See Delphi And Die mdf-17

by Lindsey Davis

  Jupiter knows who his mother was; the older Glaucus used to get a winsome look when he spoke of her. She must have come from somewhere in North Africa, and been endowed with extraordinary looks. The son was striking. On top of that he was a massive specimen.

  'He's really going to make us unobtrusive!' Helena chaffed.

  'Planned distraction. While people are staring at golden boy, they won't think twice about us.'

  Albia (sixteen, and ready for emotional disaster) was already staring hard at him. So far, Young Glaucus acted the dedicated athlete, fettling his fine body while unconscious of his handsome face. Albia seemed set to enlighten him.

  This was the select party with whom I set off, anxious to be on the move before autumn arrived. (And before Pa gave me a hideous list of Greek vases to import for him.) Time was against us. After October, the seas would be closed. Getting to Greece was still feasible, though coming home might pose problems.

  Never mind that. We put ourselves in the mood of leisure tourists. We felt like gods, wandering about the continents on the lookout for wine, women, adventure, and arguments…

  But our purpose was grave. And since I had chosen to drag us down the toe of Italy to take ship at Rhegium, opposite Sicily, we were exhausted, tetchy, and much poorer before we even left the land. Most of the others recovered on the voyage. I get seasick. Helena had brought ginger root. It never works on me.

  By the time we sailed, both Helena and I had realised that leaving the children was a huge mistake. She buried her head in a scroll, looking persecuted. When I was not throwing up, I put it out of my mind by exercising on the deck with Young Glaucus. That made me seem even more of a heartless bastard.

  Adventures began immediately. The weather was already uncertain. Our ship's captain was having some private breakdown so had locked himself in the only cabin, where he remained out of sight; the bos'n kept schmoozing Helena, and the helmsman was half-blind. Halfway across, we hit a lightning storm that threatened to sink us – or force us off course, which was worse. Being dragged to some rocky Greek island peopled by goats, fishermen, abandoned maidens, love poets, and sponge-divers would have made our journey a complete waste of time. Traders take the risk because they have to; I was starting to feel tense. We had far too much luggage – yet nothing good enough to buy off any islanders who made their living 'salvaging' shipwrecks.

  We reached land eventually at a port called Kyllene, up in the Gulf of Corinth, which would serve our purpose. Instead of being on the west coast, a mere ten or fifteen miles from Olympia, we now had more than ten miles to travel south to Elis, at which point we could take the Processional Way over the uplands – another fifteen miles. (That's fifteen miles according to the locals, so we knew in advance it would be twenty or more.) By the time we tumbled off the boat to search for lodgings, travel had lost any glamour and I just wanted to go home again. An aspect the tour guides always forget to mention.

  It gave us some idea how unsettled each of the Seven Sights Travel groups might be when they landed at their first new province.

  PART TWO

  OLYMPIA

  There are lots of truly wonderful things you can see and hear about in Greece, but there is a unique divinity of disposition about the games at Olympia…

  PAUSANIUS, Guide to Greece

  VI

  First stop Olympia. Wrong. First stop Tarentum. Second Kyllene. Third Elis. Fourth Letnnoi. Fifth stop Olympia.

  From Rhegium we had sailed around the foot of Italy and north again; the wrong direction, though apparently this was the way Greek settlers in Southern Italy always sailed to the Games. Then, after an unbudgeted-for stay in Tarentum, we endured another long haul down towards Greece, and met the storm.

  The winds dumped us at Kyllene, a typical tiny seaport, where because of the weather they had run out of fish and run out of patience, though they still knew how to double-charge for rooms. I was calm. I take my duties as the lead male in a party seriously. These duties are, to rebuff lechers, to outmanoeuvre purse thieves, to wander off at unexpected moments, and when everyone else is at breaking point to exclaim very brightly, 'Well, isn't this fun?'

  Luckily we had brought maps, the locals seemed to know nothing about their district They all pretended they never went to Olympia themselves.

  We travelled inland to Elis, an ancient town which had grabbed the right to host and organise the Games. From Elis (which acquired this right by fighting for it,) heralds with olive wreaths to signal universal peace are dispatched throughout the Greek world, to proclaim a truce in any current wars and to invite everyone to attend the festival. Competing athletes are made to spend a month in training at Elis (spending money, I thought cynically) before processing to Olympia.

  We knew Aulus had landed further down the coast of the Peloponnesus and gone up to Olympia by river. The Alphaios is navigable, after all, this was the mighty river Hercules diverted to wash out the Augean stables. Helena had looked at the map, and for us she chose the traditional road route. It was centuries old and apparently had not been visited by a maintenance team since it was hacked from the rock. Taking the Processional Way also brought us into close contact with Greek donkeys, a subject on which our diaries would elaborate at full-scroll length – had we any energy left to write them.

  It took us two days from Elis. We had to stop a night in Letnnoi. Spectators and competitors at the Games do this, but they bring tents. We were stuck with cramped accommodation in the village. We went to bed late and we started out early.

  At Letnnoi the Processional Way picked up the spur from the coast at Pheia, another visitors' route, though its condition did not improve. In some places the Greek road-makers had dug out double ruts to guide chariot wheels. One way. We were several times forced off the road by carts whose wheels were stuck in these ruts. The few passing-places were occupied either by pilgrims heading back to Elis and Pheia, who had seized them as picnic spots, or by boot-faced locals grazing mangy goats.

  Once or twice, it was our turn to grab the picnic spots. We spread out a simple woollen rug and squashed on it together, turning our rapt gaze to the sunny, pine-clad hills over which we were slowly climbing. Then we all stood up, and tried moving the rug in the hope of a sandier base with fewer pointed stones. As the water gourd went round, we dropped rancid sheep's cheese down our tunics, and argued over the olives. As usual, Helena had been charged with topographical research, so she kept up a commentary to instil us with awe for the revered religious site we were about to invade.

  'Olympia is the main sanctuary of Zeus, whom we call Jupiter. It is holy and remote -' I let out a guffaw. This area was remote all right. 'And was old even before the great temple was built. This is a sanctuary of Gaia, the Earth Mother, who gave birth to Zeus – I don't want any of you trying any fertility rites, incidentally – and we shall see the Hill of Cronus, who was the father of Zeus. Hercules came here on his Twelfth Labour. The statue of Zeus in his Temple was created by Pheidias, whom we call Phidias, and is one of the Seven Wonders of the World. As you all know…' She tailed off, having lost her audience. I, for one, was nodding in the sunlight.

  Gaius and Cornelius were wrestling each other. It struck me that Cornelius was one of those large chubby lads who is constantly taken for older than his real age; he might be only about eleven, which meant I must look out for him. Gaius must be sixteen now, tattooed and rat-like in appearance, though he had a sweet streak, buried beneath his desire to look like a barbarian mercenary. Both these rascals had a wild black mass of Didius curls; my fear was that strangers would think they were my sons.

  'Is Young Glaucus going to compete in the Games?' Cornelius asked me. He did not ask Young Glaucus, because Young Glaucus never said much. At the moment he was carrying out an exercise where he crouched on all fours, slowly raising and holding his opposite arms and legs, it would have been straightforward, had he not been supporting one of our larger baggage packs on his huge shoulders at the time. As his sinews flexed and trembled,
I felt myself wince.

  'Yes, Cornelius. He is sizing up the situation, ready for next year. Mind you, I promised his father I'll bring him safely home again, with no fancy notions -'

  'Isn't that what you told my father?'

  'No. Verontius said I could swap you for a nice little Athenian handmaiden.' Verontius had indeed told me that. Thinking I might do it, Cornelius looked worried.

  'You have to be a Greek,' put in Gaius. 'To compete at the Games.'

  'Not any more!' scoffed Cornelius. 'Romans rule the world!'

  'We rule with a benign sceptre, tolerating local customs.' As their uncle, it was my duty to teach them politics. The Greeks no longer held a monopoly on democratic thought and I kept my ears peeled at the baths, I had heard the modern theories. The lads stared at me, thinking I had gone soft.

  Our tolerance of foreigners was soon tested. We were joined by a couple of downhill joggers who looked enviously at our patch of sitting space. We edged up and offered four inches of ground. In the spirit of Olympic idealism (and hoping to share their flagon,) we made friends. They were sports fans from Germania: a couple of big, flabby, fair-haired River Rhenus wine merchants. I recognised the pointed hoods they wore, on capes with triangular front flaps. We discussed northern places. Then I joked, 'So what made you get the date wrong?'

  'Ah that Nero! He mixed us up.'

  The year before he died, the Emperor Nero had visited Greece on a grand tour. Wanting to appear at all the traditional Games (and clearly oblivious to the Greeks-only rule, he had made the organisers bring forward the Olympic Games by two years, just so he could compete. He then outraged Greek sensibilities by 'winning' first prize in the chariot race, even though he fell out and never finished. Since then, the judges Nero bribed had had to pay the money back and the Games had been reassigned to their ancient four-year cycle – but people were now thoroughly confused.

  As younger men, the Germans had been here in that famous imperial year of farce; they confirmed what we had heard: attending the Games could be a nightmare.

  'Thousands of people crammed into a temporary village that simply cannot hold them. The heat was unbearable. No water, no public baths, no latrines, no accommodation available – The noise, the crush; the dust; the smoke; the long hours and the queues -'

  'We had to sleep under a blanket tied to bushes last time. The permanent lodging houses are always taken by the rich athletics sponsors and the chariot-horse owners, who of course are even richer '

  'So what did you do this year?'

  'We brought a decent German tent!'

  'But found there were no sports?'

  'Oh, we just enjoyed the magical atmosphere of the sanctuary, and promised ourselves we will come back next year.'

  'It's quite a trip for you.'

  'The Games are that special ' Their eyes glazed, though that could have been the wine. 'The remote sylvan place, the atmosphere of devotion, the spectacle – the victory feasts…'

  We asked if they had heard about a Roman girl being murdered this year. They looked intrigued, but said no. Then one of the Germans solemnly pointed out: 'It is no place for a girl. Women are traditionally barred from the site during the Games.'

  'Except virgins – so that's a rarity!' They both burst out laughing with full-bodied Rhineland humour.

  We smiled politely but felt prim. Well, we were Romans talking to foreigners from one of our provinces. They were jolly lads, but it was our duty to civilise them. Not that I could see them submitting to the process.

  Our awkwardness could only get worse. We were now in the cradle of democracy, which we had seized for ourselves a couple of centuries ago. Nowhere in the Empire did Romans feel so out of place as in Greece. Imposing democracy on a country that in fact already possessed it raised a few questions. Bludgeoning the originators of the world's great ideas (and blatantly stealing the ideas) did not make us proud. We were bound to spend a lot of time being lofty, during this trip. It was our only defence

  I could see that Seven Sights Travel might well bring their tours here in years when no Games were being held, in order to avoid the horrendous conditions we had just heard described. And if women were still barred from attending the stadium and hippodrome, it would be tedious for female travellers in Olympic years. Now Romans were in charge of this province, the men-only rule could have been abolished – but I knew that Rome tended to leave the Greeks to their own devices. The Emperors wanted their own great festivals, held in Rome, to enhance their prestige. It was not in their interests to modernise the old Hellenic ceremonies. They paid lip-service to history, but they liked to see rival attractions die out.

  We could overlook the fact that one of our own rulers had devalued the judging. I wondered what the imperial attitude would be if Olympia acquired a violent reputation. Would Vespasian, the champion of family values, take it upon himself to have the place cleaned up?

  Probably not. It would be a Greek problem And if the victims were Romans, they would be seen here as bringing harm upon themselves. We would get the old excuses – outsiders failed to appreciate local customs, they were trouble makers who asked for it; rather than being pitied, the dead women ought to be blamed.

  VII

  Final stop. Olympia. Every seasoned traveller will tell you, always reach your day's destination while it is still light. Listen to this advice.

  For instance, when approaching a settlement that lies between two substantial rivers, both prone to flooding, you will avoid the boggy ground. The surrounding hills will not loom dark and menacing; the pine trees will waft delicate odours, not creak above you threateningly. You will be able to tell whether you are at a cow shed or a foodshop, and if a foodshop, it will be obvious that the owners have made their pile and shut up until the next festival, hence they have stacked the chairs on all the tables – so you will not make a fool of yourself demanding food from two sinister men without an oil lamp who would not have authority to sell you dinner even if there was any.

  If you arrive by daylight, as you head further up the street, or what passes for a street, you won't be left wondering what disgusting mess you have just stepped in. As you stumble uphill and downhill, trying to find the sanctuary, members of your party will not irritate all Hades out of you with endless arguments about whether the two men really had a love tryst at the dark bar. Nor will you offend your companions by yelling at them to damned well keep together and stop wittering.

  Nexf when you reach the welcome light of a luxurious two-storey hotel, you will not feel so relieved to find civilisation that you announce you will take the best room in the house – even though the leering porter exclaims what an excellent choice; it is the lovely corner room with dual-aspect views – a room which turns out to be thirty-five feet square, and blows your entire week's budget.

  After which, you may notice that this enormous building seems entirely empty so you could have haggled over the price – then you could have stuffed all the rest of your group at the far end of the hall and got some peace by yourself.

  By this time, your wish to exclude others from your presence: includes your wife, who will insist on asking why you are so proud you cannot simply go back to the leering porter and tell the bloody man that you have made a mistake and now want a cheaper room.

  She is wasting her breath. You are so exhausted you are face down, fast asleep.

  This is the best ploy, since you know from experience that – freed from the rules of paternalism – your dear wife will now quietly return to the leering porter herself and fix up the right accommodation. Probably at a discount.

  If she still loves you, she will come back and get you.

  If her name is Helena Justina, she may even wake you up in time to share with your companions some of your mother's spiced Roman sausage, now unpacked from among your spare tunics, along with a stoneware bottle of passable Greek wine which Helena Justina, the delight of your heart, has persuaded the porter to give to her as a welcome-to-Olympia present.


  VIII

  Dawn brought sunlight and harmony to the broad, wooded valley. A cockerel woke us early, then went on crowing all day long. We rose from our beds like good tourists, hungry for breakfast and history. Tourists revive fast. Once I had cleaned off yesterday evening's cattle dung from my boots, we were ready for the next long day of stress.

  We were staying at the Leomdaion, courtesy of one Leomdas of Naxos, who had cannily provided his descendants with an income by building this enormous old hostel for visiting VIP's. The four-square monster had a quiet central courtyard with shrubs, water features, and a few chairs, where the night-watchman, who doubled as the day porter at present, told us with relish that he did not provide breakfast out of season. Luckily the boys came back from a walk, bearing pastries, we spread ourselves in one of the outer colonnades and while we were eating, the porter gave in to the chance to make a quick drachma, and reported that his sister would make us evening meals. We thanked him, and made him accountable for our luggage. Helena asked if he had seen anything of her brother Aulus, but he said not. We went out to play.

  Like our German friends, the porter had regaled us with stories of how, if the Games had been in progress, all the peaceful area around our hostel would have been overwhelmed. For weeks, Olympia became a vast festival camp. Outside the sporting and sacred areas sprawled tented sites, after they were cleared of their crowded marquees when the Games ended, the ground would be covered with a hot mulch of trash and human squalor. According to the porter, it rivalled the mounds of slurry from the cattle of King Augeus which Hercules had sluiced away in myth.