See Delphi And Die Page 5

  We were staying at the Leomdaion, courtesy of one Leomdas of Naxos, who had cannily provided his descendants with an income by building this enormous old hostel for visiting VIP’s. The four-square monster had a quiet central courtyard with shrubs, water features, and a few chairs, where the night-watchman, who doubled as the day porter at present, told us with relish that he did not provide breakfast out of season. Luckily the boys came back from a walk, bearing pastries, we spread ourselves in one of the outer colonnades and while we were eating, the porter gave in to the chance to make a quick drachma, and reported that his sister would make us evening meals. We thanked him, and made him accountable for our luggage. Helena asked if he had seen anything of her brother Aulus, but he said not. We went out to play.

  Like our German friends, the porter had regaled us with stories of how, if the Games had been in progress, all the peaceful area around our hostel would have been overwhelmed. For weeks, Olympia became a vast festival camp. Outside the sporting and sacred areas sprawled tented sites, after they were cleared of their crowded marquees when the Games ended, the ground would be covered with a hot mulch of trash and human squalor. According to the porter, it rivalled the mounds of slurry from the cattle of King Augeus which Hercules had sluiced away in myth.

  There was no natural water source, and no latrines had ever been provided until we Romans came. Except in the Aids, as they called the walled-in sacred area, a reek of human waste would hang everywhere. The flies which famously torture spectators would hover in drugged clouds above the litter.

  The locals tidied up every four years for the next Games. Maybe we were too fastidious, but a year in advance, the place still seemed a mess. Even my dog balked at nosing among the old mattresses, gnawed bones from roasted meat, and broken amphorae. Nux adored everything the streets of Rome offer to a hound with disgusting standards, here she took one breath then slunk to heel, shocked I patted her and tied her on a leash The last thing we wanted abroad was a dog with a diseased digestive tract, we might need her to bark for assistance when the people were laid low. As they were bound to be

  Walking north from our hostel, we found greater decorum. Nervous about the anti-women rules, Helena and Albia had prepared a story about visiting the Temple of Hera, where women must be allowed since there were running races for girls. In fact nobody ever turned them back. The place was devoted to the male body, however. Wherever we went, we marched in the shade of statues, hundreds of them, some given as thank-offerings for good fortune in war by cities, but mostly dedicated by the victors themselves as the lasting memorial to their prowess. It was no place for prudes. Nude men on tall plinths were showing off their stone assets everywhere we looked

  We spent a morning sightseeing. Young Glaucus led us instinctively to the gymnasium. He was ecstatic. Though he was itching to try out the sports facilities, he came with us into the sacred area

  Within the walled enclosure, we were overlooked by the dramatic tree-covered Hill of Cronus, where Marcella Caesia’s corpse had been found by her father. Closest to the gymnasium stood the Prytaneion, a building where fabulous feasting occurred to celebrate victories. Near to this was the gaily painted Temple of Hera, the oldest temple on site. It had three long aisles, each full of astounding statuary, including a fabulous Hermes with the young Dionysus. Glaucus gazed reverently at the gold and ivory table, which during the Games would be carried out to the judges’ enclosure; on it would be placed simple wreaths of wild olive, the only prizes awarded here. Of course Olympic winners would be received back home with mass adulation, a pension in vast: vats of olive oil, seaside villas, and lifetime permission to bore the populace with sporting stories. Glaucus was already dreaming.

  In outside spaces stood many altars, some with smoke from that morning’s sacrifices wreathing up into the air. One was phenomenal, the Great Altar of Zeus. Upon an ancient stone base reared a curious rectangular mound, maybe twenty feet tall when we saw it. During every set of Games a hundred oxen were slaughtered for Zeus, a gift from the people of Elis who ran the festival. Over the centuries, the ash of past sacrifices had been mixed with water from the River Alphaios: it set in a hard paste that was added to the mound. Steps had been carved out, leading to the top of the altar, where the god’s choice cuts were burned.

  As we approached the stadium, we saw a line of forbidding statues of Zeus, called the Zanes, erected to damn forever athletes who had cheated: their names and crimes were inscribed on the bases. Beyond them lay a long colonnade, used for the contests for heralds; it had a sevenfold echo which Albia and the lads tested to the full. At this corner of the enclosure an arch marked the competitors’ tunnel to the running track. The bronze trellis gates were closed, but we found a way to clamber into the stadium after a steep climb up and over the spectators’ stand.

  Young Glaucus inspected the curious starting blocks. ‘You curl the toes of your front foot in these grooves and wait for the signal. There’s a trip-rope system to deter false starts. If a runner takes off too soon, before the judges loosen it, he’ll knock the rope down. He is made to withdraw, and the judges flog him like a slave. There are not,’ stated Glaucus, ‘many false starts.’

  The hippodrome lay alongside the stadium. There Glaucus explained the starting gates, where up to forty chariots could be held in wedge formation that gave the outer pairs an equal chance with those at the centre. We imagined them bursting forth to the roar of forty thousand spectators, who stood on carefully designed elliptical banks. Everyone had a good view down the course - though we noticed with smirks that it was much smaller than the Circus Maximus.

  Coming out, we wasted time trying in vain to get into an enormous villa Nero had built for himself by the hippodrome gates, the authorities had locked it up and hoped it would fall down. Glaucus went back to the gymnasium to practise. The rest of us sauntered through the main sanctuary, reaching the famous Temple of Zeus. This did contain one of the Seven Wonders of the World, so it was no surprise that although we had barely seen ten people so far, at this point we came face to face with an official guide.

  ‘You speak Greek - oh you speak Latin?’ He changed swiftly to Latin, though we had not said a word. ‘Where are you folks from? Croton? Rome? My brother lives at Tarentum,’ Oh no. ‘Xenophon’s fish bar, do you know his place?’

  Our guide was named Barzanes. Should you go to Olympia, try to be snaffled by a different one.

  ‘First I will show you the workshop of Phidias ‘

  We had seen it for ourselves already. That did not stop him.

  As we stood for the second time in the enormous workshop being regaled with facts, Helena was the only one of us prepared to be civil to the guide. He was tall, with a small head set on lop-sided shoulders, one wider than the other. He wore a long belted robe like a charioteer, and carried a stave with which he gesticulated enthusiastically.

  Yes, it was miraculous to find ourselves standing in the very place where one of the world’s greatest artists had produced his masterpiece. To prove it, we were shown surviving moulds, faulty casts, and minuscule bits of marble, gold sheet and ivory. Funnily enough, they were for sale; this charade for the public must have been going on for five hundred years. At Barzanes’ voice, souvenir-sellers had popped out of nowhere. We were even offered a blackened cup that said BELONG TO PHIDIAS. It was an exorbitant price but I bought it, even though the sculptor’s name was spelled the Roman way. It was the only way to escape. I would give it to my father as a souvenir. It did not matter if the cup was a fake; so was my father.

  We hustled Barzanes back to the Temple of Zeus. In fairness, our guide knew a whole whack of statistics. ‘The temple was financed by the Elians and took ten years to build; it has thirty-four columns, topped with plain square pediments; above the columns you will see a painted frieze of innumerable mouldings in deep hues of red, blue, and gold - ‘ He was unstoppable. ‘The roof is of Athenian Pentelic marble, drained in rainstorms through over one hundred marble waterspouts in the form of lion
s’ heads. Twenty-one gilded shields which you see now, but which were unknown to the ancients, have been placed here by the Roman general Mummius after he sacked Corinth -‘

  Oh dear. We tried looking innocent, but felt like bastard conquerors.

  ‘Here on the west pediment is the battle between the Centaurs and Lapiths at the wedding of Pinthous -‘

  ‘This has two morals,’ I said to Gaius and Cornelius. ‘Do not invite barbarians to your wedding and - since the Centaurs got drunk and went after the women - do not serve too much wine.’

  Barzanes kept going strong. ‘On the east pediment, as the athletes approach to make their dedication to the god, they look up and see the chariot race between Pelops and Oenomaus for the hand of Hippodameia. King Oenomaus killed unsuccessful suitors, and nailed their heads above his palace gate.’

  ‘Seems fair,’ I said. ‘Speaking as a father’

  ‘There are two stories.’ Greece never seemed to have one myth where a guide could relate two. ‘Either Pelops bribed the King’s charioteer to replace Pelops’ axle pins with wax ones, or Poseidon gave Pelops a matchless winged chariot and caused Oenomaus to be pitched out and killed.’

  ‘Is this myth intended to encourage competitors to use tricks and to cheat?’ asked Helena drily.

  ‘The true message is that they should use their best endeavours -cunning brains as well as bodily strength.’

  ‘And winning is all,’ Helena growled.

  ‘There are no second prizes at the Games,’ Barzanes acknowledged.

  ‘You are accepting my scepticism very generously.’

  ‘I have acted as a guide for Roman ladies before.’

  Helena and I exchanged a glance, wondering if he had been employed by Seven Sights.

  Unlike many temples, visitors were allowed to enter the interior. Of course that did not mean they could enter for free. We gave Barzanes a sum he suggested, to bribe the priests. We then coughed up an extra fee to acquire ‘special’ permission for Albia and the lads to climb some spiral stairs to the upper floor to view the statue at close quarters. Finally we gave Barzanes himself a large tip for his facts and figures. He stayed behind on the temple steps in the hope of more people to hijack.

  I wanted to interrogate him about the murders, but no mission was going to stop me seeing one of the Seven Wonders of the World, especially with Helena. Informers are street-level muckers, trading in grime, but I had a soul. Personally, I found it necessary for the job.

  IX

  We all paused to accustom our eyes to the lamplit gloom, after the noonday glare outside. Then we simply gasped with awe. It seemed only fair. The great Phidias had intended that we should.

  There were other statues; the temple interior was an art gallery. They were wasted. All we could do was to stare up at Zeus, utterly smitten. From fourteen yards high, his head skimming the rafters, he seemed to be gazing down on us. At the steps of his throne stretched a glimmering pool, a rectangle of olive oil in which the Father of the Gods was cleanly reflected. Its moisture helped preserve the ivory of the chryselephantine colossus, though temple priests also burnished it with more oil daily. We were aware of their presence. Moving about discreetly, they tended their charge, supposedly all descendants in an unbroken line from the craftsmen who had worked for Phidias.

  I had heard about this statue all my life. I could not now remember how and where I first read of it or was told of it. I had known what it would look like, the massive seated god, bearded and crowned with olive branches, his robe of gold adorned with creatures and flowers, his sceptre topped with the gold eagle, the winged figure of Victory in his right hand, the ebony and ivory throne adorned with precious stones and vibrant painting.

  So many things in life are disappointing. But sometimes life confounds you: a promised Wonder of the World lives up to your hopes.

  Helena and I stood for a long time, hand in hand. I felt the warmth of her bare arm alongside mine, the faint tickle on the top of my foot from the hem of her long gown. Helena was as cynical as me, but she knew how to give herself up fully to the enjoyment of great things. Her thrill became part of my own.

  Eventually she dropped her head briefly against my shoulder, then told the excited youngsters that they could climb up to the higher level. Left alone, Helena and I turned a little towards each other and remained there together for a few more moments.

  At length we walked quietly outside to the dazzling sunlight in the sanctuary, still hand in hand.

  X

  We paused on the steps until our breathing returned to normal. Our skin felt clammy with the mingled effects of incense and fine olive oil droplets.

  Barzanes had failed to find another group. Although we had already tipped him, he hovered near us. He must have seen hundreds of awestruck spectators returning from their visit. He watched us approvingly.

  Helena went off quietly to see the temple priests. We had had no sighting of her brother Aulus and if he was still here, we needed to track him down. If he had travelled away from Olympia, he would have left a message at the main temple, to be picked up by anyone who came after him. Aulus had his own assured style; he must have been certain I would rush out to Greece in response to his letter home.

  Aulus would have given the priests money, but I made sure Helena could pay them another gratuity. It would be expected. Best to keep in with them. Zeus was indifferent to mortal men, but priests were easily slighted and in a sanctum like this they wielded enormous power.

  I moved down the steps and joined our guide again.

  ‘Did you enjoy your visit?’ he asked.

  ‘We are stunned!’

  ‘Do you believe in the gods?’ Barzanes now seemed more subdued. It was an odd thing to ask so abruptly.

  ‘Enough to have cursed them, many times.’ I recognised that he was trying to throw me off balance; I had met it before in my work. His attitude had changed; I wondered why. ‘ I believe in human endeavour. I am impressed by the statue of Phidias as a great feat of craftsmanship, devotion, and imagination… I believe,’ I said softly,’ that most mysteries have a logical explanation; all you have to do is find it.’

  I left him to work out what mysteries I meant.

  I gazed around the Altis, where the ancient temples, tombs, and treasuries were bathed in light beneath a monochrome blue sky of deep intensity. The cockerel who woke us this morning was still crowing in the distance. Somewhere nearer, a bullock bellowed, hoarse with anxiety. ‘We did the tour. Now let’s you and I talk about my mission, Barzanes.’

  ‘Your mission, Falco?’

  It was Falco now. Among my group I had been ‘Uncle Marcus’ or ‘Marcus Didius’. So while we had been inside the temple, someone had told the guide my third name. Olympia seemed deserted, but I had been noted. Somebody had known in advance that I was coming. Presumably, too, rumour had whistled around on sweet little wings to proclaim why.

  Maybe a god had betrayed me; I doubted it.

  ‘I am trying to imagine how it can be.’ To begin with, my voice was quiet but heavy. ‘Travellers come here, just like us. Like us, they must all be overwhelmed by their experience. This is a place where humankind is at its finest - nobility of body, allied to nobility of spirit.’ Barzanes was about to interrupt me, but he held back. ‘Athletes and spectators assemble here as a religious rite. To honour their gods. To dedicate themselves to high ideals. Offerings are left in the olive groves. Oaths are sworn. Training, courage, and skill are applauded. Guides exalt that spirit to the travellers…’ My voice hardened. I had a message to send to the establishment here. ‘And then - let’s imagine it, Barzanes - somebody in this holy place shows his barbaric nature. A young bride, barely two months married, is murdered and dumped. Tell me, Barzanes, are such things understandable? Are they common? Do the gods in Olympia accept this cruel behaviour - or are they outraged?’

  Barzanes lifted his uneven shoulders. He remained silent, but he had dallied to speak to me and there must be a purpose. Perhaps it had bee
n decided by the priests that this issue should be cleared up at last.

  I knew better than to hope for it.

  ‘The group in question was brought by an outfit called Seven Sights Travel. Regulars on the circuit. A fellow called Phineus leads them.’

  At last Barzanes nodded and spoke up. ‘Everyone knows Phineus.’ I gazed at him but could not detect his opinion of the man.

  ‘They must have been shown around the site,’ I said. ‘It would have been part of their deal, because this year they certainly were not here for the Games. Phineus must have booked a local site guide. Was it you, Barzanes?”

  Barzanes came up with the kind of weak excuse I had heard in so many cases. ‘The guide who took that tour is no longer here.’

  I scoffed. ‘Run away?’

  Barzanes looked shocked. ‘He has finished for the season and returned to his village.’

  ‘I guess that will be a very remote village, very many miles away… So did he talk about this group, at the end of the day, when you guides were sitting together gossiping? If not, did he comment on them, after the girl was dead?’

  Barzanes smiled gently.

  Helena Justina came out from the temple, carrying a scroll. After a quick glance at what was going on, she positioned herself within earshot, while pretending to engross herself in the letter.

  I was not giving up. ‘Tell me what happened, Barzanes.’

  ‘Pilgrims come here constantly. Exercises, sacrifices, prayers, consultation of oracles - even out of season we hold recitations by orators and poets. So tours of the Altis are regularly provided.’

  ‘But any guide would remember a tour where someone who took part was later brutally murdered. How many were there in the Seven Sights group?’

  Barzanes decided to co-operate. ‘Between ten and fifteen. There was the usual mix: mostly persons of some age, with a few young ones - adolescents who kept wandering off. One woman kept asking silly questions and a man in the party gave her answers, wrongly.’