At the heart of the complex was the famed Altis, the Sacred Grove of Zeus. Enclosed by a wall, the Altis still contained a number of trees—including the fabled olive planted by Heracles, from which the winners’ wreaths would be harvested—but where once a wild forest grew, there now stood a host of temples, shrines, civic monuments, and colonnades, erected over the centuries. The Altis also contained thousands of statues, some of gods, but many more depicting nude athletes, for every winner of an Olympic event was entitled to be immortalized in bronze. Dominating all else was the massive Temple of Zeus with its soaring columns and a roof made of marble tiles. The frieze that ran all the way around the temple, below the roof and above the columns, was decorated with gilded shields that glittered under the afternoon sun.
Outside the Altis were a great many buildings of practical purpose, including assembly halls, barracks for athletes, and an opulent lodge where only the most important visitors to the Games would be housed.
Thronging the entire site, filling the valley and spilling onto the hillsides, were tens of thousands of visitors. I had never seen so many people in one place.
We descended into the valley and were swallowed by the festive crowd. My eyes and ears were given no rest. Here was a juggler, and there a poet with a lyre reciting verses. A hawker announced the upcoming program of recitations, musical recitals, and philosophical debates. A herald called for family members of contestants to register for a limited number of reserved places in the stadium. A buxom fortuneteller at a makeshift stall loudly proclaimed to a doddering graybeard that he would live to be one hundred, then took the fellow's money, pushed him aside, and called for the next customer.
Men rushed this way and that, or stood in groups, talking, eating, and laughing. A religious procession passed by, headed by a priestess in a trailing white gown followed by little boys carrying trays of burning incense. The sweet smoke mingled with the scent of freshly baked flatbread from a nearby food vendor, and then with a confusion of perfumes as a party of visiting dignitaries—Egyptians, to judge by their nemes headdresses—passed in the opposite direction, carried on gilded litters.
We found ourselves in a vast marketplace where vendors hawked an amazing variety of charms, amulets, and souvenirs. There were tiny images of athletes—runners, wrestlers, boxers, javelin throwers, charioteers—as well as miniature replicas of Phidias's statue of Zeus, executed in painted wood, metal, and even glass.
While Antipater examined a small statue of the famous “Discus Thrower” by Myron, I was distracted by a pair of beautiful women who sauntered by, laughing and whispering to each other. One was blonde and the other brunette and both were as tall as Amazons. Their chitons were so flimsy it seemed the merest breeze might blow them away. Married women were not allowed in Olympia, but other sorts of women were. The blonde saw me looking at her and nudged her companion. They both gave me sultry smiles, making it clear their company was for sale—and far beyond my means.
It seemed that the entire world had contracted to a single, swirling vortex, and I stood in the very midst of it.
That was when Antipater saw the look on my face and asked if I had ever seen or even imagined such a spectacle—the crowded, chaotic festivity of Olympia on the eve of the Games—and I could only shake my head in wonder, admitting by my silence that I had not.
Continuing to make our way through the throng, we came to a group of spectators who stood in a compact circle. From their bursts of laughter I assumed quite a funny mime show was being performed—or perhaps not, for the laughter had a derisive edge to it and was peppered with catcalls and scoffing noises. Some of the spectators turned away and stalked off, shaking their heads and making faces. Antipater and I slipped into their spots to see what the fuss was about.
The tall man who was holding the crowd's attention was barefoot and dressed in beggar's rags, with long, scraggly hair and a beard that might have concealed a bird's nest or two. His naked limbs were long and spindly. His skin, dark and leathery from long exposure to the sun, made his blue eyes all the more startling, especially since he maintained a wide-eyed stare that showed a circle of white all around.
“Fools!” he shouted, shaking a gnarled walking stick in his equally gnarled fist. “You say you come here to honor Zeus, but all you honor is your own appetites. Those you truly worship are not the gods, but the athletes who compete for your amusement—the stupidest and most worthless among you!”
“If the Games are so stupid, what are you doing here, you old fool?” someone shouted back at him.
“Just as a good doctor rushes to help in places full of the sick or wounded, so the wise man must go where idiots gather,” declared the beggar.
“Ugh!” exclaimed Antipater. “The man is a Cynic, here to spoil everyone's enjoyment.”
“Ah! So that's what a Cynic looks like.” I had heard of these itinerant philosophers, who cared nothing for personal comfort (or hygiene) and went about loudly disparaging all the things that gave their fellow mortals pleasure. According to Antipater, Cynics were common in the Greek-speaking world, but I had never seen one in Rome, where it was hard to imagine that such antisocial gadflies would ever be tolerated.
A man in a green chiton spoke up. “How dare you come here, to the most sacred of all the Games, and speak against the athletes? What gives more pleasure to the gods than beauty, and what could be more beautiful than the sight of young men running in competition? I put it to you that running is the most noble of mortal pursuits.”
“What you're really saying is that you get a thrill from watching all those straining backsides,” said the Cynic. The crowd laughed and the object of his derision blushed bright red. “What's so noble about running, anyway? The rabbit and the antelope are the fastest of creatures—and the most timid! Do you think Zeus gives a whit which coward can flee the fastest?”
This elicited more jeering. In Rome, the crowd would have pelted the fellow with bits of food, or even with stones. But though they sneered and shook their heads, no one raised a hand against the Cynic or made any effort to silence him. Just as the Greeks worship athletes, they also respect the free speech of philosophers—even Cynics.
I turned to Antipater and lowered my voice. “The fellow does have a point.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, what is all this fuss about who can run the fastest, or throw a stick the farthest, or keep on throwing punches after his head's a bloody pulp? The idea that all these tens of thousands of people should travel hundreds of miles just to watch some athletic competitions—it's all a bit silly, isn't it?”
Antipater looked at me as if I had uttered a shocking blasphemy. “I suggest you keep those thoughts to yourself, Gordianus. A Cynic can get away with saying such things, but a visitor from Rome is expected to show more respect.”
“But surely you're not like these others, Teacher? You're a poet. What have you to do with running and jumping and throwing?”
Antipater simply stared at me. I had forgotten how very Greek he was—and how passionately all Greeks love athletics. Cynics are the only exceptions.
“You can take the boy out of Rome . . .” Antipater muttered, shaking his head. Then he stiffened as the Cynic suddenly rushed up to him.
“You! One-eye!” shouted the Cynic. “Don't I know you?” He twisted his head this way and that, crouching low and peering up at Antipater, as if trying to see under the eye-patch.
“I think not.” Antipater drew back, looking flustered. All eyes were on him now. “Who are you, Cynic?”
“I am Simmius of Sidon. And who are you? And how did you lose that eye?”
“That is none of your business. But if you must know, I am Zoticus of Zeugma.”
“And who's this young fellow?” The Cynic turned to me. The odor of his unwashed body was overpowering. “Is this one of the athletes who'll be competing tomorrow? He has a boxer's nose—a wrestler's arms—a discus thrower's chest. A candidate for the pankration, perhaps?”
As Antipater had informed me, the pankration was the most brutal of Greek combat sports, invented by Heracles and Theseus. It was a combination of boxing and wrestling with no holds barred; broken bones and even fatalities could result.
“My name is Gordianus,” I declared, straightening my back. Of Rome, I was about to add, but there was no need, since the Cynic spotted my accent at once.
“What's this? A Roman, taking part in the Games?”
I shook my head. “I've come to see the statue of Zeus—”
Ignoring my answer, the Cynic turned to the crowd and launched into a fresh rant. “From the beginning, and for hundreds of years, only those of Greek descent could compete in the Olympiad. Now, to please our Roman overlords, there's talk of allowing anyone who can simply speak Greek to take part in the Games—even Romans! What's next? Shall we open the Olympiad to competitors from all over the world, so foreigners can boast and spit on the ground and erect statues of themselves in the Sacred Grove of Zeus?”
Simmius abruptly wheeled around, ran back to Antipater, and resumed his scrutiny. “But I could swear I know you. What's this thing?” He reached out with two fingers, and I realized he was about to pinch Antipater's putty nose, which had lost some of its shape under the fierce sun and was looking a bit peculiar.
“Come away, Teacher!” I grabbed Antipater's arm and pulled him out of the Cynic's reach. “I've had enough of this fellow's rancid odor.”
The Cynic peered after us for a while, then turned back to his audience and resumed his diatribe.
“Simmius of Sidon, the fellow calls himself. That's your hometown, Teacher. Does he know you?”
Antipater shrugged. “A man meets many people over the course of a long lifetime. One can't remember them all.”
“He might look very different if he were to take a bath and trim his beard. But surely you wouldn't forget those blue eyes. They're quite striking.”
Antipater shook his head. “Who can remember anything in this stifling heat? Come, let's find our quarters for the night.”
“And where would that be?”
“We must look for the tent that's been pitched by a man named Exagentus.”
We asked around, and soon enough were directed to an area not far from the stadium. I had been expecting a modest accommodation where we might stow our things and later bed down with others in cramped quarters, but the tent of Exagentus turned out to be one of the grander pavilions, a veritable palace of many rooms made of brightly colored canvas held up by ornately carved poles. Exagentus was not about, but a slave who had been told to expect Zoticus of Zeugma greeted us and allowed us to enter, asking us first to remove our shoes. The ground inside the tent was strewn with rugs that felt delightfully soft under my tired feet. The slave showed us to a small side-chamber and informed us we would have it all to ourselves. The space contained two narrow cots for sleeping. Between them was a small table with a silver pitcher filled with water and two silver cups. Next to one of the cots a flap opened to the outside, so that we could come and go as we pleased.
I filled a cup and drank thirstily. The water was sweeter than any wine. “How did you merit this bit of luxury?” I asked, falling back on one of the cots, which was surprisingly comfortable.
Antipater shrugged. “One knows people. One calls in a favor now and then.” He pushed the eye patch up to his forehead and rubbed the skin around his eye.
“But who is our mysterious host?”
“A friend of a friend.”
“But surely you know something about him.”
“Exagentus is a wealthy man from Pontus, if you must know,” said Antipater curtly. The long day of traveling had made him testy.
“Pontus? The kingdom of Mithridates?” I had heard the name of Mithridates mentioned often in our travels. The king of Pontus was Rome's greatest rival in Asia; everyone seemed to think that war would sooner or later break out between Rome and Mithridates. “Pontus is awfully far from Olympia, isn't it?”
Antipater nodded. “Pontus is at the farthest edge of the Greek-speaking world, to be sure, but King Mithridates himself is part Greek, and a great many of his subjects are Greek speakers of Greek ancestry. No doubt there will be athletes from Pontus competing in the Games, and our host wishes to cheer them on.”
“Whoever he is, he must be wealthy indeed, to afford such a—”
A braying of trumpets interrupted me. The steady murmur of the crowd outside the tent rose to a cheer.
Antipater smiled. “They've arrived!”
“Who?”
“Come and see, Gordianus!” He put on his shoes and hurriedly replaced the eye patch. “Is my nose on straight?”
I followed him out the flap and into the crowd, which was moving in a rush to greet the arrival of the athletes from Ellis. The procession was headed by men in purple robes wearing olive wreathes and clutching wooden rods forked like a serpent's tongue at one end. These were the Olympic judges, who would oversee each event; their forked rods were not mere symbols of authority, but weapons to be used on any athletes who dared to cheat or flout a rule. Behind the judges were several hundred youths, some dressed in loose chitons but most wearing only loincloths, all tanned to a golden brown after a month of outdoor training and elimination rounds in Ellis. Some had the long legs and slender build of runners, while others were brawny with muscle. Most were my age or only slightly older. Only a handful looked to be in their late twenties, and even fewer in their thirties—longtime veterans of the Games who, against the odds, were still viable competitors.
The procession drew nearer, passing between us and the wall that enclosed the Altis. The crowd went wild with excitement. Men waved their arms and shouted the names of the most famous athletes, who smiled and waved back. Some of the competitors looked cocky and aloof, but most of the young men in the procession appeared to be as giddy with excitement as the spectators. For many, this was their first journey away from home.
“Behold the best that Greece can offer!” cried Antipater. “It brings a tear to one's eye.” I grunted and shrugged, then realized he meant this literally, for I saw him reach up and dab a bit of moisture from each cheek. I looked around and realized that Antipater was not the only spectator shedding a tear at the sight of the athletes entering Olympia. How sentimental these Greeks were, especially the older ones, always looking back to the golden days of their youth spent in a gymnasium!
From the corner of my eye I saw a figure in rags scramble atop the Altis wall. Simmius of Sidon stood upright and loomed above the parade of athletes, waving his scrawny arms and howling like a dog to catch everyone's attention.
“Are these your heroes?” he shouted. “These vain young cocks, all puffed up with pride and self-love? What good is an athlete, I ask you? What do they do but run around in circles, punch each other in the face, and roll in the dirt like animals, while they grunt and grab each other by the crotch? And for such nonsense you all cheer and roll your eyes to heaven! Shame on you all! Instead of fawning over these brutes, you should line them up and slay them for sacrifice, like oxen—that way you'd all at least get a good meal out of them. Oh, you find my words offensive, do you? I say that a young man who exalts his body and neglects his mind has no more soul than an ox, and should be treated with no more consideration, yet you make idols of these creatures. What truly makes a man noble? Not playing games, but confronting the hardships of everyday life. Not wrestling for an olive wreath, but wrestling day and night to sort truth from falsehood. Not lusting after fame and prizes, but seeking truth, and living an honest life.”
“The athletes are here to honor Zeus!” shouted someone.
“Are they? I'll tell you why most of these greedy fellows come here—they're hoping to strike it rich. Oh, an olive wreath is all they'll get from the judges, but every city rewards its winners with a fortune in gold and silver, as we all know. Not only do you bow down to these men and throw your sons and daughters at them, you make them rich as Croesus. Then you watch them grow fat and
bloated and turn into the very opposite of what they once were. Your beloved Olympiad is a farce!”
Some in the crowd jeered at the Cynic, while others tried to ignore him. The athletes passing before the wall looked up at him and laughed. Some made obscene gestures at him. Suddenly, one of them bolted from the procession and bounded up the wall. He was short and broad, with massive limbs and a deep chest, and wore only a loincloth. His pale, close-cropped hair and eyebrows, bleached by the sun, were almost as white as his dazzling grin.
“Isn't that Protophanes of Magnesia?” said someone in the crowd.
“He's favored to win the pankration,” said another. “What a splendid specimen!”
The young athlete certainly presented a striking contrast to the shaggy, bony Cynic. Protophanes might have been satisfied to show off his own physical perfection next to Simmius's unsightliness, but with his fellow competitors cheering him on, the brawny athlete stripped off his loincloth, grabbed hold of the Cynic—who flailed his arms in a show of feeble resistance—and stuffed the garment in Simmius's mouth, tying it in place. The humiliated Cynic turned his back on the crowd and struggled to remove the gag. Next to him, Protophanes stood naked atop the wall, stuck out his chin, and raised his arms in a victor's pose, pumping the air with his fists.
The crowd roared with laughter. Athletes jumped up and down, grinning and slapping each other on the shoulder. In a spontaneous act of homage, some of them followed Protophanes's example and stripped off their loincloths, then waved them above their heads. The action spread like wildfire through the procession. In a matter of moments, every one of the hundreds of athletes was naked and had his arms in the air. The onlookers were delighted.
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