Authors: Gene Wolfe
I nodded. "What are you doing up here, Aglaus? Don't you have work to do?"
"She brought me," Aglaus explained, pointing to the pythia. "She came while I was helping the cooks. Io knows her, and said for me to go with her and do what I was told, which is what I've done."
The pythia said, "This is a sanctuary of my mistress's. You call her a goddess, and I'm her servant—far more so than Io or Aglaus are yours. I've been sent into this quarrel to represent her interests. Amyklos, Polos, and Aglaus are here for her foe, Gaea, who took away your memory."
"Prince Pausanias asked the oracle," Polos said. "And the god there told him to have me get my uncle to help you. He's a famous healer."
Old Amyklos added, "I haven't been able to accomplish much, I'm afraid. That's why we're here."
"And I'm here," a new voice called, "simply because I'm a friend of Latro's."
The speaker emerged from the pines some way down the slope. He is muscular, of middle size, and has the eyes of a fox. "I doubt you remember me, but Sisyphus is the name. A driver you beat told me about this, and I thought I'd like a hand in it." He hesitated, then roared with mirth. "You won't see the joke, but it
is
funny." The pythia murmured, "Now we can begin."
Learning from Polos that my long ride had lifted my spirits somewhat, Kichesippos walked with me to the town and back. Now he insists I write of it. The air was fine, the sun bright. A slave in the marketplace called me brother. I was ashamed and pretended I had not heard him. Later I asked Kichesippos. He says I was freed by the prince. They are Crimson Men, and their ship lies at Cyparissa. They will be sold with their goods, said to be rich, when more have come to watch the games. Kichesippos is himself the prince's slave; he says he does not wish freedom. The pythia, he says, is the slave of the god—and that is much the same.
THIRTY-NINE
Diokles
THE GYMNASTES HAS BEGUN MY training. Prince Pausanias wants me to box, and fight in the pankration, besides driving for him in the chariot race. Diokles talked with him, Cyklos, Tisamenus, Amyklos, and me this morning. Diokles is a head shorter than I. His beard is dark gray and bristling, and he spits often. He is training Pasicrates, too, for the footraces.
"I can see that he's strong," Diokles said. "What's the matter with him?"
The prince looked at Tisamenus, who shrugged. Old Amyklos said, "He's dispirited, and he can't remember, that's all. But exercise appears to help, not harm, him."
Diokles nodded sagely. "That's the way it usually is. What's he downhearted about?"
Tisamenus sighed. "You may leave that to us, sir. As you have been told, he does not remember."
Cyklos cleared his throat, the noise of one who feels that the time has come for him to take charge. "Our prince regent's mantis and this man, who I am informed is a noted physician, are treating these difficulties. It is for you to prepare his body for the contests."
Diokles nodded to show that he understood, though his eyes wanted to argue.
"It is vital to Rope that he do well. He must win at least one event and perform creditably in the rest—no excuses will be accepted. When will you enroll him?"
"Tomorrow, when the lists are opened, if he's got his fee."
The prince smiled. "Tisamenus has it. He'll go with you—there may be some difficulties. You can tell the hellanodikai that Tisamenus speaks for me and for our city. He'll explain to them that Latro qualifies in every way."
"I see." Diokles nodded to himself.
When we were alone, watching Pasicrates jogging around the track, Diokles asked in what way I did not qualify, and I told him I did not know.
"I'll swear you do," he told me. "You don't have to worry about that, see? I'll be behind you all the way. But I've got to know what we're up against. You're not from Redface Island, are you? You don't sound like it."
I said, "I think you're right."
"But you don't know? Huh! Can you wrestle?"
"A little, perhaps."
"That's good. A lot of wrestlers enter the pankration, but they never win. You talk to them and they'll tell you that once they get their grip on their man, it's all over. Fine. Maybe it takes them to the semifinals, see? Then they don't get their grip." He paused as if awaiting my reaction. "You know what it is, don't you? The pankration?"
I said, "I think I can guess from its name." [
All-power—
GW]
"But you've never seen a match?"
"I don't know."
Diokles spat. "This is a great job, this is. All right, it's boxing, wrestling, and kicking. Can you box?"
"I think so."
"We'll find out. How about kicking?"
I said, "I suppose that anybody can kick."
Diokles spat, as before. "Take off those sandals. Don't put them back on till the games is over." He extended a hand at shoulder height. "Kick it, and kick hard. The harder you kick, the better I'll like it."
I kicked as hard as I could, but the end of my foot barely touched his palm.
"Try again!"
The result was scarcely better than before.
"With the other foot!"
This time I could not even touch his palm.
"Now hold out your hand for me."
I did as he said; the tips of my fingers were level with his eyes. His feet pumped like a boxer's fists: right-left-right, each kick higher than his head. At the third, I jerked my hand away.
"There's half a dozen kicks, and you're going to learn them all, with both feet. That's the first thing. I'll show you how you work out on the korykos."
Quite suddenly, he struck at my face. I blocked the blow with a forearm and backed away. He slapped at me with his other hand, and I blocked that as well. Swiftly his right fist jabbed at my waist; I knocked it aside.
"Now let's see you tag me."
When I had pinched his nose and smacked his face, he said, "You
can
box. The prince says he's seen you drive, and you're good. It's the only thing I'd trust him on, but I'd trust him on that—these blue bloods generally know horses even when they don't know anything else. The pankration's the problem."
Pasicrates was passing us just then. Diokles called, "One more lap— as fast as you can go—and then I'll give you a rubdown!"
Seeing Pasicrates sprinting around the track, I would have thought him fresh. He seemed to fly.
"He could win," Diokles mused. "We're going to write him up for stadion, diaulos, and dolichos. By the twins, I believe he's got a chance in all of them. Friend of yours?"
I said that I supposed he was.
"He says the girl's yours, but you and him are partners in the boy."
It seemed safest to nod, so I did.
"You leave them both alone till after, understand? I told him and now I'm telling you. Don't touch them, or anybody!"
Io sits watching me, but I will write no more.
Today, when I was very tired, Io led me to a grove in secret. The woman had wine, and had brought a cloth for us to lie on. I drank, and explained that I had no interest in her and no money. She laughed and rubbed my manhood between her fingers; but after a time we returned here.
Diokles sat down beside me after the second meal. He said, "Latro, I can't quite figure you out," and I told him he had no reason to.
"I've got to earn my fee." He spat. "The old judge, he thinks that if you don't win, they're not going to pay."
I nodded, knowing what he had said was true.
"Well, he's wrong about that. We're all hooked up with the oracle here, see? We've got to be. We have to make an offering every year after the games, and believe me it's a lot. But when somebody don't pay up, the priests go after him. So I'll get my money, and quick, too. Are you listening to me?"
I said that I was.
"But in your case—what's wrong with you, anyhow? Tell me."
I said that I did not know, then that it did not matter.
"Huh! Not to you, maybe, but it does to me. You want to win, don't you?"
"I suppose so."
"All right, then let me tell you something. In any event you can name, the ability a man's born with counts for a lot. That's a gift from the gods. Nobody can change it. Condition counts for a lot, too—it's very important. Then there's all the training he gets, and the tips from somebody like me who's done it here, done it at Olympia, done it at Nemea and Isthmia a dozen times. Things like that can make a big difference. But the most important thing is what's in a man's heart— whether he wants to win so much that he'll do whatever winning takes. You know the story they tell about Heracles and the cart?"
I did not, nor did I care to; yet I will set it down here because I must write something. (I am afraid that if I cease to write, I may throw myself upon my sword. There is a spirit in me that longs for it, and my hand strays to the hilt whenever I lay the stylus down.)
"This farmer," Diokles said, "had been trying to drive his cart along a narrow road, and it had slipped off into the ditch. 'Father Zeus,' he prayed, 'send me help, please! I'll never get this thing out by myself
"Just then, who should come along the road but Heracles of Hill, the strongest man in the entire world. 'Praise to Zeus,' said the farmer, 'who's sent you in answer to my prayer. Noble Heracles, won't you hoist this old wreck of a cart out of this ditch for me? You might help my oxen up, too.'
"But Heracles just laughed. 'Father Zeus hasn't heard a word you've said,' he told him, 'and I passed this way by pure chance. Now take your whip in your right hand and the ox goad in your left. Lay your shoulder to that wheel, and shout and curse your oxen with all your might. That's the only way that Father Zeus ever hears a man.'
"And it's a fact," Diokles affirmed. "I've seen men win, and boys, too, that didn't have a chance. Winded and out of it, and nine or ten strides behind, then beating somebody they had no business ever to beat. Some god sees them, see? 'Well,' he says, 'ain't he the plucky little 'un. I think I'll just puff him along a ways.' "
When I said nothing, Diokles finished, "There isn't any god going to do that for you. Not the way you are."
I spoke to him then of my feelings, as I have not spoken to anyone, not even little Io. I do not recall all the many, weary words I used, but what I said was this: that it seems to me that there is nothing to be found upon earth but treachery and hatred and the lust for blood and more blood. Man is a wolf to men, a vile predator that preys upon its own kind. I know that is true of me, however much I detest it. I know, as well, that it is true of everyone else, without exception; and that most of them do not even detest it as I do.
I ceased to write and, fearing my sword, shut it away in my chest; then I sought a lonely road, down which I walked for many stades. At length it seemed to me that another kept me company. At first I could not see him. After some while, there came a shadowy figure there, and at last a man who seemed as solid as I. I asked whether he was a ghost, and he freely acknowledged that it was so.
"You don't have to be afraid of me on that account," the ghost told me. "Most people are dead—you live ones are just sort of taking a holiday, and it'll soon be over. We'll laugh about all this then. Say, remember helping me with that rock?"
I did not, but I said nothing.
"They let me come because you did that. Our queen said it would be all right—they're a queer lot, sometimes. Did I ever tell you why she and our king were so down on me? It's a pretty good story."
The ghost waited for an answer, so I shook my head; he must have seen it in the moonlight.
He chuckled. "Well, back before I died, I decided I wasn't likely to care much for the Lands of the Dead; so I got my wife, Merope, to promise that no matter what anybody said she wouldn't bury my carcass, or burn it, either. Merope's a good girl—not too bright, or she'd never have married me; but once she pledges her word on a thing, that's the end of it. She'll do it if it kills her."
I said, "I see."
"You don't see
her."
He pointed toward a cluster of stars. "She's the one you can't see—the family's never forgiven her. Well, anyway, I died—being a mortal, you know—and Merope laid my body out and left it there, just like she'd promised. Pretty soon it was stinking up the whole palace, but Merope wouldn't let anybody touch it.
"As soon as it got ripe enough that people were kicking up quite a fuss, I went to our king. 'Let me return to the Lands of the Living,' I said, 'and revenge myself upon this faithless wife of mine who won't even give me a decent burial.' You see, I knew how seriously he takes these things.
"Well, to make a long story short, they let me out. I ran off and hid, and had a wonderful time until they finally fetched me back. I'm not going to do that this time, though—they might find me another rock."
His voice grew serious. "What I came to tell you, friend, was that we've been looking into killing Pasicrates."
"If you wish," I said.
The ghost laid a hand on my shoulder, and though it seemed that of a living man, it was as cold as ice. "Most of us agree it's an awfully attractive idea, but our seers tell us that it doesn't look as if it would be of any help to you until you're dead yourself."
"Which will be soon," I said.
"You're right, and that's precisely why you shouldn't rush things, my friend. Anyway, since killing him won't help, we're going to have to force him to let go. That Elata's a nice girl, by the way. She reminds me a lot of Merope, and she's on your side for old times' sake, as well as your having promised the Huntress that you'd fix the race. She got that mantis of hers to look into it for us, and he agrees with Amyklos. Amyklos is on your side because of his nephew, of course."
When I returned here, I found that someone had draped an old cloak across two stools as if to curtain the place where I would sleep. I thought nothing of it; but when I lay down, I found that a woman lay beside me.
"You've been mourning," she explained. "I've come to kiss your tears away."
How sinuous her body was, fragrant and smooth with perfumed oil! Perhaps it was that the ghost had brought me hope, perhaps only that she was somehow different; but though I had been able to do nothing with the woman with the wine, with her I was a man again.