'It's all right,' Dusa said icily, and in a loud, clear voice, 'perhaps this time he'll be the one who gets his silly head knocked off, and that'll be a stroke of luck for the Peloponnese.'
I should have been pleased to hear a remark like that coming from her, but I wasn't; it was said with that chilly, razor-sharp distaste that tells you plain as a bell that here's a woman in the third or fourth stage of the usual cycle of infatuation, the part where passionate attraction turns to utter distaste; it can last anything from a few days to half a year, but it always turns back again. In fact, I hadn't realised until she said it exactly how deep the little flying hooligan had stuck his arrow in my sister.
(Have you ever noticed, by the way, that the nastiest and most offensive of the pests sent by the gods to afflict us always seem to have wings? The Furies, the Harpies, the Diseases, Rumour and Love, all winged like eagles and able to swoop down on us out of a limpid blue sky, so fast there's nothing we can hope to do about it?)
I didn't sleep all that well, and when I did finally slip away, a dream came and stood over me all the time.
Annoyingly, the dream took the shape of King Leon; and he was crying his eyes out, so that the tears ran down his cheeks and were caught up in his beard like sheep in a thorn fence. He was crying, he told me, because of the death of his son, a homeless and landless exile cast out of his kingdom and inheritance by greedy noblemen and the hostility of the people. After drifting aimlessly through the Peloponnese, the dream said, the poor boy finally met his end lying beside the road, gut-stabbed and broken-headed, while strangers stepped over him on their way to the famous games at Argos.
I woke up with a crick in my neck and a slight headache to find that it was almost dawn and my companions were already up, washed, oiled and breakfasted, and that Pentheus wasn't there; he'd left a short while before I opened my eyes, and gone down to loosen up with the weights in good time for the long-jump.
I told my heart not to worry about that for now, and went out with the rest of them to watch the opening ceremony. For one thing, I was curious to see what they did; how do you start off games without a funeral? I'd already given the matter some thought, but the best I could come up with was a sacrifice and a hymn or two; you can't go wrong with a sacrifice, because it lets people know that sooner or later there'll be roast meat going the rounds, which encourages them to stick around and get their share.
The Argives, it turned out, had solved the problem rather elegantly, and I resolved to steal the idea and use it myself.
I was standing outside the tent, taking a breath or two of fresh air and gazing sleepily at the field, when someone blew a trumpet, terribly loudly, not far away from me. While I was still wincing as if I'd been hit with a wet fish, a rather splendid procession set off from the marshal's tent; first, some very grave-looking old men with long white beards, then a couple of priests prodding three white oxen, followed by a gaggle of healthy-looking young men, clearly the games-players themselves. While they were marching slowly and gracefully across the field, some other men were quickly putting together an altar -basically a big, jagged rock (someone told me later that it was one of those rocks that fall out of the sky from time to time; they're either the blades of Zeus' thunderbolts or, as some people would have you believe, the gallstones of the gods) with a little wooden ladder and a low platform of planks for the priests to stand on. When the procession reached the altar, the priests stepped up and made the sacrifices; then the grave old men lined up in front of them and repeated a ferocious-sounding oath, all about how they swore to judge the contests fairly and without favour, on pain of terrifying-sounding punishments on the other side of the River. After they'd done that, the games-players took their place and swore an even longer and grander oath, saying that they were the flower of the Sons of the Achaeans, come together to honour Hera of the Argives with offerings of their skill, strength and goodwill, and they swore to do their very best, without cheating or losing their temper; if they kept their oath, they said, may Hera grant them to live for ever in the minds of men; but if they broke it, may She wipe out their names from mortal memory as the sea wipes away footprints in the sand. Then the trumpeter made another loud and raucous noise, and the spectators -there were ever so many of them, several thousand at least - all started cheering at once. It was really rather moving, the whole thing.
'Come on,' Demodocus said, 'let's cross over to the hill and find somewhere to sit. If we're not quick, we'll end up at the back and won't be able to hear the boxers.'
Well, that would never do - where's the fun in a boxing match if you can't hear the bones break? - so we scuttled along behind him like baby ducks, and he found us a place to sit where we could see everything.
'Just a moment,' I said, once we'd sat down and arranged our things where we could get at them. 'It's just occurred to me. Aren't you taking part? I'd assumed-'
'Me?' Demodocus smiled. 'I don't think so. I took part last year and got comprehensively beaten. The standard here's very high, you know.'
That didn't please me, since he'd readily agreed to take part in our games; that implied that our games weren't going to be anything like as good as these. If that attitude was shared by the rest of the Argives, chances were these fine games-players weren't going to bother tramping all the way to Elis, and we'd have wasted our time coming.
I put those thoughts out of my mind, however, because the first event was about to begin.
A herald stepped up and called out a list of names for the footrace, while two of the judges solemnly paced out the distance and marked the limits of the course with little piles of stones. Then they beckoned to a group of porters, who carried out the prizes for the race on a big figure-of-eight shield. Some prizes: there was a beautiful helmet, gilded, made in the Argive fashion with a tall one-piece crown, broad earflaps and a high crest; a magnificent silver belt with a purple sash; and an enormous four-handled gold cup for the winner. I looked at the stuff and nearly burst into tears, thinking of the sort of junk that we'd be able to offer.
What can you say about a foot-race? The fastest man won, closely followed by the next fastest, with the third fastest not so far behind. After it was over and the winners had caught their breath, they were ushered over to the big gilt and ivory chair where the king was sitting, and he handed them their prizes, while the herald called out their names and where they were from. I made sure I'd committed the names to memory - I can't have done all that wonderful a job, because I can't recall any of them now - and poured a drop of wine into a little horn cup that Demodocus had put there for me.
Next up was the boxing; and there among the competitors, looking as scared as a polecat in a deep ditch, was our friend of the previous evening, Gorgias. They decided who was going to fight who by drawing tallies; each man made a distinctive mark on a bit of sheep's horn, and all these tallies were put in a helmet. The judges pulled out two at a time, and that's how they decided the pairings. I kept my eye on Gorgias; when he heard the name of his opponent, he closed his eyes and let his head drop forward a little, like a man who hears he's about to be put to death.
The Argives don't box quite like we do; they allow stabbing with the fingertips and blows beneath the neck, which are reserved up here for the heavy wrestling matches. Now, unlike most people, I don't find boxing particularly interesting to watch; strikes me that in the average boxing match, all you get to see is two men walking in circles round each other for the time it takes for an experienced man to yoke up a pair of oxen, followed by a very quick flurry of movement, followed by one of the two men falling over. Blink and you'll miss the good bit; and even then, you really do have to know what to look for. That's why it's important to be near the front, so you can hear the crunching noises. It's the only reliable way of keeping track of what's happening.
The first round of fights were all pretty typical of this pattern, and were soon over. The second round lasted a little longer, but not much; in fact, it was only the last fight of all that ma
de any kind of spectacle. To my surprise, and moderate joy, one of the two finalists was none other than our neighbour Gorgias. The other man was some huge giant by the name of Dercyon. I can't remember where he was from, but it wasn't Corinth.
Even from where we were sitting, I could tell that Gorgias was petrified, if only because of the trouble the heralds had in getting him to keep his hands still while they bound them up with the rawhide bandages. There is, of course, quite an art to wrapping a boxer's fists; ideally, you want the turns to overlap, leaving one edge of each turn exposed, thereby producing a surface like the edge of a rasp. This makes it much easier to inflict those helpful cuts around the eyebrows that drip blood in the other man's eyes and blind him at crucial moments. If ever you're watching a boxing match, spare a glance for the man who's waiting to fight the winner. Chances are he'll be fiddling with his bandages, the knot gripped in his teeth, as he struggles to get the lie of the turns just right.
When Gorgias walked out into the middle, he had an expression on his face like a servant on his way to confess that, yes, he was the one who left the pen-gate open and let the goats get into the vineyard. The other man, this Dercyon, looked very calm indeed; so calm as to be just this side of dead. I couldn't see the match lasting very long, so, although I was dying for a leak, I resolved to sit tight and watch, so I wouldn't miss the action.
Bad mistake on my part. Gorgias sensibly resolved to take the initiative while he was still reasonably fresh, get his punches in while he still had them, and try to put Dercyon down with a lucky shot before he had a chance to get going. Predictably, Dercyon decided to sit out the storm and let Gorgias wear himself out; some of the punches he managed to take on his hands and arms, but the ones that got through and landed on his face didn't seem to trouble him unduly. Even a smart, loud smack on the chin had no more effect than a thumb's length of head movement. In a way it was quite awe-inspiring, watching a human being soak up all that force without even blinking.
Gorgias wasn't a fool; he knew that as soon as he slowed down, he was going to get hit very hard. So he didn't slow down. If anything, he got faster and more furious. That was pretty inspiring too, after it reached the point where his muscles must have been completely exhausted and it could only have been fear and the god breathing strength into his heart that kept him moving. It was as if some god had scooped the moment up in his hand and was holding it clear of the flow of time. There seemed to be no reason why either of them should ever stop doing what they were doing, and even the gnawing pain in my bladder didn't seem to matter terribly much.
How long this strange state of events went on for, I really couldn't say - it was like those bits of your childhood that, in recollection, seemed to have lasted for ever, but when you think about it you realise it was only one or two years at most; when the end came, I'd virtually lulled myself to sleep. With hindsight, I guess that Gorgias must somehow have managed to land a considerable number of blows on exactly the same spot, and it was the cumulative effect rather than one mighty freak punch that made Dercyon suddenly stagger. Anyway, stagger he did; and just before he went down, he let fly with an enormous swishing slash, which quite by chance connected with Gorgias' chin. If his fist had made contact, I reckon Gorgias' head would've been snapped off his shoulders like an apple off the tree. Instead it was Dercyon's forearm that did the damage, and the thick pad of muscle cushioned the blow enough to save our new friend's life.
However it happened, the outcome was that both men were asleep before they touched the ground, and both of them landed nose-down in the dust at precisely the same moment. Oddest thing you ever saw; and I don't think you'd ever see the like if you lived to be a hundred and watched boxing every day of your life.
There was complete silence from the crowd for a heartbeat or so; then everybody started muttering at once. From the spectators' point of view it was a terrible outcome; the amount of wealth in the form of wagers riding on the event was probably enough to ransom the King of Egypt, and nobody had the faintest idea who'd won. It would be up to the judges to decide, and I for one didn't envy them the job. Actually, they were very sensible about it; they sent out a herald to announce that since both men had hit the ground simultaneously, by the ancient rules of boxing neither of them could have won, and the contest was therefore void. This meant that all bets were off, and although nobody won, nobody lost either, and everybody kept their tempers. My guess is that the judges saved a fair few lives that day.
It's a curious thing, though; we watched a lot of games, played by a lot of very fine games-players, but the only event I remember at all clearly was that boxing match; and it's stayed in my mind not because the fighters displayed any unusual degree of skill or did any great deeds, but simply because of a bizarre turn of luck. I can't help thinking, where's the point in being the best, when a moment of pure farce drives out all your glorious achievements and leaves you in the dark, on the wrong side of the River?
After the boxing came the wrestling.
'It's a curious thing,' Sarpedon whispered to me as the herald called out the names. 'If I was on the run from a serious blood-feud, only a step or two ahead of the enemy's hired killers, I'm not sure I'd care to be standing in the middle of a public place with a man shouting out my name so everybody could hear it.
I couldn't help but agree; all the more so because it was common knowledge that there were men from Corinth present, and weren't Pentheus' enemies supposed to be Corinthians? On the other hand, there was the truce; so long as the games were on, he was as safe as it's possible for a mortal to be, if you discounted the threat of death or mutilation at the hands of his fellow wrestlers.
As it turned out, Pentheus' time in the middle was very short indeed. He'd been drawn against the Argive champion, one of the king's younger brothers, and all we saw of him was a vague blur as he was bounced round the middle like one of those sewn-up bladders kids use for playing catch. After the prince had finished with him, we collected what was left and lugged it back to the tent to make up its mind whether it was going to live or die, while we went back and watched the rest of the match.
Actually, he wasn't badly hurt at all; no broken bones, just a few bruises and a fairly serious case of squashed pride. I was afraid that the public defeat and humiliation might have a bad effect on Dusa -why it is, I don't know, but eight times out of ten a spectacular hiding makes the heart grow fonder - but I kept a close eye on her and there didn't seem to be any danger signs. She didn't go back to the tent; instead she stayed put and watched the wrestlers smash and crush each other into bloody messes with obvious signs of enjoyment. That's a woman for you, I suppose.
As I think I mentioned just now, I've forgotten most of what happened in the games. I was preoccupied, I guess; what with Pentheus, and Dusa, and trying to commit all the names and cities of the players to memory, and wondering how we were going to set about recruiting them once the games were over. Potentially, we had a chance there to conclude our mission in one dramatic splurge of recruiting. If we could secure enough of the players who were taking part at these games, it was as good as grain in the jar that they'd go home and spread the word for us, in effect do our job without any help from us, and probably better than we could do it. We were as close as a man tickling trout - we could see the quarry, we could reach out and touch it, if only we could be sure of keeping hold of what we grabbed. Or we could get it wrong and throw away all the work we'd done since we left Elis, if we somehow managed to give offence. Then the word would spread through the whole Peloponnese like rot through a jar of figs, and wherever we went after that, we'd be given our dinner in the barn and immediately sent on our way.
Small wonder, then, that I didn't have much mind left to pay to what was going on in the middle. My dear uncle, on the other hand, was completely engrossed in it all; Dusa was thoroughly relishing anything with blood in it; even Cratus looked as if he was enjoying himself. At first I felt a bit annoyed, as if they'd all bunked off during the middle of haymaking an
d left me to pick up and load the wagon. That passed, though. It stood to reason that if we were going to charm and seduce all these games-players into joining us, at least one of us would have to know such details as who won what and who beat the stuffing out of who. Otherwise we'd be bound to say the wrong thing sooner or later and find ourselves in deep trouble. Looked at that way, it was a fair division of labour. They watched the games, I did the thinking; each doing what the god made him good at.
I was running through a standard form of words in my mind when I heard shouting and various other noises coming from the direction of our tent. For some reason I assumed that the tents were on fire and jumped up to investigate. I was therefore in position to see Pentheus running like a hare, with three or four men chasing after him. One of them was holding a sword, and another had a hunting-spear with half the shaft broken off.
A heartbeat or so later everybody on the field was watching too, which must have been mortifying for the games-players in the middle - don't ask me which event was going on, all I can remember was that it was some sort of race; ironic, really. To begin with, I don't suppose any of them could believe what they were seeing; nearly everybody we'd talked to had made a point of mentioning the truce, how sacred it was, how nobody would ever possibly dream of breaking it. Even thieves and cutpurses, they'd told us, didn't bother to run if they were caught stealing during the games, because nobody would dare chase them. Then, when it became painfully obvious that the impossible was indeed happening, everybody jumped up at once and surged forward, I assume with the intention of grabbing the truce-breakers and tearing them limb from limb.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Olympiad Tom Holt Page 25
