by Mary Renault
None of this talk reached the city commoners or country peasants. As always, Hipparchos sought diversion among people of fashion and rank. In public he remained a gracious presence; dignified but never stiff, always with the ready word or smile which shy Hippias could not manage; and, as a rule, if he’d promised someone a good turn, remembering to have it done. This was no false mask; to be liked was pleasant to him; he had learned the knack from his father, and knew just what little kindnesses mean most from a great man to a humble one. Hippias inspired respect, Hipparchos affection. The Pisistratids had come to power as the people’s friends; and they seemed so to the Athenians almost to the end. That’s why it took the Spartans, as well as the Alkmaionids, to get them out at last. Left to themselves, the Athenians would never have done it. The old nobility wished it still; but they had given up hope.
In those days, like most Athenians who could spare the time and still eat bread, I never missed the Isthmian Games. Athens to Corinth is nothing of a journey; the summer heat has not started; Athenians are welcome guests. True, the games have not the Olympic greatness; but one sees athletes of promise working their way to that, and proven victors trying for the climax of a fourfold crown: Pythian, Nemean, Isthmian, Olympic. I was still young enough to enjoy the sideshows, market and fair, and the boy, of course, was entranced with them.
Nowadays I find all the bustle too much, and leave it to young Pindar, who has taken up the victor’s song where I laid it down. That’s well. Some men don’t like to see another excel in their own art; I am only angry if anyone debases it. I can’t take it with me to the grave; but, like a house where I have been happy, I want to leave it well cared for, and to see a good heir coming on. Well, but I suppose in the year I’m thinking of, young Pindar was not born.
The Isthmian race-track is nothing like as gruelling as Olympiad; some owners even race their own chariots there. As for the riding-race, in those days it was all owners up, no jockeys at all.
Hipparchos sat with a party, in the seats the Corinthians set aside for their ancient allies. I could have joined them, but had made some excuse because of the boy. Hippias was not there. He scarcely ever went to the Isthmia, which he thought frivolous and vulgar, and not what its founder Theseus would ever have approved.
The riders entered, and paced round before the stands. I was greeting someone I knew, when the boy touched my arm. “Look there, Uncle Sim. How do you think it must feel to look like that?”
I saw the approaching rider, on a big sorrel with blond mane and tail. He must be sixteen, now.
The boy was saying, “They all do in the songs, but you never really see it. He must be famous. Who is he?”
“Harmodios, son of Proxenos. A Gephyriot.”
“Isn’t he famous? He looks as if he were.”
I knew what he meant. That serene pride had grown unaware of itself. I said, “His father’s dead. I daresay he’s more on the estate than in the city. That family never cared to be much at court.”
“I know now what he’s like. Achilles at Aulis, before the war began. That’s it.” I agreed that the hero would have been just about that age.
Each generation has its own dream of beauty. I have lived long enough to watch it change. Just then, he was what all sculptors were reaching after, and only the great achieved. Naked he sat his barebacked horse, brown gold, his hair plaited up for the race and bound about his head. His skin was like brown marble, his horse’s like polished bronze. Into its braided mane, ribbons had been worked as finely as embroidery, with small blue beads. A woman’s work; I remembered the sister, covered with her veil.
The parade went by. Till now, each Athenian had saluted Hipparchos in his seat of honor; two had even made their horses caracole. I watched to see what Proxenos’ son would do. He raised his right hand and turned his head. No courtesy could have been more formal: precise, not slovenly, the salute of a gentleman who, in a foreign town, will not discredit his city by uncouthness. All the others had smiled, in the spirit of Isthmian gaiety, and had their smiles returned. Harmodios’ face was cool smooth marble.
He passed. The eyes of Hipparchos followed, till his face turned away from me and I could not read it. That boy has done his fortunes no good, I thought. But, after all, with the games ahead and all the Isthmian parties, I daresay it will be forgotten.
The riders paced their circuit before the stands, and came round towards the starting-gates. As Harmodios drew near, I saw him lift his arm high, greeting someone in the crowd. The marble warmed and glowed; the blue eyes shone, kindled by eyes I could not see. When he rode on the smile still lingered, as a single cloud can give back the light of Helios, after he has sunk beneath the sea.
Bacchylides said, “He must have seen his lover.” He spoke quite respectfully; as a rule he would have grinned.
The race was won, as happens four times out of five, by one of those young Thessalian lords who ride before they can walk. Harmodios rode a well-judged course, however, and came in among the first four.
After the finish, the crowd broke up around me, letting me see him stroking the nose of his white-blazed sorrel, while the groom put its blanket on. He looked truly in his element as bird in air or fish in stream: an Athenian knight with his horse, the ancient companion, his forebears’ sign of conquest and mark of rank, each of them tracing his line back to the Trojan War. Maybe he was dreaming of the day when he would race a chariot here; it would have pleased his father.
He looked round from the muzzle he was fondling, as someone shouldered over to him through the press. Dark-haired Aristogeiton stroked the horse’s neck; they smiled; spoke a few words, as it seemed about the race; Harmodios gave the groom his orders and handed over the bridle. The two walked off together, greeting friends. It was clear they were established lovers, long past the stage of declarations.
Later that day, the victor’s father asked me to supper at the house he had hired in Corinth. He was Skopas of Thessaly, whose breed of horses was famous everywhere, crossed with both Persian and Arabian blood-lines. He and his son were true Thessalians, big and swaggering, but without the insolence some of those houses have, and fond of laughter; their long legs bowed from riding all day before their bones had hardened. They invited me to their estate to make the young man a victory song and train a chorus.
I said I would make the song at home (some hosts will never leave a man alone to work) and then would come with pleasure. When I got there, I improved on it a little; it’s the one where Perseus invites Bellerophon to a feast, and while they drink, winged Pegasos covers Perseus’ mare. It is still sung in Thessaly, where, I’m told, a dozen horse-breeders claim it was made for them.
I spent ten pleasant days there, ending with the feast; they kept nearly sober till I had sung, high respect in Thessaly. Some of them had ridden for miles over the hills to hear me. I gave them Homer, in whose world they were almost living still. At parting they made me princely guest-gifts, and told me that henceforward I must count their house as a second home.
I thanked them and rode away, never thinking that before long it would be my refuge; still less that I would live to sing a funeral dirge for all of them, father and sons and kin, all lost in one angry stamp of earth-shaking Poseidon. I lived when the house fell down, because two tall young men with a horse to sell came asking for me by name. I had no need of a horse; I had never seen them before; when all was over, they and their horse had gone. They were very tall, even for Thessalians. It is said that the Great Twin Brethren, Sons of the Swan, Leda’s immortal children, will befriend wayfarers and ride away. At any rate, ever since then I have offered at their shrine.
Swift is the dragon-fly’s darting; swifter is fortune’s change. I never spoke a truer word than that.
3
ATHENS WAS QUIET WHEN I got back there. Young Bacchylides, whom I had left behind to get on with his schooling, had made a skolion on the music master, sung it too loudly, and had a beating. I had to own that the verse was neat.
; All was much as usual about the court, but for a certain restlessness, hard to put a name to. Hipparchos’ latest friend, who had reigned for three months or more and seemed settled for half a year, no longer shared the supper-couch. He had been given a horse worth the price of a small town house, but was foolish enough to sulk, and was soon snubbed in public; after which he had the wit to retire into the country. Hipparchos remarked to me that he had grown tiresome, but said nothing of a successor. At the informal suppers, the couch would be shared with people not to be taken seriously, just guests, such as myself. Such times had been known before, and I thought little about it, till, meeting Anakreon at a concert one night of early summer, I asked him home for a drink.
I told the slave to leave us the wine and go to bed; our gossip was never very discreet. As soon as the door was shut, Anakreon said at once, “Well, I’ve done my best. I prophesy you’ll be the next one called on. I wish he’d gone to you first. Now I’ve not only failed, which has annoyed him; I’ve made the quarry wary, and spoiled the chase for you.”
I asked what he was talking about. He looked astonished. “What? Wherever have you been? Oh yes, among the horse-tamers. But surely you’ve heard by now what is going on?”
“No, not a word.”
“Our playful friend has been shot through the heart at last. Why is it that with people like him, it’s always someone impossible?”
“All praise impossible? That’s bad for us all. And him.”
“Oh, my dear, much worse than that. Impossible to get.”
Like a hen with one chick, my first foolish thought was of Bacchylides. We would have to go traveling.
“I have tried,” Anakreon was saying, “to drag him down out of the clouds; but he is blind with dreams. I tell you, he had better wake up soon. If he does it too late, there will be trouble.”
“Why, who is it?”
“I can’t believe you don’t know. Well, perhaps I can. But weren’t you on the stand at the Isthmian horse-race?”
I knew then. It gave me a shock, like bad news; the room felt colder. We poets sometimes have divinations.
“It’s Proxenos’ son,” I said.
“Harmodios, who hardly gave him good day. Who sucked in oligarchy with his mother’s milk. Who venerates his father, a man resentful even of Pisistratos.”
“And,” I said, “there is a lover.”
“Acknowledged before all the city. If you know any more, don’t tell me; I shall believe it in advance.”
“But how far has this gone? I don’t see how Hipparchos would even get to know him.”
“Oh, that was quite tastefully done at first. It was while you were away. The Athenians who had ridden at the Isthmus were asked to a parade and sacrifice for Ilissian Herakles. A mounted torch procession to the shrine; pleasant, a delightful spectacle, everyone on best behavior. After the rites, a supper at the riverside, with a little music. I sang.”
“What, a new one, and I have not heard it? Come, give!” I pushed the lyre at him.
It was his lyric about the fair young horseman who is begged not to caracole too high, because he is carrying someone’s heart and one more leap might break it. It is charming, and I told him so.
“Yes, I’ve done worse. The right song at the wrong time. Too soon. Not that he took it to himself, at first. But it was set in the wrong mode, it made him uneasy. Hipparchos should have sent for you, to sing about Perseus or Achilles; but he was impatient. He always was, but it’s grown on him.”
“And after the music, what?”
“The host mingled, of course, among the guests. It was all informal, you understand, no set couches, just cushions on the grass. The nightingales were in good voice; the river murmured; aromatic torches stood here and there, to lend enchantment without too much light. There was no lack of agreeable employment, with all those little walks among the plane trees; and as soon as my duty was done I took care to be invisible. A failed conjurer is better out of sight.”
“And a failed lover?”
“Ah. When I came back, and found they had both gone, I thought I’d been successful beyond my hopes. But it was worst, not best. They had not left together.”
“The boy had better leave town. What did he say; did anyone overhear it?”
“I learned from those in earshot that, after some trivial chat, not a word was uttered. But, alas, I fear that far too much was spoken, on either side. There has been an echoing silence ever since, which I do not like at all.”
“I knew his father. I could make some excuse to call. Only to see how things are, no more. The old grandfather’s been ailing; that will serve.”
Next day I took a jar of my best Euboian honey. Inside the courtyard, the first person I met was the young Harmodios, on his way out. Certainly, I thought, Anakreon had been right. I could see his hackles rise at the mere sight of somebody from the court. Taking no notice, I made my kind inquiries. His cool thanks put me in mind of that salute at the horse-race. At this rate, I thought, he will grow up a formidable man.
“You will find him rather weak, sir; but I am sure he will like to see you for a little while. The women will take you in to him. Please excuse me; I have to meet a friend.” He stopped to give some order to a household slave, in the voice of one already used to authority; then he was gone.
The women, as he had said, received me. Proxenos’ widow I had met once or twice while he was alive. She was a fragile anxious lady, brought up from childhood not to fidget or complain, and now looking overstretched; if you’d blown on her, she’d have thrummed like the strings of a lyre. However, it was clear that nothing was on her mind but her sick father-in-law and her upset house, for which she begged my pardon. One could be sure her son had confided nothing. He’d have thought it unbecoming; besides, he could be sure she’d be shocked to death, fall ill as like as not, and give him nothing but trouble. This was a woman who had always leaned on her menfolk. She was a part of his charge.
In me, she saw only a man of her own years who had known her husband, and treated me as a family friend, keeping the young daughter unveiled beside her. Her name, I now learned, was Delias; she was about fourteen, rather tall for her age, grey-eyed, with long fair hair falling nearly to her girdle, very much her father’s child. Though I saw that she was shy, she greeted me with courtesy, and after that kept her eyes upon her mother; anxious for her, I thought, rather than modest for herself. Proxenos’ children must be a close alliance. And yet, how much of his life must be unknown to her.
That was true indeed, and to her cost. But then, how much that would concern me was unknown to me.
I found the grandfather dozing. He roused himself feebly to say, “How kind, how kind,” and to hope my wife and children were in good health. I could see he wanted to be rid of me, and creep back into the womb of sleep. He was shrunk as small as a ten-year child, turned ninety years old; I wish I could have talked with him before his memory failed. I slipped quietly off. He would die kindly; they would hardly know when he was gone.
I had half a mind, next time I supped with Hipparchos, to mention this visit, just to see what it would bring forth. All poets should be inquisitive. But the old man’s name was Harmodios, his grandson having been named for him in the usual way, and I did not think I could carry that off easily. Besides, I remembered Anakreon’s saying that I might be asked in my turn to woo, and I did not mean to put myself in the way of it. I knew too much.
The old man died soon after. Once more I brought a grave-gift to the house and heard its women wailing, this time in kindness more than grief. He looked lost in his bier, like a child in a grown man’s bed; there had been handsome bones, though, in that fragile skull. The great-uncle was absent, sick or already dead. Harmodios was doing the honors.
It was his first family rite, as sole head of the house. I could see his sense of it, his resolve to perform it well. His earnestness made one feel what a boy he was, straining after manhood. Well, I thought, that will come to him soon enough. Poets d
on’t always have the gift of divination.
No friend of the dead man’s youth had survived to mourn him. Many of his clansmen had come, and former friends of Proxenos; but the guest I noticed most was Aristogeiton. Several times, at the funeral feast, he gave the mother a hand like a second son, and was so treated. It was only the young Delias who would be quietly gone from any place he came to. He was not yet thirty, and it would not have done for them to stand talking in public, especially at such a time; but there seemed more than that in her avoidance. Maybe, I thought, Harmodios wants to marry his friend into the family—that is often done—and she does not like it. Or then, again, brother and sister must have been lifelong confidants, and now the secrets are told to someone else. But I had done my duty by them all; I went back to my own concerns and soon forgot her. Bacchylides, who was now just about her age, gave me quite enough to think of.
His inquiring mind took him rambling about the city and the countryside, in what time he could spare from music; but I made him go to the gymnasium at least one day in two. He lived in Athens and must learn the carriage of a gentleman, whether or not he wished to become an athlete. He went obediently, and did his exercises; but, as he told me cheerfully, the best part of the palaestra was hearing all the gossip. Having no love affairs of his own he had no bashfulness, and chattered freely about those of his companions. I was amused by his mixture of shrewdness and simplicity; it made a good sauce to our midday meal.