The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  It took most of the morning to run the four-horse chariots, and that was followed by the synoris, the two-horse chariots. There were fewer of them; it was not as popular. Soon, too soon, it was over. Next would be my race, announced by the herald as “the ten-horse chariot, driven by Imperator Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus, the son of the Divine Emperor Claudius, from Rome.” It sounded comical, but it was protocol, allowing for a challenge to my credentials, like all the other Olympic competitors. Because the tethrippon chariots were not actually competing, they were not announced.

  We dispensed with the starting gates. My team would not fit into one, and with only the two other chariots we could start at the same line.

  I had decided to extend the yoke of the chariot so I had six horses tethered there, three on each side. That still made four to run on traces, with four separate reins for me to hold, as well as the gathered ones of the yoked horses. Unlike in Rome, I would not tuck them into the belt, and I had no need of a knife to cut me free. If I was thrown, I would not be dragged by horses as in Rome; I could just drop the reins.

  The two trace horses that would be closest to the turns were the most nimble and obedient, as the success of the race depended on their executing the turns. The two trace horses on the outside had to be the strongest, to steady the chariot as it turned, which created a tremendous strain on the wheels and pulled the other horses outward. At home, at Lanatus’s track, they had performed well. But here?

  Before I had finished gathering the reins properly, the trumpeter blew, and the race started. I was jerked forward, almost pulled over the rim of the chariot, as the horses leapt ahead.

  Quickly the four-horse chariots were ahead of me, but that was to be expected. Four can always outrun ten. But no matter. Now I must concentrate on my own race. The yells and calls of the crowd faded; all I saw were the backs of my horses and the track unfolding in front of me. The pounding of their hooves threw up a cloud of dust into my eyes, and I kept ducking to shield them. My eyesight was bad for distances, and this hindered me further. But the horses were running effortlessly, and before long we had rounded the first turn.

  Things went smoothly, if somewhat boringly, with no one beside me and no way to measure our speed. But after several turns, the four-horse chariots were now on the opposite side of the track, with no protective barrier, and when my horses saw them galloping right toward them, head on, the inner two suddenly bolted to the right. They crashed into the other horses, pushing them to the side and making the chariot careen to the right. I dropped the reins, but before I could grab the bar, the chariot veered again, throwing me out and forward, under the feet of the outer horse. I rolled away just as the hooves passed over me.

  Wonderingly, I stood up, bruised and dusty. The chariot was not overturned. The horses remained hitched, and the yoke was unbroken. The chariot was far to the side of the track, facing the wrong direction. The four-horse chariots had made the turn and were now heading toward us at breakneck speed. I limped over to the chariot, got in, gathered the reins, and took off before we were run down. Even in my dazed state, I heard an explosion of cheers from the viewers.

  I crossed the finish almost in line with the four-horse chariots. Never had a finish been more welcome. Trembling, I climbed out of the chariot. The other two charioteers embraced me, and the judge hurried over.

  “Are you injured?” the judge asked.

  “I don’t think so.” I felt my arms and legs. They were bloody with scrapes and stinging, but they weren’t broken and the cuts weren’t deep. I felt my head. Miraculously, it had not been hit.

  “You should immediately sacrifice to Zeus,” he said. “For surely he protected you.”

  “Yes, yes.” Doubtless he had. Or perhaps it was Germanicus.

  The herald announced me as winner of the ten-horse chariot race at the two hundred and eleventh Olympiad. The judge tied the ribbon around my dusty head and handed me the palm. I do not think there was anyone present, on that great wide field, who begrudged me the decision.

  The crowd rushed over to surround me, yelling and cheering. Never had I felt more valued and respected. Their admiration was genuine, not because I was emperor but because of my fearlessness and pluck.

  Whatever the cost, it had been worth it.

  I looked out at all the faces; I would try to remember them always: strangers whose giddy exuberance lifted me aloft. Then I saw a face that once was the best known, the dearest, in all the world to me, but now was that of a stranger: Acte.

  * * *

  • • •

  Find her!” I ordered Tigellinus late that night.

  “But, Caesar,” he said, “there are tens of thousands of people here!”

  “She was at the race, in the field with the spectators.” Statilia had been right; no one enforced the rule against women, perhaps because the track was out of the main area and had no entrance gate.

  “So were thousands. Honestly, I do not see how it can be done.”

  I looked at him. “Tigellinus, I have every confidence in your ability to do the impossible.”

  He groaned and took his leave.

  He had to find her. I had to see her.

  LXIV

  The third day: the morning of the great sacrifice at the Altar of Zeus, the central ceremony of the games. A procession of priests, judges, athletes, and ambassadors from Greek city-states made their way solemnly through the site and to the huge conical altar of ashes from previous sacrifices, driving a hundred perfect oxen to be slaughtered. The crowd gaped at the rich robes and lowing beasts, but I was scanning the faces for that one face. There were many women there, as this was not a restricted activity, and that made it harder to find any particular one.

  How could she have come and not told me, after my personal plea in the letter? In fact, she had told me she wouldn’t come.

  Another group of people pressed forward to watch the procession. I eyed them, but no Acte was among them.

  After the sacrifice—in which the thighs would be offered to Zeus and the rest divided for the people—there would be a huge feast for everyone. The ambassadors would host tables for their own countrymen, using only the best gold vessels; the common people would sit on the ground, just as hungry and just as gleeful.

  Perhaps she would come to the table for Romans. I went to it, but she was not there, and I had no appetite for the smoking ox meat nor for the Olympian wine—known locally as “headache wine”—so I did not stay.

  I wandered about aimlessly, then felt a slow anger spreading through me.

  I drove my ten-horse chariot, something I have always longed to do. I acquitted myself well. And she has robbed me of my joy in it!

  But that was foolish. I had robbed myself of it, by obsessively seeking a woman who clearly did not want to see me. How shameful!

  The feasting over, people rose and headed to the stadium for the afternoon events: the boys’ races and contests of strength. I had to go; I would hate myself afterward if I missed anything here, but I didn’t really care. I cared about only one thing, like a madman.

  Get hold of yourself, Nero. You are disgracing yourself in your own eyes.

  I willed myself to stop thinking of the search for her. I concentrated on the events before me. The boys would run the same distances as the adults—first the long race, about five miles, then the double stadion, about twelve hundred and fifty feet, and last the stellar event, the original stadion, about six hundred and twenty feet. The boxing and wrestling would finish the program.

  In the heat of the afternoon the crowd was somewhat stuporous after their big meal. The keenest observers were the families of the boys. No boys would compete if they had not reached a good height and strength, so none were so young as some of the girls in Hera’s race. In fact, one of the worries of a youth being examined that first day was that he would be deemed too well developed to race with boys and b
e shunted off into the adults, despite his age.

  The speed and precision of the competitors was impressive; they would grow up to be adult champions, I thought. Later in the afternoon, the boxers and wrestlers were well trained, using skill rather than strength. They had great promise, and if they could hold their skill level and combine it with the strength they would grow into, they would be formidable.

  Buoyed by the glow and potential of the youths I had witnessed, I left the stadium in a better frame of mind than I had entered it.

  That night I dined with Statilia, and she recounted exactly how the chariot race had looked from the perspective of the crowd.

  We were seated in the enclosed terrace off my bedroom, at a low table. It was still too early for lanterns, but the moon, full now, rose like a ghost in the east.

  In deference to the heat, the table was set only with light, cooling foods: melons, cherries, currants, cheeses, and pitchers of Thasian wine, with its scent of apples.

  “After the ox at noon, I have little appetite tonight,” she said, smiling. I did not tell her I had forgone the ox meat and all the rest of it. She seemed mellow tonight. She reached out and took my hand. “I was afraid you would be killed,” she said, the smile fading. “It looked as if you were doomed when you were thrown out and under the horse.”

  “It happened so fast I knew only to dodge the hooves and roll away. I did it without thinking.” I shook my head. “I am so fortunate I wasn’t belted in by the reins.”

  “More than lucky, it was a miracle.” Her chin trembled a bit. “I did not know until I saw you fall how devastated I would be without you.” She stood up, came over to me, and embraced me from the back, putting her head on my shoulder. “I care deeply for you. I do not want to lose you.”

  Still not the words “I love you.” It was as if we had a pledge never to say it, a pledge forged at the beginning.

  “You won’t,” I said. But how could anyone guarantee that? Lovers believe it fiercely, but they are not all-powerful against fate and circumstance. We left the table and in the thickening twilight seized what we had at that moment, at this time, and made celebratory love—rejoicing in my survival, her loyalty, and promises we wanted to keep.

  * * *

  • • •

  On the fourth day the culminating competition of the Olympics was held: the men’s stadium events. The winner of the stadion was honored by having his name bestowed on the entire Olympics of that year.

  The excitement was so strong it could almost make the leaves of the trees quiver. But when Tigellinus stood before me early in the morning, his usual proud posture was drooping.

  “Well?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “I have had no luck,” he said.

  “If you rely on luck, you never will find her,” I snapped. “There are only two days left. And many people will leave tonight after the stadium events. They won’t stay for the awards on the last day.”

  “I know, I know, but I am doing my best.”

  “You know what she looks like,” I said. “You knew her when she was in the palace. I can’t dispatch anyone else who has seen her.” Besides, employing more searchers would be embarrassing.

  “You know her better than I. Where would she be likely to go? Whom would she be likely to be with?”

  I thought hard. She probably had not come alone. That would have been dangerous. But whom would she have traveled with? People from Velitrae, where she lived? “Try a group from the Velitrae area,” I ventured. “Or from the surrounding area of Campania. They must be camping together.”

  After he left, I readied myself to go to the stadium. I would see the best in the world doing what they did best, performing as mortals emulating the gods, pushing themselves to their furthest human level, almost touching the divine.

  The stadium was packed. As emperor, I had my own reserved spot, along with officials and other persons of rank, just across from the judges’ station. The other forty thousand spectators were squeezed together and looked like they could barely breathe.

  The first event, the long race, won by a man from Pylos, served to prepare people for the coming program. Since it took a while to complete, people could also let their attention wander and talk to their companions.

  Next came the double stadion. Now attention quickened. Some athletes would run this as well as the stadion, but most would choose one or the other, conserving their energy. Each competitor was announced by the herald—his name, his hometown. They came from everywhere. As they took their places at the marble ground marker, digging their toes into the grooves, leaning forward, they were like a Greek vase sprung to life, as artists painted this scene over and over.

  They were off, streaking down the track. For the first quarter, they were close together, then the faster ones pulled ahead, and by the time they reached the turning post, there were three in the lead. It was a close finish between the three, and I hoped the judges had better eyesight than I, for I could not choose the winner.

  But they had one, and he was awarded the ribbon and the palm, with screaming cheers from his compatriots.

  There was a pause before the crowning event, the one going back to the first Olympics more than seven hundred years ago. The tension built, the audience was gripped with silence, waiting. Finally twenty-two young men came through the tunnel, passing the statues of Nemesis placed there to remind them of the dangers of pride. They shone with youth and strength and took their places at the starting line before their lanes. The herald called out their names—one would go down to immortality.

  They were quickly off. Not one was slow, and all moved with the ease and power of animals, not men. They had been transformed into another species, at least for this magic instant. Then it ended, and one man was proclaimed the winner. The rest fell back to earth, ordinary mortals once again.

  “The winner is Tryphon of Philadelphia in the old kingdom of Pergamum now the Roman province of Asia,” the herald cried in his thick, penetrating voice. “From henceforth this Olympics will be named the one in which Tryphon of Philadelphia won the stadion.”

  Screams and cheers erupted from the spectators. By the time they died away, the atmosphere in the stadium changed, as people relaxed.

  The following contests of strength and skill—boxing, wrestling, jumping, throwing the javelin and the discus—were impressive but lacked the urgency of the stadion runs. These were all abilities valued in a soldier, necessary for warfare training.

  Thus ended the two hundred and eleventh Olympiad. The grass would grow again in the running lanes, until it was pulled out in another four years for the next Olympiad. And so it had been for hundreds of years.

  The winners would feast and celebrate tonight, and the tents would glow with lights and music. The losers and their supporters, as well as spectators who were mere sightseers, began to depart. Soon the valley was jammed with wagons, carriages, and horses, heading out.

  So quickly the mood deflated. I should have felt elated, as I had just witnessed such performances as I would never see again, but I felt bereft. Deserted. The higher the high, the lower the fall when it was over.

  You still have Isthmia, I told myself. But nothing could equal Olympia and its games. Nothing could equal what I had seen today. Or what I had done yesterday.

  Weary, I returned to my quarters. I heard the others of my household laughing and singing in other rooms. They would drink and go over and over all the details of what they had seen. Good for them. But I did not wish to join them.

  In fact, I thought, I shall drink, but alone. I walked over to the table where several jugs of wine were waiting, many types to choose from. I poured out some red Corcyraean wine. I might as well stay Greek all day.

  After the first cup, the jagged edges of melancholy slid away and I felt much better. Enough better that I even laughed out loud as I remembered the saying about certain kinds
of men: He is three drinks below normal. Perhaps I was one of those. Or at least one drink below normal. Make that two. I poured another cup and sipped it slowly.

  The day had truly ended. It was dark outside. I could hear the carousing from the tents on the grounds. I savored the wine. The Corcyraean type was growing on me.

  The door opened, slowly. How annoying. Could they not even knock? Ask permission? The answer would be no if they did ask.

  I turned to see the door almost fully open and Acte standing on the threshold.

  I stared. The room was dark, as night had fallen while I sat with my wine, and I had not bothered to light a lamp. But my eyes were used to it as it had come gradually. “Tigellinus found you,” I said flatly. I was too stunned to speak otherwise.

  She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “Tigellinus? No, I have not seen him.”

  “How did you get in here?”

  “People of your household still recognize me. It was not difficult.”

  “Why did you tell me you were not coming?” I jumped up, all my hurt pride and frustration bursting from me. “I invited you to come to Greece! You answered that you would not. Now you have been here the entire time, without telling me. I saw you by accident after the chariot race. Where else have you been? At Delphi, at Nemea as well?”

  She drew back. “No greeting? Is this the welcome I get?”

  “You don’t deserve a welcome!” I could hardly believe the words I heard coming from my mouth. I had tormented myself for two days wishing to see her, and now I would drive her away. But when I saw her, standing there so self-possessed, I was enraged. “After hiding away, why have you come now?”

  “Now I ask myself the same question. I wish I had not. I will go.”

  “No!” I grabbed her arm. “You will not!” She tried to pull free, but I spun her around. “Look at me!”

  She raised her eyes to mine. Within them was not deviousness but honest puzzlement. My anger seeped away.