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was Festianos, Timo’s uncle. His cheeks were flushed enough that it showed in the bright moonlight. A garland of flowers sat askew atop his thinning hair.
    “Oh, it’s you,” he said when he recognized me. “You’re Timo’s friend, aren’t you? I thought you must be a drunk who’d passed out beside our tents. You were asleep.”
    “I wasn’t asleep. I merely rested my eyes.”
    Festianos laughed. “Then you’re one of the few men who snores when he’s awake.”
    I never snore. But Festianos had worried me. I lifted Timo’s tent flap quietly to peer inside. There was Timodemus, on his camp bed. The blanket that covered him rose and fell softly. I let the flap fall back.
    “It’s good news about the lad, isn’t it?” Festianos said.
    “Yes, it is.”
    “We’re very proud of him, my brother and I.”
    I yawned. I couldn’t stop myself.
    “Why don’t you go get some sleep?” Festianos said.
    “I have to keep an eye on Timodemus.”
    “I can do that. Old men like me don’t need as much sleep as you young ones.”
    I hesitated. My head ached. My eyes felt like someone had rubbed grit in them. I could indeed use some sleep, and wouldn’t I be a better guard for Timodemus in the morning if I was rested? He was safe enough with his uncle.
    “I’ll do that. Thanks, Festianos.”
    I left him sitting outside their tents, with his head back, the garland circlet crooked on his head, watching the moon and stars.
    I STAGGERED INTO the small tent I shared with my brother Socrates. Our father snored in an even smaller one beside us. Socrates was already asleep. It was chilly. I pulled my traveling cloak over me and edged close enough to my brother to steal some of his warmth. I was so tired I don’t remember falling asleep.
    “Wake up! Wake up, Nico!” That was Socrates, his voice anxious.
    “Huh. What?” I rolled over. “Go to sleep, Socrates.”
    “Get up!” Someone swore mightily and kicked me in the back. Hard. Not Socrates.
    I sat bolt upright while my hand scrabbled around for a knife it couldn’t find. “Who is it?”
    My eyes focused. Two men stood in our tent. Both wore light armor but held no weapons in hand. The one leaned over me, and I wished he hadn’t because he’d been eating garlic. “Get up. You’re wanted.”
    I struggled not to gag. “By whom?”
    I expected him to say Pericles.
    “Timodemus asked for you. Better hurry if you want to be there for the death.”
    I moved.
    I grabbed my exomis and pulled it over my head as we marched. The almost-full moon was high, the sky cloudless. It was easy to step among the tents and equipment left lying on the ground. A few men were still awake, clustered around firesdrinking, talking, singing, and arguing. They watched us pass, the two guards and me, with Socrates trailing behind. I let him come; there wasn’t time to stop to argue with him.
    To my surprise we left the Athenian camp altogether and followed the path that snaked past the camp of the Spartans, and I choked with fear. Had they dragged Timodemus within?
    Apparently not, because we hurried by the entrance without pause.
    The Sacred Truce meant even mortal enemies could pitch their tents side by side in perfect safety, but still the Spartans arranged their own tents in regular clusters, and they left nothing loose on the ground for men to trip over if there were a sudden call to arms. I suppose they knew no other way.
    The guards led me to the river Kladeos, which flows north to south along the western edge of Olympia. We crossed the ford without a word to the sentries, who in silence watched us pass by. The water was chilled and moved with relative speed, enough that a hurrying man might slip, but the people of Elis had long ago placed strong stepping-stones; it was easy to cross with only damp feet.
    The path on the other side forked. To the left was the women’s camp, to the right a forest that had been there in the days of Heracles. We went right.
    I could see our