At first, Hipposthenes was as stunned as the rest of us. Fortunately he came round before anyone else; with a jerk of his head he gestured to the Sardinians to let the Athenian go, and sent some of his people to pick up his brother on a door and get him back to the palace as quickly as possible. Then, taking a deep breath, he stood up and announced that owing to the unfortunate accident (I liked that word, in the circumstances), the bout between his brother and whatever the Athenian was called was null and void, and the second pair would now wrestle for the match. Having said his piece, he hurried off after the door-bearers, leaving Sarpedon to finish off the games.
Gods know who won the match in the end; I don't think the competitors themselves were giving it their full attention. Nevertheless, Hipposthenes' prompt action saved the day as far as the public-relations exercise was concerned; the crowd stayed put and Sarpedon gave the prizes for first and second place; nobody mentioned third, for obvious reasons. It was only a boring old silver-gilt cup anyway, not the sort of thing you'd go out of your way to pick up if you saw it lying in the road.
Hipposthenes came back a moment or so after the prize-giving; he had an important job still to do, and family considerations have to come second when you're a prince. He stood up, raised his arms for silence and made the announcement we'd all been quietly dreading; all about Sarpedon, his various rights to the throne, and his immediate accession as King of Aegina.
Oddly enough, the melodrama with Prince Oenophilus probably helped; the crowd were still rather too shocked and bewildered by what they'd seen to take in what Hipposthenes was saying, and so it passed largely without a reaction of any kind. Hipposthenes produced a gold wreath, presumably recovered from the Corinthian king's store-room, and dunked it down on Uncle's head. A few of the Megarans dutifully cheered, while the Aeginetans looked casually on, as if none of this had anything to do with them. It was a low-key coronation all right, but in the circumstances low-key was probably as good a way to go as any. Nobody shouted or threw a stone, and a few moments later the crowd started to drift away, like a sea-mist when the sun comes out.
And that, friends, was how we overthrew the Corinthian dynasty on Aegina and replaced it with the Eleo-Megaran dynasty. One hell of a way to change the course of so many people's lives, if you ask me, but that's how it turned out; a combination of accidents, lies and mistakes, with a healthy pinch of human nature tossed in for seasoning. I suppose it worked out quite well for Uncle Sarpedon - he got something he apparently had always wanted, a kingdom of his own, though he died a couple of years later, of a bad cold. It won the Megarans a new vassal, which on balance must have been a good thing; certainly it changed the course of things in Megara, because shortly afterwards (so I've heard since) Hipposthenes became sole ruler following his brother's death in a fire - which was fairly convenient, by all accounts, since Oenophilus went a bit strange in the head after losing his teeth; he refused to let anybody see him, and threw the most alarming fits of bad temper during which he'd threaten people, even the better sort, and often get violent. Hipposthenes, so they say, turned out to be a good king - for all I know, he's king yet - so apparently it was all for the best. But he must have lost Aegina at some stage, because I have it on good authority that the Aeginetans are back running things themselves now, and making a very good job of it too, by all accounts.
As far as we were concerned, the Aegina business was a complete waste of time, if not a disaster. We'd lost two of our party - well, one of our party plus Pentheus, and opinions differed about whether that was good or bad. None of the games-players we approached showed any interest in games-with-nobody-dead; somehow the Aeginetans had got it into their minds that we Eleans were every bit as savage and undisciplined as Prince Oenophilus, the Megarans had had enough of us to last them a lifetime, and the off comers, from Athens and Troezen, didn't stick around long enough for us to ask. Cleander half-heartedly suggested going to Athens ourselves, but even he conceded that it'd be a pointless exercise once news of what had happened on Aegina reached the city; we'd get the blame, just as the Argives had blamed us, and we'd be lucky to get out of there in one piece.
So I never got to visit the city of Theseus, which is reckoned to be the most beautiful place in the world, home of the wisest of men. Actually, I was relieved that we weren't going; I'd had enough of the quest for games-players, not to mention the games themselves, travel as a way of life, and (most of all) my brother and sister. All I wanted to do was talk Hipposthenes into lending us a crew for the ship we'd stolen from the Corinthian, and go straight home.
We got our crew - the prince made a good job of hiding it, but my heart knew he was only too glad to see the back of us, and I can't say I blame him - but I didn't get my straight ride home. That was Cleander's fault, needless to say - but we'll go into that later. Instead, we got a wonderful load of presents - well, Hipposthenes could afford to be generous, it wasn't exactly his stuff he was giving away; even so, he wasn't obliged to be quite so open-handed, so all credit to him. By the time all the furniture and tableware and textiles and bronze ingots and who knows what else were stowed aboard our ship, the hold was nearly full and we had trouble fitting in all the provisions we were going to need - so, from that point of view, the journey had been worthwhile, very much so. I suppose we should have felt rather more grateful than we did; I mean to say, we arrived in Megara destitute and starving, we departed rich and well-escorted, leaving our uncle behind as King of Aegina. But it was all so depressingly beside the point that - truthfully - we weren't all that bothered.
On balance, I'm glad there were no protracted farewells. When the wind got up and it was time for us to go, Sarpedon was busy eating and drinking with some of the higher-class Aeginetans and not to be disturbed, Hipposthenes was looking after his damaged brother, and nobody else seemed particularly interested. We trooped on board - Cleander busy talking sailing times and wind directions with the shipmaster, Dusa at her droopiest and least talkative, and me hoping for a keen wind all the way round the Peloponnese. At least the crew seemed cheerful enough; most of them were younger sons of Megaran smallholders, with a leavening of Aeginetan fishermen and regular sailors to add a touch of expertise, and they all appeared to be looking forward to visiting new places, seeing the cities of men and knowing their minds. Just like we'd been, in fact, a long while ago.
We'd been under sail half a day and were making good time, according to the shipmaster, when Cleander remembered to tell me about the detour.
'It's only a day or so out of our way,' he explained. 'And if we can recruit him, it'll make up for a lot of what we've lost. In fact, we could get quite a few games-players turning up of their own accord once they know he's coming.'
And for once, I couldn't have agreed more. Cleander had decided that we were going to stop off at Epidaurus and see if we couldn't enlist the greatest games-player of them all, Milon the wrestler.
'Assuming,' I said, 'he's still competing. He must be well into his forties by now.'
Cleander shook his head. 'Last I heard,' he said, 'he was still in the game, and if anything better than ever. And keen - he'll jump at the chance. You know, we might yet come out of this all right. My heart's got a good feeling about this.'
I couldn't help but agree. Everybody who was even remotely interested in games-playing knew about Milon of Epidaurus; how, when he was still little more than a boy, he pulled a full-grown ox out of a river, and wrestled a wild boar to the ground with his bare hands. The story of how he'd beaten the mighty Geraeon at the funeral games of the King of Aegeum was one of the spurs that got me into games-playing myself, for a while. He'd overthrown champions in Argos, Messene, Corinth, Athens, Arcadia, right across the Peloponnese and as far north as Thebes and Plataea. He'd been to Crete and Rhodes, and won famous bouts there. Some people even told a far-fetched tale about a match between Milon and Hercules, though that was clearly impossible, since Hercules died long before Milon was born. In any event; even if he'd only done half of what pe
ople claimed he'd done, he had to be the single most famous and prestigious games-player living, and I have to admit, I'd have taken a detour to meet him even if we hadn't been recruiting.
Epidaurus is a small, essentially poxy place, the sort of city you'd never go to unless you had business there. At first it struck us as odd that someone as remarkable as Milon could ever have come from such a place, until my heart pointed out that if you were a native of Epidaurus, you'd have a strong motivation for cultivating any art or skill that gave you the opportunity to spend a lot of time away from it. You want me to be specific? I'll be specific. The city wall was low, badly built and falling down in several places. One of the gates was off its hinges - in the unlikely event that anybody wasted their time attacking the place, the inhabitants would never be able to get the gates shut without rehanging them first. The streets were narrow and nearly empty, the houses were tiny and squashed together, the palace was no bigger than - well, my house, for one - and the palace orchard was little more than a courtyard with a couple of spindly old apple-trees hanging off their supports. Even the dogs were thin and languid, lacking the energy and enthusiasm to get up or bark when we strangers walked past. The only thing big or remarkable about Epidaurus that we saw was the palace dung heap, which looked as if it had been left to accumulate for several generations.
'This is the place, though,' Cleander said. 'Let's just hope he's at home, not away competing somewhere. Fools we'd look, coming all this way just to find we'd missed him.'
Dusa - you can tell how magical the name Milon was, Dusa had actually woken up out of her trance and come with us - shook her head. 'I think he's at home,' she said. 'Look.' She pointed to one of the outbuildings, which closer inspection revealed to be a trap-house; the door was half open, and inside we could see the back end of an old and rickety-looking chariot, with a sprung frame and tattered wickerwork in the left wall of the box. 'Don't suppose he's got another,' she said. 'He's home.'
So we walked up to the palace doors, which were slightly ajar, and called out. After a while, a small woman with a face like the last of the year-old apples strolled up and asked us what we wanted.
'We're here to see Prince Milon,' Cleander said.
The woman said nothing, just looked at us as if we were crazy.
'Prince Milon,' Cleander repeated. 'We're here to see him.'
Slowly, the woman smiled, revealing as comprehensive a lack of teeth as you'd ever hope to see (unless, of course, you were visiting the Princes of Megara). Then she shut the doors on us.
'Wonderful,' I said. 'Now what do we do?'
Dusa frowned. It was almost one of her old, look-out-here-I-go frowns, but filtered through a gauze of experience, the way you filter the oil from the mash. It upset me rather to see it. 'Leave this to me,' she said; so we did.
After a deep breath, Dusa picked up a stone and threw it, as hard as she could, at the door. A few heartbeats later, she picked up another stone; then another. Six or seven stones later, the door opened. This time, a man's head appeared.
'What do you want?' he asked.
Dusa put down the stone she was holding and gave him a brilliant smile. 'If it's all right,' she said, sweet as fresh honeycomb, 'we'd like to see Prince Mion.'
The man frowned, as if he couldn't understand. 'See him?' he repeated.
'That's right,' Dusa said brightly. 'Is it a good time?'
'I suppose so,' the man replied. 'I mean, if you want me to take you to where he is, I can do that for you, sure.'
'That's wonderful,' Dusa said. 'Is he in the palace?'
The man lifted his head. 'Good gods, no. He's out round the back, in the courtyard.'
That figured; on a warm, sunny day he'd be out practising. If I'd thought, I'd have suggested we look there first.
'Splendid,' Dusa said. 'Right then, after you.'
The man came out, pulling the door to behind him. 'I'm Prince Dromus, by the way,' he said.
We replied that we were delighted to meet him, and added that we were from Elis, and we'd come all that way just to see Milon. Dromus thought about that for a moment, then shrugged.
'You're wrestlers too, then?' he asked.
'I am,' I said. 'At least, I was. But that's not the main reason we're here.'
'Oh,' Dromus replied. 'Well, anyway, here he is.'
We were standing on the edge of the threshing-floor; a wretched little thing, badly in need of fresh earth and a good tidy-up. 'Here we are,' Dromus repeated.
Dusa breathed in, then out, and widened her smile. 'Sorry,' she said, 'maybe I'm being a bit slow. Where exactly?'
'Here.'
'But I can't see Prince Milon,' Dusa objected, managing to keep her temper. 'Where is he?'
Dromus shrugged. 'More or less directly under where you're standing, actually,' he replied. 'At least, that's where the cairn of stones was, when I was a boy. My father had them shifted because they were blocking off access to the floor, we were having to take the carts right round the side ...
'You mean he's dead?' Cleander interrupted.
'Well, of course he's dead,' Dromus said. 'He's been dead for years. I thought you people wanted to see where his ashes are buried.'
'He can't be dead,' I broke in. 'Why, only last summer-'
Dromus grinned. 'Oh, I see,' he said. 'You're another one who's heard one of the old stories about him and not realised how long ago all that was. No, Milon died seven generations ago - in fact, he's my great-great-great-great-granduncle. He's been dead for -what, seven lots of thirty, that's over two hundred years.' He smiled. 'And you've come all this way thinking he's still alive. That's a pity.'
'You're joking,' said Dusa at last.
'No, I'm not,' Dromus said. 'You ask anybody in Epidaurus, they'll tell you the same thing. After all, he's the only famous man we've ever had here, everybody knows about him. The thing is,' he went on, 'he's so famous that whenever people hear of a great feat of wrestling but don't know the wrestler's name, they tend to assume it must have been Milon. Odd, isn't it, the way people lose track of time. You just go on assuming that so-and-so's still alive, because you don't actually know when he was born or how old he is, and you've never heard the news of his death.'
'I see,' Cleander said. 'Even so-'
'In a way,' Dromus went on, tracing a pattern in the dust with his toe, 'it's a sign of immortality. Not just immortality - eternal youth, even. Although he's been dead so long, people keep him alive in their hearts. I think that's rather fine, don't you?'
So that was that. We said thank you nicely to Prince Dromus, but we weren't quick enough to avoid an invitation to eat and drink with him; so we had to sit still and listen to even more tales of the valour and prowess of the supreme Milon, about whom we no longer cared a damn.
'We could always pretend he's still alive,' Dusa suggested, as we walked back to the ship. 'I'll bet you more people believe he's still alive than think he's dead. So all we'd have to do is find a wrestler, someone about the right age-'
'What, two hundred odd? That's a tall order.'
'Shut up, Cratus. Someone about forty but still fit and strong, who's good at wrestling and knows enough about Milon to be able to pass for him-'
'No,' I said. 'Most certainly not. Not even if we pour oil all over him and sprinkle him with flour, like a slice of raw meat. I've had enough of that sort of thing to last me the rest of my life.'
Dusa suddenly went all dark again. 'What sort of thing?' she said softly.
Served me right, I suppose. 'Oh, you know,' I said awkwardly. 'Anyway, we aren't doing it, and that's that. For one thing, we haven't got a suitable wrestler.'
Dusa smiled. 'We could find one,' she said.
'Oh really? Where?'
'There,' she said, and pointed to the helmsman of our ship. 'He's the right age, and I bet he can wrestle. If not, you can teach him. We've got all the rest of the trip home, it'll help you pass the time.'
'No,' I said. 'Cleander, tell her; it's out of the question.'
The helmsman's name was Bias. He was a quick learner. In fact, I can still feel the place in my left shoulder from when he finally got the hang of the Flying Mare.
With hindsight, I think I preferred her when she was miserable.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
'Let me just stop you there for a moment,' Palamedes said, 'while we get out the tables and dinner.'
Cratus nodded. 'Good idea,' he said. 'I don't know about all of you; all this talking's given me an appetite.' He smiled at the Phoenician. 'Talking and eating are what we Sons of the Achaeans do best,' he added, 'though we also make reasonable silverware.'
The Phoenician wasn't quite sure what to say to that. 'You live interesting lives,' he replied, 'considering your circumstances. In my country, we have far more, but do rather less.' He thought for a moment. 'Perhaps all the things we own tend to clutter our lives up rather, which means we don't have as much space in them as you do.'
Cratus frowned. 'Explain,' he said.
'It's quite simple, if I'm right,' the Phoenician said. 'In my country, for example, there's much more of a difference between the better sort and the rest of the people; we don't just have more land, we look different and do different things. Here, as far as I can tell, you all look more or less the same, do the same things - you don't leave all the field-work to serfs and hired hands, you turn out at ploughing and harvest and vintage, you hoe and prune and dig terraces-'
'Sometimes,' Cratus interrupted. 'But not all the time. If we want to, we can take off on a visit somewhere, or go to war, or spend a day or so sitting around eating and drinking, most times of the year. Your average smallholder can't do that, except at quiet times of the year.'
'True,' the Phoenician said. 'But where I come from, a man like you wouldn't want to do a day's work in the fields; in fact, he'd be mildly horrified if you suggested it. In a way, he hasn't got the same freedom as you have.'
'I don't follow,' Gratus said.
Olympiad Tom Holt Page 37
