The brute paused, leering.

He was in his mid-twenties, his absolute prime. Solid waist, huge calves, astounding thighs, monumental shoulders. Apart from a leather skullcap and boxing thongs, he was stark naked. His fabulous body was covered with olive oil - there was so much I could smell it - over which he had applied a thick layer of grey dust.

There was a wrestler, once, who stepped into the high road and stopped a chariot going at full pelt. This man could do that. He could stop the traffic one-handed, while eating a bread roll. Milo of Croton used to stand on a discus, holding up a pomegranate and defying all comers to remove the fruit from him. Only his girlfriend could do it, but she must have known where he was ticklish. Oh for a willowy wench with sensual hands who could give a therapeutic ma.s.sage!

'Put the child down and let's talk!' Greek wrestlers do not talk. They glare, circle, grasp opponents in rib-cracking clinches, then slog away without time limits, until one hulk has thrown the other three times to the floor. Or until one is so badly hurt he cannot continue, Or, even better, one is dead.

The wrestler shook Cornelius, to make me even more anxious.

'He's a boy. He's not in your age cla.s.s. Obey the rules!' My pleas were desperate. Held up at arms' length, with one mighty fist around both his ankles and another gripping the scruff of his neck, Cornelius was ashen, too terrified to whimper. 'Put him down. He's done nothing. I understand what's going on - someone does not like my investigation and you've been sent to dissuade me. So put down the boy and murder me instead.'

The giant let out a bloodcurdling cry, a part of his act. He bent hisarms suddenly, elbows wide, as if about to hurl Cornelius across the skamma. The watching slaves stepped back nervously. From facing sky up to heading sand down, my nephew swung over like a rag, his chubby arms dangling. One free hand balled into a fist as if it was intentional and clocked the wrestler in the eye. The giant shook his head as if a wine-fly had flown at his lashes - but then, as you do, he just had to brush his eye with the back of his wrist, so he let go of Cornelius.

I leapt and captured the boy as he fell. To me, he was d.a.m.ned heavy. I managed to drop him to the ground fairly gently, though I wrenched my back. Then the wrestler knocked me flat. I sprawled on the sand; one-handed, I somehow shoved Cornelius out of danger. The wrestler kicked me away from him; I fell full length, eating sand.

Next the giant pulled me upright by one arm, looking disdainful. Neatly, he arranged the arm behind my back, paying attention to inflicting pain. I jumped around and struggled to position one leg behind his. To know the move was useless; he was six foot three and with my weight I could not budge his trunk-like calves. He held his stance, while I manoeuvred helplessly. He was playing with me. If he had been ready to finish me, I would be feeling his fists. Those fists were bound with hard rawhide, the heavy thongs extending up his forearms; bands of fleece allowed him to wipe away sweat, though he had shed none yet. Barely exerting himself, he bent me forwards like a girl folding up a blanket.

Then, with a sudden growl of annoyance, he tossed me on to the sand. Ideally I would have pulled him over with me. No chance. Arching my back in recovery, I saw that Cornelius had attached himself to the giant's left foot; the boy was bending the man's great toes backwards with all his might. The furious wrestler twisted, as he kicked out to shake Cornelius off. I threw myself into the fray again, this time attempting a headlock from behind. It was like wrapping an arm around a half-submerged pile on a waterfront and trying to strangle solid oak. I did my best to throttle him with one hand, while punching him in the ear. I doubt if he even felt it. The punch was legal in Greek boxing and pankration. He just shrugged me off his neck dismissively and brought me around within reach. Then he grabbed me in a ghastly hug and turned me upside down.

He rammed me to the floor, straight on my head. I managed to put an arm out, lessening the impact. I took the force on my neck and shoulder, but had no chance to re-engage. I was now at his mercy, yet the death blows never came.

'Falco!'

a.s.sistance had arrived. Young Glaucus. He must have followed us down here - though he might be about to regret it. Despite our friend's mighty build, the giant wrestler was half as big again. When I struggled to a sitting position, they were squaring up. The giant bared his gums in a hideous grimace. He flared his nostrils. He produced a hideous grinning stare. His chest swelled. His biceps bulged. I had been a mere diversion; attacking Glaucus would be a real treat for him.

Our normally cautious Glaucus had to accept the challenge. Deliberately he drew off his tunic and threw it to me; he stood naked and proud, without oil and dust, but ready to fight. The giant gave him time to grasp a set of thongs from bunches hanging on the palaestra wall; Cornelius scrambled to help bind them on. All I could hear in my head was our friend's reply when Gaius had asked whether he could do this. 'Not really.'

Oh Hades.

'Glaucus.' As he tightened the thongs, he introduced himself with a peremptory sneer.

'Milo.'

'Milo of Croton!' exclaimed Glaucus, betrayed into excitement.

'Milo of Dodona.' The giant enjoyed having fooled him.

'Oh!'

I was less surprised than Glaucus. It was not the first time I had met a modern hulk named after the six-times Olympic champion.

The fight began. Wrestling theorists will maintain that lighter, speedier men can use skill to outwit the heavies. A flyweight, they say, can nip in, kick away an ankle, and bring down a man-mountain... Sensible spectators do not bet on it. Glaucus knew that if this monster crushed him in a hug, it would be fatal. That must have been why Glaucus cheated.

They made a couple of feints matter-of-factly. They circled, scuffing sand like fighting bulls. The giant grunted, his slow brain deciding when he would let rip and smother Glaucus in a deadly embrace. Glaucus did not wait. He stooped, swiftly scooped up sand, and threw it in the giant's eyes. As his opponent roared and his eyes streamed, Glaucus then kicked him - with an admirable right-footed wrestling kick - full in his ostentatiously heavyweight testes.

Then Glaucus grabbed Cornelius and me and pulled us right across the skamma to the nearest exit.

'The sprint is my speciality. Now let's run for our lives!'

XVIII.

We came out into the big gymnasium, where for a brief, foolish moment we caught our breath after the shock. Glaucus met my eye. For once he showed a sense of humour. 'Never be afraid of risk - but always know your limits!'

'Why can I hear your father's voice in that?'

We had a head start - but we had run the wrong way. Pain was Milo of Dodona's everyday stimulus; behind, we heard the monster bellow as he came after us. Glaucus pushed the boy and me ahead of him, as he stayed behind on diversion duty. I shepherded Cornelius, wishing we were out in the sanctuary where there might be some Greek city's treasury into which I could shove the puffing roly-poly child to be kept safe among the spoils of war. That's life; never a treasury when you want one...

We two ran across the end of the gym to a corner exit. Looking back, we saw Glaucus taunt the big man, then set off around the running track, trying to lure him that way. Milo of Dodona had his mind on one thing - and that was killing me.

'Cornelius - let's go!'

We hared out of the gymnasium, with the monster in hot pursuit. Glaucus failed to follow at once; I cursed his tactics. The boy and I came to the open-air swimming pool. A long expanse of serene water was warming up slowly in the morning sun on the bank of the River Kladeos. I pounded around the perimeter. Cornelius, too out of breath, had stopped, bent double and panting. Milo was almost on him. My nephew took a scared look; then he held his nose, jumped for it into the pool, and dogpaddled away like mad. The jump took him a yard or two, but his churning fists hardly moved him along. Milo hesitated, perhaps unable to swim. Well, that made two of us.

Glaucus had reappeared, holding something with one hand. I saw what he was up to. He stopped. In cla.s.sic style, his body twisted back. He did a full three-quarter crouching turn, one leg bent, one shoulder dropped, then he spun back and unleashed his missile. Bronze glinted.

A discus flew towards Milo. Once again, Young Glaucus was breaking rules; this time, the rule that says a discus thrower must ensure that no bystander is in his way.

The bronze plate caught Milo full on the base of his enormous skull. He never heard it coming. In the pool, Cornelius had turned on his back, mouth agape. Now he began a hasty backstroke, to avoid expected spume as the mighty man keeled forwards. In fact Milo landed on the edge of the pool. I covered my eyes as he smashed face down on the stone.

Cornelius reached the side; I hauled him out, dripping and shivering, and wrapped him in Glaucus' tunic. Glaucus himself had walked calmly up to the pool edge, considering whether the rules of combat required him to tender aid. He had a steelier mentality than I had thought; he decided against. In Greek athletics you win, by any means the judges will accept. The loser slinks off in shame - if he is still on his feet. 'Through the back alleys, home to mother', as they put it.

I took Cornelius to join Glaucus.

'He dead?'

'No.'

'Pity we can't just nip off- but I fear we have witnesses.'

Other people arrived, headed up by Lacheses, the d.a.m.ned priest who offended me yesterday. Affecting a superior air, he stood at the pool edge, ordering slaves to roll the wrestler over.

Today Lacheses wore full-length robes with a decorated hemline, and carried a spray of wild olive; this presumably signified he was attached to the Temple of Zeus. 'You nearly killed a pankration champion!'

'Him or us,' I answered curtly. 'Someone told him to attack me.' The priests of Zeus were my first choice for that. 'Glaucus my friend, I hope that your discus was of approved Olympic size.'

'Absolutely,' Young Glaucus responded, straight-faced. 'I took down an official standard from the gymnasium wall. Unfortunately for Milo, the ones used at Olympia are heavier than normal...' The priest drew a sharp breath at this disrespectful act. 'Mine was at home,' Glaucus apologised meekly.

I took a hand. 'Your champion wanted to kill us all. My friend had to act fast.'

'You abuse our hospitality!' snapped Lacheses. He had a quaint view of traditional guest-friendship. 'Your visit to our sanctuary must end. Leave Olympia before you cause more trouble.'

The crowd increased. A middle-aged woman pushed the priest aside. A satchel was slung diagonally over her travelling cloak; she wore a dress with brightly coloured borders, and a long matching veil, on which was pegged a high-pointed head-dress, an expensive gold stephane. A male attendant behind her was dressed in the long pleated robe of a charioteer. A younger woman held a pannier and looked on meekly. The female attendant was in a simple folded-over chiton, and had her hair rather attractively bound up in headscarves. She could have been a maiden on a vase, with a half-suggestive smile as she leaned on one elbow and poured perfume. Glaucus and I both flashed Roman smiles admiringly.

The matron in charge noticed and glared at us. A forceful presence. She shoved aside the slaves, then knelt beside the wrestler in a sprightly manner, checking him for vital signs. 'Well, gracious me, it's Milo of Dodona. Is he still hanging around Olympia? So devoted!'

'He can be taken to the doctors at the gymnasium - ' Lacheses began.

'No, no; he will do better at the Temple of Hera, Lacheses. Let us look after him.'

Glaucus offered a hand, and the woman stood up, this time acknowledging that she had creaky knees. The priest bowed deferentially. She nodded, without wasting time on it, then told him she had brought him a pot of the preserved cherries he liked. That seemed to settle Lacheses.

Then she turned to me. 'I am Megiste. I am one of the Council of Sixteen.' It meant nothing. She explained briskly. 'In memory of the sixteen matrons of honour at the wedding of Hippodameia, the most respected women of Elis form a committee to organise the running races for maidens in the Games of Hera.' I bet they organised more than that.

The priest began to say something.

'I'll deal with this, Lacheses!' The wimp subsided. 'I have given some thought to the problem. It is all in hand. A wagon will take these people to the coast tomorrow; a ship will come from Kyllene to pick them up at Pheia.'

'Well, excuse me - ' I should have known better.

'No, Falco!' How did she know my name? I came to the conclusion the Council of Sixteen knew pretty well everything. I hated interfering women of that type in public life. 'Strife is polluting the sanctuary. You must leave.'

'Oh, that's Elis for you.' I refused to be quashed. 'Always in there, brokering universal peace! You didn't need to set your champion to batter us,' I snarled bitterly to the priest. 'Just ask the matrons of Elis! This lady can fix up extradition for inconvenient visitors at the same time as she lays down a pantryful of salted olives, braids a four-colour floor rug, and cleans out her beehives.'

He gave me his priestly shrug. 'I hope you have enjoyed your time here, and found it uplifting.' He did let slip a trace of admiration. 'Let us hope Milo recovers.'

'Should do,' Glaucus a.s.sured him. 'The throw was at the end of its trajectory. He was unconscious, so he went limp as he fell. Anyway, he has plenty of padding!'

Milo in fact looked pathetic, but he was sitting up and starting to mumble. Megiste ordered the slaves to take him away to her temple. Lacheses ambled off as well.

Megiste watched the rest depart then tackled us.

'Now, let's see about you!' To our amazement she had switched straight from Greek to a polite version of our own language. When we looked startled, she giggled endearingly. 'Tatting and beekeeping don't keep me busy enough! I thought it might be fun to learn Latin.'

It was obvious that if the idea struck her, she would be just as enthusiastic about a practical course in gla.s.s-blowing or home druidry. I indicated her driver, the one in full charioteer's kit. 'And I suppose you fill in any tiny spare moments running racing chariots?'

'Yes, I am an owner. I'm very fortunate - ' She was very wealthy, then. She looked at me closely. 'Hmm. Clean teeth, haircut, and mended tunic - mended in matching thread, I see. There must be a woman somewhere. Is it too much to hope she has come with you to Greece?'

'You can deal with me.'

'I think not, Falco! We of the Council of Sixteen are chosen for our respectability.'

Wondering what else she had deduced about me in her scientific manner, I admitted that Helena Justina was at the Leonidaion. Megiste gathered her attendants. 'Tell your wife I have one or two errands at the Temple of Hera, then I shall trot along to see her. Ask her to make sure she is there; I am a very busy woman.'

Attempting to ingratiate myself, I said we had visited the Temple. To prove it, I commented on its fine painted terracotta acroterion, one of the largest and most handsome roof finials I had ever seen.

'I hope you noticed that the Doric columns are all different. They were dedicated by different cities, many years ago. The Temple of Hera is the oldest here,' said Megiste. 'That is why we stand no nonsense from the priests of Zeus.' She paused. 'There are things I have to tell your wife about Valeria Ventidia.'

'Valeria? That's good - but it's not enough, Megiste. If I am being kicked out of Olympia, I need some quick answers on Marcella Caesia too.'

'Ah, the little girl who was found on the Hill of Cronus... I am sorry. n.o.body knows why she went up the hill, or what happened when she got there. Now, I must collect my thoughts and see your wife. We won't need you, Falco.'

I was not having that. 'My wife has a slight stomach indisposition.'

'Oh I can bring her something for that! In about an hour.' Megiste sensed my rebellion. 'As you are leaving tomorrow, young man, if you have not done it already, you had better take a brisk walk now up the Hill of Cronus.'

I loathed bossy women. And if commands were being handed out like free gifts at an amphitheatre, I had a girl of my own who could do it. Helena would refuse to take orders from this arrogant trout. I decided to lounge around the Leonidaion to watch Megiste and Helena facing up to each other like contenders at some female equivalent of pankration. Now that the townswomen's tyrant had instructed me to do it, there was no way I was going out on a hike.

XIX.

Only the promise of information made Helena agree to the appointment. She was furious that the interfering Council of Sixteen had put a stop to our visit. The fact that they were women seemed to make her even more angry.

She took up a position in a colonnade, looking intellectual amidst a bunch of scrolls. I put a stool in the next bay and sat there deliberately idle, with my sandals tossed aside and my bare feet on a column pedestal. I was picking my teeth with a twig. On the Aventine that is understood to be an insult.

Somewhat later than she had promised, Megiste marched up, steaming ahead of her female attendant, and introduced herself to Helena, who - since she was receiving someone of such renowned respectability - had made Albia sit with her as a chaperon. I received a disapproving look from the new arrival, but was then ignored by all of them. The attendant in the colourful chiton had her back to me so I could not even flirt.

Helena intended to take charge. 'How pleasant to meet you, Megiste. I have been told how much you are involved in the community. Elis is to be congratulated. Few cities can summon up sixteen respectable women.'

'We are a tight little band,' Megiste confirmed.

'The same ones run the Council every year?'

'We try to attract new blood. It's never easy finding volunteers, and experience counts. It usually ends up with the same old group of us.'

'I had imagined all Greek women are still confined in their quarters at home, while their men go out and enjoy themselves.' This was meant to be offensive. Helena Justina hated the Greek system of penning up women in separate quarters in the house, unseen by visitors.

'My members are very traditional,' Megiste said. 'We believe in the old ways.'

I had never seen Helena smirk so much. 'Weaving and looking after the children - or booking the comely courtesan for your husband's next manly symposium?'

Megiste declined to take offence. 'Yes, I do like to hire the hetaera myself.'

Helena chose to take her literally. 'Marvellous. Do you pick them for big busts or intelligent conversation?'

'Decent flute-playing!' snapped Megiste.

'Of course; far better to keep their wandering hands occupied!' Having done her worst, Helena whipped back to business. 'Now - since we are being shipped out of Olympia so very unexpectedly, Megiste my dear, I do have urgent packing. Will you tell me what you came to say about Valeria Ventidia?' Megiste must have glanced over at me. 'Oh let him stay. I honour the Roman tradition,' boasted Helena. 'My husband and I have no secrets.'

'How very tiresome for you!' chipped in Megiste, evening the score.

Since she did want to obtain all possible information, Helena capitulated. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. 'Well, he tells me everything, like a good boy - while I just confide what I want him to know... Marcus, darling, you are hanging around like a dandelion seed. Why don't you take your dog out for a walk?'

I was a traditional Roman. As a man, I was king, chief priest, and all the G.o.ds in my own household. On the other hand, when my woman spoke, I took the hint. I whistled Nux to fetch my sandals, and we set off to explore the Hill of Cronus.

Helena Justina was indeed a traditional Roman wife. Later, she shared with me not just Megiste's information, but her own thoughts on it. At the sanctuary, the death of a young woman had been considered a matter for the Council of Sixteen. When Valeria Ventidia was killed, the stalwart ladies had investigated. They discovered the young bride had developed an unwise 'friendship' with a man. He was an athlete, a champion pankration exponent from a previous Olympiad, who was hanging around in the hope of attracting sponsorship. He had been given permission to erect a statue of himself among the hundreds which adorned the site, but he could not afford it. His home town failed to come up with the money, so he hoped to raise cash from admiring sports fans. The Seven Sights party - rich Roman travellers, all in love with the Greek ideal - had looked like possible patrons. He attracted Valeria's attention somehow and was working on her to persuade her husband, and possibly others, to sponsor him.

Curiously, the Fates had arranged that the champion in question was none other than Milo of Dodona. His attack on Cornelius, Megiste said, indicated his propensity for unprovoked violence.

The ladies were inclined to exonerate the athlete from sordid motives in befriending Valeria. They accepted, however, that the relationship could have turned nasty without him at first intending it. Valeria herself had been reckless and stupid. The ladies suspected it was the athlete who killed her - but they could not prove it.

This was a new turn of events. I was eager to interrogate Milo. Curiously again, another Greek quirk of fate had ruled it right out. Megiste regretfully told Helena that, although he had been in the best of hands, that afternoon while he was being tended at the Temple of Hera, Milo had died. He had been given a soothing sleeping draught - one of proven, traditional origin - which had seemed to help. But he never woke up.