same name: the krypteia, the Secrets. When something unsavory has to be done for the good of the state, the ephors turn to the krypteia. Like the hippeis, the krypteia serves the state, but where the hippeis exists to secure the state in the light of day, the krypteia works in the dark to … er …”

“Eliminate problems?” I suggested.

“Just so. I don’t understand what’s happening, Nicolaos son of Sophroniscus, but when you tell me ‘the secrets’ killed Arakos, you are probably thinking of hidden information. But it might mean something quite different.”

I asked, “Does Arakos have anything to do with this?”

Markos said smoothly, “Arakos was neither a knight nor, as far as we know, a member of the krypteia. He was just a big oaf who was good at hitting people.”

“Markos is offensive but correct,” Pleistarchus said. “Arakos was an outstanding if slightly dimwitted warrior—a fine man in the ranks, but not officer material. Now he’s become an excuse for war for those who want it. If there’s any danger of you exonerating the Athenian, it will be cause for war.”

So if I saved Timo, who was only one man, then many thousands of men might die in battle. Terrific.

Diotima said to King Pleistarchus, “Why don’t you simply ask this krypteia organization if they’re involved? And if they’ve acted without orders, why can’t you simply order the krypteia to stop whatever they’re doing?”

“The krypteia wouldn’t obey me, even if I knew who they were.”

“You don’t know?”

“As I command the hippeis, so the ephors command the krypteia. They’re entirely different units within Sparta. Only the ephors know the members of the krypteia. I won’t risk open conflict with the ephors, neither here at Olympia nor back in Sparta. When you three walk out of this tent, you’re on your own.”

“Are Skarithos and his friends krypteia?”

Markos said, “I should hope the ephors have better taste than that. But who knows?”

“Surely, Pleistarchus,” I said, “the ephors would not dare challenge the authority of the kings?”

Pleistarchus snorted. “This wouldn’t be the first time the ephors have acted against the kings. Why, my own grandsire …” He trailed off.

Diotima said, “King Pleistarchus, would a Spartan assassin really kill another Spartan, and if so, why? This is hard to believe.”

“Then I must take you to someone who will convince you, someone who, frankly, I’d rather avoid.”

“Who’s that, sir?”

Pleistarchus shuddered. “My mother.”

P
LEISTARCHUS DEPARTED TO
arrange the interview.

I said, “Quick, Markos, what do you know about Queen Gorgo?”

“Daughter of one king, wife to another, mother to a third,” he replied. “Gorgo’s been the power behind the kings of Sparta for three generations. They say she’s the smartest woman in Hellas.”

“A likely story,” sniffed Diotima, who had her own pretensions in that area. “They always make these claims about royalty.”

“Well, you’re about to have your chance to find out,” Markos told her.

A guard came, and we were escorted, Diotima, Markos, and I, to the tent of Queen Gorgo, in the very center of the camp.
I would never have guessed the tent contained royalty, for it looked like any other. The dowager queen of Sparta sat within upon a hard wooden chair, the only concession to comfort an upright back. A guard stood at attention behind her, and it wasn’t merely for show; the man looked ready to kill the slightest threat.

Gorgo was so thin I could count her bones. Her hair was tied back and gray, which exposed the outline of her skull. The image was accentuated by perfect teeth that seemed too large for the rest of her. Her hands were like the claws of a bird. Her dark eyes had the look of an alert and merciless eagle.

Gorgo noticed me, and I felt like some bug crawling underfoot.

She said, “So you’re the ones they say are causing so much trouble.”

I waited for Markos to defend us, but when he stood silent I replied, “I think the one causing the trouble, Queen Gorgo, is the man who murdered Arakos.”

“No need to get uppity with me, young man. I said that’s what people in Olympia are saying. I didn’t say I agreed. My son tells me you need to know about the krypteia.”

“We asked the question,” I said. “An anonymous note claims secrets killed Arakos. Pleistarchus thinks it might refer to the Spartan krypteia, but there are other interpretations. Would the krypteia really murder one of their own citizens? And if so, why? Especially since, except for his ability to fight, there was nothing special about Arakos.”

“Nothing special,” Gorgo repeated, then said, “There’s one thing about Arakos, but I cannot conceive of it as a motive for murder. Did you know that the father of Arakos was one of the Three Hundred?”

“Markos told me.”

“His father fought and died at the gates of Thermopylae, alongside my husband Leonidas. After the war, I personally made sure that the children of the Three Hundred were cared
for. If anyone harms a child of the Three Hundred, it’s as if they harmed my own. You understand?”

“Yes, Queen Gorgo.”

“Tell me what you know.”

I did. It was the first chance I’d had to explain to Markos the anonymous note on the ostrakon and its strange message. He exclaimed when he heard it.

I finished by saying, “And so we want to learn whatever we can of this krypteia.”

“I see.” Gorgo was silent for a long moment. Then she said, “There’s a family history …”

“Yes?”

“My father, Cleomenes, was king of Sparta. My father—how shall I put this delicately?—my father went stark raving mad.”

“That’s delicate?” I asked the Queen of Sparta.

“I’m known for speaking my mind.”

“Insanity is sent by the Gods,” Diotima pointed out. “Usually to punish.”

The Dowager Queen examined Diotima head to foot, like an officer examines a soldier. “You are?”

“I am Diotima of Mantinea.” Diotima lifted her chin proudly.

“Your accent says you’re Athenian.”

“Yes, Gorgo. I go by the name of my mother’s city.” I could tell Diotima was favorably impressed by the way she stood a little straighter, as she would before a high priestess.

Gorgo said, “You’re right, Diotima of Mantinea. Insanity is the curse of the Gods. In my father’s case, in the war against the Argives, he dragged prisoners from a temple sanctuary and cut them to pieces.”

I winced. “That would do it.” To abuse temple sanctuary is almost the greatest crime there is.

“So the Gods cursed my father, and his condition worsened until the family had no choice but to put him in chains. Can you imagine the shame? A king of Sparta in chains? Then, one
day soon thereafter, they found him dead.” Gorgo sat up even straighter, if that were possible.

“The official story is that, while still chained in his cell, my father obtained a knife from the helot who was set to guard him. My father used the knife to skin himself alive, beginning at the shins, and laid his own flesh in strips beside him, all the way to his thighs. When he was finished there was only the meat and muscles and veins. The feet he left. I don’t know why. It made the sight all the more horrific, to see those normal feet at the end of legs with the meat hanging off.” Gorgo shuddered, her first sign of humanity.

“Then he started on his groin. I won’t tell you what he did to himself there. He died as he sliced the last of the skin from his stomach.”

“This is terrible,” said Diotima, truly shocked.

“The moronic guard claimed my father had threatened him if he didn’t hand over the knife. I didn’t believe his story. I insisted the fool be executed.”

“You said that was the
official
story,” I prompted.

“Your stress on the word is correct. My father was mad, I don’t deny it, but he wasn’t insane enough to strip the flesh of his body with his own hands. My father’s condition was an embarrassment to the Spartans.” Gorgo waved an arm, almost dismissively. “Something had to be done. I suspect something was done. I have no proof, but I believe he was killed and the death purported to be his own act. The krypteia are the natural suspects. You asked if the krypteia could kill a Spartan. They could. They’d even dare to murder a king.”

I said, “None of this explains why the ephors or the krypteia would target Arakos. The motive escapes me.”

Gorgo laughed, without the slightest trace of humor. “You’re the ones who asked the question. It may be, as you suggest, that these secrets are not Spartan ones. Arakos spent an unusually long time on his own, out of Sparta, on account of his athletic
prowess.” She thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t know if it’s relevant, but I talked to him last year, after the Games at Nemea.”

“Yes?”

“He was very unhappy with the result. Well, who wouldn’t be? He came in second.”

“Second’s better than last,” I said.

“In a war, second
is
last, and Spartans don’t raise losers. Arakos seemed to think there’d been cheating. I put it down to anger at losing.”

“Thank you for telling us this,” I said.

“There’s no requirement to thank me. I do this purely out of self-interest.” Her expression didn’t change as she added, “I’m an ill woman; soon I will depart for Hades, and there’s no telling what those idiot men will do without me to guide them. I need to engineer a period of peace while I still can, but this investigation threatens to destabilize all of Hellas. I need you to find a solution that gives me a chance to keep people calm.”

That seemed to be what everyone wanted. The problem was, everyone disagreed on what constituted the right solution.

“And if we find Timodemus did kill Arakos?” Diotima asked. “What will you do then, Queen Gorgo?”

“Cheer on my men as they lay waste to Attica.”

I nodded automatically. This was the wife of Leonidas, who had led the Three Hundred. She had watched and waved to her own husband as he marched off on a suicide mission. The Queen of Sparta would do whatever had to be done.

“Are there any of these krypteia at Olympia?” Diotima asked.

“If there are, I’ll discover it and let you know.”

“How?” Markos asked. He probably thought that if he couldn’t find the answer, then no woman could, not even a queen.

“I have my sources, young man, and they’re not for you to question.”

Markos bowed his head.

“The head man at Athens, who is it these days?” Gorgo asked.

“Athens is a democracy,” I said at once. “We’re
all
the head man. No one’s vote counts for more than anyone else’s, no one can tell us what to do, and we share the decisions.”

“Don’t give me that rubbish,” said Gorgo. “I was doing power politics when you sucked on your mother’s teats.” Diotima stifled a laugh. “Now, tell me who leads Athens.”

“Pericles,” I said, reluctant to admit it to an outsider.

“I’d heard the same,” Gorgo said. “The son of Xanthippus, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“I know Xanthippus. Not as great a man as my late husband, of course, but a good man. He would have made a reasonable Spartan. Tell me, is the son like the father?”

“Pericles?” I was nonplussed for a moment. How would one describe Pericles? “When Pericles talks, people listen.”

Gorgo grimaced. “I know the type. I wager he’s untrustworthy.”

“Er …”

“That’s the problem with these elected rulers,” Gorgo said. “They always make short-term decisions to make themselves look good. The ephors are the same. Now if Athens had a king to run things, no one would be under pressure to get re-elected, and the people could be ruled well for the long term.”

“What if the king’s not too bright?” I objected.

“Then they listen to me. I’ve advised the Spartans since I was eight years old.”

“
Eight
? The Spartans listened to
a child
?” I couldn’t believe it. “What could an eight-year-old possibly have to say?”

She smiled grimly, but answered in a matter-of-fact tone, “I advised my father, the king, not to invade Persia, which he was considering. It was my first move into foreign policy. One of my better decisions, too, if I may say.”

“I’m impressed, Queen Gorgo,” Diotima said. “For all your
life, the Spartans have followed your advice, while I, who live in a democracy, have no chance of being listened to. How is that you Spartan women are the only ones who can rule men?”

Gorgo turned her eagle eyes on my wife. “It’s because we’re the only ones who give birth to real men.”

Diotima looked Gorgo in the eye. “We’ll see about that,” she said.

There was nothing more to say. We turned to depart.

“Athenian!”

I stopped. “Yes, Queen Gorgo?”

“I like your woman. Bring her back sometime.”

M
ARKOS SAID HE
had things to attend to at the Spartan camp. Diotima went to look for Socrates, whom she’d volunteered to keep an eye on and then neglected. A child was safe enough at Olympia, but she thought she’d better at least confirm he was still alive. I went straight to Pindar. Whatever had happened at Nemea, it was clear we needed to know about it.

Pindar was easy to find, because the afternoon of the second day is reserved for religious rites. I found him in the Sanctuary of Zeus, where he stood upon an unoccupied stone pedestal and declaimed poetry. He might have been a statue himself, the way he stood with his back straight and clutched the front of his formal chiton in a dignified manner.

A small group of men and women had clustered about.

He saw me but ignored my hand waves to come down.