The Last Cato (40 page)

His Beatitude told us that the first Olympic Games of the modern era took place in Greece in April 1896. They hadn’t been celebrated for more than fifteen hundred years. The winner of the marathon race was a twenty-three-year-old Greek shepherd almost a meter sixty centimeters tall named Spyros Louis. Spyros, who became a national hero back then, ran the distance between Marathon and the Olympic stadium in Athens in two hours fifty-eight minutes and fifty seconds.

“Was he a professional runner?” I asked, engrossed. I had the deep conviction, not just a doubt or insecurity, that I wouldn’t pass this test. I knew I’d never run thirty-nine kilometers. It was empirically impossible.

“Oh no!” His Beatitude answered with a wide, proud smile. “Spyros participated in the race by chance. At the time, he was a soldier in the Greek army. His colonel convinced him to enter at the last minute. He ran well, but he hadn’t had any training or preparation. He started his running career in the most important Greek race in history. After all, we weren’t going to let a foreigner win the race!”

Spyros didn’t receive any gold medal for his feat. In those first Olympics, they didn’t give the medals to champions. But he got a monthly pension of one hundred drachmas for the rest of his life. He also asked for and received a cart and horse to work his fields.

“Do you know the best part?” His Beatitude added with pride. “Forty years later, he was the Greek delegation’s standard-bearer at the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games in Berlin in 1936. He placed a crown of laurels, the symbol of peace, in Adolf Hitler’s hands.”

“But Spyros wasn’t an athlete, right?”

“No, Sister, he wasn’t.”

“If he wasn’t an athlete and it took nearly three hours to run the thirty-nine kilometers, how long will it take us?” I asked, looking at the captain.

“It’s not that simple, Doctor.”

The Rock opened a billfold-size notebook full of notes and flipped past several pages until he found what he was looking for. “Today is May 29. According to the information the archdiocese gave me, the sun will set in Athens at 8:56 p.m. So we will have nine hours and six minutes to complete the test.”

“Oh, that’s much better!” exclaimed Farag. He seemed so relieved we all turned to look at him in surprise. “What’s wrong? I didn’t think I could pass this test!” He, like me, had kept his fear a secret until that very moment.

“I’m sure I won’t make it,” I said.

“Oh, come on, Ottavia! We have more than nine hours!”

“So?” I jumped up. “I can’t run for nine hours. I don’t think I could run for nine minutes.”

The Rock flipped some more pages in his little notebook. “The men’s record for the marathon is under two hours and seven minutes. The women’s record is just over two hours and twenty minutes.”

“I can’t,” I repeated obstinately. “Do you know how much I have run in the last few years? Not one bit! Not even to catch the bus!”

“I am going to give you some instructions to follow tonight,” continued the Rock, turning a deaf ear to my complaints. “First, don’t overdo it. Don’t throw yourself into the race as if you really had to win a marathon. Run gently, don’t hurry, economize your movements. Take short, even strides, don’t wave your arms, breath normally. When you go uphill, do it effortlessly, efficiently, take small steps. When you go downhill, descend quickly, but control your pace. Keep the same rhythm throughout the entire race. Don’t lift your knees too much, and try not to lean forward, try to keep your body at a straight angle to the ground.”

“What are you saying?” I grunted.

“I am talking about getting to Kapnikarea, remember, Doctor? Or would you rather return to Rome tomorrow morning?”

“Do you know what Spyros Louis did when he got to kilometer thirty?” His Beatitude Christodoulous wasn’t used to our bickering. “When he felt very tired, he stopped, asked for a big glass of red wine, and drank it down in one gulp. Then he started a spectacular comeback and flew for the last nine kilometers of the race.”

Farag let out hearty laugh. “Well, now we know what to do when we are tired. Drink a nice glass of wine!”

“I don’t think the judges would allow that these days,” I replied, a bit miffed with Glauser-Röist.

“Why not? Runners can drink anything as long as they don’t test positive for doping.”

“We will drink sports drinks,” announced the Rock. “Doctor Salina, more so than Farag and I, needs to drink more often to recover ions and mineral salts. If you don’t, you will suffer really bad leg cramps.”

I kept my mouth shut. I preferred Saint Lucia’s hot red floor a thousand times over that blessed endurance test I was preparing for.

The captain opened a leather case that lay on the desk and took out three tiny, mysterious boxes. At that moment some far-off clock struck seven.

“Put on these pulse meters,” the captain ordered, showing Farag and me the strange clocks. “How old are you, Professor?”

“That’s a good one! Why do you ask?”

“You program the pulse meters so they can monitor your heartbeat during the race. If you go over your limit, you could collapse—or, even worse, have a heart attack.”

“I don’t plan on exceeding my limit,” I announced, disgruntled.

“Tell me your age, Professor, please,” the Rock asked again, picking up one of the pulse meters.

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“Fine, we subtract 38 from a maximum of 220 beats.”

“Then what?” asked His Beatitude Christodoulous.

“The recommended beats for a man are calculated by subtracting his age from the maximum cardiac frequency, which is 220. So, the professor will have a theoretical cardiac frequency of 182 beats. If he goes over that number during the race, he could put himself in danger. The pulse meter will beep if he does, okay, Professor?”

“Sure,” Farag said, strapping the contraption to his wrist.

“Please tell me your age, Doctor.”

I was waiting for that terrible moment. I didn’t care if His Beatitude Christodoulous and the Rock knew, but it bothered me that Farag would know I was a year older than he. Either way, I had no way out.

“I’m thirty-nine.”

“Perfect.” The Rock didn’t even blink. “Women have a greater cardiac frequency than men. They can handle a greater effort. So, in your case we will subtract thirty-nine from 226. Your theoretical maximum is 187 beats, Doctor. But since you live a very sedentary life, we will program it at 60 percent—that is 112. Remember, if the pulse meter starts beeping, you need to drop your pace immediately and slow down, got it?”

“Sure.”

“These calculations are approximate. Each person is different. Limits can vary according to a person’s preparation and constitution. Don’t just go by the pulse meter; at the slightest warning signal from your bodies, stop and rest. Now, let’s move on to possible injuries.”

“Can’t we skip that part?” I asked, bored. I certainly wasn’t going to injure myself—and I wasn’t going to make my pulse meter beep, either. I was going to hold myself to a slow pace, the slowest I could go and still make it to Athens.

“No, Doctor, we can’t skip that part. It’s important. Before starting we have to do some exercises and stretches to warm up. The lack of muscle mass in sedentary people is the main cause of ankle and knee injuries. In any case, we are really fortunate that the entire course is on asphalt highways.”

“Oh?” I interrupted him. “I thought it went through the countryside.”

“I bet my pulse meter you pictured yourself dead on some hill, surrounded by forests and wild animals!” commented Farag, trying not to laugh.

“Well, yes. I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

“The entire course is on highways, Doctor. We can’t get lost. Several years ago the Greek government painted a blue commemorative line along the thirty-nine kilometers. For greater safety, you pass through several towns and a city, as you will soon see. We don’t ever leave civilization.”

That was good news; getting lost in the woods was definitely out.

“If at any time you notice a sharp muscular pinch that leaves you breathless, stop. The test is over for you. Most likely you have a fibular tear. If you keep going, the damage could be irreversible. If it feels like a normal pain, even if it’s intense, rub the aching muscle. If it’s hard as a rock, stop to rest. It could be the beginning of a contracture. Massage it in the direction of the muscle, and when you can, end with some light stretches. If the tension subsides, continue; but if it doesn’t, please stop. The race is over for you. Now,” he got to his feet, decisively, “please change clothes, and let’s go. We’ll eat on the way. It’s getting late.”

Some bizarre sports clothes were waiting for me in my room. It was your standard running suit, but when I put it on, I looked so ridiculous I felt like crawling into a hole, though I must say that when I put on the white running shoes, it looked better. It was even better when I tucked a nice silk handkerchief into the collar of my sweat suit. In the end the outfit wasn’t so pathetic, and it did turn out to be comfortable. For several months, I hadn’t had a chance to go to the hair salon. My hair had grown so much I had to hold it back with an elastic band. Although it was a bit extravagant, at least it kept the long strands of hair out of my face. I put on my long wool coat (more to cover up than because of the cold) and went down to the lobby, where my companions, the porter in the green livery, and a driver from the archbishopric were waiting for me.

The road to Marathon was full of advice and many last-minute suggestions. I understood that Captain Glauser-Röist didn’t have the slightest intention of waiting for Farag or me, and that suited me just fine. His idea was that at least one of us should get to Kapnikarea before dawn. That was essential so at least one of us could continue the tests and get the next clue. Farag or I might not get our tattoos, but we could collaborate with the Rock on the next circles.

The Greek highways were actually more like country roads, not wide and well paved like those in Italy. The traffic wasn’t heavy. Traveling in the archdiocese’s car was like going back in time ten or fifteen years. Overall, Greece continued to be a marvelous country.

Night was falling when we finally drove into the town of Marathon. Nestled in a valley, with its flat terrain and wide-open spaces, Marathon was the ideal place for an ancient battle. In all other respects, it was no different from other industrial towns in modern-day Europe. Marathon received a throng of tourists, especially athletes and people who wanted to try out the famous race.

The car pulled up to the sidewalk in a strange spot outside of town, next to a knoll covered with green vegetation and some flowers. We got out of the car without stopping to look at the tumulus where one of the most important yet forgotten milestones in history had taken place. If the Persians had won the battle of Marathon, if they had imposed their culture, their religion, their politics on the Greeks, the world as we know it would more than likely not exist. Everything would be different—not better or worse, just different. That battle erected the barrier that allowed our culture to flourish. According to Herodotus, under that tumulus were 192 Athenians who died to make that possible.

The driver said good-bye and sped away, leaving us there on the side of the road. I left my coat in the car because the weather was actually wonderful.

“When do we start, Kaspar?” asked Farag, who was wearing a strange T-shirt with long, white sleeves and light blue running shorts. We each carried a small cloth backpack with the supplies we needed for the test.

“It’s eight-thirty and it’s just about to get dark. Let’s walk over to the hill.” The captain looked the best in his terrific red running suit, his physique that of a lifelong athlete.

The tumulus was much bigger than it had looked at first glance. Even the Rock looked as small as an ant when we got to the edge where the grass began. The spot was so solitary we were startled by a voice calling to us in heavily accented modern Greek from the other side of the hill.

“Who is that?” the Rock grumbled.

“Let’s go see,” I proposed, circling the tumulus.

Seated on a stone bench, enjoying the nice weather and the last rays of evening sun, a group of elderly men, with black hats and sticks fashioned into canes, studied us, seemingly very amused. We didn’t understand a word they were saying, and they didn’t seem to care. Accustomed to tourists, they must have had a lot of fun at the expense of people who traveled there like us, decked out in running clothes, ready to emulate Spyros Louis. The joking smiles on their leathery, wrinkled faces said it all.

“Could they be Staurofilakes?” Farag asked, staring at them.

“I refuse to think that,” I sighed, but the idea had occurred to me. We were getting paranoid.

“Do you two have everything you need?” asked the captain, looking at his watch.

“What’s the rush? We have ten minutes left.”

“Let’s do some exercises, start with some stretches.”

A few minutes after our exercise class started, the public streetlights came on. The sunlight was so dim now you could barely see a thing. The old men made jokes we couldn’t understand. From time to time one of our stretching positions made them burst out laughing, which dangerously inflamed my mood.

“Calm down, Ottavia. They’re just some old peasants. That’s all.”