Flood Tide

by Alexander Geiger

  “Asteropaios son of Pyraichmes is the winner,” the head judge announced, “two falls to none, dust-free.”

  There was noise in the crowd but it was more buzzing than acclamation. Of course, Mr. Lucky’s fellow Thrakians were overjoyed but the rest of the spectators, with some justification, felt that the outcome of the competition had been determined by the luck of the draw, rather than the merits of the competitors.

  “Well, that was not a satisfying outcome,” Parmenion observed.

  “Yeah, it sucked,” Kleitos agreed.

  Alexandros didn’t say anything; however, when Asteropaios climbed up to our platform to accept his victory wreath, the king clapped him cheerfully on the shoulder. “No such thing as luck,” he told the young man. “It just means the gods are smiling on you. Next battle, make sure you’re at the spearpoint of our attack, so they can smile on us all.”

  The winning wrestler beamed from ear to ear. “I will, sire, I will.” From the sound of it, I was sure he meant it.

  “Now, let’s bring on the boxers!” Alexandros called out.

  After a brief pause, three new judges walked in, followed by a lone competitor. The crowd looked at him in stunned silence.

  “Who is that?” I whispered to Kleitos.

  “Oh, that’s Demophon. He’s actually from the next village over from mine. He’s pretty famous. He’s won lots of boxing competitions.”

  “He looks like he’s lost most of them.”

  “Oh no, no. He never loses. He’s as tough as they come. It’s actually an interesting story. His father was the richest man in the village but because Demophon was the second son, he was not going to inherit the farm, so he had to make his own way in the world.”

  “That’s true of everybody in this army, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. But anyway, Demophon decided to make his fortune by becoming a boxer. You can see that he has the build for it.”

  And indeed, Demophon was large, well-proportioned, and heavily muscled. “But look at his face,” I said.

  Kleitos shrugged. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you become a professional boxer. He used to have a nose, chin, forehead, ears, and eyelids. But here is the funny part. After he had been boxing for a few years, his older brother died. So Demophon returned home to claim his inheritance. But the number three brother objected, claiming that his number two brother had died and that this man was an imposter. Eventually, there was a trial in Pella. The brother produced a picture of Demophon from before he had left to become a boxer. The judges agreed that Demophon couldn’t possibly be the man in the sketch and awarded the estate to the number three brother. So here he is, in Alexandros’s army. But I thought he had retired from boxing.”

  “This is not really boxing,” Perdikkas, who had overheard our conversation, chimed in. “This is just a friendly, amateur contest.”

  “Except, there’s not going be a contest,” Parmenion observed, “because nobody wants to fight him. All the other contestants dropped out when he entered.”

  “I’ll double the prize for the winner,” Alexandros announced loudly. “And all you have to do is win one bout. There will be no preliminary rounds.”

  Nobody stepped forward.

  “How about you, Asteropaios?” Alexandros asked Mr. Lucky, who was still standing just below our platform, surrounded by his fellow tribesmen, accepting their plaudits.

  At first, Asteropaios didn’t understand the question. He looked up at the king, his eyes sparkling amid the smeared blue battle paint.

  “You know how to box, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know about boxing, sire. I have certainly had my share of fights but wrestling is my thing.”

  “Nothing to it, my boy. Just stay out of that ugly mug’s reach until he gets tired and then you can put him away with one punch. Do it for me.”

  “Yes, sire,” Asteropaios said.

  Alexandros gave him a winning smile. “And now, going for a rare double win, here’s our friend Asteropaios,” he announced loudly, “who will take on the formidable Demophon. May the gods aid them both. Now, let’s have a clean contest.”

  The crowd cheered as the fighters prepared for their bout. Asteropaios carefully removed his winner’s wreath and placed it on the ground. His friends spiffed up his war paint. Demophon quietly worked on his “sharp gloves,” a complicated affair of stiff leather panels, designed to protect the knuckles while striking the opponent’s head, and flexible leather strips, used to keep the panels in place and to turn the hands into armored clubs. A set of “sharp gloves” was produced for Asteropaios’s use as well and one of the judges helped him strap them on.

  When the fighters were ready, Alexandros administered the oath, the fighters made their libations, asked the gods for their aid, saluted the king, and started to fight. Or more accurately, Demophon started to stalk Asteropaios. The old (he must have been close to thirty), disfigured boxer lumbered after the eighteen-year-old, tall, skinny, luminescent Thrakian, who did his best to stay away from the Macedonian’s armored battering rams. Demophon kept his guard up, peeking between his raised fists, looking for an opportunity to strike, while Asteropaios, his arms dangling by his side, danced away, keeping safely out of striking range.

  No punches were landed, or even attempted, by either fighter for a good long time. Finally, Asteropaios, sensing an opportunity, launched a wild, looping swing at Demophon’s head. The old boxer easily caught the punch on his left forearm and continued to plod ahead. Asteropaios started to throw more punches but none of them could penetrate the experienced boxer’s guard.

  “Punch straight,” somebody in the crowd called out, presumably to Asteropaios. “Short, straight jabs,” another voice suggested helpfully. “Right between his fists.” Advice was raining down on the contestants’ heads, in sharp contradistinction to the dearth of actual landed blows.

  Demophon continued his impassive pursuit of his quarry. Eventually, his persistence paid off. Asteropaios launched another long, looping, hopeful shot and Demophon stepped into it, parrying the punch with his left forearm while simultaneously delivering a devastating right jab into Asteropaios’s face.

  Asteropaios crumpled to the ground, unconscious, blood pouring from his nose. “Get up, get up,” the crowd yelled. One of the assistant judges knelt next to the motionless youngster who, miraculously, began to stir. “Take your time, son,” the judge said quietly as the Thrakian struggled back to one knee. “There’s no rush.”

  Demophon approached, hulking menacingly above his kneeling opponent. The head judge stepped in and pushed him away, restraining him while Asteropaios rose to his feet. “Give him a chance, will you.”

  “I’m fine,” Asteropaios called out, dancing a little jig on wobbly legs. The head judge let Demophon go. The veteran fighter moved with surprising speed, pressing his advantage, hoping to finish the bout, but the wiry Thrakian surprised him, and the rest of us, by his powers of recuperation. Before long, he was once again dancing and launching the occasional, ineffectual roundhouse shots, while Demophon continued to pepper him with a steady dose of straight, stiff jabs to the face and body.

  A cut opened below Asteropaios’s left eye and he was spitting blood but he was not slowing down. On the contrary, it was Demophon who seemed to be tiring. Every once in a while now, Asteropaios even succeeded in landing a punch and, although Demophon didn’t deign to notice any of these blows, his face, already disfigured by a career in boxing, was slowly turning the color of an angry eggplant.

  “This is going to end soon,” Parmenion observed to Alexandros.

  “True. But which one will win?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? The youngster is unable to hurt that bull, so it’s only a matter of time before the bull gores him.”

  Alexandros shook his head. “I wouldn’t be so sure. That youngster has the gods on his side.” Turning to Hephaistion, he asked: “Who do we have lined up for the pankration competition? We should tell them to get ready.”
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br />   “It doesn’t look like there’s going to be a pankration competition, sire. We can’t find anybody willing to take Iolkos on.”

  “You’re kidding me. Another unopposed victor? What’s everybody scared of?”

  “In all fairness, sire, Iolkos is a lot scarier than Demophon ever was.”

  There was a sudden uproar in the crowd. Demophon had stopped chasing and was standing impassively in the center of the rink, although his guard was still up. Asteropaios ran up to him and started poking him, tentatively at first, then with more speed and precision. Every once in a while, his punches even got through, eliciting a loud roar each time. Until Demophon grew tired of the exercise and unleashed another devastating blow against Asteropaios’s left temple.

  Alexandros grimaced, whether in sympathy or dismay was hard to tell. “Well, that’s that, I guess. Now let’s get somebody to fight against Iolkos.”

  “We’ve tried, sire, we’ve tried. But nobody wants to get killed. Remember, unlike in boxing, there are no rules in pankration.”

  “That’s bullcrap. There are rules in pankration: You can’t bite, you can’t gouge your opponent’s eyes, and you can always stop the fight by simply raising your hand. Nobody’s getting killed. In fact, I think pankration is safer than boxing because they don’t get to wear those ridiculous sharp gloves. If anything, I think boxing is more dangerous. Just look at that guy’s face.”

  At the moment, that guy’s face was exultant as he glared at his supine opponent. Asteropaios wasn’t moving. “Can he continue?” the head judge asked. His assistant shrugged. They, and the crowd, waited. Finally, Asteropaios began to stir. The head judge leaned in. “Do you want to stop, son?” Asteropaios shook his head, sending droplets of blood flying in all directions. “I’m not hurt,” he insisted as he spat out a large glob of bloody sputum and started to get up.

  “Let him rest,” somebody in the crowd called out. “Give him some water.”

  The head judge ignored the suggestions. “Can you continue or not?”

  “Yes, I can,” Asteropaios insisted. “I’m fine.”

  The head judge arched his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

  Asteropaios responded by jumping to his feet and waving his arms triumphantly. The fact he could still raise his arms at all surprised most everybody there.

  The head judge shrugged. “Proceed!” He unleashed Demophon, who didn’t dance and didn’t wave his arms, concentrating instead on delivering the coup de grace. Asteropaios continued to elude him and Demophon continued to get more tired.

  Alexandros turned back toward us. “All right then. Who’s going fight against Iolkos?”

  “I don’t know,” Hephaistion admitted.

  “How about Ptolemaios here?” I looked up, startled. Who said that? “He can take on Iolkos. Wasn’t he your hand-to-hand combat instructor in Mieza?” I should have recognized the slimy tones of Aristandros.

  Kleitos, recognizing the danger, jumped in. “We don’t fight the enlisted men.”

  Perdikkas, equally aware of the threat to me but presumably enjoying the prospect, was almost as quick off the mark. “Who says we don’t?”

  “That’s true.” Hephaistion pursed his lips and nodded. “Alexandros is willing to race against anyone.”

  “Well, actually, I’m not.” Alexandros was smiling. “But the fact is, Ptolemaios, you could beat any two or three guys at a time in Mieza, without any weapons, and without ever suffering a defeat. So how about it? Won’t you show this Iolkos how it’s done?”

  My hackles rose to attention. “I’m honored, sire, but those were boys and that was training. And it was nine years ago.”

  “So, that means you’re stronger now, and more experienced. You’re not scared, are you?”

  “Buck, buck, buck – chicken,” Perdikkas interjected, to great general merriment.

  I shrugged, reconciling myself to my fate. “I’ll do it, sire.”

  “What, are you insane?” Kleitos hissed.

  “Good,” Alexandros said. “Get down there and get ready. We’ll start your bout as soon as the boxing is finished. This is dragging out a little longer than I’d expected.”

  Hephaistion patted me helpfully on the back. “So finish Iolkos off as quickly as you can. We’re getting hungry.”

  “Or let him finish you, if you can’t.” Aristandros leered at me from behind Hephaistion’s back. I should’ve known this had been his plan all along.

  Kleitos and I jumped off the platform. “What did you do?” Kleitos demanded. Seleukos joined us. “That was really stupid,” he observed. “Thanks, fellas. I appreciate your vote of confidence,” I said.

  We stood in front of the crowd, watching the boxing match. Demophon continued to press ahead and Asteropaios continued to evade him. Perhaps they were both moving a little more slowly but their stalemate persisted.

  After a while, I stopped watching them. The truth was, aside from watching a few matches, I knew very little about pankration. And the only thing I knew about Iolkos was that he had previously killed at least three of his opponents. Am I going to be number four?

  It was getting dark. It was hard to see the contestants. Alexandros ordered torches to be brought in. A few were set up on poles at the back of the crowd but they didn’t help much. If anything, the flickering play of light and shadow only made it more difficult for us to see the contestants and for them to see each other.

  “We’re getting hungry,” somebody called out. “Finish him off, Asteropaios,” somebody else yelled. “Kill him, Demophon,” answered another voice.

  “Let’s bring some food in,” Alexandros ordered. “We can eat and drink while we’re watching the fights.”

  Walking up to the edge of the platform, he yelled to the men: “The food and wine are ready. You can go and help yourselves, if you’re not worried about missing the end of the fight. But at least make sure to be back for the pankration. We have a very special match arranged for you.”

  There was not much action in the rink. The spectators meandered away and then gradually they meandered back, having eaten and drunk and carrying more food and wine with them.

  “Want me to get you something to eat?” Kleitos asked. I shook my head. “At least have some wine,” Seleukos suggested. “I don’t need anything, thanks,” I said. “But you two go ahead.” They refused to leave, so we stood there, watching the boxing match.

  I loosened up a little, while mentally reviewing all my moves and countermoves. You won’t get hurt, I told myself, much less lose the match. It didn’t matter who my opponent was. After all, I had been a hand-to-hand combat instructor once.

  “You’re gonna be okay,” Kleitos said, as if reading my thoughts, but it was clear he had his doubts.

  “We’re here for you,” Seleukos added, in tones usually reserved for addressing the widow at a wake.

  The moon rose but its thin crescent reflected very little light. The torches were spluttering. The faces of the two fighters were dark, shapeless masses but whether as a result of the pounding they had absorbed or the lack of illumination was impossible to tell. They circled each other in slow motion, in the dark shadows, as if in a caliginous dream.

  “Call it a draw,” somebody yelled out. “Bring on the pankratiasts.” “No, let them finish.” “This is ridiculous.”

  I could see Alexandros conferring with the others on the platform. Then he called the head judge over.

  “Stop,” Alexandros called out as the head judge ran back and separated the two fighters.

  “No!” the people in the crowd protested. “We want a winner.”

  Alexandros motioned the two contestants over to the wagon and crouched down to talk with them. After a brief discussion, both men nodded and Alexandros rose back up.

  “You will get your winner,” he announced. “This is what we’ll do: First, one man will take a clean shot at the other. If he survives the blow, then he’s going to get a clean shot in return. Whichever man is still standing after that, he’ll
be the winner.”

  “What if both men are still standing?” somebody asked.

  “That won’t happen,” Alexandros said, “but if it does, then they’ll both be winners.”

  There was a hastily arranged drawing of lots. Asteropaios the Lucky won, which meant he would deliver the first blow. The two men stood in the center of the ring, Demophon hiding behind his fists, Asteropaios contemplating the best place to hit him and gathering his strength. His tribesmen were cheering him on, willing him to victory. Asteropaios smiled and waved. He even attempted his patented little jig but was too tired to pull it off. Then he grew serious, drew a deep breath, and delivered a tremendous punch to Demophon’s head, putting his entire skinny body into the blow. Demophon absorbed most of the energy of the blow on his hand, which he had held protectively in front of his face, but enough force was transmitted to his skull to knock him off his feet and render him momentarily unconscious. He recovered fairly quickly, though, and rose laboriously to his feet.

  Asteropaios stood in front of him, facing him fearlessly, confident in the favor of the gods. “Get your guard up,” someone yelled and Asteropaios dutifully raised his fists in front of his head.

  Demophon took one step forward and, with the fingers of his right hand rigidly extended, struck Asteropaios just below the sternum, his bound fingertips penetrating the abdominal wall, his hand sinking in almost to the wrist. He quickly withdrew his now closed hand, wrenching a fistful of viscera out through the gaping wound, followed by a cascade of blood and offal.

  There was absolutely no sound. Asteropaios’s body twitched silently on the moist ground as judges and spectators rushed up to him. Philippos the Physician tried to stuff his intestines back and stem the explosion of blood, peritoneal fluid, and fecal matter but Asteropaios was dead within minutes. Demophon wearily raised his bloody hand in victory.

  There was no celebration, only angry shouts. “That’s not right,” people yelled. “You’re a murderer.” “He was only eighteen.”