by Paul Waters
Now, for the first time, I saw all the competitors for the foot-race side by side. Broad-shouldered black-haired Thorax was there, his tanned body shining with oil. Further along the line was Damindas.
His thin face was tense with nerves, so that he looked almost angry.
Seeing him naked, one could see he had powerful runner’s thighs, and the strong girdle-like muscle round his pelvis. But, like most of the others, his arms and upper body were neglected, so that he looked like two ill-matched pieces of some sculpted bronze, cobbled together where they did not belong.
‘There is Menexenos,’ said Villius pointing. I leaned to look. He was half hidden by the post.
The sun was in his upturned face. He looked like a god set down among men.
I remembered Pandion’s words, at the practice-track at Athens, when he had spoken of the sculptors of old, who strove to show the perfect body as a mirror of the perfect soul. It seemed to me that what they had fashioned in bronze and stone, Menexenos had wrought out of the very stuff of his being. And the vision they shared, which no man may touch or point to, was the same.
My surroundings broke into my thoughts, and glancing along the stadium I saw other heads had turned to look as well. Here was an image of perfection, and somewhere deep in their souls they knew it and were touched by it, like plants that turn to light.
‘He is ready,’ nodded Villius.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He is ready.’ And for an instant tears welled in my eyes, for that beauty which is always beyond the reach of men.
The herald stepped up and proclaimed the name of each runner.
When I heard, ‘Menexenos, son of Kleinias, of the deme of Zoster, of Athens,’ I yelled out with the rest.
The judges spoke some words; the athletes, turning as one, advanced to the line. They crouched, seeking the scored stone with their toes. There was a pause. The crowd waited.
I remembered what Menexenos had explained to me. This race – which was neither the long-race, nor the short one-stade race – attracted both sprinters and distance-runners. Some had trained for stamina and strength, others for sprinting speed. Each youth’s body displayed his own trainer’s belief in what quality would win.
Then, sharp and clear, the umpire barked out ‘Go!’ and they leapt forward, like hounds unleashed.
The crowd roared. Immediately the sprinters surged ahead. But Menexenos fell back, letting the others pass him. His mind was on the end, not the beginning.
I saw that others too – including Thorax and Damindas – had allowed themselves to drop behind, pacing themselves, unworried by the sprinters.
Of the three, Thorax led by a few paces. Damindas was just behind him, his eyes fixed on the back of Thorax’s head, his face a mask of furious concentration.
The front runners reached the turning-post with its bronze leaping dolphin, below where I sat. They closed around it, their bare feet throwing up the sand as they sharply turned.
In the lead was a thin, olive-skinned youth, a Kretan herd-boy from Herakleion, so Menexenos had told me, who had trained in the high mountain passes. He had put all his strength into the start, and if he had been running the short-race he would have won. But I could see from his face he was realizing his mistake.
‘He is catching up,’ cried Villius.
I looked. As the sprinters began to drop back, Menexenos edged forward. Ahead of him, Damindas closed on Thorax, then passed him. As he passed, he turned his head and threw a look of haughty triumph. It spurred Thorax on as if someone had prodded him in the back with a spear-point. He caught up again, but Damindas would not let him pass, and they ran side by side.
By the third lap the sprinters were clearly struggling. All around on the terraces, the crowd was bellowing and chanting. Thorax and Damindas were still neck and neck, neither one of them willing to let the other pass, as if they were bound by some invisible chain.
Beside me Villius said, ‘What is it about those two? You’d think they were the only runners on the track.’
He was right. Damindas had eyes only for Thorax. Whatever had caused the hatred between them must have cut deep. One could see in his face his determination. It had an ugly quality to it, as one sometimes sees on the battlefield. He would not lose the race to Thorax, whatever it took.
But I could see now what Menexenos had meant when he said Damindas knew what he was about. Though he still had not broken ahead of Thorax, he was beginning to set the pace. The two of them struggled like two opposing principles of nature: Thorax running with a power that did not know itself; Damindas burning like a closed furnace, angry, driven, each sinew of his body bent to his will.
Once again they rounded the dolphin in a cloud of sand, and by the fourth lap they were surging past the others. But Menexenos was catching up too. The last of the sprinters dropped back, and now there were only the three of them, with Menexenos half a lap behind.
Finally now Damindas began to push ahead, his powerful oversized legs pounding the ground. Thorax resisted, refusing to let him open the gap between them. I saw the look of surprise on his face, that out of all the others the despised Damindas should be the one to overreach him. And I saw the searching too, as he sought within the depths of his being for the speed he needed, like a man searching desperately for hidden gold in a riverbed.
But Damindas was not one for such mysteries. He had other plans.
For the first part of the fifth lap the two leaders vied with each other. At one moment Damindas would seem to be opening the gap; but then, just when it looked as though Thorax had expended his strength, he drew on some new reserve that pushed him forward once more.
All the time, though they had not seen it, Menexenos was closing on both of them; but he was still far behind. The crowd were urging him on, calling his name, calling the name of Athens. His body gleamed with sweat and oil. His eyes shone.
Below me, Thorax and Damindas were at the turning-post again.
Menexenos was not far behind, closing faster now. But then something at the post caught my eye: something not quite right, a faltering, the miss of a beat, like a flat note in the intervals of a harmony. It made me look down; but before I could think further I felt Villius’s hand grip my arm.
He was not, as a rule, the kind of man to touch other men, or shout out, or make much of little. But now he stared ahead into the rising dust, standing half out of his seat, his fingers locked around my forearm. ‘Did you see that, Marcus? Did you see? That thin pale youth did something, I swear it.’
There were mumblings from those around us. They too had seen, or sensed, it. But the judges, seated at the far end of the track, on their stately marble thrones, had not.
Menexenos had once said that we know good from before we are born, which is why we recognize it when we see it. Perhaps we know baseness too. But it came to me in a flash that Damindas had picked his spot with forethought, precisely at the place where the dolphin statue and its stone base momentarily obscured the runners from the judges’ eyes. Whatever had happened – a kick? a blow? no one, in the rising dust, could tell – it had thrown Thorax off his beat, just when he was summoning the last of his strength.
Now, as the two of them pressed into the final lap, I could see he had lost his stride. Damindas was opening a gap between them he could never close. Thorax must have known it. Even as I watched I saw the fight go out of him. He dropped back, first by a handspan, then a cubit, then a pace or two. Damindas’s supporters were bellowing out, standing and waving their fists and urging him on.
And then, like a golden dart, came Menexenos.
The cheering changed. Different people got to their feet, rising up from the terraces like windblown corn, drowning out Damindas’s supporters.
First he swept past Thorax, who was falling rapidly back, his spirit broken. But it seemed too late. Already Damindas was on the final stretch. His eyes were upon the line. His face glowed with the certainty of victory.
When Menexenos surged up behind him he briefly
turned his head. But he need not have turned, for in an instant Menexenos was in front, moving with a calm steady power, like wind across the sea.
And then he was at the line, and the whole stadium surged to its feet, shouting and cheering and punching the air.
He turned and saluted them with his raised fist, and broke into a broad smile; and the crowd roared back at him. And then he caught my eye, and gave a slight nod, as if to say: After all, then, it is well done.
The judges crowned him with the celery crown. The other runners, though they were downcast, wished him joy. All except Damindas, who looked away, and would not take his hand. It was while these closing ceremonies were taking place that I noticed a stir in the crowd.
At first I thought nothing of it – often there are small altercations, or someone is taken ill in the heat. But then, from the direction of the archway, people began craning their necks to see, and moments later a trumpet sounded and a herald stepped forward into the open ground. I knew the herald. He had been with us at Kynoskephalai. He was one of the Greeks employed by Titus.
A spreading murmur had begun, moving through the stadium and growing louder, like the first swarming of a hive of bees. All around us men were asking what was happening; and, after the wild excitement of the race, there was suddenly fear in their voices. But as they spoke, others hushed them, for the herald had begun to speak.
Over the noise I heard the name of the Roman Senate, and Titus’s name. Then, as each man quietened his neighbour, silence finally descended, and I heard the rest.
Now that King Philip and the Macedonians had at last been vanquished, the herald said, Titus Quinctius and the Senate and People of Rome hereby restored to the peoples of Greece their ancient freedoms. They were to live without foreign garrisons and be subject to no tribute, and would henceforth be governed by their own laws, in the manner of their own choosing, Korinthians, Phokians, Euboians, Achaians, Thessalians . . .
And after that the long list of names was lost in the cheering.
Each man was asking the man next to him what had been said.
Beside me, shouting into my ear over the din and slapping me on the back, Villius cried, ‘By all the gods, Marcus, he’s done it!’
The herald, meanwhile, urged by the crowd, began repeating what he had said, and everyone fell silent, even those who had heard the first time, so that they could hear once more.
Then, when he had finished, a mighty burst of cheering arose, louder even than the first, spreading out beyond the stadium, all through Isthmia, echoing across the valley, a mighty sound like the paean – except that this was not the onset of war, but its end.
From somewhere in the crowd a chant began, spreading like fire in tinder until it was taken up by every man who heard it, and the words they spoke were, ‘Titus! Titus! Titus!’ And it came to me then that he must be there himself, somewhere in the surging crowd. How not? He would not have missed this for the world. But not even he could have expected such overwhelming joy.
‘Come on!’ cried Villius, rising to his feet.
I glanced round for Menexenos, but he was lost from view. We were swept along with the rest, like twigs in a torrent, down the steps and out through the archway, and into the even greater crowds beyond.
Then I caught sight of Titus. He was standing on a low incline, in the open ground near the road. The Greeks were crowding all around him, calling his name, reaching for his hand, touching his cloak, raining down garlands and coloured ribbons upon him.
He was smiling. But the few guards who attended him were starting to look alarmed, as the crowd overwhelmed them.
Villius and I pushed our way forward. As we moved through the press of people, Menexenos arrived, accompanied by Thorax and some others, and together we cleared a path and formed a cordon.
All around us people were cheering and laughing. Somewhere nearby I heard a voice I recognized, and turning I saw the farmer from Phokis, who had walked with me on the road.
He must have heard the words of the proclamation himself, for he was recounting them at the top of his voice, to a group who stood around him. He was praising Rome, wagging his finger at the others and declaring that there really was a nation on this earth prepared to fight for the freedom of other men, a nation that would cross the seas to put down tyranny, and spill its own blood so that right and justice should prevail. ‘It has taken a foreign general to remind us,’
he cried, raising his hand in a flourish, ‘that man is still capable of noble deeds!’
I do not know where he picked up these fine words. From some play he had once heard, no doubt. But the people around him broke into a loud cheer.
He nodded and bowed to them. So taken up was he with his speech that he had not noticed me. I smiled to myself and turned away.
When the games were over, I went with Menexenos to the little supper-party Pasithea had called in his honour.
Her house was everything I had come to expect, a modest dwelling on the edge of town with a terrace of coloured mosaics beneath a vine-trellis, which looked out onto a walled garden planted with rose-trees and trailing herbs.
Niko the Nubian slave-boy, whom I had not seen since Tarentum, welcomed me like an old friend. He had dressed in his best for the occasion, and wore his big golden earrings, and a long tunic of gossamer through which you could see the lithe contours of his body.
He was, indeed, more a part of Pasithea’s idiosyncratic family than a servant, and he talked of her with fond affection, and pointed out with broad smiles, as he led us through to the garden, the garlands he had woven round the columns, of violet and dark hyacinth, in honour of Menexenos’s victory.
The supper-couches had been set out on the terrace, and Pasithea was waiting there. She kissed Menexenos on the cheek, saying, ‘At last, the victor! This evening, my dear, you shall share a couch with me.’ She was dressed exquisitely as always, in a dark, shimmering robe of silk and taffeta, and on her breast a necklace of woven gold, inlaid with red cornelian.
I was seated with one of the other guests, one of Pasithea’s female friends from Korinth, a cultured young courtesan who had recently come back from Alexandria in Egypt, and was full of its marvels. In the corner a single musician sat under the arbour, picking out a tune on a lyre, and, all about the garden, lights glimmered from tiny shaded lamps.
I looked towards Pasithea and Menexenos. Already they were deep in conversation. I smiled to myself. Truly, I thought, she had made an art of pleasure.
Presently, when Niko had served the wine, she raised her cup and toasted Menexenos, saying, ‘You won, my dear. I knew you would. And now I want to hear all about it.’
So he told her of the race, adding at the end, ‘But I knew the Aiginetian was faster. He only lost because he hated Thorax more than he cared about winning.’
‘Well maybe he was faster,’ she replied. ‘But what of it? Whatever it takes to win the race, clearly it is not speed alone.’
She let out a happy sigh and smiled, and in the silence the music sounded gently. Everything – the setting, the delicate food, the cool wine – was perfectly balanced, designed to heighten the senses, not overwhelm them.
‘What now, Pasithea?’ asked Menexenos. ‘Will you stay in Korinth?’
She cast her eyes around the shadowy walled garden with its flickering lights and dark climbing shrubs. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘For now I shall stay. I shall enjoy my garden, which I have missed; I shall entertain my friends, and I shall improve my mind. What more could I ask? I thank the gods for such a life . . . And you, Menexenos, what will you do?’
He turned and met my eyes. ‘Marcus wants me to go to Italy, to meet his mother and sister.’
She nodded and smiled, and said, ‘Is that so? Well it is about time.’
They talked on, and, with happiness in my heart, I watched them.
He sat with his broad, muscular hand unconsciously upon the hem of her robe. His eyes were bright with wine and pleasure. They might almost have been lovers
.
He had dressed that night in his best white tunic, the one with a border of meandering squares; and in his thick bronze hair he wore a spray of myrtle. I thought how he had changed me, with his example, and with his gentle, constant love, which was like a rock upon which I could build my life. A sadness touched me. I shook my head, and took up my wine-cup. For me the world held nothing so dear.
Somewhere on the high wall, beyond the pool of light, a bird suddenly cried out, crow-like, harsh and discordant. No one seemed to notice. The girl beside me was talking on about her visit to Alexandria; but before I turned to answer her I made a quick private sign against the gods of night, who lie in wait for the unwary. The crow-call had reminded me, lest ever I should forget.
Later, shortly before we left, Pasithea touched my arm and said, ‘Where is Titus tonight, Marcus?’
‘Titus?’ I answered. ‘Why, I don’t know. I expect he’s celebrating somewhere, since that is what all of Korinth is doing.’
‘Do you think so?’ she said quietly. ‘Why don’t you call in and see him? Something tells me he will be at home.’
I made some light answer, saying the last place he would be was his own quarters, when there must be a thousand parties he had been invited to. But there was something – a momentary look – that fixed these words in my mind; and after, walking back with Menexenos and the link-boy, I told them to go on ahead, saying I would catch up later, and turned off to the house where Titus was staying.
At the gate I greeted the guard – a man I knew – and took some time to ask after his comrades. Then, eventually, I drew the air of the warm night into my lungs, looked around, and said, ‘Is Titus back from celebrating yet? I wanted to wish him well.’
‘Why no, Marcus sir. He never went out.’
‘Then he has friends here?’
‘Not that either. He is alone.’
I found him in his workroom. The only light came from a single lamp, glimmering in the corner. He turned upon hearing the door, to see who it was.
‘Why there you are!’ I said brightly – I had drunk more than usual that night, and was in the sort of mood where the whole world is beautiful. ‘Are you ill, or what is it? Tonight you are the toast of all Greece, and yet you sit in the dark alone.’