by Mary Renault
I’ve never envied those umpires. If the teams were to start from a level line, they’d be in heaps before they were under way; so they have this stepped-back order, one couple of chariots side by side at the apex, the next couple a length behind on each side, and so on outward, like a huge arrowhead. The umpires have to see the gates opened in proper order, the back ones on the outside first, and so on to the foremost that start the last; and I never saw a race yet where some driver did not complain that his gate was slow.
This time it seemed fair enough. The bronze dolphin came clanging down, the bronze eagle was hoisted on its pole over the altar; up went the gates and out went the chariots; the thunder began, and the pale dust rose billowing till it clotted our noses and tongues.
It was a good race that year. I am not one of those who value the event by the number of crashes, and sit near the turn to see them. For me, that is like giving a music prize for loudness. Besides which, I do not like the spectacle; I can picture the death of the blameless hero Hippolytos without seeing it enacted before my eyes. A chariot collision can butcher a good man and a gallant team as bloodily as a god-sent bull from the sea. Most drivers hitch the reins around them for extra grip, and though they wear sharp knives to cut themselves free if they fall, with a broken arm or a kicked head they don’t get a chance to use them. Even if the driver escapes alive, it’s not often the team gets off without one or all being dragged off the course and slaughtered. It was not for this that Poseidon gave to mankind a creature of such beauty. It is the horse at his godlike best that I love to watch.
It was a dry year; the dust was almost a fog, with people muffling their faces up to the eyes. From our good seats we would see the start and the finish, and all the turns at our end; the further turnpost was invisible in the murk. One saw only a turbulent mass like driftwood in a swirling river, heard the cheers of the crowd, the shouts and neighing that meant a crash or a foul. One chariot at our end had a wheel wrenched off on purpose by another; the charioteer, a fine driver, got his car and horses somehow off the course, and the man who’d fouled him was disqualified. He must have hoped that the dust would hide it. At the far end, we learned later, two teams tangled their yoke-poles and a man was killed. There were one or two other crashes from which men and horses were dragged out with broken bones, the men to race again, the beasts to die.
However, near a turnpost one does not only see disasters; one sees all the skill. All up the straight they have been working and weaving for places inside the turn; but many a driver has taken it too close and wrecked his car on the column. The man who can cut it fine and skim past is a winner, but he needs clever horses, all of whom know him and each other well. All this is as true as when prosy old Nestor instructed his son, who no doubt knew it all already, at Patroklos’ funeral games.
The Athenian chariot was running a steady, well-judged race, neither fouling nor being fouled, getting the most from the team, coming fairly close in without collisions. But at each turn one saw, on the outside, a flash of bright yellow swinging round, the outside taken by choice, trusting in speed and in horses who knew their work. The driver in yellow was Kimon’s; he showed up well, even after the sixth lap when the pale dust was cloaking horses and men alike. His team knew the track of old; he had no need to whip the outside horse or check the inmost, to get them turning as cleanly as a wheel. You could not have asked better of cavalry chargers with knights on their back to guide them.
At last came the twelfth, last lap. The ancient fever rose; the crowds roaring, the drivers cracking their whips and giving their shrill yells; the horses screaming as they had the last ounce flogged out of them. One team swerved across the course into another still running the lap before, so that they crashed head on; the frightful din of shouts and squeals hardly seemed to increase an uproar that was splitting one’s ears already.
Only fifteen chariots finished, about the usual number. The Athenian team came fourth, which was creditable at least. But leading by half a length came Kimon’s team with its yellow-robed charioteer and the neat-footed mares, their chestnut sides dappled with foam, their nostrils flaring scarlet, but game to the last, stepping off from the finishing post as prettily as deer.
We turned round to acclaim the owner. He stood up smiling, and lifted an arm to the cheers. In the thrill of the race, I had lost all thought of politics, which are made by men, while beauty and bravery are from the gods. It was not till Anakreon poked me in the ribs that I remembered.
The chief of the judges mounted the platform with the herald. At Olympia, the herald himself is the victor of a heralds’ contest held beforehand. This one was a first-class trumpeter with a ringing voice. “In the name of Olympian Zeus, the winner of the four-horse chariot race is Kimon, son of Stesagoras, of Athens.”
This time, Kimon of the god-descended Philead clan had claimed his victory for himself.
The chariot drew up before the podium, the mares jingling their harness as they got the air back into their lungs. Above them stood the wiry dark Sicilian, in the stillness this moment demands. He had been through it twice before; from where I sat I could see his eye already stealing down to the foam-flecked mares, with the fondness of a father, longing for all this to be over, waiting to caress them, to give them the little drink they must have before the deep one; to see them rubbed down, and put into their blankets. But he was only the charioteer, and must await the crowning of the victor.
Even at Olympia, I have seldom heard such cheering. People were standing on their seats, tearing the wreaths from their heads to fling flowers and oak-sprays at the podium. In the whole long history of the games, over the centuries, it had only been done once before, three victories running with the same team. It would become a legend.
And when that thought came to me, I saw what else it meant. The legend would be Kimon’s, and his alone. Whatever had been proclaimed at the games last time, whoever had worn the crown, it would be forgotten. Men would talk forever of Kimon’s triple victory. At that moment, he was bending his head for the olive crown.
In so much commotion, it was quite safe to look round. But if there had been anything to see, we had already missed it. Hippias and Hipparchos were sitting in quiet talk, like any two lords whose rank restrains them from vulgar acclamations.
Anakreon said, “They are taking it very well.”
“Of course. They know how to behave in public.”
Lasos was still in ecstasy from the race. It took him a moment to follow us. Then he cried in his headlong way, “It was an epic! No one, no man born of woman upon this earth, could be asked to give that away!”
“No,” I said. “It would have been policy, of course; but policy has its limits.”
Anakreon said softly in my ear, “Policy? Well, my dear, that depends upon what he wants.”
Neither of us turned to share this thought with Lasos. He was quick-witted, but indiscreet. Before long, he would think for himself what an Olympic chariot crown can mean to a man who aspires to power; power that his forebears held for generations and never surrendered willingly—on sufferance to Solon, to Pisistratos not even that. Let Lasos think for himself, said Anakreon’s sidelong eye. When the crowds were breaking up we slipped away from him and strolled off past the Hera temple to the shady slopes of Kronos’ oak wood. Of course there were people all about, but one need not be overheard.
Anakreon said, “How much do you think it means?”
“Hard to say. Maybe no more than Lasos sees in it. He took the gift of the god, thinking he’d done enough last time for the Pisistratids, or not thinking about it at all. He could have counted on nothing beforehand. Think of the odds.”
“Someone might have murmured to him how acceptable such a thing would be, if the long chance came off.”
I said, “His family call him Simple Kimon, because he won’t play politics. He lives for his horses and his land; he must have missed them badly in exile. That gift to Pisistratos got him home, which he wanted more than a second
victory. On the other hand, he’s a Philead, and he may not be so simple after all.”
Anakreon picked up a green acorn, and turned it in his hand to admire the gloss. “Isn’t his half-brother a petty king somewhere up north?”
“Miltiades? Indeed, and not so petty, sitting there in the Thracian Chersonese on the throat of the Euxine corn-run. You should ask my brother, who’s had to pay his tolls. He’s been a chariot victor too, it’s in the family.”
“Then so is money. How did he get among the Thracians?”
“He exiled himself in the Old Archon’s time, and was asked by the Dolonkians to command a war for them, because of some oracle they’d had.”
“Ah yes, I heard of that in Abydos. They’re forever at war. They were grateful and made him King. Could that, too, be in the family?”
“I doubt it’s come down to Kimon. He got tarred with the Philead brush, and had to go; you have to take care with a house that goes back to Ajax. But I’d be surprised if he’s thinking now of anything much but his crown and his triple victory and his mares. Didn’t you see him beaming from ear to ear? Simple Kimon, I thought, and none the worse for that. I should like to make him a praise song, if only for the mares’ sake. But I suppose it wouldn’t do.”
“What I should like would be to be at his party tonight. That should be a good one. But I daresay that might not do either … Look, my dear, at that boy. The curly-haired one. Do you know, he is entered for the boxing? How can he do it? He will be ruined in five years.”
“He’s an Alkmaionid, so if you want to sing about him, leave out his name … Anakreon, do you ever wish yourself back in the days when you were an unknown name and a passing face, and could come and go like the breeze?”
“Of course, my dear. As both of us are doing now. But not if I had to pay for it.”
I thought of my shepherd days; of my master dead in his poor Samian room, without help from me; of the girls I had feared to speak to. “No,” I said. “Not if I had to pay.”
We agreed together, therefore, that it had better not get about Olympia, however good Kimon’s party might be, that it had been graced with the presence of Anakreon and Simonides. Meantime we paid our respects at our own Archons’ pavilion. We had delayed long enough already.
It stood up among the lesser tents like a trireme among fishing-boats. Even the Sicilians had brought nothing finer; it must have needed a train of ox-carts to heave it up from the harbor. The canvas was stitched in stripes of yellow and blue. It was far more splendid than in the Old Archon’s day; the hand of Hipparchos showed all over it. From a gilded mast heading the tent-pole flew the trident banner of Poseidon, the crest of their god-born ancestor, Neleus of Pylos.
The Archons were in their chairs of state, receiving guests. We joined in compliments on the good run of their chariot. Of course, nobody mentioned Kimon’s. It is all very well for the friends of boxers and wrestlers to taunt the losers; but among the chariotry, politer customs rule.
As we went away, I said, “They’ve got over it, it seems. The odds were too heavy against that victory; it’s with things looked forward to that disappointment bites. They were just as usual, Hippias dignified and Hipparchos charming.”
“Oh, indeed … But did you notice, with the sun coming through the canvas stripes, that Hippias looked blue and Hipparchos yellow?”
We laughed, and went our separate ways; Anakreon had a host of friends awaiting him, and I had not a few myself. For a while I looked at the stream of Alpheus, and across at the women’s side. She would be there, she had told me so; she had even told me the colors of her tent, rose and light blue. But she knew I would not be coming, unless at the end of the games to exchange our gossip. She would be entertaining victors, strong young boxers and wrestlers and hurlers of the disk and javelin, who had said to themselves for months, “If I win, and my city makes me the victory gift, it would buy me a night with Lyra.” Perhaps Kimon would visit her. Not tonight; he had his feast to see to, and could not ask her across the river to the Altis shore, sacred to men from the beginning.
I was shouldering off through the crowds, when a little dark hand grabbed my arm; and there was Neko, her Egyptian slave-boy, wearing new gold earrings. She spoiled him dreadfully; he was a saucy brat, but at least he was devoted to her. Naturally she had brought him to Olympia, where a girl could run her no errands across the stream.
“Big trouble find you, sir!” he said in his lilting Greek. “My madam she say, nice party tonight, special for friends, you come? Madam say, if you don’t come, party no good. I tell her you come, yes?”
“Yes,” I said, noting how gay and cheerful was the scene around me, and wondering why I’d been thinking it a tiresome crowd. “Take this to spend at the fair; and don’t forget to tell her.”
For me, this was the first Olympic since I’d known her; for her, it was only the second in her career. Already she knew what was due to her, and began her reign there in style, by holding court
I think, if there had been room, her rose and blue tent would have held as many men of rank as the Archons’. However, it held fifteen at most, packed in right up to the flaps. She had hand-picked us, and let us know it. Little Neko, who served the wine, could hardly find room to put down his slender feet. It was a splendid party; the night was warm, the tent pegged open, and chosen latecomers were allowed to overflow outside. When it grew late, one or two people came on from Kimon’s victory feast, still in the mood for singing. I had something in my head about his gallant mares, and, discreet or not, when the lyre came my way I sang it. The thought of those beautiful creatures, pouring all their virtue into victory, aroused my love of heroes. Surely swift Boreas, from whom all great horses are descended, swept to them in the race and bore them on. As I sang, I saw Lyra look at me under her lashes; but I only threw her a smile. A man must do what he was born to do; and not only when he is hired to do it.
A little later, she said it was unbecoming for a woman to put on contests at Olympia; but Neko should take the omens for her. She bandaged his eyes, not very tightly, and spun him round, and left him to turn again. He came to rest pointing at me, and pulled off the blindfold grinning. I thought it was because of the present I’d given him, till I saw her smile when everyone had gone.
It was the first Olympic night I’d ever spent on the women’s side. The Alpheus, low that year, tinkled and gurgled among its pebbles; owls hooted in the sacred oak wood; from the men’s side came distant singing, the whinny of a restless horse. A nightjar called. All around us, set to this music, were the voices of Aphrodite, murmurs and laughter and little grunts and squeals. Presently, quite near, came the soft sound of an Egyptian harp. She whispered, “The boy has a great deal of feeling.” I don’t know if it was he or we who first fell asleep.
The sun was up when we woke; when we had breakfasted, I was already late to get a good place for the pentathlon. Crowds had closed around the Archons’ party; I made do near the top of the slope, among a press of Corinthians. None of them knew me, and they talked on among themselves. The Corinthian chariot was one that had not finished the course; it had crashed at the turn in the fifth lap, and they argued about it hotly, Corinthians being great racing men, even if they don’t own as much as a donkey. “He should have kept out of the press; that’s how Kimon won.”
“He won because no one else was trying it. Well, it seems he was too lucky to please some god or other.”
“God?” said a sharp dark young man who had not spoken before. “I hope some god is after the men who did it.”
I was all ears now, but did not want to be noticed, and waited for someone else to ask the questions. But I had overslept; they had been asked already.
“In the very precinct!” said an older man. “What times we live in. Cutpurses, sneak-thieves round the tents, cheats in the market, that one expects, with riffraff coming in from everywhere. But to strike down a crowned victor, in the Sacred Truce! I live here in Elis, I’ve seen the Games since I was six, and in
all my years I’ve known nothing like it.”
A Corinthian said, “To give a great feast like that in a foreign city, he’d need to be carrying gold, with something to spare. It’s a dark corner, round by the Council Hall; and he’ll hardly have been sober, after the party. Well, you can be sure that by now they’re far away.”
The dark man said, “That’s a thing I should like to be sure of.”
People looked round, some questioning, some knowingly. The old Elian asked roundly what he meant. He had got as far as, “From what I hear …” when the trumpet sounded, and the athletes came marching in.
It was a middling pentathlon that year, the only notable feat a mighty discus-throw by a man from Argos. The first I knew of it was the cheering, and the umpire running out to peg the throw.
I stayed to the end, looking on or thinking, but thinking mostly. When it was over, and shadows began to fall, I threaded the loosening crowd, all talking by now of nothing but the games, and peered about for the red head of Anakreon. He, at least, would not have spent last night over the river.
He was with a crowd when I sighted him. As soon as he saw me, he shed the others with graceful ease, and hurried up to me, saying out of breath, “Wherever have you been? I’ve been looking all day for you, I thought you’d gone.”
“Gone? Where? I was on the women’s side.”
“Oh, is that all? I wish I’d known.”
His face looked quite drawn. I said, “But what did you think? That I’d left Olympia?” He said nothing. “I was all night with Lyra. All I’ve heard is rumor in the crowd. Are things really so bad? What are they saying? Where can we talk?”
We were by the old Hera temple; there was a quiet corner in its peristyle of black ancient timber. “Anakreon, the Archons cannot have done this thing. Don’t tell me you believe it?”