Sacred Games by Gary Corby

have dropped it when I fell, and like a fool I was so wasted I hadn’t noticed. I went back for it, but it was gone.”
    Because Markos and I had taken it for evidence.
    “Would you recognize this man if you saw him again?”
    “I dunno. Maybe. Ask me later. Right now I’m all nerves.”
    And there I’d been expecting the owner of the whip to solve the case for me. He knew almost nothing. But who was it he’d followed? The murderer? Or Arakos?
    As we spoke, a crewman beside us scooped out a large handful of grease from a bucket, slopped it onto the chariot’s right axle where it joined the wheel, and spread it around. When he wassatisfied, the crewman raised his arm and called. “Right wheel. Check!”
    At almost the same moment a man on the other side raised his arm and called, “Left wheel. Check!”
    Markos had crouched down to admire the chariot. “It’s a remarkable piece of machinery,” he said, rising and wiping the pig fat of the axle grease from his hands onto his tunic. “So small, so light.”
    “The horse team barely knows I’m there,” Iphicles said. “As long as I’ve somewhere to put my feet and a leading panel to brace myself against the pull of the reins—that’s all I need.”
    All along the line, race crews were doing the same as Team Thebes. Men stepped back from the chariots with raised arms to show they were ready, an action easily seen and understood no matter the noise and chaos of the race start.
    I had only moments. Iphicles must have seen more than he’d said, something he probably didn’t even know was important. I said to Iphicles, “Quickly, what I really want to know is—”
    Trumpets drowned me out. The herald called the contestants to the starting line.
    Iphicles stepped up to his chariot. “If you want to talk to me, it’ll have to be after the race.”
    Markos said, “By the orders of my king, you must tell us—”
    Iphicles grabbed the reins of the two leftmost of his horses in his left hand and the reins for the others in his right. I wondered what happened if a driver dropped his reins, but this didn’t seem a good time to ask.
    Iphicles flicked his lucky whip. “I have a race to win. Poseidon preserve me and bring my team home first.”
    “Step back there!” The team manager pushed Markos and me out of the way.
    Iphicles flicked the reins, and his eager team started forward. We watched him depart without a backward glance, shoulders braced to control the uncontrollable: four peak racing horses that ached to run.
    Markos shook his head. “We never had a chance. Bad luck. I hope the rest of the investigation doesn’t go like this.”
    “What do we do now?” I said.
    “The only thing we can. We watch the race.” Markos took off without a backward glance to see if I followed. “There might still be time to find a good spot.” I hurried to catch up with him. And that is how I came to see the first event of the Olympics in the company of a Spartan.
    Most of the crowd was clustered about the two turning posts, particularly the one at the east end, which had a reputation for producing the most spectacular crashes. There was no room at either end, so we elbowed our way to the front at the middle of the field, where we would have a good view of the sprints between posts. There was plenty of room for anyone who wanted to watch; the hippodrome is three times larger than the stadion where the running races and the fights are held.
    The judges were already seated, ten abreast in their special box on the opposite side of the field.
    I nudged Markos. “There’s Klymene.” She stood alone in a box beside the judges. I told Markos about the interview Diotima and I had held with her. His eyes brightened at Klymene’s parting words, and he studied her from afar. “Now there’s a girl I’d like to meet. Do you think she’s doing it now?”
    “Control yourself until after the Games,” I told him. “Have you any idea what would happen to the man who polluted