‘But I will,’ Themistocles said, his voice mild. In that moment, I saw who he truly was — a man who loved the exercise of power. For itself. I have known men — aye, and women — who live for the release of sex, for the balm of music — for the moment when you elude an enemy’s spear and plunge your own into another man’s guts — aye. All those.
In that moment, I saw that Themistocles lived for this.
The judge flinched. ‘Of course your Italian boy can run. If he can stay awake.’
Themistocles smiled at me, as if to say: Now you owe me.
See? Hellenes, at the games of the gods. All fair and above board.
To be honest, age dims the memory. They were beautiful days, once I got used to the smell, and if there is a better life than lying in the sun with a broad straw hat and all your friends watching young men run their hearts out, I don’t know what it is. After we won our case with the judges of Elis, I was elated — it is hard to describe — and I went and spent money in the market. Then I went for a run of my own, because I knew I had too much spirit. I ran a good distance — thirty stades or so, up and around the mountain and back. And went back to the market, collected my ivory Athena and my pair of fancy gold brooches from a delighted craftsman, and went to my tent to strigil and oil. I felt like a god.
Of course, most men were just waking up.
At any rate, the good mood didn’t leave me all day. I lay on the bank of the stadium where the town of Elis now maintains tall grass banks for the spectators — so much more comfortable than wooden stands, or stone benches. I watched some boys wrestle, and then Harpagos and Sekla nudged me because they saw horses, and we gave our spots in the stadium to a group of Corinthians who were grateful to us and we walked down to the hippodrome, where we watched horses trot around and around. The trainers eyed each other, and none of the horses ran full tilt. It was much the same with the men — they watched each other, and tried to have bursts of speed without the others seeing.
By two days before the sacrifices to open the games, almost all the competitors knew each other like wicked brothers, and they had clear ideas of who was fastest, strongest, most dangerous. In sports like pankration, it often happened that most of the competitors would drop out, leaving only three or four remaining. Why get badly injured when you know that you can’t take that big bruiser from Megara?
A few of the boxers sparred a little, and, as I say, a few of the young wrestlers, but most of the men and boys simply lifted weights, drew bows, and ran. They didn’t want to match themselves against each other until the great day.
That afternoon, as it began to cool, I saw the chariot teams.
You may recall — if you’ve been listening — that I know how to drive a chariot. I’m not good at it — I’m far too large and I don’t really love horses. But when I was a new-caught slave in Ephesus, I was trained by top men to drive a team, two-horse or four-. I don’t know enough to win a race, but I know enough to judge a team, and this was a superb team.
That year, there were six teams. The Aeginians came out first that day, and many men cheered. Their horses were all white, matched with manes that stood up like the crests on men’s helmets. They looked like Apollo’s horses, and every man in the crowd thought the same. I’m no fan of Aegina, but I cheered those horses.
Then came the team of my friend Gelon of Syracusa. His team, as if in deliberate competition, was all black, and they were the largest, longest-legged beasts I think I have ever seen. I understood later that they were Persian horses, purchased by an ambassador, and they stood a fist taller than any other horse in the race, black as Hades. I suspected, while looking at them, that they were the most expensive team.
The third team was Athenian. It was a fine team of mixed horses — a dark chestnut with black mane and tail and three unmatched bays. They were the least remarkable looking of all the teams. They looked dowdy by comparison with Gelon’s team.
Of course, no wreath of laurel is awarded for the ‘best-looking team’.
The Corinthian team was driven by a black man — that alone was worthy of comment — and their horses were matched bays with their manes carefully dyed red. Perhaps most noteworthy, their African charioteer let them run — and they ran like a summer storm. He took one pole-
Have you never seen a chariot race?
They run on the same kind of course where men run. One stade, with two posts. You have to drive down the course and then turn at the post and come back. Not a round course — that would, apparently, be too easy. Not an oval. A straight track, a terrible turn, and a straight back — twenty-seven times. It is not a short race. In fact, the chariot race for four horses is the longest race at the Olympics, and horses have been known to die.
At any rate, the African took the turn on one wheel, and his offside chariot rail brushed the pole and he didn’t even look at it. He was. .
Damned good. The Corinthians looked confident, and had that nice mix of showy and competent that suggests a winner.
The fifth team out of the pens was the Rhodian team from the islands, and they were too small and, frankly, looked like they needed to be fed. Sea trips can be very hard on horses, and these horses had seen better days. They were all piebald black and white, and they were a fist smaller than all the other horses.
And finally, while I was stretching and considering a cup of watered wine, the Spartan team came out.
They were good horses — unmatched, but well muscled, with square heads and big chests. I remember saying to Harpagos, who was with me, that they looked like Spartans — heavily muscled and red.
They made quite a stir. At first, I thought it was just because of all the bureaucratic uproar about entering them, but the man driving the Spartan team was, in fact, their owner, Polypeithes, a Spartan citizen. This hardly ever happened. Drivers were mostly professionals — freedmen or even slaves. The driver wasn’t considered to be the competitor, in chariot racing — it was the owner who was the competitor. But most owners — the super-rich — didn’t bother to get dusty.
This Spartan gentleman seemed to feel differently.
He drove his own chariot, and he drove well.
I rolled over to Harpagos and pointed.
He shrugged and handed me the wine.
‘Watch the African driver,’ I said.
Harpagos nodded, and motioned to Moire, who was with us. He nodded.
The African driver only watched the Spartans, and mostly he watched the Spartan driver. And when the Spartans were halfway down the track on the far side, the African cracked his little hand whip, and his team leaped — I swear it — from a high trot to a gallop, and tore down the track going the other way.
The Spartan had just let his horses go, and they were at full gallop as the Corinthian team thundered down the course in the opposite direction.
The African was testing the speed of the Spartan team in an indirect manner.
The two teams shot past each other, a chariot wheel apart. The Spartan raised his whip in salute, and the African matched it.
We roared. I’d say there were three thousand men in the stadium and we’d seen a great thing. It went by in a second, but it was great.
The Spartan team thundered to the post and so did the Corinthian.
The African leaned a little, just as he had before, and put his chariot up on one wheel, and it made the turn with all four horses leaning so hard you’d have thought that they were running sideways. The spectators had to look back and forth to see both ends of the stadium — the Spartan was farther from the post and his horses didn’t lean as close. The Corinthian team was around while the Spartans were still slowing to make the tight turn, and the African reined in, sparing his horses. He knew what he wanted to know.
The Spartan came through the turn and he allowed his team to slow, aware that he’d been the slower of the two. But he didn’t show any temper. He merely reined in his horses and saluted the crowd and trotted around the track a few times. I saw Leonidas with half a hundred Spartans sitting together, like a phalanx — and I saw Gorgo sitting with her knees drawn up while a helot held an umbrella over her head against the sun. Polypeithes saluted Leonidas, and then, as he drove down the course, he rolled to a stop by Gorgo. She was sitting just off the course, in technical obedience to the prohibition about women that wasn’t really enforced anyway, but Spartans are often sticklers for religious observance.