Since there was nothing official about this--it was just a private celebration--we decided that absolute nakedness was not required.
"Unless you'd like to!" I remarked to Antony. After all, he had appeared almost that way at the Lupercalia. But that was long ago, when he'd held a lesser position.
"No, I can restrain myself," he said. "I wouldn't want to be the only one on the field like that, and I don't think the rest would do it."
He was right about that. The only people who ever felt comfortable with nudity were the Greeks; Romans and Egyptians and--horrors!--barbarians avoided it. As for the Jews, they found the whole idea repugnant and did not like even to pass by a gymnasion.
There would be a pentathlon, the test of an all-round athlete--footrace, jumping, discus, javelin, and wrestling. Then there would be military exercises like swordfighting and a race with armor, only for Antony and his soldiers.
"Is Hercules ready?" I said, as we prepared to depart for the Gymnasion. A great group of guests would accompany us, drawn in all the litters and chariots I had been able to summon from the royal stables.
"Yes," he said, oddly subdued.
"What is it?" Had he suddenly got cold feet? What a time to do it!
"I was just thinking--I am almost exactly twice Octavian's age. For every year he's lived, I've lived two. I don't know which is the advantage--my experience, or all those years he has yet tucked away in reserve."
"Now that's a Roman Antony, a brooding Antony, that I seldom see." This dark mood would not help his celebration. I must chase it away. "Octavian is so sickly that he'll never reach the age of forty-two. He's not strong like you; not only would he never have made it across the Alps, he can barely make it from his house to the Roman Forum."
Antony laughed. "Now that's an exaggeration, my love."
"Well, isn't it true he's always getting sick--at crucial moments? He was sick at the battle of Philippi, and you did all the fighting. He was so sick at Brundisium, on his way back to Rome, that he wasn't expected to live. He was too sick to accompany Caesar to Spain. He's always sick!"
"Yes, but, as you said, only at crucial moments. Maybe it's his nerves that are sickly, not his body." He laughed. "Here, my little warrior. Why don't you take my sword, the one I used at Philippi? Wear it tonight; it will go with the mood of this whole silly thing for you to dress like me." He unbuckled it and handed it to me.
I took it, almost fearfully. It was a most important sword, the avenging sword. "Won't you use it in the exercises?"
"No. I can never use it for games. But still, I want it there. You take it." He fitted its belt and hilt around me, crushing the gown I was wearing. "Come now!" His mood seemed light enough now. "Take my helmet, too." He lowered it onto my head. "There! A right fearsome soldier!"
"I can kill if I have to," I said slowly. He should know that.
"Now who has a dark mood? Banish it." He laughed. "Lead on to wherever you will take me, my Queen."
"Today it is to the Gymnasion," I said. "Nothing sinister about that."
The trumpets had blown, announcing the beginning of the contests. Almost fifty men were on the field, in various costumes. Some wore only loincloths, others short, barbarian-style pants that stopped above their knees, some kilts, and others tunics. All of them had been oiled in the special room for that purpose, the eliothesium, and now they gleamed. Oh, how they gleamed-- every muscle and tendon highlighted.
"I adore olive oil on a male body," whispered Charmian. "It's even more arousing than sweat."
"I like both of them," said the wife of the under-treasurer, startling me. I had always assumed she was most excited by ledger books.
Looking at them, I was struck by how well proportioned Antony was for his heavy muscles. He truly was one of those men who looked best with the least clothing, as regular clothes made him appear stocky. There was no sign that age had made any inroads into him; he was blessed with a physique that could maintain itself with little help. Certainly his Dionysian progress through the eastern provinces would have done in a frailer body.
Participating in the games were a number of Romans from Antony's praetorian guard, elite soldiers; the Egyptian head charioteer and several archers; some Greek officials from the treasury; some of the company of Dionysiac artists; a tutor Antony had picked up in Syria, named Nicolaus of Damascus; my favorite Museion philosopher, Philostratos; and perhaps most surprising of all, old Athenagoras, a physician who headed a mummy-preservation society. Oiled up, he looked like a mummy himself, stringy and dessicated. But he trotted by surprisingly swiftly, chortling and calling, "Watch me in the footrace! They call me the Natron Flash!" He was met with a shower of flowers and cheers from the women.
I noticed that Charmian's eyes seldom left one of the Roman guards who stayed near Antony, a tall, light-haired man who knew Antony's comings and goings--and kept them to himself. "I see you find someone interesting," I remarked, and Charmian nodded.
"You will have to give him the victor's laurel--if he wins it," I said.
The contestants were warming up in a series of movements that looked almost comical--jumping up and down, beating their chests, sprinting forward and then stopping abruptly. Then they lined up at the marble starting line, digging their toes into the cleft in the stone, and were off at the cry Apite!--go!--for the six-hundred-foot race. At first it looked like a shiny clump of bodies trying to keep together, but soon they separated and one tall Egyptian took the lead, followed by a Greek and then, surprisingly, by Antony. I had not expected that he could move so swiftly, as usually men with heavy muscles are not fleet of foot. But perhaps the thick legs supplied the extra power that propelled him forward.
The Natron Flash lagged two lengths behind the rest, his kilt flapping wildly. But he received the biggest ovation, and yelled as he passed, "What do you expect for a sixty-two-year-old? Hermes?"
The former champion from the Ptolemaieia--who was still only in his forties--finished fourth.
Next came discus throwing, an event that needed both strength and grace. The way a thrower rotated and moved his body was of utmost importance, and no one was allowed to turn and turn and wind himself up like a top. Statues celebrating the pose of a discus thrower were very popular, and as the men practiced, most of the women looked on appreciatively.
"It's like watching all the statues moving," said Charmian. Her favorite was also going to compete in this event. Not everyone would enter all contests; only poor Antony.
Only about fifteen men grasped the discus and, turning their torsos far to the right, stretched out in a graceful arc and flung it far from them. Charmian's man won by a hand's breadth, followed by the Egyptian head charioteer, and, once again third--by Antony. His upper-body strength had made the discus soar as it left his hand.
A great cheer went up for all the contestants, in this most aesthetically appealing of all events.
Next was the javelin throw, a favorite of the soldiers. Of all the athletic events, this was the one most rooted in actual warfare. But these javelins were made of elderwood, a lighter type than the military ones of yew. Besides being of lighter wood, the ones used for contests had leather thongs wound around the middle of the shaft to make them fly steady, and the ends were sharpened to stick into the ground, to measure distance. Each man was allowed three throws.
War is ugly, and no good ruler would wish it on his people. But even the most vehement critic of war would be forced to admit that many of the actions of soldiers are in themselves glorious, almost works of art, and the javelin throw is one such event. Just watching a man as he stood poised and ready to throw, running up to the mark, pulling the spear behind his head, then extending his other arm for balance before stopping and letting fly-- such beauty! The gods forgive me for the joy I took in watching it.
Again, oddly, it was Antony who was third, and the other two winners were members of the Guard and Household Troops.
When the long jump was announced, a different group of men swarmed d
own to compete. At last the lad Nicolaus of Damascus and the philosopher Philostratos came forward. Philostratos made a show of squatting and jumping up and down. I heard him saying, "Oh, I have neglected you, my faithful body! The mind has held you captive! Body, revenge yourself now!" There was small chance of that--he had ignored it for too long, expecting it to exist on the vapors of his mind--but he was laughing about it, at least. His baggy drawers sagged around his sunken waist, and his pale, thin legs protruded forlornly.
The men were to jump forward from a standstill, weights in each hand swinging to hurl them forward. They would land in a long sand pit. As expected, Philostratos managed only a feeble jump; it was a good thing he went last, so he would not have the embarrassment of seeing all the others fly over his mark. This was considered one of the most difficult of all events, because only a clean impression on the sand counted. Anyone who fell backward or forward was disqualified. Hence timing and balance were as necessary as speed and strength. Pipes were always played to help establish a rhythm.
The men were getting tired now. It could be seen in the way they grimaced and grunted, standing still when it was not their turn; no more nervous milling and joking.
Antony did not look noticeably weary; I saw him laughing and stretching, curling the weights in his arms, extending them slowly, drawing them back. He must have extraordinary stamina, and it was beginning to show, in contrast to the others.
Young Nicolaus did admirably, his slight young body going a good distance. The sixty-five-year-old supply officer flew past him--he had clearly been practicing. Charmian's man surpassed him, and Charmian sighed. Then a tall Gaul, one of Antony's guards, set the farthest mark. Last came Antony.
He approached the starting line slowly, moving the weights back and forth, getting his feel of them for the last time. He bent over as if to loosen all his muscles, then crouched, gathering some enormous ball of energy, and exploded forward, hurtled over the sand, and landed just behind the mark set by the Gaul. Wild cheers rang out, for the very force of his effort had been visible. And he had landed perfectly, not losing his balance. He slowly rose to his feet and stepped away from the sand.
"He's truly remarkable!" said Charmian, as if she had only now noticed. Perhaps she had.
I shifted on my seat, and the heavy sword that hung by my side clanked. Odd that he had wanted me to wear it--but I felt it was somehow imparting strength to him. The helmet rested by my feet. His achievement at Philippi was enough in itself, as far as history was concerned.
The last of the pentathlon events was the wrestling. Each contestant now had to call his bodyservant to dust his sweaty and oily body with powder, so that the opponents could grip one another. They would practice upright wrestling, in which they would grapple and attempt to throw their opponents to the ground. Three falls were necessary to win, and just touching the sand with the back, shoulders, or hip counted as a fall--telltale grains of sand sticking there would be proof. They were allowed to trip, but not to gouge.
Antony, like several others, was putting on a tight leather cap to prevent his opponent from grabbing his hair. It gave him an entirely different appearance--much more menacing. His thick crown of hair usually disguised his great strength with a semblance of boyishness. But that was gone now.
The contestants drew lots to see who would wrestle whom, and Antony ended up with a great ox of a man facing him. Bending low, they circled each other, arms spread, looking for a way to grasp and unbalance the other. The man's legs looked like knotted tree trunks, and his shoulders were as wide as an ox yoke. He made Antony seem lithe and slender in comparison. To my surprise, Antony succeeded in tripping him; next he caught him off guard, and the third time, straining against his braced legs, the opponents clasping each other like lovers, Antony bent him over until he lost his footing. Wild shouts exploded from the stands, and from the other contestants. They had seemed so unevenly matched.
None of the other pairs had such a clear-cut victory, and thus it was that Antony was declared the winner not only of the wrestling but of the entire pentathlon, for only he had placed in all five events. The pentathlon was designed to test the all-around athlete, and it required great powers of endurance--Antony's strong points. I almost wished it had not been he, lest people think it was fixed, but I knew it had been fairly won, and my heart was proud to bursting. I was delighted I had thought of this contest, for what better present could I have given him?
There was still the semicomical race in armor--the hoplitodromos--to be held. Men were to load themselves up with helmets, shields, greaves, and body armor, and run twice the footrace distance. It made a fitting finale, for all that clanking and awkwardness helped to ease the smart of any earlier loss. Even the fleetest warrior looked a bit tortoiselike as he struggled under the weight, and some--unable to see very well to the side because of their helmets--collided with one another. Then they had trouble getting up, they were so ungainly.
I was to award Antony his birthday garland, but there were prizes for many others, including one for the oldest contestant and the youngest, the lightest and the heaviest, and the man who had got the biggest bruise.
"Thank you, friends all!" shouted Antony, raising his hands high. "I shall never forget this birthday! And now, to Canopus and the pleasure gardens! To the canal, where we'll float on to our rewards!"
Canopus. It had been years since I had been there, and then only with my father, and in the daylight. How did he know about it?
The party streamed out of the Gymnasion, down the white marble steps, and into the waiting chariots and litters. Antony made me ride standing beside him in a chariot; he wrapped me in his cloak with one hand while he drove with the other. He was still heated from the games, and had the smell of victory on him, of exultant exertion. It was a magic smell--of strength, joy, and desire. His cloak flew out behind him as he drove crazily through the streets, his victor's wreath tilting over one eye, yelling gleefully at people lining the sides.
"You drive like Pluto!" I said, grabbing one of the chariot rails as he bounced along. "Are you heading for Hades?"
"No, for the Elysian Fields! Isn't that the name of that place outside the city walls, where all the pleasure houses are? Where the canal floats through?"
"It's called Eleusis," I said, shouting to be heard over the clattering wheels. "The better class of people avoids it."
"Good!" he said, urging the horses on.
We floated toward Canopus in a fleet of pleasure boats, their lecherous ferrymen used to conveying merrymakers along the canal that ran parallel to the sea all the way between Alexandria and the town sitting at the mouth of the Canopic branch of the Nile. A great Temple of Serapis and Isis stood there, but it was infamous for the goings-on in the Temple vicinity. Every imaginable human vice--and some unimaginable ones--flourished there. Along the way there were pretty groves of palms, white sand beaches, and in Eleusis, grand houses with ocean views and decadent inhabitants. They waved at us as we passed, the lanterns on our boats signaling them in the twilight.
"Enjoy yourselves!" they called, and one house sent a boy to pipe raucous melodies to us, his companion bellowing out the bawdy lyrics.
"How do you know about Canopus?" I asked.
"I was a young soldier here all those years ago," he reminded me. "And my own men have been pestering me to take them."
"Not with me and my women," I said. "I can't imagine they would want us along."
"They can always return by themselves some other time," he said. "They're old enough!" He laughed, and pulled me over against him. "This will give all your highborn women a chance to make a safe, escorted visit to the den of iniquity there. Haven't you all been curious to see it? Be honest, now!"
"Well--yes," I admitted.
"Your secret--as well as your august person--is safe with us. We will protect your virtue!"
"From the rogues there, while robbing us of it yourselves!"
"Surely your women will be able to fend off a few well-br
ed Roman soldiers. They can report any misbehavior to me, and I, as commanding officer, will punish anyone so vile as to take liberties. You have my word of honor." He saluted mockingly.
"I am sure they will be relieved to hear it. They might be happier if you just warned the men in advance."
A look of disbelief passed over his face. "You sound like a palace tutor, determined to guard the virtue of a ten-year-old pupil. Are we not all grown men and women? I don't see Caesarion here." He made a show of looking around. "Your concern for their sensibility is touching--and out of place, as well as insulting. In short, my sweet Queen, my most mysterious and Egyptian Queen--mind your own business." He leaned back on the cushions in the boat and wagged a finger in admonition.
I laughed. He had that effect on me.
In the boats, his men and our guests were singing, calling from one vessel to another, drinking Mareotic wine from wineskins some had brought along. We floated onward, toward Canopus.
There was no missing it: lights blazed from the shore, and all the buildings seemed bathed in that lurid red glow. The streets were full of people, unlike most towns after dark. The boats passed a marshy area, low-lying, where the westernmost mouth of the Nile emptied out into the sea. Flocks of startled birds flew upward as the noise and lights of the boats slipped past.
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