The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

They did not have to be asked twice and immediately headed there. I watched as they disappeared behind the shrine to Pelops. I then thanked our guide and went inside Hera’s temple.

  It was blessedly cool, and dark enough that for a few moments I could not make out any structures. Then a statue of the goddess swam into view, its white marble making it the first thing visible. I walked toward it; gradually the surroundings came into focus and I could see the gold and ivory table in front of the altar, with rows of victory wreaths laid reverently on it. I came closer and bent over them. I wanted to touch one but felt that it might disqualify me in the eyes of the gods, as if I were claiming something I had not yet earned. The shiny gray-green leaves of the wreaths were expertly woven so they chased one another around the circlet, overlapping in the most pleasing manner. Oh, most beautiful of sights, this emblem of excellence at the highest level.

  The girls would receive one, too. Three wreaths, one for each of the winners of the three age groups. The race would take place tomorrow.

  Someone was behind me, breathing softly. I turned and saw that it was Tullia. Shyly she said, “I wanted to see the crowns. I thought if I saw one, it would be real to me, and I could imagine wearing it.”

  She was so young, so winsome. I could almost love her, and never more than at this moment, when we both had been drawn to the victor’s table, pulled there by the same love of sports and competition.

  “I am afraid,” she confided. “I don’t want to run tomorrow.”

  “Everyone is afraid,” I assured her. “In fact, anyone who is not afraid is not a true athlete. It means he or she doesn’t care.”

  She looked straight at me. “Are you afraid?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “Not only of winning or not winning, but driving a chariot is dangerous, and none more dangerous than a ten-horse one.”

  “You don’t have to. You could change to a regular four-horse one.”

  “You are wrong. I must do this.”

  “So must I.” But she looked miserable as she said it.

  “I will be there tomorrow when you run,” I promised her. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  “By losing?”

  “No, by not starting.”

  LXIII

  The day dawned clear; there was even a light sheen of dew on the grass, a cooling balm. The girls’ race would take place in the stadium, but the course was a hundred feet shorter than the men’s stadion, making a total length of about five hundred and twenty feet. Tullia and I had discussed the mechanics of the race. It was a long time since I had run, but I remembered the tactics well.

  “There are really only two methods of winning,” I said. “Either you have to take the lead from the first and run the others off their feet, or you have to hang back—but not too far back—and come from behind at the end in a burst of reserved speed. But to lead from the beginning, you have to know you are faster and stronger than the others.”

  She tossed her hair. “That’s the way I always race,” she said.

  “Ah, but that is against local girls. Here the competition is much more selective.”

  “I won’t know how fast they are,” she said. “I will have to race as I always do.”

  After we parted I made my way down to the stadium, passing the row of Zeus statues paid for by fines of disgraced athletes who had cheated, a warning to all the competitors who had to pass them. Victory at Olympia is to be won not by money but by swiftness of foot and strength of body, they were admonished.

  The crowd was surprisingly large; to them it was a novelty event, one they didn’t want to miss. The girls now entered the stadium, walking single file. Unlike the men, they did not race naked. They wore the prescribed costume of a short tunic, fastened only on the left shoulder, leaving the right bare to below the breast. Their hair was unbound, to signify their maiden status. They each in her way looked like Artemis, and perhaps that was the intention.

  The youngest girls raced first, their slight forms making them seem like flying wisps of mist. The race was so short it could be run almost on one breath, and it seemed over too quickly. Too quickly for those of us who were nervous about the last race.

  The winner, a thin girl with very dark hair, got her ribbon and palm and then retired to the side.

  Next came the older girls. The differences in height were more pronounced. Some had grown quickly and were almost adult height; others had yet to have a growth spurt. That would make for an unequal race even if they were the same age, for long legs cover distance faster than short ones.

  Sure enough, the tallest girl won, although a shorter one, who pounded the course fiercely, almost beat her.

  Now came the last group. As they sorted themselves out and lined up at the incised marble slab that marked the start, I saw that Tullia was flanked by a large, muscular girl with wheat-colored hair. On the other side was a willowy girl with very long legs. This was not good.

  Tullia stared straight ahead and stood tensely. She was clearly so nervous she was stiff. This was not good, either.

  Time felt interminable while the girls stood at the ready for the race, which seemingly would never begin. Then, suddenly, they were off.

  Tullia burst from the starting line; she clearly had practiced her starts. But after the first few steps the larger girl passed her, with the long-legged girl just behind. Tullia’s tried-and-true tactic of running ahead of everyone did not work here. I could almost feel her surprise and panic when they both passed her.

  After that she did not lose ground; the gap between them did not widen. She was about one length behind both of them, who were each fighting for the lead. The rest were farther back, but I paid them no mind. They were irrelevant to the race at this point.

  Now the two leaders were halfway to the finish, their hair flying out behind them. Now three-quarters to the finish. Then the long-legged girl pulled slightly ahead. The blonde was flagging, having overdone the first part of the race and tired herself too early.

  Only about a hundred feet left. Then, like a bird taking wing, Tullia closed the gap, running smoothly and strongly. Twenty feet left. The front runner heard the feet behind her and made the fatal mistake of looking back, slowing herself just enough that Tullia shot past her and finished first.

  I let out a whoop of glee; I was more excited than if I myself had won. A throng rushed to the finish line to congratulate the final winner. Tullia was surrounded by well-wishers as the judge handed her the palm and the ribbon. I hung back, not joining them. This was her moment, not mine.

  While everyone was exulting and praising her, I watched the losers slink off the track. They had all done well and were probably the best runners of their age group in the world. But in Greek contests, there are no runners-up; there is only the one winner.

  I sent a congratulatory note to Tullia where she was staying. Come to my quarters so I may tell you in person how proud I am, I wrote. Bring the ribbon and palm!

  She came as the evening was settling in and the first stars were appearing. Her face was shining and her cheeks glowing.

  “You have been to the baths,” I said, touching her hair, which was still wet. “How could you bear to wash away that sacred dust from the race?”

  She laughed. “Because I was hot and dirty.”

  “You had to take off your ribbon,” I said.

  “I couldn’t wear it forever,” she said.

  She was practical, clear-sighted. She would do well in life. People of that temperament usually did. “No, I suppose not. But for one day?” Especially as it was the only one she would ever get.

  “All things must end,” she said.

  “Not this day. Not yet.”

  She held out the ribbon and the palm and I took them, examining them closely, feeling the stiff bristles of the palm and the smooth weave of the ribbon. “You have done it,” I said. “You won your city the race. Now you
will get free meals the rest of your life.” I laughed. “Although they don’t do that in Rome, only here in Greece.”

  We walked to the open terrace, where the sky of day, still laced with pink streaks from the setting sun, was tender. I put my arm around her shoulder. “I am so proud of you,” I said. “And all the more proud because I was surprised. I thought you had lost when I saw your competition, and I knew your strategy of leading from the start had failed.”

  “For the first time,” she said. “But you were right, the competition was of a different caliber here. That is why I was so surprised when the leader made that amateur mistake of turning her head.”

  “It’s one she won’t make again,” I said. “Now, we must commission your statue,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “It isn’t necessary.”

  “Yes, it is. If you cannot stay here, your likeness can, so that forever after your victory will live on. I have enjoyed seeing the dedications and statues of past winners.” Like the one of my grandfather. “This way no one can forget you.” I turned her to embrace her. “I know I never will.”

  She turned her face up to kiss me, then said, “When I said all things must end, I meant more than just wearing the ribbon.” She pulled away a small space and then said, “I am to be married. My father was waiting until after the Olympics, but now I must prepare for another life. A different one. One I am not sure I want but which I will submit to. And so, since you have declared me a virgin”—we both laughed—“I shall remain so until my marriage day.”

  So be it, then. I stepped away from her and handed her back the ribbon and the palm. “Cherish these,” I said. Of course she should not enshrine them as Statilia had done her ancestor’s awards, but just keep them in a private place.

  “I cherish them, but more than that I cherish the encouragement you have given me, the opportunity to come here. Without you, I never would have known this moment.”

  A slight, warm breeze had sprung up, caressing the evening. We turned once again to look at the sky. An almost-full moon had already risen, pale at first, but growing brighter as the last of the day fled. When it was full, in two days’ time, the great sacrifice to Zeus, a hundred oxen on his altar, would take place.

  “You will receive your victory wreath along with all the winners on the last day,” I told her. “There will be a big banquet. If I do not win, I will not be there. So tonight may be our farewell, although I hope not.”

  “Do you mean you hope it won’t be our farewell, just because, or because you might not be at the winners’ banquet?”

  “Both,” I said. “I will be sad for both.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The night passed slowly. I had thought to spend it with Tullia, but now I had no desire for company. There would be enough of that in the coming days. I did not sleep well; I kept awakening, seeing the moonlight moving across the floor. It faded in the pearly dawn, and I arose.

  Today was the start of the Olympics, the two hundred and eleventh, the twelfth since Germanicus had competed. I sent up a silent plea to him to watch over me. Now it was time to go forth.

  Athletes, judges, and trainers would gather in the Bouleutarion, the headquarters of the Olympian council and keeper of the archives, to take our oaths and be registered. As we crowded in, I looked around at my fellow competitors. They were of all types—dark and light, burly and slender. But they were all young. Past a certain age, competition was pointless—unless you enjoyed losing or were fulfilling a lifetime wish to come to this king of all contests and never mind the results.

  Zeus Horkios, Zeus of the Oath, glared at us in the form of a bronze statue in majesty and danger, wielding thunderbolts in both hands, ready to smite anyone who cheated. The base of the statue repeated the threat, in case the depiction failed to stir us. In front of it was a table with slices of wild boar’s meat.

  The presiding official stood before the statue and led us in the oath.

  “Upon my honor as a man and an athlete, I swear to do nothing evil against the Olympic Games. I touch the meat to confirm this.” A rumbling of voices filled the room as all swore. We then filed up to touch the meat.

  Now the judges had to verify the athletes as to age, which did not concern me; it was mainly to make sure the boys’ races were run by boys and not men. But the horses had to be examined, and that meant all ten of mine must be cleared.

  They had arrived in Greece in time to become acclimated to the weather and the food. I had, as was my preference, a mixed team—some for speed, some for strength, some for steadiness. They were of all colors; the artist in me wished they could have been all white, to make a striking image, but the competitor in me would rather have a smooth-running team.

  They passed the qualification test, as I expected. The judges, however, were skeptical that I could run a ten-horse team. Then they said, “There is no one for you to compete against. No one else has entered such a team.”

  I was immensely disappointed—surely someone else in the Greek world could drive a ten-horse chariot. “I can’t run on an empty track,” I said. “The horses need to run against something, not by themselves.”

  “We will have two tethrippon chariots run with you, but only to pace you,” they said.

  What a letdown! But I could hardly refuse to go ahead now, after all the effort of preparing for this, my dream race. I tried to console myself by knowing that just driving the ten horses was challenge enough, but the disappointment was sharp.

  The chariot races would take place on the next day. So soon! I had planned for this so long, but it had always danced in the future, tantalizingly, and only in the imagination.

  One of the other charioteers had overheard the judges and followed me as I led the horses to the side of the field where I could talk to them and reassure myself that they, and I, were ready.

  “Caesar!” he called, catching up to me. “Do you know what this means?”

  “It means that a ten-horse team is not a popular choice,” I said. But I had known that.

  He cocked his head. “It means that you will win a crown. For sure.” He paused. “There is a rule that if there are no competitors, the lone entry is awarded the victory prize.”

  “But—” Was that a victory or just a consolation prize?

  “It happens rarely, but it happens,” he said. “Sometimes in the month before the Olympics, the athletes are intimidated by their competitors, or get injured, or just drop out, leaving only one man for the event.”

  “That’s hardly a victory,” I said.

  “It will be inscribed as one. And what does a victory proclaim, but you are the best in that event on that day and at that time? So if you are the only one, that is still what it means.” He grinned. “Congratulations, Caesar!” Bowing smartly, he hurried back to his horses, leaving me with mine.

  I stroked their backs, one at a time, loving the smooth, shiny coats that bespoke their healthy diet, and the unique smell of their hides. “We will still run,” I assured them. “We will run as if we were competing against Pelops himself.” Even if the crown was inevitable, the outcome, the actual race itself, how the horses would run and how I would control them on a real track, was still a question mark.

  * * *

  • • •

  That night, I tried on the Greek charioteer costume, so different from the Roman one. It consisted of a long chiton with a wide belt. That was all. No helmet, no leather leg or arm guards, no protective corselet.

  “You wanted to go all Greek,” said Statilia, circling me. “Now you have your wish.” She fingered the chiton material. “Very thin. This won’t help if you crash.”

  “No need to remind me of that,” I said. And the obvious retort would have been, I don’t plan on crashing. But no one plans on crashing.

  “I heard something that will hearten you,” she said. “I overheard two men ta
lking about the chariot races tomorrow. One said that although the owners get the victory wreaths, very few were brave enough to drive their own teams, letting the charioteers take the risks while they took the prizes. Then another one said, ‘The emperor Nero is one of the very few who dares to do it. Cheers to him.’”

  “Did you really hear that?” How encouraging, after nonstop criticism from all quarters, calling me crazy, vain, stupid, foolhardy, and arrogant—anything but brave.

  “Yes, I did,” she assured me. “There are probably many people who share his opinion. I am one of them.”

  “You are?” She had never voiced it.

  “Oh, yes. But until today, it was never certain you would go through with it. Too many things could have interfered. I will be there, watching. As I was at the Circus Maximus for your first race.”

  “But women aren’t permitted.”

  She laughed. “It’s a big open field. Who will be able to enforce that rule?”

  * * *

  • • •

  The next day, the second of the contest, I was oddly calm, as if all the waiting had drained away the tension, siphoning it off into space. I put on the flimsy costume and, accompanied by my supporters, headed for the race field.

  The first events were the tethrippon races, and there were at least a hundred chariots entered. The track could accommodate as many as twenty chariots at a time, but in the interests of safety, only twelve would run at once, giving them more space. The odd staggered starting gates were ready, and the teams entered them.

  It was very different from a Roman race. The flat open field for spectators, rather than stepped viewing stands, meant it was difficult to see the progress clearly. There was no dividing wall in the middle of the track, so the two sides blurred together, and a chariot might easily veer out into the oncoming lanes. There were no stands or metae to crash into, but the chariots could run into one another or lock wheels. There were only lone turning posts to mark the end of each lap.