Sacred Games by Gary Corby Page A

the Priestess? They’d have to suspend the Games while they replaced her.” I thought about it. “I wonder if it’s ever happened?”
    “Not that I’ve heard of,” Markos said.
    I looked at the sports-crazed Hellenes all about us. “Imagine telling this lot they have to wait because some guy had it off with the Priestess of the Games. They’d impale him.”
    “If he was lucky. Maybe they’d remove the offending organ first. All right, you’ve made your point.”
    The trumpets sounded again. Each chariot made a single turnaround the track, stopping before the judges, where the driver reached into a jar held up by attendants and withdrew a lot.
    The drivers took their places according to their lots in the stalls of the hippaphesis, the horse-starter, which ensured every team had a fair start even though not everyone could begin at the center line. The hippaphesis was a huge V-shaped frame, with stalls built into it to hold the teams; the apex of the V pointed at the start of the course. Teams of horses four abreast, massive beasts bred for power and speed and aggression, stamped and snorted and pawed the ground in their eagerness. The beasts had been born and lived their whole lives for this moment when they would run this race. Each team of four pulled a chariot so small and light that one man on his own could lift it. Drivers braced themselves in the flimsy vehicles and waited for the hippaphesis to release them.
    In the center of the V was an altar to Poseidon, into which a cunning machine had been built, with a silver rod, at the top of which the figure of a silver dolphin played. Taut ropes ran from the machine within the altar to the starting gates for the race.
    The moment the last chariot team was locked in its stall, the Chief Judge stood up—the horse teams must not be kept waiting any longer than necessary, lest they injure themselves in the confined space—then the Chief Judge held high a white cloth for all to see, and dropped it.
    At once the assistant starter, who stood at the altar, turned the silver rod. The silver dolphin at the top end fell. At the other end a silver eagle with wings spread wide rose into the air. The turn of the rod caused a wheel within the altar to turn, which pulled the ropes that ran to the horse-starter. The ropes operated the first two of the releases, one at each wing of the V. As the releases dropped, the two outer teams surged off with whips flying. They were at opposite ends of the V, but they were racing each other. Those two were the only ones running until they reached the next stalls along the V. At that moment the restraining ropesdropped for the next two teams, the waiting drivers flicked their whips, and now there were four in the race. They continued like this—teams released as front runners reached them—until everyone was out of the stalls. The system ensured every team had an equal start, and an equal chance of gaining the inner line of most advantage.
    “That’s a brilliant device,” Markos marveled.
    “Of course, it’s brilliant; it was invented by an Athenian,” I said.
    The racers reached the apex of the V, the rope restraining the last two teams fell away, and now forty chariot teams jostled for position, all down the centerline of the course in a perfect start.
    The crowd screamed and cheered.
    “Ten drachmae says Sparta beats Athens,” Markos shouted to me over the noise. The racers were clumped so tight, it was impossible to see who was in the lead, but I could clearly see Iphicles in his chariot toward the back of the pack—he had drawn one of the center stalls and got off to a slow start. The chariot bearing the owl of Athens was on the outside but moving up well and shortly behind the rich red of Sparta. I knew nothing about chariot racing, but one thing I was sure of: I wouldn’t let this Spartan go one up on me at anything.
    “Done,” I said. “And five drachmae says Athens wins.” It was a foolish bet. In this race there was no