“But he shouldn’t have touched the philosopher,” said another, piously wagging his forefinger.
“They say it may all be up to Simmius the Cynic,” said another.
“How’s that?” said Antipater.
“It seems that none of the judges actually saw what happened—they were too far ahead and didn’t look back in time. So they’ve called on Simmius to testify. If he shows up this morning and declares that Protophanes laid hands on him atop the Altis wall, then it’s all over for Protophanes. Four years of training and his chance for fame and glory—gone like a puff of smoke! And all because of a technicality.”
“And if the Cynic doesn’t show up?” said Antipater.
“Then perhaps Protophanes can take the oath after all. I doubt that any of the other athletes will testify against him, and nor will any of the spectators.”
There was a sudden commotion. The crowd parted for Protophanes, who was coming through, dressed in a modest chiton. Men cheered and clapped. Some rushed forward to give him a supportive slap on the shoulder. The young man, who had been so exuberant the previous day, showed a very different face this morning. Looking grim but determined, Protophanes mounted the steps to the Bouleuterion, but two of the purple-robed judges stepped forward and used their forked rods to block his way.
“You know the charge against you, Protophanes,” said one.
The athlete opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Showing disrespect to the judges would disqualify him from competition as surely as an act of impiety. He swallowed hard and spoke in a low growl. “When will it be decided?”
“Soon enough, I think,” said the judge. “Here comes the Cynic now.”
People stepped back to make way for Simmius, who had just appeared at the edge of the crowd. As usual, the Cynic was making a spectacle of himself, staggering as if he were drunk, clutching at his throat with one hand and making a beseeching gesture with the other.
“What’s he playing at now?” said one of the onlookers in disgust.
“He’s making fun of Protophanes—holding up his right hand, the way fighters in the pankration do when they admit defeat! What nerve the Cynic has, to make fun of a young man even as he’s about to ruin his life!”
Simmius staggered directly toward Antipater and me, coming so close I jumped back. As he veered away, I heard him cry out in a thin, croaking voice, “Thirsty! So thirsty!”
“He’s not acting,” I said to Antipater. “Something’s really wrong with him.”
On the steps of the Bouleuterion, directly in front of Protophanes and the judges, Simmius collapsed. He thrashed his bony arms and legs and rolled his head. “Thirsty! By the gods, so thirsty!”
After a final, hideous convulsion, Simmius rolled over, facedown, with his limbs splayed—and did not move again. The Cynic was dead. His right arm was extended above his head, so that his gnarled forefinger appeared to be pointing directly at Protophanes.
The event was so unexpected and so bizarre that for a long moment no one moved or spoke. Then someone cried out: “Protophanes has killed him!”
There was a great commotion as people pressed forward, drawing as close to the dead Cynic as they dared. The judges took charge, fending off the crowd with their forked rods. Protophanes stayed where he was, looking dumbstruck.
Pushed forward by those behind me, I found myself at the front of the crowd, very close to the corpse. More judges appeared from inside the Bouleuterion. One of them poked his rod at me and told me to back away. I pushed back against the crowd, which pushed forward. Fearing I might step on the corpse, I found myself staring down at the dead Cynic. The forefinger that pointed toward Protophanes was smeared with blood. Looking closely at the finger, I saw two puncture wounds.
“Poisoned! The Cynic must have been poisoned!” cried someone.
“For shame, Protophanes! Why did you do it?” cried another.
“We all know why,” said someone else. “But murder, Protophanes? No man can commit such a shameless crime and expect to compete in the Games of Zeus.”
It appeared that Protophanes was to be tried then and there, if not by the Olympic judges, then by the court of public opinion. People immediately assumed he must be guilty of the Cynic’s death.
“For shame!” said a man behind me. I felt a shiver of recognition. It was the same voice that had muttered words of disdain about Mummius and the Romans behind me at the Temple of Zeus. I frowned, for his voice was familiar for another reason.…
I turned around and spotted the speaker in the crowd, recognizing him by his brawny shoulders and blond beard. In one hand he held a sack made of thick leather, tightly cinched with rope at the top.
“But how did Protophanes manage it?” asked someone.
“Must have tricked the old fool into eating something,” answered another.
“Or more likely
“The Cynic wasn’t poisoned,” I said.
“What’s that?” The judge who had poked me now peered at me and wrinkled his brow. “Speak up, young man!”
I cleared my throat. “Simmius wasn’t poisoned. Not properly speaking—not by anything he ate or drank, anyway.”
“Then what killed him?” said the judge.
“A snake.”
