Authors: Christian Cameron
Aristides didn’t sit. He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘I feel in my bones that you have something to do with this,’ he said. ‘I saw you look at the corpse. Tell me immediately, please.’
I shook my head. ‘I can tell you only that the Corinthians have been trying to harm the Spartans,’ I said quietly.
Understanding flooded Aristides. His body stiffened. He narrowed his eyes.
I shook my head. ‘I’m looking into it,’ I said. In truth, he was very difficult to lie to, and I was struggling, but with the stakes so high, I managed.
I turned to Cimon. ‘Someone should watch the Corinthians, and someone else should watch the Spartans. To keep them apart, if nothing else.’
‘You think the Spartans killed the groom?’ Aristides asked.
I shrugged. ‘You know that someone struck Polypeithes the charioteer with a sling stone – right?’
Aristides shook his head. ‘I see,’ he said, face closing.
Cimon took his arm. ‘A slave is dead, not a Greek,’ he said. ‘Let’s not make too much of this.’
He drank down his wine and dragged Aristides away, leaving me with Themistocles. The orator glanced at the Spartan encampment. ‘You’ve taken . . . measures?’ he asked.
‘No idea what you are talking about,’ I said. ‘But I have agreed to escort the Spartan ambassadors.’
‘Heralds,’ Themistocles said. ‘Not ambassadors.’
We spent the morning and the afternoon watching the Corinthians. We had help from a dozen Athenians and we didn’t hide ourselves particularly – that is to say, Cimon and I were quite open, and so was Themistocles – so open that Adamanteis came out in a cloak.
‘We can see to our own affairs,’ he said. ‘We don’t need Athenians interfering in our preparations.’
Themistocles shrugged. ‘It is a fine place to stand and watch the games,’ he said. ‘And free to all men, I think.’
Adamanteis looked as if he might explode.
‘Sir,’ I asked, ‘do you by any chance own in the chariot racing today? The four-horse team with the African charioteer?’
He nodded curtly.
I smiled. ‘Ah, I see,’ I said. I meant it. I did see. Gorgo had it all correct. ‘May the best chariot and team win, then,’ I said.
‘I repeat – you needn’t be here. We can protect ourselves,’ Adamanteis said.
Themistocles shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is not you that we protect.’
The Corinthian spun on his heel and walked back among his tents. Several men pointed at us.
I wondered whether he was enough of a fool to provoke a fight. At the Olympics, no less.
Meanwhile, we missed Astylos’s day of triumph altogether, which galled me. We heard the roar from the stadium as he won the stadia, and Hector found us to tell us of the victory. Most of my oarsmen were in the south end of the stadium, roaring their lungs out for the Italian.
Two hours later, we caught the excitement even three stades away. Hector came to tell us that Astylos had won his first heat at the diaulos. Cimon and I cursed that we were missing a great moment. Themistocles made an excuse and left us to watch. He loved the running, and he wasn’t doing anything but provoking the Corinthians. He and Adamanteis clearly loathed each other.
It broke my heart to miss the final race. More so as
two
Plataeans made the last heat.
But we accomplished our objective, because when two grooms departed the Corinthian camp, they did so just as the cheering reached a fever pitch, late in the day. They avoided our position by slipping under the edge of their back tents and creeping slowly along the ground until clear of the camp. Then they ran into the trees to the south of the river and began to make their way along the high ground towards the Spartans. We never saw them.
But Brasidas and Leukas did. The two were dressed as slaves, Leukas hawking wine and Brasidas serving it. Leukas’s tattoos and barbaric Greek accent covered them both. They sent their pais – an Egyptian boy – running to us. I sent Alexandros and a dozen marines, all unarmed, to join Brasidas.
Then I put Leukas back on duty, this time with Sittonax and Harpagos pouring for him. It seemed possible that the first pair was a diversion.
With every possible arrangement made, I sauntered down to the stadium to embrace Astylos, who was so elated that he was with the gods. He had won two Olympic events in a single day. It had happened before, but no one could remember when, and he was, that night, the most famous man in the Greek world. And for many years thereafter.
Somewhere in the woods north of the sanctuary, Brasidas caught the two slaves. They didn’t fight. He tied them to trees, questioned them, and then Alexandros took them to the Spartan camp. I would love to have been present when they were handed over, but it was all done very quietly and I didn’t want my hand to be seen too broadly in it.
We ate and drank. The last of the wine was gone. The sun set. We changed the watch on the Corinthians. Brasidas assured me that the Athenians were watching the Spartans.
I went to my cloak, too tired to sit up with Astylos and Polymarchos and enjoy their moment of triumph. But the young man glowed, and Polymarchos look ten years younger.
I went to sleep. And rose in the dawn, to the last day. The day of the pankration, and of the chariot races.
I wasn’t intending to miss the pankration, so I made my arrangements early and put Cimon in charge. And he dumped his command responsibilities on Themistocles, who, you will remember, had walked off to see the races. It would have been the perfect moment for Adamanteis to sneak an assassin out, but the world seldom works that way.
After all, Adamantheis had no idea whether his grooms had succeeded or not. Their orders – according to Brasidas, who questioned them fairly extensively (I’m sparing your finer feelings) – their orders were to injure the horses. They had slings, a bow and knives.
Enough. My point is that the enemy is not always all-knowing. In this case, I think Adamanteis was outmatched. He was one arrogant rich man facing a dozen arrogant rich men. Hah!
At any rate, the pankration was superb. Agias of Pharalas won in just four bouts – only six men were willing to match him, and two of them were out – badly injured – in two rounds. He was tall, heavily built, beautifully muscled, and very fast. He always attacked, and his movements were fluid and graceful – almost impossible for a man so big.
I was lying on the green grass of the stadium bank with a number of my friends, including Polymarchos and Astylos – crowned with laurel and bathing in the admiration of every man in the crowd, I can tell you. But Polymarchos pointed out the Pharsalians early.
‘Rhadamanthius of Pharsala trains them,’ he said. ‘Men say he’s the greatest warrior alive. He’s a freedman – a former slave. You can always tell the men he trains – the way they move. Look at the lumbering bastard – he won’t last a moment . . .’
Indeed, as we watched, Agias took his opponent’s left wrist in his right and rotated it up – just a little – and made his opponent rotate on his hips – again, just a little – and at exactly the right moment, he seemed to step
through
the other man. Agias knelt suddenly, and pulled his opponent down – the man was forced against his will to rotate, to lose his balance, and to collapse back across Agias’s outthrust knee. He fell, and Agias rolled across him, a forearm across the downed man’s throat. The big man was brave and strong – he struggled until he was unconscious. But the pin was complete.
Sadly that was the best of his matches. There really wasn’t anyone who was worthy of him. One man he put down with a single, well-placed punch, and another he caught in a foolish extension and flipped over his head. All with an air of almost casual elegance.
Another Pharsalian won the wrestling. The two men enjoyed our plaudits, and walked the stadium receiving cheers and flowers and wreaths and small statues. Euthymos of Lokroi won the boxing. He was a fighter, and he fought three other men as good as he – well, not quite as good – but his fights offered more drama than the Pharsalians had. He seemed to just barely manage his wins, and yet, in the end, he had the same wreath of laurel on his brow and the same immortality. There’s a lesson there.
And then it was time to walk down to the hippodrome and watch the chariots.
The order of events is not immutable, and I know that in other years, the chariots have run on different days. As men emphasise – or forget – the role of old Pelops in founding the games, the chariot races gain in importance or lose it again. Some new event – such as the hoplitodromos – will catch everyone’s interest, or a particular athlete will capture the imaginations of the judges – and that can change the way the games are scheduled. In that year, with the fate of Greece blowing on the winds of fate, the chariot race for four horses was last.
Of course, we’d already had all the horse races, the donkey race, the race for colts, and the two-horse chariots. Oh, yes. Greeks will watch almost any kind of race.
But as I’ve already said, the four-horse chariot race is considered a sacred event. It takes a fantastically rich man to enter a team – to get four matched horses, you need to raise fifty, or so I’m told. Matched teams sold for enough money to buy a fleet or a small city.
Good charioteers were often Italian or Africans, because both of those somewhat backward places still used chariots in battle and for lavish display, and they had more and better charioteers. Even Asia had better charioteers then Greece – after all, I was one of them, however briefly.
At any rate, there were only the six chariots. So there was only one race, and the teams drew lots for their positions. There was no stagger, so the outside berths were seriously disadvantaged at the start – they had a great deal farther to travel, and they could not possibly get to the inside on the turns, so all other things being equal, the outside berths would be behind for a dozen laps.
And again, recall that on each lap, the chariot had to go straight down the hippodrome, turn at a pole, go straight back to the start, and turn again – not an oval. I think it is possible that the reason men loved to watch is that one or two chariots were always wrecked, and the value of a small city in horseflesh killed. Somewhere, a rich man was brought low. Lesser men could cheer for that.
That’s a cynical reason. A better reason is that just one four-horse chariot makes the earth shake. Just one looks like the direct tool of the gods – the horses paw the earth and snort, their magnificent heads toss, and you can see Apollo or Zeus himself at the reins. Put six of them side by side, and the sound is like Zeus’s own thunderbolts, and the waves of the sea.
The draws were announced while Cimon and I – and our friends – took up the ground that had been held for us all morning by a dozen of my oarsmen. On the inside, in the best berth, was the team from Ceos. As I mentioned, they were piebald horses and a hand smaller than the others, but the position at the inside changed all the wagering instantly. The charioteer wore a long white racing chiton with Tyrian red borders.
The next team out were the Corinthians, and they were magnificent, with the horses and the driver looking equally dark, glossy – and heroic. The charioteers’ salute was sufficient to draw a wall of thunderous applause – the cheers roared on and on. His horses were calm, while the little horses of Ceos fidgeted and tossed their heads. The Corinthian wore a red tunic – all red.
The third team was that of Gelon of Syracusa – black as his heart, I might add. They were the most beautiful team, and men roared for them again. Their charioteer wore a pure white chiton and looked like the god Apollo.
The fourth team from the pole was the white team of Aegina. The horses were beautifully matched, and their coats had been brushed and brushed so that their bodies appeared to be some sort of flowing metal. Their charioteer wore a dark blue chiton.
The fifth team was the Athenians. Their horses were all beautiful, but unmatched. It was rather like a drama about Athenian democracy – the unmatched team. The Athenian charioteer wore a white chiton with blue borders and full-length sleeves, an older style the Athenians always favoured. I can tell you from experience that in a fall, those full sleeves can protect you from a great many abrasions.
And last – the worst position – came the Spartans. Every head in the hippodrome went to the Spartans, all sitting together.
They didn’t react at all, and they all cheered the Spartan chariot. As did many others – all my men, and many of the Athenians, too. That brought some stares.
The six teams lined up carefully, and the judges examined every team. This went on long enough to make every man in the hippodrome anxious for his particular team and for the animals. I was hungry and thirsty myself before the judges cleared away from the teams, and the censor mounted the rostrum with a wand in his hand and raised it, and the tension in the hippodrome rose until it was like the tension between two phalanxes getting ready to close in mortal combat.
And then the wand dropped, and they were off.
The opening of the race held a layer of surprises like an Athenian wedding cake. The team from Ceos was off the line in perfect form – and they went from the stand to a dead gallop in six or seven strides, a superb performance.
The Corinthian driver had clearly expected to beat the Ceosian team off the line – to seize the inside lane and hold the pole for the turn for the beginning. And his team came off the line in beautiful style. But they could not beat the piebald horses down the stretch. It was amazing to see the four small horses run – they seemed to flow along the ground with something of the dancing grace of the Pharsalian athletes. They couldn’t
beat
the bigger Corinthian team, but the Corinthians couldn’t gain even a head and a neck on the Ionian team, and as the two began to come up on the first turn, if became clear that the Corinthian was not going to gain the inside lane.
He allowed himself to drop back half a chariot length, to cut inside and take the turn second. After all – I could read his thoughts – he had fifty-three more opportunities to pass.
The teams of Aegina and Syracusa duplicated the entire performance. The Aeginians probably had the inferior team, but they were on their mettle, and the Syracusans could not cut in to gain the inside lane – you must imagine every chariot cutting hard to the left from the moment the wand was dropped.