The Last of the Legions and Other Tales of Long Ago

by Arthur Conan Doyle

  V

  THE CONTEST

  In the year of our Lord 66, the Emperor Nero, being at that time in thetwenty-ninth year of his life and the thirteenth of his reign, set sailfor Greece with the strangest company and the most singular design thatany monarch has ever entertained. With ten galleys he went forth fromPuteoli, carrying with him great stores of painted scenery andtheatrical properties, together with a number of knights and senators,whom he feared to leave behind him at Rome, and who were all marked fordeath in the course of his wanderings. In his train he took Natus, hissinging coach; Cluvius, a man with a monstrous voice, who should bawlout his titles; and a thousand trained youths who had learned to applaudin unison whenever their master sang or played in public. So deftly hadthey been taught that each had his own role to play. Some did no morethan give forth a low deep hum of speechless appreciation. Some clappedwith enthusiasm. Some, rising from approbation into absolute frenzy,shrieked, stamped, and beat sticks upon the benches. Some--and they werethe most effective--had learned from an Alexandrian a long droningmusical note which they all uttered together, so that it boomed over theassembly. With the aid of these mercenary admirers, Nero had every hope,in spite of his indifferent voice and clumsy execution, to return toRome, bearing with him the chaplets for song offered for freecompetition by the Greek cities. As his great gilded galley with twotiers of oars passed down the Mediterranean, the Emperor sat in hiscabin all day, his teacher by his side, rehearsing from morning to nightthose compositions which he had selected, whilst every few hours aNubian slave massaged the Imperial throat with oil and balsam, that itmight be ready for the great ordeal which lay before it in the land ofpoetry and song. His food, his drink, and his exercise were prescribedfor him as for an athlete who trains for a contest, and the twanging ofhis lyre, with the strident notes of his voice, resounded continuallyfrom the Imperial quarters.

  Now it chanced that there lived in those days a Grecian goatherd namedPolicles, who tended and partly owned a great flock which grazed uponthe long flanks of the hills near Her[oe]a, which is five miles north ofthe river Alpheus, and no great distance from the famous Olympia. Thisperson was noted over all the country-side as a man of strange gifts andsingular character. He was a poet who had twice been crowned for hisverses, and he was a musician to whom the use and sound of an instrumentwere so natural that one would more easily meet him without his staffthan his harp. Even in his lonely vigils on the winter hills he wouldbear it always slung over his shoulder, and would pass the long hours byits aid, so that it had come to be part of his very self. He wasbeautiful also, swarthy and eager, with a head like Adonis, and instrength there was no one who could compete with him. But all was ruinedby his disposition, which was so masterful that he would brook noopposition nor contradiction. For this reason he was continually atenmity with all his neighbours, and in his fits of temper he wouldspend months at a time in his stone hut among the mountains, hearingnothing from the world, and living only for his music and his goats.

  One spring morning, in the year of 67, Policles, with the aid of his boyDorus, had driven his goats over to a new pasturage which overlookedfrom afar the town of Olympia. Gazing down upon it from the mountain,the shepherd was surprised to see that a portion of the famousamphitheatre had been roofed in, as though some performance was beingenacted. Living far from the world and from all news, Policles could notimagine what was afoot, for he was well aware that the Grecian gameswere not due for two years to come. Surely some poetic or musicalcontest must be proceeding of which he had heard nothing. If so, therewould perhaps be some chance of his gaining the votes of the judges; andin any case he loved to hear the compositions and admire the executionof the great minstrels who assembled on such an occasion. Calling toDorus, therefore, he left the goats to his charge, and strode swiftlyaway, his harp upon his back, to see what was going forward in thetown.

  When Policles came into the suburbs, he found them deserted; but he wasstill more surprised when he reached the main street to see no singlehuman being in the place. He hastened his steps, therefore, and as heapproached the theatre he was conscious of a low sustained hum whichannounced the concourse of a huge assembly. Never in all his dreams hadhe imagined any musical competition upon so vast a scale as this. Therewere some soldiers clustering outside the door; but Policles pushed hisway swiftly through them, and found himself upon the outskirts of themultitude who filled the great space formed by roofing over a portion ofthe national stadium. Looking around him, Policles saw a great number ofhis neighbours, whom he knew by sight, tightly packed upon the benches,all with their eyes fixed upon the stage. He also observed that therewere soldiers round the walls, and that a considerable part of the hallwas filled by a body of youths of foreign aspect, with white gowns andlong hair. All this he perceived; but what it meant he could notimagine. He bent over to a neighbour to ask him, but a soldier proddedhim at once with the butt end of his spear, and commanded him fiercelyto hold his peace. The man whom he had addressed, thinking that Policleshad demanded a seat, pressed closer to his neighbour, and so theshepherd found himself sitting at the end of the bench which was nearestto the door. Thence he concentrated himself upon the stage, on whichMetas, a well-known minstrel from Corinth and an old friend of Policles,was singing and playing without much encouragement from the audience. ToPolicles it seemed that Metas was having less than his due, so heapplauded loudly, but he was surprised to observe that the soldiersfrowned at him, and that all his neighbours regarded him with somesurprise. Being a man of strong and obstinate character, he was the moreinclined to persevere in his clapping when he perceived that the generalsentiment was against him.

  But what followed filled the shepherd poet with absolute amazement. WhenMetas of Corinth had made his bow and withdrawn to half-hearted andperfunctory applause, there appeared upon the stage, amid the wildestenthusiasm upon the part of the audience, a most extraordinary figure.He was a short fat man, neither old nor young, with a bull neck and around, heavy face, which hung in creases in front like the dewlap of anox. He was absurdly clad in a short blue tunic, braced at the waist witha golden belt. His neck and part of his chest were exposed, and hisshort, fat legs were bare from the buskins below to the middle of histhighs, which was as far as his tunic extended. In his hair were twogolden wings, and the same upon his heels, after the fashion of the godMercury. Behind him walked a negro bearing a harp, and beside him arichly dressed officer who bore rolls of music. This strange creaturetook the harp from the hands of the attendant, and advanced to the frontof the stage, whence he bowed and smiled to the cheering audience. "Thisis some foppish singer from Athens," thought Policles to himself, but atthe same time he understood that only a great master of song couldreceive such a reception from a Greek audience. This was evidently somewonderful performer whose reputation had preceded him. Policles settleddown, therefore, and prepared to give his soul up to the music.

  The blue-clad player struck several chords upon his lyre, and thenburst suddenly out into the "Ode of Niobe." Policles sat straight up onhis bench and gazed at the stage in amazement. The tune demanded a rapidtransition from a low note to a high, and had been purposely chosen forthis reason. The low note was a grunting, a rumble, the deep discordantgrowling of an ill-conditioned dog. Then suddenly the singer threw uphis face, straightened his tubby figure, rose upon his tiptoes, and withwagging head and scarlet cheeks emitted such a howl as the same dogmight have given had his growl been checked by a kick from his master.All the while the lyre twanged and thrummed, sometimes in front of andsometimes behind the voice of the singer. But what amazed Policles mostof all was the effect of this performance upon the audience. Every Greekwas a trained critic, and as unsparing in his hisses as he was lavish inhis applause. Many a singer far better than this absurd fop had beendriven amid execration and abuse from the platform. But now, as the manstopped and wiped the abundant sweat from his fat face, the wholeassembly burst into a delirium of appreciation. The shepherd held hishands to his bursting head, and felt
that his reason must be leavinghim. It was surely a dreadful musical nightmare, and he would wake soonand laugh at the remembrance. But no; the figures were real, the faceswere those of his neighbours, the cheers which resounded in his earswere indeed from an audience which filled the theatre of Olympia. Thewhole chorus was in full blast, the hummers humming, the shoutersbellowing, the tappers hard at work upon the benches, while every nowand then came a musical cyclone of "Incomparable! Divine!" from thetrained phalanx who intoned their applause, their united voices sweepingover the tumult as the drone of the wind dominates the roar of the sea.It was madness--insufferable madness! If this were allowed to pass,there was an end of all musical justice in Greece. Policles' consciencewould not permit him to be still. Standing upon his bench with wavinghands and up-raised voice, he protested with all the strength of hislungs against the mad judgment of the audience.

  At first, amid the tumult, his action was hardly noticed. His voice wasdrowned in the universal roar which broke out afresh at each bow andsmirk from the fatuous musician. But gradually the folk round Policlesceased clapping, and stared at him in astonishment. The silence grew inever widening circles, until the whole great assembly sat mute, staringat this wild and magnificent creature who was storming at them from hisperch near the door.

  "Fools!" he cried. "What are you clapping at? What are you cheering? Isthis what you call music? Is this cat-calling to earn an Olympian prize?The fellow has not a note in his voice. You are either deaf or mad, andI for one cry shame upon you for your folly."

  Soldiers ran to pull him down, and the whole audience was in confusion,some of the bolder cheering the sentiments of the shepherd, and otherscrying that he should be cast out of the building. Meanwhile thesuccessful singer, having handed his lyre to his negro attendant, wasenquiring from those around him on the stage as to the cause of theuproar. Finally a herald with an enormously powerful voice steppedforward to the front, and proclaimed that if the foolish person at theback of the hall, who appeared to differ from the opinion of the restof the audience, would come forward upon the platform, he might, if hedared, exhibit his own powers, and see if he could outdo the admirableand wonderful exhibition which they had just had the privilege ofhearing.

  Policles sprang readily to his feet at the challenge, and the greatcompany making way for him to pass, he found himself a minute laterstanding in his unkempt garb, with his frayed and weather-beaten harp inhis hand, before the expectant crowd. He stood for a moment tightening astring here and slackening another there until his chords rang true.Then, amid a murmur of laughter and jeers from the Roman benchesimmediately before him, he began to sing.

  He had prepared no composition, but he had trained himself to improvise,singing out of his heart for the joy of the music. He told of the landof Elis, beloved of Jupiter, in which they were gathered that day, ofthe great bare mountain slopes, of the swift shadows of the clouds, ofthe winding blue river, of the keen air of the uplands, of the chill ofthe evenings, and the beauties of earth and sky. It was all simple andchildlike, but it went to the hearts of the Olympians, for it spoke ofthe land which they knew and loved. Yet when he at last dropped hishand, few of them dared to applaud, and their feeble voices were drownedby a storm of hisses and groans from his opponents. He shrank back inhorror from so unusual a reception, and in an instant his blue-cladrival was in his place. If he had sung badly before, his performance nowwas inconceivable. His screams, his grunts, his discords, and harshjarring cacophonies were an outrage to the very name of music. And yetevery time that he paused for breath or to wipe his streaming forehead afresh thunder of applause came rolling back from the audience. Policlessank his face in his hands and prayed that he might not be insane. Then,when the dreadful performance ceased, and the uproar of admirationshowed that the crown was certainly awarded to this impostor, a horrorof the audience, a hatred of this race of fools, and a craving for thepeace and silence of the pastures mastered every feeling in his mind. Hedashed through the mass of people waiting at the wings, and emerged inthe open air. His old rival and friend Metas of Corinth was waitingthere with an anxious face.

  "Quick, Policles, quick!" he cried. "My pony is tethered behind yondergrove. A grey he is, with red trappings. Get you gone as hard as hoofwill bear you, for if you are taken you will have no easy death."

  "No easy death! What mean you, Metas? Who is the fellow?"

  "Great Jupiter! did you not know? Where have you lived? It is Nero theEmperor! Never would he pardon what you have said about his voice.Quick, man, quick, or the guards will be at your heels!"

  * * * * *

  An hour later the shepherd was well on his way to his mountain home, andabout the same time the Emperor, having received the Chaplet of Olympiafor the incomparable excellence of his performance, was making enquirieswith a frowning brow as to who the insolent person might be who haddared to utter such contemptuous criticisms.

  "Bring him to me here this instant," said he, "and let Marcus with hisknife and branding-iron be in attendance."

  "If it please you, great Caesar," said Arsenius Platus, the officer ofattendance, "the man cannot be found, and there are some very strangerumours flying about."

  "Rumours!" cried the angry Nero. "What do you mean, Arsenius? I tell youthat the fellow was an ignorant upstart with the bearing of a boor andthe voice of a peacock. I tell you also that there are a good many whoare as guilty as he among the people, for I heard them with my own earsraise cheers for him when he had sung his ridiculous ode. I have half amind to burn their town about their ears so that they may remember myvisit."

  "It is not to be wondered at if he won their votes, Caesar," said thesoldier, "for from what I hear it would have been no disgrace had you,even you, been conquered in this contest."

  "I conquered! You are mad, Arsenius. What do you mean?"

  "None know him, great Caesar! He came from the mountains, and hedisappeared into the mountains. You marked the wildness and strangebeauty of his face. It is whispered that for once the great god Pan hascondescended to measure himself against a mortal."

  The cloud cleared from Nero's brow. "Of course, Arsenius! You are right!No man would have dared to brave me so. What a story for Rome! Let themessenger leave this very night, Arsenius, to tell them how theirEmperor has upheld their honour in Olympia this day."