by Lee Arthur
"Yes, but," Drummond reminded him, "no athlete in ancient times competed in more than one event, especially not on the same day."
"No time for that type of talk," Carlby interrupted. "Our immediate problem is signing the ten of us up for thirty events—"
"Suppose," de Wynter suggested, "one need not sign up individually for each event, but could sign others up? That would give us a numerical advantage."
"Might work," Carlby admitted.
Drammond volunteered to check with the white-turbaned one. He was back shortly. "The rules do not prohibit it. But only three names at a time."
De Wynter clapped him approvingly on the back. "Good. Now, while you were gone, we all agreed the most popular events are likely to be those closest to modern warfare: javelin throwing and wrestling. The least popular and last to be filled would be the first event, the discus throw; let's not even bother to sign for that. So who is our fastest runner?"
All were momentarily disconcerted by that non sequitur. Then, Carlby saw his point. "Right, we send our fastest man to try to be first in line for wrestling. Our next fastest to javelin, and so forth."
All eyes turned to Cameron. "I'll do my best. Whose names do I give?"
"Mine," said Carlby. "I've wrestled my way round the Mediterranean. I may not be massive, but I'm tricky."
"Bet we English could show you a trick or two," John the Rob chimed in. "I may be small, but I'm slippery. There isn't a hold I can't wiggle my way out of. Sign me up, too."
"And I," said Drummond.
"Aye, add my name to your list," Fionn said.
"But that makes four," Gilliver pointed out, "and Cameron can only sign up three."
"Let me get in line to sign up for the wrestling also," Fkmn volunteered. "What I lack in speed, I make up in size. Judging from the size of some of those contestants, a little muscle backing him up might be of value to Cameron as well."
Then Angus spoke up. "As long as you are going to be there, sign me and Ogilvy up."
"Now, Drummond, you or I—which of us will be able to secure a place in the javelin line?" de Wynter asked, smiling on his friend. "We have not run, against each other in a long time. Who today do you think would win?"
Carlby settled that question. "You both better go. There will be at least six or more of you, not including me. I am no marksman with thrown weapons."
De Wynter agreed. He could, from their youth, name at least six such marksmen: "Myself, Drummond, Ogilvy, Angus, Cameron, and Gilliver."
"If there's room, add my name to the list, too," Fionn spoke up.
"Why not? But we'll need another runner."
"Let that be me," John the Rob spoke up. "I be good at running, having run from the king's guards all my life."
"Menzies, you and Gilliver sign-up those who would run," de Wynter directed.
Carlby, Gilliver, John the Rob, Menzies, Cameron, und de Wynter himself opted for running. The same for jumping, with the exception of de Wynter, who said, "No, strangely enough, I dunk I'll go for the discus, better preparation for the javelin throw."
Fionn nodded consideringly. "Good point. I, too, should prefer the discus."
"Jamie, let me sign you up for it," Gilliver pleaded. De Wynter, studying that solemn, determined face turned so lovingly toward him, had to agree.
As did Carlby, who immediately spoke up. "You do that. I shall measure my own lungs by running to be first in line for the running."
Dourly Angus observed, "That leaves me and Ogilvy to handle the jumping, which we can handle nicely."
As the last handful of grains of sand poured down the funnel-shaped tube, they reviewed their entries:
Wrestling: (Cameron to make the entry) Carlby, Drummond, and John the Rob
(Fionn to make the entry) Himself, Ogilvy, and Angus
Javelin throw: (De Wynter to make the entry) Himself, Ogilvy and Angus
(Drummond to make the entry) Himself, Gilliver and Fionn (John the Rob to make the entry) Cameron
Jumping: (Angus to make the entry) Gilliver, Carlby and John the Rob (Ogilvy to make the entry) Cameron and Menzies Discus: (Gilliver to make the entry) De Wynter, Fionn and Drummond.
If their calculations were correct, Menzies, Ogilvy, and Angus would compete in the discus throw by default.
Ramlah and Aisha fidgeted nervously. Would the Moulay never appear? As far as they were concerned, if he made just one single appearance to bless the games with his presence, he could then happily disappear forever so far as they were concerned. Ramlah finally sent a messenger to ask his pleasure.
Even as the royal women awaited husband and father, down below in the arena, contestants rushed, pushed, shoved, elbowed, and tripped to be first in their respective lines.
While officials scurried back and forth across the arena, slaves dug up and raked over one section of the arena floor, creating a pit as landing area for the jumping event. For the two throwing events, in another area of the vast arena, measurements were taken and precisely marked with pegs driven deep into the clay beneath the sand. At both ends of the arena, preparations for the stade run were underway, with starting blocks being sunk into the dirt at one end and a finishing line marked at the other, with boxes supplied upon which the judges would stand so that they might better see the winner as he breasted the tape.
Elsewhere, and quite close to the lines of contestants, a mound of dirt, a balbis, was raised, centered between two boards set in the earth, these to indicate rear and front boundary lines for the contestants.
Once these preparations were finished, the slaves withdrew, leaving holes, hills, and boxes marring the smooth sand of the arena. Those contestants who chose to enter but one event and let fate decide the others were limbering up within the open spaces.
The lines of contestants had been long, especially those for wrestling and javelin throwing as the slaves had accurately predicted. However, the scribes were well organized and had evidently memorized the contestants' names, thus speeding things up. So when Cameron, third in line since he'd been tripped on his way, named Carlby, the scribe supplied "England." For Drurnmond, "Scotland," and for John the Rob, a blank. Then Cameron remembered. "Oh, my God, he used another name, what the hell was it?"
Fionn, fifteenth behind him, saw Cameron's problem and called out, "Who?"
"John the Rob, his full---"
"John, Richard's son!"
Cameron breathed a sigh. "John, Richard's son," evoked a reassuring response, "England."
Delays like this were common throughout the registration period, and as a result, the sun had risen much higher than the royals had expected before the games began. However, that gave the Moulay time to arrive. A blast of many ram's horns signaled his tardy arrival, his current favorite mincing at his side, but there was no seat in the royal box for the her/him. Then one must be procured, otherwise the Moulay threatened to go home to Tunis.
As Ramlah and the Moulay argued about how high the stool should be compared to the queen's and the Amira's, the latter nudged Ali, who signaled the kuddam to sound the twisted horns again. The contestants, watching the doings in the royal box, actually outnumbered those seated within the amphitheater, not including the silent ones and slaves, of course.
Ion al-Hudaij needed no audience but his master, the Moulay. For him, the wazier cupped his hands to his mourn and announced in his most stentorian tones:
"Let the games begin! Jalala al-malik, I have the honor to present to you today the reenactment of games which first honored a god and then emperors. First in Greece, later in Rome, and then 2000 years ago in this very glorious amphitheater in the heart of Tunisia. Give us, O Moulay—the blessings of Allah be on you—your permission to begin these games!"
While Ibn al-Hudaij waited breathlessly for his master's answer, the Moulay and Ramlah continued wrangling over which stool the favorite should sit on at the Moulay's feet.
A wazier doesn't tell a Moulay to stop bickering and pay attention to the matter at hand. Not if he values
his head. All Hudaij could do was repeat even louder, "O Moulay, give us your blessings to begin these games."
The Moulay, annoyed, waved his wazier to be quiet. The latter seized upon this as his permission to commence.
"Let the games begin! And may Allah look with favor on those who compete, the judges, the assistants, and the spectators themselves, upon whom may Allah be pleased.'1
The Moulay reluctantly responded to the cheers of the sparsely filled arena... and the more enthusiastic ones of the contestants. "I welcome you to this grand occasion. May Allah look with favor on all who are involved."
He sat dpwn. As did Ramlah, half a head lower, and Aisha, one quarter head lower than that, and the favorite, a token lower than that. A muezzin, chosen out of hundreds for the carrying quality of -his voice, cried out, "The first event, the discus throw, ninety-four contestants. Each to make three throws—one with the light, one with the medium, one with the heavy. The winner to be he who throws any of the three the greatest distance, so long as it remains within the boundaries, and so long as he commits no foul in the act of throwing. The order of throwing has been determined by a drawing overseen by the judges. Al jalala Artemidonis of Tralles, the game is yours. May Allah bless him who competes."
Another great cheer went up. The spectators settled into their seats. The contestants crowded around the balbis. The measuring umpires took up their positions. And the first thrower stepped up on the raised mound, palming the light discus first in his left, then his right hand, and back again, trying to get the feel of ft; for no contestant had been allowed to handle the carefully sized and weighted discus beforehand. Several sets of three were neatly piled under the watchful eye of the starter.
Planting one foot firmly on the top of the mound, the other halfway down its front slope, the first thrower leaned back until much of his body was horizontal, curled himself like a spring with the discus at his back, and with a mighty spring and twirl heaved the object toward the center of the arena. A cheer rose from the crowd, this being the first toss, and the measurers quickly descended on the landing area and marked the precise spot with a peg, while noting the exact distance on their official scorecards. De Wynter had no way of knowing whether or not this was a worthy throw, but it made him wonder if he could match it.
The athlete fouled on his second toss, his foot coming to rest just over the front line. His third toss was nowhere near as long, being made with the heaviest of the three discs. Now he could only wait and see how ninety-three others fared. The strategy of winning was quite apparent to de Wynter now. A bad throw or foul on the first throw could perhaps be rectified by a superhuman toss of the medium-weight disc. But it was most unlikely that anyone would win with the heaviest. To make matters worse, the critical first throw had to be done without benefit of practice.
The crowd's interest waned as athlete after athlete took his three turns, and it became clear to even the most unobservant that there would not be a winner until after the midday break. But interest was revived an hour into the discus event when the first call for the jumping contest was announced from the opposite end of the arena.
Gilliver, with his frail body, stood out in a sea of athletic and heavily muscled bodies, as he made his way, along with John the Rob, Carlby, Cameron, and Menzies, to the jumping area. Menzies was concerned because he was also entered in the discus event, and he might have a time conflict. But de Wynter had told him not to worry about it until he saw what number he drew in the jump, and as luck would have it, his was a low one.
"The second event is the Great Jump," the crier intoned for the benefit of those few spectators interested enough to leave their goblets of wine and their animated conversations. "One hundred and two contestants. The winner, he who clears the greatest distance in a running jump followed immediately by a standing jump. No foot may protrude over the starting line. No jump will count unless finished in a standing position. And no steps may be taken between the two jumps. Each contestant to have one try. May Allah bless him who competes."
The first jumper was called to the starting area, and staring intently at the long dirt pit ahead, ran swiftly down a marked path leading to the takeoff line, marked by a timber buried in the ground. In his hands he carried two metal weights with handles for gripping. As he toed the starting board and flew into the air, he heaved the weights forward in his arms, tucked his feet up under his chin, and sailed through the air. Approaching his landing spot, he threw his arms and the weights backward, affording him a better-balanced landing. From his crouched landing, he straightened, took a deep breath, crouched again and from a standing start, repeated the maneuver with the weights. The measuring crew moved in quickly, figured the distance from the nearest premarked spot, and recorded the jump as being seven meters, five decimeters, and three centimeters—about nineteen feet.
"What do you think? Do the weights help or hurt?" asked Menzies of Carlby.
"I think it depends," Carlby replied, "on how big you are through the chest. If you're slight, I don't think so, but the weights may help heavy-chested ones. Let's watch a few more before we decide."
They watched the longest distance rise to over eight meters by the time Menzies had his go at it. He had decided to forego the weights, feeling that his unfamiliarity with them might cause him to lose his balance. (Carlby, on the other hand, needing every advantage he could get, privately decided to try the weights.) Down the approach track the handsome Scot sped, hitting the takeoff board just right, and windmilling his arms as he flew through the air. Clearly it was a good jump, Carlby saw, and he gritted his teeth and muttered low encouragement as Menzies straightened for the standing jump, then crouched and leaped forward. He almost outjumped his balance point, teetered precariously for a second, then got it under control and straightened up. The judge ruled a good landing, since the imprints were clean and no other part of his body had touched the dirt. Down on the scorecard went a new record of nine, seven, and two—a full twenty-six feet. With a clap on the back from Carlby, Menzies was off to find de Wynter.
The earl was very much involved when Menzies arrived at the balbis. De Wynter had his foot planted on the mound, was twisting into a tight coil, and letting fly with the first disc. It was a creditable throw, but at thirty meters, four decimeters, a meter short of the best thus. far. Now came the real test to outdo his first throw with a disc a kilogram heavier.
He did it! But only by four decimeters. Not enough. With the heaviest disc of the three, he fell far short of his first throws.
"Don't worry, you've got two more events to go," Menzies consoled de Wynter.
"And you?"
"Leading the jump, but it may not hold, it's still early." "Drummond?"
"Not good enough," de Wynter replied. "Ogilvy's next, then you. How do you feel?"
"Not bad, though not nearly as comfortable about this as the jump," Menzies answered.
"Well, it may be," de Wynter said, "that we'll all have to compete tomorrow. A day of rest would be nice, but, frankly, compared to rebuilding that tier, competing seems easier."
Ogilvy stepped onto the mound, looked down at the unfamiliar disc, fidgeted his feet, and finally, with adrenalin pumping, threw a fluke. The round object flew farther than any before him. His second and third throws resulted in fouls, but his fellow slaves didn't care as they pummeled his bare back with enthusiasm.
Menzies executed his three throws with typical precision but none were beyond de Wynter's, let alone Ogilvy's. Angus did creditably, but his longest throw landed outside the markers and could not be counted.
Fionn worriedly whispered to de Wynter, "What would you have me do if Ogilvy's throw still leads when it is my turn?"
"Do your best," de Wynter answered. "Someone else might still do better than Ogilvy. If you don't and they do, we'll lose out altogether. Beat him if you can."
At the jumping pit, John the Rob and Gilliver gave it a good try, but fell far short of Menzies's mark. Carlby came not close at all; he was clearly pa
st his prime for such pure athletic contests. Cameron jumped among the last, having drawn the seventy-eighth spot. Good athlete that he was, he just barely missed taking the lead.
Leaving Gilliver behind to see if Menzies's mark would hold up, the other four made their way around the perimeter to see how the discus event was going.
"How do we in this one?" Carlby asked of de Wynter
"Ogilvy still leads with Fionn yet to throw. I've advised Fionn to try and beat the mark. What do you think?" "How many more to go?"
"Five after Fionn; one's big and might easily beat Ogilvy, or even Fionn."
"Yes, I see your point," he said, nodding his head as though to make his agreement more emphatic.
They watched anxiously as the final throwers set out to beat Ogilvy's mark of thirty-one meters, one, and five. Four throwers tried and failed. Then Fionn calmly stepped onto the balbis, palmed the disc a few times, took his stance and executed an excellent throw, just short of Ogilvy's mark. Another good throw. Same result. Drawing on that extra strength they all knew he had, Fionn managed to throw the heaviest disc nearly as far as his first throw. But still Ogilvy held the lead—by design or accident? The next two had no more success. With still two to go, the next bested Ogilvy's throw by more than a meter, dashing the slaves' hopes of their first win. They were still very much alive in the jumping area, where Menzies still led and only four yet to jump. Through narrowed eyes, they watched one come within half a footprint. When the final measurement was made, Menzies's distance had held and eighteen arms all managed to participate in lifting Menzies to the broad shoulders of Fionn and Ogilvy, for a victory dance.
The official crier's voice rose above the din to announce the winners of the first two events: "In the discus, the winner, with a throw of thirty-two meters, two decimeters, nine centimeters: Zeno, of the Isle of Crete. In the jump, the winner, with a distance of nine meters, seven'decimeters, and two centimeters: Menzies, of Scotland. To allow you time to eat and rest, the next event, the javelin throw, commences in two hours. May Allah be with you where you go."
