“So the pupil surpasses the teacher.” Terpnus was at my shoulder, and I whirled around.
Should I say, Oh, no, it should have been you? Should I apologize? But that would be to deny what was.
“On this particular day,” I said. “That is all. And what you taught me is the foundation for all else.”
“Yes, you were always a studious pupil,” he said, holding up his wine goblet.
Studious pupil. Synonyms for ordinary, mediocre, mundane, workmanlike. I smiled. I wore the celery crown, not him.
“I did my best,” I said.
He took a long swallow of his wine. “We can quench our thirst at last, can mop our brows.”
“Yes, it is over,” I said. “At long last.”
It had been two years since he had uttered his insulting words about the Fire, saying he was ashamed to have a student who had sung of Troy when Rome was burning, and refused to say that he did not believe the rumors. Now I could forget about him and what he thought. It was truly over—between him and me.
LXI
The sweetness of spring turned quickly to summer, and the delicate scent of early flowers was replaced by the dusty dry smell of heated leaves. Spring is brief in Greece, as fleeting as the nymphs associated with it.
Olympia loomed ahead on the calendar, scheduled for the hottest stretch of summer, August. The Olympics. The largest and most venerable of the Panhellenic Games, honoring Zeus and celebrating the physical prowess of athletes from the world over, its prestige unmatched. I decided to move there straightaway, to make at least the surroundings familiar to me, so that by the time the games started I would feel at home there—as if that were really possible. Could any contender truly feel at ease as he approached the crucible of competition there?
The distance between Nemea and Olympia was a long one, crossing the entire breadth of the Peloponnese and separated by mountain ranges. To follow the valleys increased the distance but with our large contingent it was the prudent path to take. We set out, our wagons groaning, our company in high spirits, and none more than me, my wreath, ribbon, and palm branch from the cithara contest carefully packed away between layers of paper to preserve them, but radiating my victory beyond their storage box.
At Olympia another test awaited me. There I would race the ten-horse chariot as I both longed and dreaded to do. At this point I could not turn back. Not only could I not bear the ridicule, I could not bear my later regret if I failed to go through with it.
Tigellinus rode up beside the imperial wagon as we trundled along, leaning in, grinning. “Take a last look at Nemea,” he said, gesturing behind him.
I turned and watched it receding into the distance. Already it was being swallowed up by the low hills around it. But the image of it would be indelible in my mind.
“On to Olympia,” said Statilia, sitting beside me.
On to Olympia. To her it was a simple thing, just on to the next, as a spectator who had no trepidation and faced no demands. How easy to be a spectator, an observer, rather than a participant, a consumer rather than a producer. But that was alien to me. If I cared about something, if I had an interest in it, I could not keep from participating. How much more advisable it would be for me as emperor to be like Statilia. That way I would garner no criticism, no censure, raise no eyebrows. That way I would not be Nero.
“Yes, on to Olympia,” I said lightly.
“Your Augustiani claque is in full practice,” said Phaon, sitting behind me. “Just listen. You can hear them all the way up here.”
From far back in the train I could hear the rhythmic clapping of the group, my faithful supporters and cheerleaders. They had several special types of claps, depending on how they smacked their palms together in unison.
“They sound like a tree full of rooks,” said Statilia. “Noisy but enthusiastic.”
“Just as long as they don’t leave a lot of droppings!” said Phaon, laughing uproariously. I was not amused. His laughter died away.
“Ahem . . . I have sent messengers ahead so that our quarters will be prepared,” said Epaphroditus, in his official’s voice. “They were not expecting us so early. But all will be ready.”
“Good,” said Statilia. “I want to be comfortable.” She stretched in her seat. “By the time we get there, I will be pounded into a porridge.”
“I will be stiff as a dried ox hide,” said Epaphroditus. “Perhaps I should get out of the wagon and travel on horseback like Tigellinus.”
“You sound like a couple of old women,” I said. That ought to snap them out of it.
Suddenly I longed to be with youth, with people who did not complain about their joints, who saw the move to Olympia as an adventure rather than a chore. Perhaps that was really what differentiated youth from age: to see your surroundings as exciting and filled with opportunities. It had nothing to do with being bald or having a full head of hair. It was what was inside the head that determined age, not what was on the scalp.
Was I still young? Or had I joined the ranks of the old? Here in Greece I felt young; in Rome I had felt old, which is one reason I had fled it. But what would happen when it was time to return? Could I dutifully leave youth behind and put on the mantle of age, of caution and ennui, again? Those days of feeling hollowed out, listless—could I bear them again?
* * *
• • •
Olympia came into view in its serene, green splendor. A flat plain lying between two rivers—one quiet and the other lively—cupped by gentle hills, and filled with temples and groves, its very air seemed sacred.
Olympia was a huge site. Like Delphi, there were monumental buildings, treasuries and offerings from various states, sublime artwork on display. Unlike Delphi, it was not stepped on a steep hillside but spread out in glory like a peacock tail on flat ground. At the far end was a conical hill, Kronos, rustling with pines, that oversaw the oldest of the buildings, the temple to Hera. I stood, blinking, before this august place. It was still a good two months before the games would commence, a month before the crowds would be arriving. We had it to ourselves.
All around me people were climbing out of the wagons, and more wagons were rolling up. An official hurried over, flanked by assistants, to welcome us.
“Caesar,” the man said, bowing. “We rejoice to behold you here. Your quarters are ready; we prepared them before starting anything else. They are over there”—he pointed—“just beside the chariot racetrack.”
What a favorable omen. I smiled. “We all thank you and look forward to the games. As you know, I am entering the chariot race.”
He kept his smile the same. “Yes, Caesar, we have been informed of that. The stables are prepared as well. Many contestants arrive early so their horses can be acclimated to their surroundings. Will you be driving the tethrippon? I understand you have driven that in Rome.”
“No, not the four-horse chariot,” I said. “You could call mine a dekarippon.”
“What?” He was puzzled.
“In Latin, decemiugis. Ten horses.”
“Ten?” Now his smile melted.
“Ten,” I repeated.
“Then . . . we will have to limit the number of entries for that race, as the width of your team will be greater and we have only so much space. The track is about two hundred feet wide. I will inquire as to what other entries we are expecting in the . . . over-four category. It would be best if you all ran together.”
“As you say,” I said. “I trust your judgment.”
“It will be peaceful here for a while,” he said. “But once the month of truce before the games opens, the crowds start coming, and the valley will be filled with tents. We expect many thousands. Enjoy your solitude now.”
“I have ten thousand in my own entourage,” I warned him. “So already there is no solitude.”
“An emperor brings his own city with him,” he said.
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“Not a city but certainly my court and my athletes,” I answered.
“We have not had an emperor here since Tiberius,” he said. “But at that time he was not yet emperor, as Augustus was still alive.”
So I was the first. Let it be so. Another favorable omen. “I would be pleased to see my quarters,” I told him. “Please show us.”
I was unprepared for the elaborate building they had erected for our stay. It abutted onto the large structure used to house high-ranking guests to the games, with its spacious dining room, its walkways and courtyards. Ours was a square structure with many rooms, cool and airy even in the midday heat.
“You will, of course, be able to use the adjoining building whenever you wish as your own. This evening, we invite you to partake of a welcoming treat in the dining room, for your immediate company and anyone else you care to have.”
Statilia must have made a face, for he hurriedly said, “This I can guarantee you is something you have never had before.”
That was unlikely, but I smiled and said, “Thank you. We are pleased to accept.” Let the adventure begin.
I wandered outside, going first to the chariot racetrack, as yet ungroomed. Weeds and grass grew over it, with even a flock of goats grazing on it. But beneath the vegetation the outline of the track was clear. A magnificent pillared portico was at one end of it. There the chariots would line up in front of it in an ingenious starting order, forming a wedge, pairing the two on the outside lanes farthest back, then the two in the next lanes, until finally the last pair, in lanes right next to one another, would start. Thus the ones farthest back started first, then the next, and so on, with the last two to start the ones who had the shortest distance to go. When all the chariots were abreast, the judge then officially called the race started.
The starting mechanisms had not been set up yet. I walked around the near end and then climbed up the embankment serving as a viewing area for people. Cresting it, I found myself looking down on the stadium that served for the foot races, wrestling, boxing, the pankration, and the hoplite race. It, too, was still ungroomed. Soon it would look entirely different, with white earth marking the running lanes and the starting mechanisms set in place. The pits for the jumps would be dug and lined with sand.
The sun was halfway down the sky; the air was still and heavy, pressing down with the fiercest heat of the day. Entering the main area of the site, I walked slowly, the bristly grass brushing my legs. Ahead of me, unmistakable, was the great Temple of Zeus. A crowd stood in front of it. People came here at all times of the year, for the statue within was acclaimed as one of the seven wonders of the world. It was said that anyone who gazed upon it could not meet an unhappy death. So I would make sure to see it.
As I crossed the grassy yard, I saw a slight movement. I approached it and looked down; nestled in the green I saw the distinctive yellow and black markings of a large tortoise. Bending down to pick him up, I raised him to eye level. He sleepily blinked at me, his eyes all-knowing.
“On Mount Olympus, the tortoises there are sacred to Zeus,” I said. “Have you made a pilgrimage here? Or are tortoises in this area equally sacred? I don’t see why not.” I carried him over to put him in the shade; his shell had been rather hot. “This should be better for you,” I said. Let it not be said I failed to help one of Zeus’s creatures.
Entering the temple, I saw that even in the dim light the enormous seated statue of Zeus commanded the space. He was made of gold and ivory and was so large that even seated, his head touched the ceiling. His eyes—what were they made of? I could not tell, but they seemed alive, boring into me. I moved to one side, and they followed me.
There were other worshippers, tourists, and pilgrims here, but his eyes seemed only for me. There were low murmurs around me, but they seemed unimportant. I saw a wavering reflection of myself in the shallow pool of olive oil at the base of the statue; it was there to make sure the ivory did not dry out. The yellowish shadow of my figure in the oil was eerie.
Suddenly the name of the month swam into my consciousness: June. It was June. What of it? Then a group of people walked solemnly past, and I counted them. One, two, three. Four, five, six. Seven, eight. Then one last one. Nine.
The ninth day of June. That was today. Zeus, why are you calling it to my attention?
An attendant knelt at the side of the pool of olive oil and poured more oil into it from a tray of small vials. It took five of the jugs before the level of the olive oil in the pool reached the lip.
June ninth. Five. What could it mean? Five. Five what? Five years? In five years I would be thirty-four. Was there something I should know about that year? Tell me, Zeus!
But his visage did not change. The eyes still focused on me, inscrutable.
Five years ago? I was twenty-five. I had just married Poppaea. I had . . . divorced Octavia. Exiled . . . she was exiled. June ninth. She had died on June ninth. By Poppaea’s orders, pretending to be me. A crime. A lie.
This day was an evil one. But this sanctuary would protect me. Would it not?
As I turned to go, the attendant bent down again and selected another jug from her tray. Holding it high, she poured out the oil in a golden stream.
One. One year. One year either backward or forward. Last year at this time—nothing truly noteworthy. Tiridates’ visit and my marriage had been in May. So it must be next year. Next year on June ninth. Something. Something ominous.
But seeing the statue of the mighty seated Zeus was supposed to protect against an unhappy death, so it could not be that. And anything other than death could be overcome.
* * *
• • •
At twilight we gathered in the assembly room of the Leonidaion, the adjacent building for notable guests. I had asked that the Roman girls competing in Hera’s races be included, as that event preceded the opening games proper. And now they joined us, glowing in their clean gowns, their eyes eager, cauldrons of energy among their elders. I saw Tullia immediately and motioned her over.
“You see I kept my promise,” I told her. “You are here, and you will race.”
“When we arrived this morning, I could hardly believe I was actually at Olympia,” she said. “I have been training, but I do not know how I will fare against people I do not know.”
I put my hand on her shoulder. “No one knows that. That is what makes each race unique. Always unforeseen factors.”
“There are to be three races, of different ages. I will be in the last, oldest group.” She leaned closer and whispered, “I fear I may be disqualified.”
“Why?”
“The race is only for virgins,” she said.
“Oh.” I had not known that, but it made sense. The races were dedicated to Hera, hardly a virgin herself, but holding them in high esteem. “Then let us keep our secret,” I said. Is it not a fine thing to be emperor and decree who is a virgin and who is not? “But after the race is over, let us . . . spend time together.” I had missed her, missed her good-natured physicality and easygoing nature. A sunny disposition free of guile and foreboding.
I asked the entire group of girls to come over to me. I guessed the youngest group to start at around seven; they must have traveled here with fathers who were competing. The next group began around twelve, already tall. And the last, with Tullia, were in their teens and would likely be married shortly after this. All told there were about fifteen of them.
“You are no less athletes than the men competing here,” I said. “The winners will receive crowns of wild olive and the right to dedicate statues of yourselves in the customary place. I myself will pay for them, for I will be proud of our winners from Rome. So, go and may the gods give you victory!”
Statilia glided up to me. “I see that you care for them,” she said.
Did she suspect about Tullia? “I urged them to come. I think it is important that girls and wome
n should compete. After all, the Amazons are warriors, and Atalanta ran faster than any man.”
“Both from mythology,” she said. “Name me a real woman who has done these feats.”
“There are gladiators,” I said.
She thought a moment. “Yes, true. And that is no easy profession.”
She cast a knowing glance at Tullia and smiled. “I wish her luck.”
The Hellanodikes, head official of the games, announced that the surprise of the evening was now being unveiled. “We are honored beyond words that our emperor has come to Olympia, not only to compete but to be a patron,” he said. “What can we offer him that is unique to us? Rome has many things we do not have, but Greece is supreme in one thing: our honey.”
There was a collective chuckle and sighs of relief that it was not a droning recitation of philosophy, that other item Greece was supreme in.
“Yes, honey! The honey from Mount Hymettos is famous, and exported everywhere, but our local honeys, ah! You can only get them here, and when you taste them you will swear they are the very nectar of the gods!” With a flourish, he motioned for the servers to come forward, each with a large jar, and place it reverently upon a stone table set up at the end of the room.
Heaps of fresh bread and bowls of cheese curds were also on the table, along with plates and spoons.
The official walked to the first jar, indicating it with a flip of his hand. “Our honeys are of two types: the forest honey, from the fir and pine trees, and the mountain honeys, from the wildflowers growing on the slopes. The taste is particular to that one plant.” He lifted the lid on the jar and dipped a stick into it. A golden liquid, tinged with dark flakes, dripped seductively from it. “This is thyme honey. Taste it and know ecstasy.” He held up the stick. “But!” Oh, he was a master of the dramatic moment. “Not so fast! There is more to judging honey than just gobbling it down. There are four steps to it. First, examine the color. The flower honeys are light, the tree honeys darker. See if the shade is pleasing.”
The Splendor Before the Dark Page 46