Olympiad Tom Holt

by Olympiad (lit)

  My mother packed me some cold roast beef, the thick end of a loaf and a fist-sized chunk of white cheese in a little wicker basket that fitted nicely inside the hollow of my shield. To my surprise and great joy, I wasn't driving for my brother Cleander after all. Uncle Deistratus had brought two chariots; one for himself, Gallon and Mylon, and one spare. Doryclytus was driving it, but he needed a fighter. Of course, I volunteered straight away. Cleander kicked up a fuss because of course that left him short one driver, but I solved that by volunteering cousin Melas to take my place. Neither of them was happy about the situation, but by then it was too late; you couldn't have got me down off that platform without a block and tackle.

  Thanks to the slight disagreement there we were a bit late setting off, so we cut short all the goodbyes and stuff and hammered off down the hill to the road, which was already pretty well clogged with chariots on their way to the muster, which was being held in front of the king's vineyard gate. Now that was a scene, I can tell you; it'd look a treat on one of those clever Phoenician plates, if you could find one big enough to get all the detail in. I was young; I'd never seen so many people in one place before, not even at festival or the summer fair. And if the numbers weren't enough to take your breath away, the sight of all that raw wealth was staggering, at least to a kid my age who'd never been more than a few miles from the farm in all his life. Everywhere you looked there were helmets, breastplates, shields; two- and four-horse chariots by the dozen, and two men in each one, all armoured from top to toe. I could hardly believe there was that much metal in the whole world. Of course, it also made me realise, pretty much for the first time, how relatively poor our family was compared with some of the others. There were boys my age wearing what were obviously brand-new, made-to-measure breastplates and helmets, not the rather antiquated hand-me-downs I was wearing. Now, it stands to reason: unless you've got an awful lot of sons to get at least a certain amount of use out of it over the years, having an armour made for a growing boy is a waste of time and resources. Anybody who could afford an extravagance like that had to be extremely well-off, and that meant they'd found favour with the gods; and as we all know, the favourites of the gods tend to last longer and do more in battles than lesser mortals do. This is, of course, why people go to war in the most valuable and magnificently decorated armour they can afford; and naturally, the enemy steer clear of such people and their divine patrons, which is why they say gold and silver will ward away a spear much better than the best shield or pair of greaves.

  By those standards, of course, I was an easy mark in my ratty old collection of bits. This didn't bother me in the least, it meant I'd probably see more action than most (there are some people, I know, who deliberately arm down, go to war in any old junk, for that very reason). In fact, my heart was as happy as a dog who sees the master put his boots on. I was seeing new, strange, wonderful sights, but at the same time I was with my family and my friends, men I'd grown up with, and we were all going to the big adventure together. And it wasn't just some picnic or festival; there was glory to be won, a chance to make a name for myself, take a step on the road to immortality - which is why men fight, after all, isn't it?

  Well, fairly soon everybody was there, the wine was going round and the party was just starting to get good; at which point the prince showed up, riding in King Leon's own chariot, flanked by King Leon's own household men, looking alarmingly like a helmet and a breastplate supported by three vine-props. He was young, of course, at the age where the muscles haven't caught up with the bones, and even then, before he was fully grown, he stood a head taller than most people there. But you could see that he'd had to pad out his greaves with three pairs of buskins just to keep them from sliding down his legs and jamming his feet; there wasn't enough meat on his bones to feed a small dog. Not that we were bothered. He was only there to look pretty and give us something to order the line by. Once the baffle started - well, he'd have to make shift for himself, like the smallest piglet in the litter, if he wanted to get any of the action.

  It was a hot day, I remember; I can feel the heat now in my heart as I think about it. There was a goatskin full of water hanging inside the chariot (I knew enough about baffles to know that thirst is probably more of a danger to men in armour than all the weapons of the enemy put together) but I made an effort and left it there. You see, I had this nagging fear that if I drank a lot before the baffle started, I'd be going through the fighting bursting for a piss - don't laugh, I was young, I didn't know that when the killing starts, even the best men pee down their legs and never notice it till the battle's over. Anyhow, my heart was too excited to notice how thirsty the rest of me was getting. You were probably just the same when it was your first time, so don't sit there grinning at me. I know you all too well.

  Being a great hero and all, Uncle Deistratus wanted us to be up as close to the front as we could get. Needless to say, he wasn't the only one thinking that; so, the closer we got to the place where the battle was going to be, the more crowded and bunched up the front of the column became, with chariots jostling each other like a flock of sheep going through a narrow gateway. To begin with we at least tried to make a show of being polite about it; but the nearer we got, the more we bumped and shoved, and tempers started to get short. Come to think of it, probably it was just as well we got there when we did, or there might have been serious trouble.

  And then, quite suddenly, the column came to a halt, like when you're not looking where you're going and suddenly walk into a tree. We were at the top of a rise overlooking a little valley - I can't tell you the name of the place, because I don't think it was important enough to have one. Perfect spot, of course. No trees or big rocks to get in the way (the scouts had been working like mad the previous two days to get it clear) and a nice easy gradient for the chariots to amble down without any risk of getting bounced out or breaking an axle.

  They were on the other side of the valley, where the ground rose again. Now that's one sight my heart is never going to forget, that first view of the enemy. At first glance, they didn't look at all frightening; they were small and colourful, a good way away. Lots of them, for sure, but there were lots of us too, so that didn't really matter. No, it was when they started to move that Fear suddenly slipped in under the shutters of my heart; they were coming towards us, coming to get us, meaning to do us harm. I'd never thought of it that way before. Always in my heart the enemy had been the prey, the quarry, put there at our disposal for us to turn into glory and honour. If we'd gone first, maybe my heart wouldn't have taken it so hard. But up to that point, honestly, it hadn't occurred to me that anything bad might happen to me, to us. It was only seeing that slow, stalking advance that put it into my mind: that they were just like us, they were coming to play the same sort of game with us as we'd got planned for them. I don't know; it was as if you were practising archery behind the house; and after a few ends the target suddenly pulled itself up out of the ground, drew out the arrows, looked at you and said, Right, my turn.

  Not that it ever crossed my mind to run away. Gods no, I don't think I'd have been physically capable of it. I've heard it said, you know, that when the two armies are closing in, it takes more courage to run away, push through your own ranks with all your family and friends staring at you, than it does to stand and face the enemy. I can believe that, and let me tell you, I've never been anything like that brave.

  Just then, cousin Doryclytus nudged me. 'There's a lot of them,' he said.

  'Enough to go round, you mean,' I answered. Nothing like knowing someone else is scared to help fill your own heart with Courage. So, of course, I made a big show of hefting my javelin, getting the centre of balance nicely into my hand. 'The more of them, the bigger the target.' Naturally, I wasn't going to let Doryclytus know I was scared; he was a whole month younger than me, which made him just a kid. It was what Uncle Deistratus called 'leading by example'.

  For a while I thought we were just going to stand there like idiots and l
et them come to us; but eventually someone must have given the signal, and we started rolling forward.

  Traditionally, the start of an advance is reckoned to be one of the most profound religious experiences of a man's life; it's when you roll your eyes upwards and say, Get me out of this in one piece, Lord Ares, and I'll sacrifice twenty white oxen - and you mean it, too, every word of it. Maybe that's why the gods stir up wars; I don't know, it must be a good time for them, just before a baffle. Anyway, I was no exception. I got my prayer in early, hoping the god would hear me and accept it before the other man, the one I'd be fighting, managed to say his prayer. Assuming, of course, that it works like that; first come, first served. No reason why it should. It's just as likely that the god's already made up his mind in advance who he's going to favour. After all, whoever wins the god'll still stand to collect his sacrifice, since both men will have made the same prayer.

  We gradually picked up speed down the hill. Doryclytus was a good driver, probably better than me. But he was in two minds. He was trying to be sensible, keeping the speed down so as not to lose control. But he was also trying to keep up with the others, Uncle Deistratus and Cleander and the rest, and they weren't being very sensible at all. They were still dead set on getting in front and staying there, which meant that they were pulling ahead, going a bit too fast, and paying rather more attention to the Eleans on either side of them than the Triphylians in front. Not that they were the only ones, not by a long way. Half our army were doing it, so was half of theirs. That's the thing about the wars in those days, so little of it was to do with fighting the enemy. There were all sorts of other issues at stake, so no wonder it was difficult to keep your mind on so many different things at once.

  Anyway, Doryclytus was doing his best to stay back and charge forward at the same time; and a pretty good fist he was making of it, too. Unfortunately, the better he managed it, the worse our position became. He was holding perfect station in the middle of a thick clump of five or six chariots all trying to do the same as he was. We were blind to the enemy and the rest of our own people, and we couldn't very well stop without piling up on top of each other. The short version is, our end of the line contrived to get well ahead of the other end and the middle; and when Uncle Deistratus at the front eventually made contact with the enemy and we had no choice but to pull up sharply or ride him down, we found we were surrounded on three sides, with the fourth side, directly behind us, filling up fast.

  That was when the fighting started. My heart was telling me, Hold on, this isn't right, and I could certainly see its point. We'd rolled to a standstill; Deistratus had jumped down and was striding towards the nearest visible enemy, twirling his spear in an annoyingly showy way. Now, it was clear enough for any fool to see that he was a great hero; he was wearing the price of a good farm in sheet bronze, and the confident way he was bustling towards the enemy was enough to make any sensible man realise he was in trouble and get out of the way. The rest of us, however, weren't nearly as intimidating, and the enemy were coming in round us. It was like when you've got the deer backed up against the sheer mountainside and you're gradually walking in on him; too far away yet to take a shot, so you've got to make sure there's no gaps in your line he can dart through and get away.

  The main thing I remember about the enemy is the way they looked so like us, but different. They were wearing the same clothes, the same armour, the same boots on their feet. There were tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones, same as any other group of people taken at random. Chances are they were bunching together by families and villages, same as we were. In a way it was like walking towards a river or a lake and seeing your own reflection coming at you. But my heart was telling me that these were the most dangerous animals I'd ever encountered in my whole life; lions and bears and wolves and boars are dangerous because they'll go for you if they can't get past you, and they're worrying enough. These animals were dead set on killing us, for no reason that I could see at that particular moment, even though they were just us facing the other way. Fear was definitely at home in my heart right then.

  But I wasn't going anywhere. I stepped down from the chariot; and since the rest of my family seemed to be walking towards these dreadful creatures, I reckoned I might as well do the same.

  Now then, my new friend from far away, have you ever seen Greeks fight? No? You haven't missed much. We do it like this. The idea is to get within spear-cast - thirty paces for an aimed throw, give or take a foot; then you throw your spear, but honestly, there's no earthly excuse for getting hurt by a thrown spear, or at least not a spear that's been thrown at you. There's all the time in the world to watch it through the air and either get out of the way or hold up your shield and push it away. Rather more dangerous are the spears that are either thrown wild or glance off someone else's shield and whizz off at random, because you aren't looking out for those. Assuming you and he haven't done any damage with the spear, then, it's time to close with the sword; that's the bit you've been training for all your life, the bit you see when you close your eyes at night, the bit you've been dreaming moves for ever since your father made you your first wooden sword and shield.

  And, the first time, you turn to stone. I don't know who he was or why he'd chosen me. He was just under middling tall, the second fighter out of a four-horse chariot - anyway, he appeared to have taken a fancy to me, and chucked his spear at just about the edge of aiming range, say fifty paces. I watched it carefully, you can bet, as it lifted, hung up there for an instant the way they do and then came down. I knew from the moment it hung that the cast was pretty good. But did I move my feet? Of course not. I just stood there gawping, like an idiot; and, right at the last moment, I shut my eyes and shoved my shield out at the thing.

  It hurt. Now, you all know, but maybe our guest doesn't. When you fend off a spear, it needn't be said, you angle the shield so the spear glances off and goes bothering some other poor fool. You don't hold your shield up at right angles, because if you do the spear's got a fair chance of going through and doing you an injury. If you've got no choice in the matter, at the very least you fend it away with the top, not the middle, because the middle's where the hand-grip is, with your delicate, fragile little fingers trapped hard against the leather.

  It hurt, like I just said; but my heart wasn't really aware of what had happened because my brain was being my drill instructor, telling me that I'd just made a stupid beginner's mistake, taking the other man's spear in my shield. You know what that means, it said to me, now your shield's weighed down, six feet of spear sticking through it makes it a real cow to move. The drill is, of course, you drop it and do the best you can without, because it's more a hindrance than a help. I didn't, of course. I was staring into the eyes of my old tutor Aristomachus - in my imagination, of course - and he was shouting at me, telling me what to do, but it was as if I couldn't quite make out what he was saying. Meanwhile the other man, the enemy, was coming at me, sideways behind his shield like a crab, nervously - like Aristomachus used to say, there's his shield, he'll be along some time tomorrow - and I was still standing with my spear in my hand and gawping at the guard; that was so much second nature that I'd done it without any conscious thought at all. Didn't even know it was there.

  Now, Aristomachus would have approved of the other man, insofar as he ever approved of anybody, rest his soul. He was doing all the right things: shield up, left foot toward the enemy, back foot at right angles, sword resting on his right shoulder ready to be launched for the neck cut; well, he was doing it all, like dance steps, but not really thinking about what they meant. I know the feeling. You learn the moves and once you know them and Aristomachus has told you, Yes, you've got the idea, then you feel as if you're somehow guaranteed to be safe, so long as you do them right. That's the basis for all drill, right?

  On he came, the shining bronze killer crab; I could tell he was as nervous as I was, maybe even more so. Thinking back, I can see why. I wasn't doing anything right, you see; he
must have looked at me and seen absolutely nothing familiar, no guard, no first position; must've been absolutely bewildering for the poor man. I suppose it must have happened this way: he waited for me to put up, then he waited some more, and then his instincts or his training took over and he launched into the first step of the side-cut, anticipating my stroke and raising his shield to parry it. Only I didn't make the stroke. I just stood there like a statue; and of course, my spear was sticking out of my hand, and as he closed in on me he walked straight on to it.

  I promise you, if I live to be eighty years old I'll never make a more perfect neck-shot; right in the classic spot at the base of the throat where the little hollow is, above the two ends of the collarbone. Actually, as soon as I saw what was happening I instinctively tried to get my spear out of the way - Look out, you clumsy idiot, my heart yelled at me, but by then it was too late. The light went out in his eyes, he made a funny noise and flopped down like a suit of empty clothes - crash went his armour, like when something startles you and you drop a metal bowl or a helmet on the ground and it clangs. I jumped back; Horror and Disgust had taken over my heart. I wouldn't ever have run from him living, but now he was dead I nearly turned tail and scampered. Remarkable thing.

  But there was a baffle going on; I caught sight of it, out of the corner of my eye, and my heart told me to wake up before some bastard killed me. I tell you, it was that feeling of panic you have when you've fallen asleep in the hall, and suddenly you wake up and there's people crowded all round you, and for a moment you don't know what's going on. Then I caught sight of Uncle Deistratus; he was down on one knee with his shield held up, his other hand braced against the ground, just as the man standing over him stuck him through the face with a spear.