EQMM, May 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I underestimated the power of Somnus—or Hypnos, as the Greeks call the god of sleep. Though I fought to keep my eyes open, a power stronger than myself kept shutting them, and the next thing I knew, someone was shaking me awake. I opened my eyes and was startled to see a stranger with an eye-patch and a lumpy nose crouching beside me—then realized it was Antipater.

  “Teacher! Are you all right?”

  “Of course I am. And you, Gordianus? Could you not sleep inside the tent?”

  By the soft light of dawn, people all around were waking and stirring. In starts and stops, for I was not yet fully awake, I tried to explain to him what I had overheard during the night.

  Antipater was silent for a long moment, then shook his head. “It was a dream, Gordianus. What you heard were voices from a dream.”

  I shook my head. “No, Teacher, I was wide awake—as awake as I am right now.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Which is still half asleep, I think. Perhaps you heard something, yes, but I'm sure you misunderstood.”

  “No, Teacher, I'm absolutely certain. . . .”

  But was I? The day before, I had been certain that Zeus was about to speak to me, and that had been an illusion. Suddenly the events of the night seemed murky and unreal. “But where were you last night, Teacher? Where did you go?”

  He smiled. “It was too hot and stuffy inside the tent for me to sleep. Like you, I found a spot outdoors and slept like a stone. Now wake up, sleepyhead! Come with me and we'll have a bite to eat in our host's pavilion.”

  “Are you mad? They may poison you!”

  “Gordianus, your fears are groundless, I assure you. But if you wish, we can purchase our breakfast from some vendor on our way to the Bouleuterion.”

  “The what?”

  “The building in which the athletes will take their solemn oath. They must all promise, before a statue of Zeus clutching thunderbolts, to compete fairly, obey the judges, accept no bribes, and foreswear the use of magic. They do so in small groups, then come out to be greeted by the crowd. It's a wonderful chance to see all the athletes at close quarters.”

  “Didn't we already see them all yesterday, in the procession?”

  Antipater rolled his eyes, then without another word he stood up and headed off. I followed, stumbling a bit, for my limbs were still heavy with sleep.

  Outside the Bouleuterion, a crowd had already gathered, but something was amiss. No sooner had we arrived than a complete stranger turned to Antipater and asked, “Is it true, what people are saying?”

  “What is that?”

  “That Protophanes of Magnesia won't be allowed to take the oath this morning—which means he won't be able to compete in the pankration!”

  “But why not?”

  “Because he laid hands on that Cynic yesterday. Had Protophanes not touched the old fool, there'd have been no problem. But because he manhandled the fellow, and because it happened on the Altis enclosure wall, the judges think Protophanes may have broken some sacred law or other.”

  “It's ridiculous!” said another man. “Protophanes only did what we all wanted to do.”

  “But he shouldn't have touched the philosopher,” said another, piously wagging his forefinger.

  “They say it may all be up to Simmius the Cynic,” said another.

  “How's that?” said Antipater.

  “It seems that none of the judges actually saw what happened—they were too far ahead and didn't look back in time. So they've called on Simmius to testify. If he shows up this morning and declares that Protophanes laid hands on him atop the Altis wall, then it's all up for Protophanes. Four years of training and his chance for fame and glory—gone like a puff of smoke! And all because of a technicality.”

  “And if the Cynic doesn't show up?” said Antipater.

  “Then perhaps Protophanes can take the oath after all. I doubt that any of the other athletes will testify against him, and nor will any of the spectators.”

  There was a sudden commotion. The crowd parted for Protophanes, who was coming through, dressed in a modest chiton. Men cheered and clapped. Some rushed forward to give him a supportive pat on the shoulder. The young man, who had been so exuberant the previous day, showed a very different face this morning. Looking grim but determined, Protophanes mounted the steps to the Bouleuterion, but two of the purple-robed judges stepped forward and used their forked rods to block his way.

  “You know the charge against you, Protophanes,” said one.

  The athlete opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Showing disrespect to the judges would disqualify him from competition as surely as an act of impiety. He swallowed hard and spoke in a low growl. “When will it be decided?”

  “Soon enough, I think,” said the judge. “Here comes the Cynic now.”

  People stepped back to make way for Simmius, who had just appeared at the edge of the crowd. As usual, the Cynic was making a spectacle of himself, staggering as if he were drunk, clutching at his throat with one hand, and making a beseeching gesture with the other.

  “What's he playing at now?” said one of the onlookers in disgust.

  “He's making fun of Protophanes—holding up his right hand, the way fighters in the pankration do when they admit defeat! What nerve the Cynic has, to make fun of a young man even as he's about to ruin his life!”

  Simmius staggered directly toward Antipater and me, coming so close I jumped back. As he veered away, I heard him cry out in a thin, croaking voice, “Thirsty! So thirsty!”

  “He's not acting,” I said to Antipater. “Something's really wrong with him.”

  On the steps of the Bouleuterion, directly in front of Protophanes and the judges, Simmius collapsed. He thrashed his bony arms and legs and rolled his head. “Thirsty! By the gods, so thirsty!”

  After a final, hideous convulsion, Simmius rolled over, facedown, with his limbs unnaturally splayed—and did not move again. The Cynic was dead. His right arm was extended above his head, so that his gnarled forefinger appeared to be pointing directly at Protophanes.

  The moment was so unexpected and so bizarre that for a long moment no one moved or spoke. Then someone cried out: “Protophanes has killed him!”

  There was a great commotion as people pressed forward, drawing as close to the dead Cynic as they dared. The judges took charge, fending off the crowd with their forked rods. Protophanes stayed where he was, looking dumbstruck.

  Pushed forward by those behind me, I found myself at the front of the crowd, very close to the corpse. More judges appeared from inside the Bouleuterion. One of them poked his rod at me and told me to back away. I pushed back against the crowd, which pushed forward. Fearing I might step on the corpse, I found myself staring down at the dead Cynic. The forefinger that pointed toward Protophanes was smeared with blood. Looking closer at the finger, I saw two puncture wounds.

  “Poisoned! The Cynic must have been poisoned!” cried someone.

  “For shame, Protophanes! Why did you do it?” cried another.

  “We all know why,” said someone else. “But murder, Protophanes? No man can commit such a shameless crime and expect to compete in the Games of Zeus.”

  It appeared that Protophanes was to be tried then and there, if not by the Olympic judges, then by the court of public opinion. People immediately assumed he must be guilty of the Cynic's death.

  “For shame!” said a man behind me. I felt a shiver of recognition. It was the same voice that had muttered words of disdain about Mummius and the Romans behind me at the Temple of Zeus. I frowned, for his voice was familiar for another reason. . . .

  * * * *

  I turned around and spotted the speaker in the crowd, recognizing him by his brawny shoulders and blond beard. In one hand he held a sack made of thick leather, tightly cinched with rope at the top.

  “But how did Protophanes manage it?” said someone.

  “Must have tricked the old fool into eating something,” answered another.

  “Or
more likely drinking something!”

  “The Cynic wasn't poisoned,” I said.

  “What's that?” The judge who had poked me now peered at me and wrinkled his brow. “Speak up, young man!”

  I cleared my throat. “Simmius wasn't poisoned. Not properly speaking—not by anything he ate or drank, anyway.”

  “Then what killed him?” said the judge.

  “A snake.”

  This caused a new commotion in the crowd. Was a deadly snake loose among us?

  “Look there,” I said, “at his finger. A snake bit him. I can see the marks from here.”

  Some of the judges stooped down to examine the puncture wounds in Simmius's forefinger.

  “He complained of a terrible thirst,” I said. “My father—” I was about to explain to them that my father back in Rome had taught me everything there was to know about snake venoms and their effects, the handling of snakes, the extraction of their venom—but what did they care about that? “It was probably a dipsas that bit him. The venom of the dipsas causes terrible thirst, then convulsions, and then death, all in a matter of moments.”

  “I think this young man may be right,” said one of the judges who had been examining the wounds. “But I'm not sure this absolves Protophanes. It's awfully convenient that the Cynic should have died just now. How did he come to be bitten by a dipsas just when he was about to testify before the judges? Where is this snake, and how did it come to be here? If Protophanes didn't do the deed himself, perhaps he arranged for it to be done—”

  “The snake was brought to Olympia not by any friend of Protophanes,” I said, “but by an agent working for a foreign king—the sort of person who's used to carrying poisons and other weapons for killing people. This man was plotting to kill Simmius of Sidon at least as early as last night; I know, because I overheard him. He's standing right there.” I pointed at the man with the blond beard. “How he tricked Simmius into reaching into that sack he carries is anyone's guess.”

  The crowd stepped back from the man, who gave me a venomous look.

  “You, there!” cried one of the judges. “What do you carry in that sack?”

  The man smiled crookedly. “That's what the Cynic said, when I told him it contained a gift for him. See for yourself!” he shouted, untying the rope and flinging the sack before him. A serpent as long as my forearm flew through the air and landed on the steps, not far from the body of Simmius. Hissing and writhing furiously, the creature darted first in one direction, then in another.

  The crowd panicked. Men cried out and tripped over one another in a mad rush to flee.

  I grabbed a rod from the nearest judge, who cried out in protest. Ignoring him, I stepped toward the snake and used the forked end of the rod to scoop it up. I grasped the close-set prongs so that the creature was trapped just below the head and could not escape, no matter how furiously it twisted and writhed.

  I held the snake aloft. “Someone, cut the creature in two!” I shouted.

  Men looked at each other in helpless confusion. No one carried weapons in Olympia.

  Protophanes bounded down the steps. He seized the snake with both hands and tore the creature in two, then threw the wriggling remains on the ground and stamped them into oblivion.

  The gaping crowd was silent for a long moment. Then a great cheer went up—for Protophanes, not for me.

  In all the excitement, the killer had escaped.

  * * * *

  After swearing the oath, the athletes scattered across the Altis to make offerings at the altars of various gods in preparation for their events. The crowd drifted toward a lavishly decorated marble structure called the Colonnade of Echoes, where the heralds and trumpeters of the Games competed in their own contests, seeing who could hold a note the longest or send the most echoes up and down the colonnade. This tradition had been going on for hundreds of years, and was more engaging than I expected.

  The contest had just ended when I saw a familiar figure striding toward us. It was Protophanes. His broad, handsome face was once again lit up with a grin.

  “You're the one who caught the snake, right?”

  “I am. Thank you for noticing.” For my quick thinking that morning, I had expected some sort of acknowledgement—perhaps even a reward—but all I got was a begrudging grunt from one of the judges when I returned his forked rod.

  “You're a Roman?” Protophanes asked, catching my accent.

  “Yes. The name is Gordianus.”

  He nodded. “They let me take the oath, you know. I'm going to win the pankration for sure!” Seeing him so close, I realized that Protophanes was a head taller than me, and twice as broad. “But I still don't understand. Why did that fellow with the snake kill the Cynic?”

  “Because the man with the snake was an agent of Mithridates,” I said. “He didn't come here to enjoy the Games, but to pursue his own agenda. And he believed that Simmius was a Roman spy who might expose him.”

  “That old windbag?” Protophanes laughed.

  “Who better to be a spy than the person least suspected?” said Antipater.

  “Maybe,” said Protophanes. “But you'd think a spy would keep his head down and not draw attention to himself.”

  “Or do the very opposite,” said Antipater.

  “A pity the killer got away. The judges could have got the truth out of him, I'm sure. But what's all this about spying and agents and such? Everyone comes to Olympia in peace. That's the whole point.”

  “On the contrary, young man, Olympia has always been a hotbed of intrigue,” said Antipater. “This is the largest gathering in the Greek world. When so many meet in one place, including some of the richest and most powerful men in the world, there is always more afoot than meets the eye—including espionage. Many a scheme has been hatched in Olympia that has nothing to do with athletics, I assure you.”

  Protophanes shook his head. Politics did not interest him. “Well, I just wanted to say hello, and thank you for catching that snake. If they had a contest for quick reflexes, you'd be a hard one to beat, Gordianus! When I win the pankration, I won't forget you.”

  Protophanes walked away. Antipater sighed. “What a pleasant young fellow. I do hope he wins.”

  “At least he had the manners to thank me,” I said.

  “Well, then, before the afternoon events, shall we return to our quarters for a bite to eat?”

  “What! Surely you don't intend to spend any more time in the pavilion of Exagentus, Teacher.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because the man's a killer! Or as good as.”

  “Why do you say that, Gordianus?”

  “Because of what I overheard last night.”

  “You say you overheard the blond man insisting that ‘the Sidonian’ be killed—you thought he meant me, but as you later realized, he actually meant Simmius. But if I understand you correctly, you didn't clearly hear the other speaker—who may or may not have been our host, and who, if anything, seemed to be disagreeing with the killer.”

  “True enough,” I said. “But someone in that pavilion is most certainly in league with Mithridates. ‘He's liable to expose us as agents of Mithridates'—that's what the man with the snake said.”

  “Even so, what have we to fear from such a person?”

  “I exposed the killer! I may have ruined whatever plot they were hatching. What if they mean to take revenge?”

  Antipater smiled. “Gordianus, you exposed an assassin. Assassins are expendable. If you fear that you've made yourself a target for retribution by the King of Pontus, I think you're letting your imagination run away with you. Now, let us return to the pavilion. If our host is there, I shall introduce you. Exagentus is quite a nice fellow, I assure you. And he's justly famous for laying a sumptuous table. I don't know about you, but this morning's events have given me an appetite.”

  * * * *

  Of the numerous events we attended over the five days of the Olympiad, my memories are all a blur. There were foot races
, chariot races, and horse races, as well as the race of hoplites in armor, a cumbersome, clanking affair that struck me as more comical than fearsome. There was something called the pentathlon, which involved throwing a discus and a javelin as well as jumping and running and wrestling. It made me tired just to watch it. Among the final events were the man-to-man combats of wrestling, boxing, and the brutal pankration. Besides these official events, there were exhibition contests for boys not yet old enough to compete, and in the evenings a great deal of drinking and feasting, including the slaughter of a hundred oxen at the Great Altar of Zeus in front of his temple.

  Antipater insisted on attending every event, and enjoyed them all immensely. His delight in the pankration struck me as particularly ironic. Here was a man who had devoted his life to the crafting of beautiful verses, striving to capture in words the most delicate sensibilities and elusive states of mind, reduced to a screaming, stamping, bellowing maniac along with his fellow Greeks at the spectacle of two men grappling in the dirt, pummeling each other's faces with their fists, and gouging each other's most tender parts. The pankration even allowed choking, and during one of Protophanes's early bouts, I thought we were about to see him strangle his opponent to death before our very eyes. The sight of the poor fellow's bright red face, protruding tongue, and bulging eyes caused tears of joy to run down Antipater's cheeks. The loser barely managed to lift his finger to signal submission before he fainted dead away.

  Seeing Antipater's behavior at the Olympiad, I realized that, though I had known him most of my life, in some ways my old teacher was still a mystery to me.

  When all the punching, poking, bone crunching, arm bending, and general mayhem were finally over, Protophanes emerged victorious in the pankration. His face was bloody, one eye was swollen shut, and his whole body was covered with scrapes and bruises, but his grin was brighter than ever as he accepted his victor's wreath—his second of the Games, for not only did he win the pankration, but the wrestling competition as well, a feat which thrilled Antipater.