The Seven Wonders: A Novel of the Ancient World (Novels of Ancient Rome) (15 page)

Antipater shrugged. “One knows people. One calls in a favor now and then.” He pushed the eye patch up to his forehead and rubbed the skin around his eye.

“But who is our mysterious host?”

“A friend of a friend.”

“But surely you know something about him.”

“Exagentus is a wealthy man from Pontus, if you must know,” said Antipater curtly. The long day of traveling had made him testy.

“Pontus? The kingdom of Mithridates?” It seemed that Mithridates came up everywhere we went. “Pontus is awfully far from Olympia, isn’t it?”

Antipater nodded. “Pontus is at the farthest edge of the Greek-speaking world, to be sure, but King Mithridates himself is part Greek, and a great many of his subjects are Greek speakers of Greek ancestry. No doubt there will be athletes from Pontus competing in the Games, and our host wishes to cheer them on.”

“Whoever he is, he must be wealthy indeed, to afford such a—”

A braying of trumpets interrupted me. The steady murmur of the crowd outside the tent rose to a cheer.

Antipater smiled. “They’ve arrived!”

“Who?”

“Come and see, Gordianus!” He put on his shoes and hurriedly replaced the eye patch. “Is my nose on straight?”

I followed him out the flap and into the crowd, which was moving in a rush to greet the arrival of the athletes. The procession was headed by men in purple robes wearing olive wreaths and clutching wooden rods forked like a serpent’s tongue at one end. These were the Olympic judges, who would oversee each event; their forked rods were not mere symbols of authority, but weapons to be used on any athletes who dared to cheat or flout a rule. Behind the judges were several hundred youths, some dressed in loose chitons but most wearing only loincloths, all tanned to a golden brown after a month of outdoor training and elimination rounds in Ellis. Some had the long legs and slender build of runners, while others were brawny with muscle. Most were my age or only slightly older. Only a handful looked to be in their late twenties, and even fewer in their thirties—longtime veterans of the Games who, against the odds, were still viable competitors.

The procession drew nearer, passing between us and the wall that enclosed the Altis. The crowd went wild with excitement. Men waved their arms and shouted the names of the most famous athletes, who smiled and waved back. Some of the competitors looked cocky and aloof, but most of the young men in the procession appeared to be as giddy with excitement as the spectators. For many, this was their first journey away from home.

“Behold the best that Greece can offer!” cried Antipater. “It brings a tear to one’s eye.” I grunted and shrugged, then realized he meant this literally, for I saw him reach up and dab a bit of moisture from each cheek. I looked around and realized that Antipater was not the only spectator shedding a tear at the sight of the athletes entering Olympia. How sentimental these Greeks were, especially the older ones, always looking back to the golden days of their youth spent in a gymnasium!

From the corner of my eye I saw a figure in rags scramble atop the Altis wall. Simmius of Sidon stood upright and loomed above the parade of athletes, waving his scrawny arms and howling like a dog to catch everyone’s attention.

“Are these your heroes?” he shouted. “These vain young cocks, all puffed up with pride and self-love? What good is an athlete, I ask you? What do they do but run around in circles, punch each other in the face, and roll in the dirt like animals, grunting and grabbing each other by the crotch? And for such nonsense you all cheer and roll your eyes to heaven! Shame on you all! Instead of fawning over these brutes, you should line them up and slay them for sacrifice, like oxen—that way you’d all at least get a good meal out of them. Oh, you find my words offensive, do you? I say that a young man who exalts his body and neglects his mind has no more soul than an ox, and should be treated with no more consideration, yet you make idols of these creatures. What truly makes a man noble? Not playing games, but confronting the hardships of everyday life. Not wrestling for an olive wreath, but wrestling day and night to sort truth from falsehood. Not lusting after fame and prizes, but seeking truth, and living an honest life.”

“The athletes are here to honor Zeus!” shouted someone.

“Are they? I’ll tell you why most of these greedy fellows come here—they’re hoping to strike it rich. Oh, an olive wreath is all they’ll get from the judges, but every city rewards its winners with a fortune in gold and silver, as we all know. Not only do you bow down to these men and throw your sons and daughters at them, you make them rich as Croesus. Then you watch them grow fat and bloated and turn into the very opposite of what they once were. Your beloved Olympiad is a farce!”

Some in the crowd jeered at the Cynic, while others tried to ignore him. The athletes passing before the wall looked up at him and laughed. Some made obscene gestures at him. Suddenly, one of them bolted from the procession and bounded up the wall. He was tall and broad, with massive limbs and a deep chest, and wore only a loincloth. His pale, close-cropped hair and eyebrows, bleached by the sun, were almost as white as his dazzling grin.

“Isn’t that Protophanes of Magnesia?” said someone in the crowd.

“He’s favored to win the pankration,” said another. “What a splendid specimen!”

The young athlete certainly presented a striking contrast to the shaggy, bony Cynic. Protophanes might have been satisfied to show off his own physical perfection next to Simmius’s unsightliness, but with his fellow competitors cheering him on, the brawny athlete stripped off his loincloth, grabbed hold of the Cynic—who flailed his arms in a show of feeble resistance—and stuffed the garment in Simmius’s mouth, tying it in place. The humiliated Cynic turned his back on the crowd and struggled to remove the gag. Next to him, Protophanes stood naked atop the wall, stuck out his chin, and raised his arms in a victor’s pose, pumping the air with his fists.

The crowd roared with laughter. Athletes jumped up and down, grinning and slapping each other on the shoulder. In a spontaneous act of homage, some of them followed Protophanes’ example and stripped off their loincloths, then waved them above their heads. The action spread like wildfire through the procession. In a matter of moments, every one of the hundreds of athletes was naked and had his arms in the air. The onlookers were delighted.

I looked back at the wall and saw that Simmius had vanished; the Cynic must have climbed down the far side, into the Altis enclosure. Protophanes remained atop the wall for a moment longer, soaking up the adoration of the crowd, then jumped down to rejoin his fellow athletes, who cheered and swarmed around him, playfully pelting him with their discarded loincloths.

I glanced at Antipater, half-expecting to see another sentimental tear run down his cheek, but his expression was grave.

“Are you not amused, Teacher? Much as I might tend to agree with your fellow Sidonian, I wasn’t sad to see someone shut him up. What a grating voice he has!”

Antipater shook his head. “I fear it’s the judges who are not amused. Look at them.”

The purple-robed elders at the head of the procession had come to a halt and were staring, stone-faced, back toward the commotion. They whispered among themselves, then at last turned around and strode on. The grinning athletes fell back into ranks and resumed the procession. Protophanes strutted past us, smiling and waving to acknowledge the accolades of the crowd, unaware of the judges’ dour reaction.

As the last of the athletes passed by, the crowd gave a final cheer and then quieted down. Gradually, people resumed the business of shopping, eating, and otherwise amusing themselves. The day’s excitement was over. The swearing of oaths by the athletes and the first of the competitions would begin the next morning.

“There’s still an hour or two of daylight left. What shall we do now?” I asked Antipater. I feared he might suggest that we attend a philosophical debate or poetry recitation, but instead he pointed toward the Altis enclosure. Above the wall I could see the marble roof of the Temple of Zeus, and some of the golden shields that decorated the frieze above the columns.

“We came here to see a Wonder of the World, did we not? I should hate for us to miss a single one of the competitions in the next few days, so why not see it now?”

To this proposal I enthusiastically agreed.

*   *   *

There was a queue to enter the Temple of Zeus. A donation was demanded of each visitor, and admission was by guided tour only. Our group of fifteen gathered at the bottom of the steps. There we were met by a young guide who informed us that he was a descendant of Phidias, the Athenian sculptor who had created the fabled statue of Zeus.

“As you may know,” the guide said, “the statue is of a type invented by Phidias which is called ‘chryselephantine’—the god’s flesh is made of ivory, while his hair, sandals, and drapery are plated with gold. The statue of Athena by Phidias that stands in the Parthenon in Athens is of this same sort. The gold is incorruptible, but the ivory must be regularly oiled and polished to prevent it from cracking. Here in Olympia, this sacred duty was bequeathed to the descendants of Phidias. It is our hereditary honor to anoint the statue of Zeus. Thus we serve the god, and also the memory of our ancestor, who was the greatest of all the sculptors who ever lived.”

This seemed a rather extravagant claim, and a bit suspect, coming from a descendant. But I decided to reserve judgment until I saw the statue for myself.

“Before we enter the temple, allow me to give you some history, and to point out some architectural details,” the guide continued. “The Temple of Zeus was completed in time for the eighty-first Olympiad; that was three hundred sixty-four years ago. The statue of Zeus was not installed until some twenty-four years later, in time for the eighty-seventh Olympiad. Thus, the statue you are about to see is three hundred forty years old. When you see it, you will understand why it is commonly said that nature created the elephant so that Phidias might harvest the tusks to make his statue.”

I rolled my eyes. “He certainly fawns over his ancestor,” I whispered to Antipater, who shushed me.

“The temple itself is a marvel. It is two hundred thirty feet long and ninety-five feet wide, and stands sixty-eight feet high. The apex of the pediment is surmounted by a thirty-foot statue of Nike, goddess of victory; appropriately, she gazes down on the ancient stadium to the east, from which the runners can look up to her for inspiration.

“Any questions? No? In a moment, then, we shall enter the antechamber of the temple. There you will see a statue of King Iphitos of Ellis, who established the games here at Olympia. He did so at the behest of the Oracle at Delphi, who declared that all Greeks must cease fighting and lay down their arms in the months preceding the Games. Thus did the Olympiad bring to the Greeks the boon of peace and put an end to constant warfare.”

“It’s the Romans who enforce the peace between us now,” mumbled a man behind me. Others in the group grunted to acknowledge this comment. Though they had no way of knowing that I was Roman, I suddenly felt self-conscious.

“In the antechamber,” the guide continued, “you will also see the heavy bronze shields that are carried in the footrace of the armored hoplites on the last day of the Games. And around the top of the chamber’s walls you will see a frieze that depicts the labors of Hercules, an inspiration to the athletes who come here and a reminder that, like Hercules, they must constantly prove themselves. Now, if you will follow me—”

I raised my hand. “Actually, I have a question.”

The man behind me, who had mumbled the anti-Roman comment, made a grunt. I felt painfully aware of my Roman accent, but pressed on. “You mentioned the shields carried by the hoplites in their race. But I’ve been wondering about the gilded shields that decorate the frieze that runs all the way around the temple. What do they signify?”

“An excellent question! There are twenty-one gilded shields in all. They were donated some fifty-four years ago by the Roman general Lucius Mummius when he visited Olympia after he put down the revolt of the Achaean League.”

“After he stamped out the last flicker of Greek resistance!” hissed the man behind me. Antipater looked back at the man and shushed him.

The guide continued. “It was feared that Mummius would do to Olympia what he had done to Corinth—loot the temples and shrines, perhaps raze the entire site—but instead Mummius saw fit to honor the Altis with new statues of Zeus, and to donate the golden shields that you see adorning the frieze of the temple.”

“Paid for by booty from defeated Greeks!” growled the man behind me.

“In gratitude,” the guide went on, “the city of Ellis, which administers the sanctuary of Olympia, erected an equestrian statue of Mummius, which stands in a place of honor among the statues of gods and athletes here in the Altis.”

“And should be pulled down!” declared the man behind me, no longer lowering his voice.

“You there!” said the guide. “I remind you that we are about to enter the house of Zeus. You will not raise your voice again—indeed, you will not speak at all once we enter the temple—or I shall have you ejected. Do you understand?”

I turned around to take a good look at the grumbler. He was a brawny fellow with blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard—perhaps a former athlete himself. He stared back at me for a moment, then at Antipater, who was also looking at him. The man looked elsewhere and mumbled a begrudging acknowledgment to the guide.

We followed the guide up the steps to the entrance, where the huge bronze doors stood open. I paused for a moment to gaze up at the massive marble columns of the portico, then followed the group into the temple.

Perhaps the statue of Iphitos and the hoplites’ shields were impressive, but I could not say, for upon entering the antechamber I had my first glimpse of the statue that occupied the farthest recess of the temple, and from that moment my senses could register nothing else.

I forgot my discomfort at the anti-Roman sentiment I had just encountered. I gaped, and would have walked straight on, directly to the statue, had not Antipater taken hold of my arm. The guide droned on—recounting each of Hercules’ labors, I imagine—but I did not hear. I stared in awe at Zeus seated upon his throne.