The Last of the Wine (25 page)

Yet for all my fears, within the time it takes to run five stades I was cheering myself hoarse with joy. I fought my way through the crowd and ran to Lysis. He was not very much the worse for the bout. He had got a thick ear, and some bruises, and he was rubbing his left wrist where Autolykos had got a grip and nearly broken it, trying to twist him round for a flying mare. But on the whole he was in very good shape. I walked in with him and we went to see Autolykos, whom Lysis had had to help to his feet after the decision. He had torn one of the big muscles in his back, and it was that which had finished him. He was in a good deal of pain, and it was years since he had yielded the crown to anyone; but he took Lysis’ hand and congratulated him on a good win, like the gentleman he always was. “I deserve this,” he said, “for listening to too much advice in training. You had more sense, Lysis. Bring in the parsley, and good luck to you.”

I had lost my place; but Plato made room for me by heaving everyone sideways. He was the strongest boy at his age that I remember. During the other heats I saw no one who seemed to me the match of Autolykos. Then it was time for the semi-finals. There were eight contestants, so no one had drawn a bye. The herald called out, “Lysis son of Demokrates, of Athens. Sostratos son of Eupolos, of Argos.” The name was unknown to me. I guessed this must be the winner of the first bout, which I had missed while in the temple. Then they came out, and I saw the man.

At first I could not trust my eyes; the more because I recognised him. Two or three times, indeed, I had seen this monstrous creature, going about the fair. I had not doubted he was some travelling montebank, whose act consisted of raising boulders or bending iron bars; so I had been struck by his air of absurd conceit. Once Lysis had been beside me, and I pointed out the man, laughing, and saying, “What a hideous fellow! What can he be, and who does he think he is?” Lysis had answered, “He’s no beauty, is he?” and spoken of something else. Now here he stood, a mountain of gross flesh, great muscles like twisted oakwood gnarling his body and arms; a neck like a bull’s; his legs, though they were thick and knotty, seemed bowed by the weight of his ungainly trunk. Why do I go on describing a sight with which everyone has grown familiar? Today even at Olympia they appear without shame, and afterwards some sculptor has to turn out a portrait that people can see in the sacred Altis without disgust.

It must seem to you now that we were simple in those days. For at the sight of a man too heavy to leap or run, who would fall dead if he had to make a forced march in armour, and whom no horse could carry, we thought we were looking at someone worse than a slave, since he had chosen his own condition. We waited to see him run out of the company of free Hellenes, and cheered Lysis on to do it. He stood by this ugly hulk like the image of victory: hero against monster, Theseus with the Beast.

Then the fight began; the voices altered; and I woke from my dream.

I had not seen Sostratos’ first bout; but the crowd had, and got used sooner than I did to seeing Lysis duck away from a buffet. No one booed him, and one or two people cheered. When he landed one himself they went wild. But you could see it was like punching a rock. The man’s great arms were like flying boulders; one caught Lysis’ cheek, only glancing, and at once the blood began to flow. And now, as if the news had been brought to me for the first time, I thought, “This creature too is a pankratiast.”

Lysis was the first to close. He grabbed Sostratos’ arm as it was striking, and the hand grew limp in his strong grip. I knew what came next; a quick twist and then the heave, a cross-buttock. I saw him begin it; and could tell the very moment when he knew he could not get this ton of flesh high enough for a throw. Then Sostratos reached for a neckhold; if Lysis had not been quick as a cat, he would never have got away. The crowd cheered him for escaping, as if he had scored. By now he had measured the enemy’s speed, and he began to take those risks that the faster man can take with the slower; except that here the risks were doubled. He ran in head first; I heard the monster grunt; before he could seize Lysis’ head he had slid free and got a body-hold. Then he hooked his leg behind Sostratos’ knee, and they went over together. The thud was like a block of stone falling.

The crowd cheered. But I saw that as they fell Sostratos had rolled over on Lysis’ arm. He lay like a man trapped by a landslide. Sostratos was starting to come over on him; but Lysis got a knee up in time. He was still pinned by the arm. I got to my feet and shouted for him. I tried to make it carry, though I don’t suppose he could hear me above the noise. He thrust his flat hand into Sostratos’ great pig-face and pushed the head back and got his arm free. It was scraped and bloody, but he could still use it. He twisted round like a flash; they struggled together on the ground, hitting and grappling. Always it was Lysis who had the speed. But speed in the pankration is only a man’s defence. It is strength that wins.

Someone was punching me on the knee. I found it was Eumastas the Spartan, attracting my notice. He never wasted words. When I glanced round he said, “Is the man your lover?”—“Which one?” I asked; I had no time for him just then. He said, “The man.” I nodded, without turning again. I could feel him watching me; waiting to approve of me, if I could see Lysis mauled with a wooden face. I could have killed him where he sat.

Just then Lysis came uppermost for a moment. His hair was matted with dusty blood; blood covered his face like a mask, and streaked his body. He rose, then seemed to fall backward, and the crowd groaned. But as Sostratos rushed upon him, he threw up his foot and swung the man right over so that he crashed to the earth instead. The noise was so great I could hardly hear myself cheer. But there was something new in it. I had not noticed it at first, but it was growing. In those days, the pankration was a contest for fighting men. I suppose there had always been a few slave-minded ones who had got another sort of pleasure from it; but they had known enough to keep it to themselves. Now, like ghosts who get strength from drinking blood, they came out into the light and one heard their voice.

As Sostratos went over him, Lysis had gripped his ankle and held on. He was twisting the foot, trying to make Sostratos give in. Sostratos managed at last to kick him off with the other foot, and I saw the great mass coming down on him again. But Lysis slipped from under, grabbing an arm as he went; next moment he was on Sostratos’ back, legs locked round his middle, and as fine a stranglehold on his neck as I ever saw. Sostratos’ free arm was all he had to hold up on; Lysis had pinned the other. All around people were on their feet; young Plato, whose very existence I had forgotten, was digging his fingers into my arm. The fight looked as good as won.

Then I saw Sostratos begin to rise. With the weight of a strong man on his back, and half-throttled, still the huge creature heaved up on his knees. I heard the blood-bay from the faces I had not seen. “Let go, Lysis!” I shouted. “Let go!” But I suppose his strength was nearly done, and he knew it was now or never. He set his teeth and squeezed his arm round Sostratos’ bull-throat. And Sostratos up-reared backward, and fell on him like a tree. There was a great silence; then the blood-voices cheered.

All I could see of Lysis at first was his arm and hand. It lay, palm up, in the dust; then I saw it feel for a purchase. Sostratos turned over. I saw for the first time in his wide face his little eyes; not the eyes of a boar in rage, but cold, like a usurer’s. Lysis began to struggle up on his arm. I waited to see him lift his hand to the umpire. It may be he was too angry to give in; but I think he was only too dazed to know where he was. At all events, Sostratos hurled him back on the ground so that you could hear the blow of his head meeting it. Even after that I thought I saw him move; but the umpire brought down his forked rod, and stopped the fight.

I jumped to my feet. Plato was holding me by the arm, saying something; I shook the boy off and climbed through the crowd, while people I had trodden on shouted and cursed me. I ran to the dressing-room, and got there while they were still carrying him in. They took him through to a little room at the back, where there was a pallet on the floor, and a water-tap shaped like a lion’s mouth, running into a basin. Outside, the next bout had begun. I could hear the cheering.

The man in charge said to me, “Are you a friend of his?”—“Yes,” I said. “Is he dead?” I could not see life or breath in him. “No; he is stunned, and I daresay some of his ribs are broken. But he may die. Is his father here?”—“We’re Athenians,” I said. “Are you a doctor? Tell me what to do.”—“Nothing,” said the man, “but keep him quiet if he wakes with his wits astray. Give him water if he asks for it, but no wine.” Then he looked up from Lysis and seemed to see me for the first time, and said, “He fought a fine pankration; but I wonder what made him enter, at his weight.” He went then to watch the fight outside, and we were left alone.

He was breathing, but very slowly, and so lightly that I could hardly hear. One side of his face was bruised all over; his nose had been bleeding and his scalp was cut. His forehead was split over the eyebrow; I could see he would never lose the scar. I drew down the old blanket they had thrown over him; his body was so battered and grimed that I could not tell what might be broken. I took a towel that was hanging on the wall, and washed from him the black blood, the oil and dust, as far as I could reach; I was afraid to turn him over. I talked to him, and called his name aloud; but he did not stir. Then I saw I ought not to have washed him; for the water was cold from the spring, and the place was made of stone; his flesh under my hands grew as cold as marble, and his mouth looked blue. I thought he would die as I watched him. Someone’s clothes were lying in a corner; I heaped those on him, but he still felt cold, so I added my own, and came in beside him.

As I held him, trying to put some life in him, and cold myself with fear, I thought of the long patrols with the Guard, in the winter mountains, when even the wolves in their caves had been warm together, and he had lain alone. “You gave me courage in battle,” I thought; “when I was unhorsed, you saved me and took a wound. After so much toil, who would not have looked for honey from the rock? Yet you offered it to heaven; there was only blood for you, and the salt-tasting sea. What is justice, if the gods are not just? They have taken your crown away from you, and set it on a beast.”

His mouth felt cold to mine; he neither opened his eyes, nor spoke, nor moved. I said in my heart, “Too late I am here within your cloak, I who never of my own will would have denied you anything. Time and death and change are unforgiving, and love lost in the time of youth never returns again.”

Someone was coming, so I got up. The light was darkened in the doorway. I saw that what filled it was Sostratos. He said, “How is he?” It was strange to hear human speech coming out of him, instead of a boar’s grunt. I was glad to see Lysis’ marks on him. “He is alive,” I said. The man came near, stared, and went away. I lay down with Lysis again. Bitterness filled my heart. I remembered his statue at school, done before I knew him; and thought how from a boy he had run and jumped, thrown the disk and javelin, swum and wrestled, and ridden on manoeuvre; how I myself had toiled, swinging the pick and throwing the weight, to balance my shoulders with my legs; how young Plato had run in armour; how all of us had sacrificed in the gymnasium to Apollo, the lord of measure and of harmony. This man had sold grace and swiftness, and the honour of a soldier in the field, not caring at all to be beautiful in the eyes of the gods, but only caring to be crowned. And yet to him the victory had been given.

The fight was over outside. The crowd was chattering, and someone was playing a double flute. Lysis moved, and groaned. He felt a little warmer. Presently he tried to sit up, and was sick. As I finished cleaning up, the doctor came in again. He pinched Lysis’ arm, and seeing him flinch a little said, “Good. But keep him still, for men who have been stunned sometimes die if they exert themselves soon after.” When he had gone, Lysis started to toss about, and to talk nonsense. He thought he was on a battlefield with a spear in his side, and ordered me not to touch it, but to fetch Alexias, who would draw it out. I was at my wit’s end, remembering the doctor’s words. While I was trying to lay him down, Sostratos came in again, and asked how he was. I answered shortly, but thought a little better of the man for his concern.

Soon afterwards the shouting began again outside; the final was on. It seemed hardly to have begun before it was over. I thought Sostratos must have finished his antagonist with a buffet; what had really happened was that this man, having seen Lysis carried off, had gone down on the ground almost at once, and given the bout away. I heard the herald announce the victor. The cheers were rather half-hearted; there had been neither a good fight nor any blood, so no one was pleased.

The crowd dispersed; outside in the dressing-room people chatted and laughed. Presently the man whose clothes I had put on Lysis came in to get them. It was getting cooler, but I dared not leave him to look for more, and hoped someone would come in. At last voices approached; Sostratos stood in the doorway, speaking to someone over his shoulder. The ribbons tied on him made him look like a bull going to sacrifice. As he paused, I heard the man who had been in for his clothes say, “Come, be easy, Sostratos; I went in just now and heard him talking. He will do till after the Games, and it makes no difference then.” I had forgotten that, except in Sparta, to kill in the pankration disqualifies the victor.

I sat looking at Lysis; then I heard someone behind me. Sostratos had come in after all. He peered into Lysis’ face, then asked me again how he was. I did not trust myself to answer. He began looking at me instead; suddenly he assumed fine manners, which sat on him like a violent-wreath upon a swine. “Why so downcast, beautiful youth? Fortune rules the Games. Will you spend the time of your triumph moping here, like one in prison? Come away and meet some of the other winners. It is time you and I knew each other better.”