Anyway, that's the end of the story. I hope you liked it.
The Phoenician, who'd been starting to nod, sat up.
'Is that it?' he said. 'What about the games? Did any of them turn up in the end?'
Cleander smiled. 'Nice to know you're interested. That's the trouble with being blind, you can't see the expression on someone's face when you're telling him a story. Really, all you can do is talk to yourself and let other people eavesdrop. Of course, they drop hints now and then, like telling you to shut up, or pouring wine over your head.'
The Phoenician frowned. 'I can't believe you're really intending to stop there,' he said. 'Just when the story's starting to get - I mean, at the crowning moment.'
'You want to know what happened, then?'
'Well, of course.'
'Ah.' Cleander nodded. 'You want to hear about stirring deeds and great victories, stuff like that.'
'And whether the plan worked,' the Phoenician said. 'Whether the games were enough to make the people love Leon's feckless son. I mean, you can't have a story about people setting out to do a thing, and then not say whether they ever managed to do it or not.'
Cleander yawned. 'I suppose you're right,' he said. 'But tell me, which do you think is more important: the rise and fall of the Corinthian usurpers in Aegina, the founding and early kings of Rhoma, the vicissitudes of the kings of Elis, or who won the footrace at the games-with-nobody-dead? Suppose you were alive - oh, five hundred years from now, and you were curious about how things came to be as they are. Suppose you could summon up a ghost from the past, a witness. What questions would you ask him?'
'I don't know,' the Phoenician replied. 'A lot would depend on what had happened in the meanwhile.'
'And of course,' Cleander went on, as if explaining something to a small child, 'you have no way of knowing what that might be.'
'True.'
'Obviously.' Cleander sounded like a man on the point of falling asleep. 'Aegina could be the most important place in the world, more important than Assyria. Maybe the overthrow of Pentheus' father was a turning point in the lives of all mankind, if Aegina goes on to build a mighty empire - in which case, you've heard the important part of the story, the bit that matters, and everything after it's just entertainment. Or maybe none of it matters at all.'
'Oh, come on,' Cratus interrupted. 'Now you're just fooling about with the poor fellow. Tell him about the games, and then we can all talk about something else, or go home.'
'Can't be bothered,' Cleander replied. 'You tell him, if you want. I think I'll go and sit outside for a while, get some air.
'You mean some sleep,' Cratus said. 'You know your trouble? You're turning into an old man.'
Cleander lifted his head. 'That happened a long time ago,' he said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The games (Cratus said). Ah yes. Well.
We'd told everybody who'd listen that the games would be held at the time of the second full moon after the summer solstice, just after the rising of Orion, after threshing but before ploughing the fallow. It seemed to be the likeliest time of year, when there's not much work needing to be done on the land, but before winter sets in and makes getting about even harder than usual. Actually, we were thinking more of the Eleans who were going to come and watch than of the games-players themselves - what better way to spend the hottest, laziest part of the year than lying in the sun watching other people work up a sweat, we thought.
Harvest came and went with the rising of the Pleiades. It was a good year, so good that nobody had time to think about much else; because it was such a good harvest, with so much to get in, there weren't enough itinerant day-labourers to go round, which meant that we were working very long days, painfully aware that with every day that passed we were getting more and more behind. Tempers and patience got shorter as the work piled up, and nobody was in the mood to be fussed over something as remote and frivolous as games-playing. I certainly wasn't, and I was supposed to be one of the organisers.
Well, you know harvest. Every year, you can't imagine how you're possibly going to manage to get it all cut, shifted, threshed and stored; and every year you manage, just about. Every year, as soon as you figure you've finally got it under control and should be able to cope, either a freak wind batters down your standing corn and lets the crows in on the laid patches, or a neighbour breaks his leg and you have to help get his harvest in as well as your own; or there's a raid on the herds from across the border, or a fire, or some crowstruck thing that sets you off worrying all over again. Conversely, when the miracle's been achieved yet again, and you can stand in the doorway of your barn and count sealed jars until your eyes start to swim, you're so happy you'd agree to anything, and the whole world is your friend. Also, you've got a twelve-day thirst that won't loosen up for anything less than a full jar of the good stuff, blended with honey and spiced with nutmeg and cheese.
So, from that point of view it was a good time of year to hold games, assuming someone else had already made all the arrangements. Sadly, however, that wasn't quite the case as far as we were concerned. So instead of being able to take it easy and drink ourselves silly like normal human beings, Cleander and I suddenly found ourselves rushing about like sheep when there's a wolf in the pen, trying desperately to sort out things we should have addressed long before. I wouldn't have minded, but I was so tired after all those days with the sun on my neck, gliding a scythe and shouldering enormous great sheaves on the end of a pitchfork, that it was all I could do not to fall asleep standing up, like a horse, whenever I was out and supposedly on games business.
First priority was to find somewhere large enough to hold the damn games. Here Cleander dug his heels in and refused to be shifted; we were going to use the site he'd picked out (Dusa had seen it in a dream, if you remember), away south of the city beside the Alpheus river. It was no use pointing out that all the games players we'd invited wouldn't know to go there, having been told the games were going to be in Elis proper. No problem, Cleander replied; when they can't find the games they'll ask in the city where everything's happening, and people will send them to the site. It's useless trying to argue with my brother when he's dead set on something. King Leon couldn't do it; I couldn't be bothered to try.
So we loaded up some mules and a cart with tools and set off for the place we'd found - seemed like a lifetime ago. It was still there; it hadn't been swallowed up in an earthquake, the river hadn't come roaring up and flooded it (actually, that part of the plain can flood like you wouldn't believe, just to the south and west of the spot Cleander had set his heart on; but we didn't know that then, of course).
First job was to clear a games-field in the middle, which meant cutting down a few trees, grubbing out their roots with crowbars and picks, levering out stones, filling holes, raking and levelling. Hard work on a hot day (and it was a hot summer that year) and the men we'd brought with us - well, they were the sort of people who tend to be available for that sort of work, the kind with absolutely nothing better to do. Their hearts weren't in it, let's say. In the end, it was generally quicker and easier to do the job ourselves than badger them into doing it, and they spent most of the time sitting in the shade of the cart, watching us like - well, like the audience at the games.
Once we'd done that, we set about making a stand, somewhere the distinguished guests - King Leon and his household, us, those of the better sort Leon wanted to keep his eye on - could get a good view from. For that we needed to raise an earth bank, firm it up, drive in some posts and build a platform, with a few raised tiers, like terraces on a hillside, for putting benches on. Digging the bank out was an awful chore, and of course we'd thoroughly underestimated the amount of timber we'd need, which meant dragging up the little hill to the north of the field, felling the lumber we needed out of the woods there, logging and planking it on site and then carting it back down the hill, with only our dozen or so mules and a few bits of rope. That part of it nearly killed us. I can clearly remember
how completely exhausted I was one afternoon, after I'd spent the morning splitting a fat, knotty old pine into planks with nothing but a big hammer and some beaten-up old bronze wedges. Every time I whacked a wedge, the shock ran up my arms and made my teeth hurt, while the palms of my hands and the bases of my fingers were covered in squidgy white blisters. I'll give Cleander his due, though; he really worked hard, more so than me even. In fact, I don't know when I've seen a man go about a job with such cold determination, like he was at war with every billet of lumber, tool and length of rope. Scary, in a way.
We got the stand finished, more or less. It wasn't a thing of beauty; rough-hewn green timber, all adze-marks and botched joints, but at least it showed willing. All that remained was to pace and mark out the courses for the chariot and foot races, dig channels for the start lines and pile up stones for the finishes and turning-points for the chariots; job done.
'If nobody turns up,' Cleander said, as we stood and gazed at what we'd achieved, 'we're going to look such fools.'
'Relax,' I told him. 'They'll come. They said they were going to. Think how mad keen some of them were.' I sat down on the turning-point and stretched out my legs. 'The only thing that worries me is - well, there's two, actually. First, I want you to know that my heart really objects to this idea of having me pretend to be the famous Milon in the wrestling. Why can't Bias do it?
'Bias? Who the hell is Bias?'
'You remember. The helmsman of our ship-'
'Oh, him.' Cleander shook his head. 'No, hopeless, doesn't look a bit like him.'
I frowned. 'Milon's been dead two hundred years. How would you know what he looks like?'
Cleander pursed his lips. 'Well, I know for a fact he didn't look like that helmsman. For one thing, his eyes are too close together. Milon would never have looked like that. Milon was a gentleman.'
I couldn't be bothered to argue. 'Well, I'm not doing it,' I said. 'Find some other poor fool.'
'We'll see,' Cleander said. 'If we get enough real wrestlers, you can forget about it.'
'Thank you very much. Second, how are we going to fix things so that our young clown of a prince definitely wins the foot-race?'
Cleander frowned. 'We can't,' he replied. 'Games-players like the ones we've got coming, you can't bribe them or frighten them.
He'll just have to take his chances, do his best. If the god wants him to win...'
'He'll inspire our hearts with a foolproof way of cheating,' I interrupted, 'because as sure as winter, His Diminutive Majesty isn't going to stand a chance against some of the types we've come across. And if he loses - well, we'll have wasted our time, from start to finish.'
'Maybe.' Cleander sighed. 'Maybe not. The way I figure it, just seeing their prince out there, in the company of all those famous and exotic foreign games-players, the Eleans'll start looking at him in a new light, as someone they can feel proud of, worthy of their respect. That's what I'm banking on, anyway,' he continued, 'because you're right, that kid couldn't win a race if all the other runners had just been cut off at the knee.'
Nobody came.
Why they didn't come I still don't know, even after all these years. The second new moon waxed and waned; we took to posting men at the gates, to let us know as soon as a foreigner arrived; we posted men down at the field, in case they went straight there instead of coming to the city first (though how they'd have known to do that, we didn't even speculate). We ended up sending runners up and down the roads, looking for straying games-players who'd lost their way.
Nobody came.
At one stage, Leon decided it must be because Alastor and Prince Oeleus - you remember, the lad who stood to become king if our Prince Gormless failed to capture the hearts and minds of the people - because they'd been sending out their people to intercept the games-players and either beat them up on the road or lie to them, say the games had been cancelled or there was the plague or something; anyway, he'd convinced himself of this, so he had his men-at-arms bring them both in to the palace one morning just before dawn. They were both, understandably, scared stiff; and when Leon started yelling and cursing at them, they just acted dumb and frightened (because they were), which made Leon even more suspicious. He gave them the sort of working over you'd remember all your life - threatened to confiscate their property, exile them, have them strung up in front of the whole city; and the more they gabbled and jerked their heads about, the more convinced Leon was that they'd been up to all kinds of no good, and the louder and meaner he became. In the end he got himself so worked up that his son the prince, who'd been standing there in the background quietly dying of shame and embarrassment, stepped forward and told his father - in front of his two mortal enemies - to get a grip on himself and stop acting like the god had put Madness in his heart. That shook Leon up so much that he let Alastor and Oeleus go - and from that day on, though they carried on needling and scheming quietly in the background, they never tried anything that could possibly be proved against them, and kept out of the way of both King Leon and his son as much as possible.
Well, time was getting on; either the games had to go ahead or be cancelled, otherwise it'd just be ridiculous. Leon sent for us - not quite the men-at-arms-just-before-dawn approach, but not far off it - and asked us what we were planning to do about this mess we 'd got him into.
'We've got to hold the games,' Cleander said. 'There'll be bloodshed otherwise, not to mention the harm it'll do.'
'All right,' Leon said, his voice ominously soft. 'And who do you propose is going to play these games, since you haven't managed to bring me one single, solitary foreigner?'
Annoying, that he'd chosen to focus on the one nagging little question we didn't have an answer to. 'We'll find someone,' Cleander said briskly. 'That's not a problem. We've got plenty of good games-players - right here in Elis, round and about.' He made a vague circular gesture with his hands, presumably intended to convey the infinite resources at our disposal. 'And you know,' he went on, 'when it comes right down to it, people don't really want to see foreigners doing well in games and stuff, they want to see the local boys doing well and winning the prizes. That's what it's all about, surely.'
Leon scowled mustard. 'And that's why you've been fluttering all round the Peloponnese all these months, is it; on purpose not to find foreigners who'll beat the shit out of the local talent.' He sighed and lifted his head. 'Too late to do anything about it now,' he said, 'we'll just have to struggle through as best we can, try to limit the damage you've done. When this is all over, though, I'm going to make you two regret the day you ever heard of games-playing. Understood?'
With that delightful prospect to look forward to, we set about finding games-players. Of course, by now we could do the patter as easily as an archer nocks an arrow, without thinking or looking; as for our friends and neighbours, it was a mixed response. For every one who couldn't see the point if there weren't going to be any famous off comers to compete against, there were two who'd been put off by the thought that they didn't stand a chance against big names from Argos or Corinth, so by the time we were done, we had quantity. But no quality.
'Let's face it,' I told Cleander as we walked back from the southern border, where we'd been recruiting, 'the people who want to take part are precisely the people nobody's going to want to see. I don't care what you said to Leon; if we carry on like this, it's going to be a disaster. What we need are foreigners.'
Cleander looked at me as if I was being annoying on purpose. 'Fine,' he said. 'But we haven't got any, have we? Or haven't you been paying attention?'
I scowled at him; I wasn't in the mood. 'Then we'll just have to make some, won't we?'
He stopped and looked closely at me. 'You're not well, are you?' he said. 'Maybe what you need is a couple of days in a dark, locked barn, just to clear your head.'
'Don't be stupid. We've got to find some off comers and pass them off as foreign games-players. After all, who the hell is going to know the difference around here?'
> He was about to say something offensive, but hesitated. 'And where are you going to get these people from?' he asked.
I thought for a moment. 'A ship,' I said. 'I wish I'd thought of it earlier, we could have got the Megarans to come back. But there's bound to be a ship up at Peneus-mouth sooner or later; and where there's a ship, there's foreigners.'
I could see the thought seeping through into his heart, like blood showing through a tunic. 'We'd never get away with it,' he said. 'It'll be obvious they're not the better sort as soon as they walk on the field.'
'No it won't,' I replied. 'Foreigners, remember? All foreigners look alike to us.'
'You say that,' Cleander said uncertainly, 'but it's not going to work. A games-player looks like a games-player, a sailor looks like a sailor. You can't fool people like that.'
Olympiad Tom Holt Page 40
