“O great and compassionate Athene,” the priests chant in unison, “wisest of all the immortals, we honor you this day with our humble gifts and heartfelt praise. We are as beetles and worms in your august presence. We are undeserving of your notice. But we dare to come before you . . .”
The cool stone is soothing against Alexos’ body. But even here in the temple the air is stagnant and heavy with moisture. He has heard the stories of the old days, before the Time of Punishment. Back then summers in Arcoferra were fair and mild, a season of flourishing fields and wildflowers in the grass.
No one alive can remember those days; it was much too long ago. Yet Alexos senses it now as he lies sprawled on the temple floor, his arms reaching out toward the feet of the goddess, his cheek pressed hard against stone. He can almost see the fields and flowers, feel the fresh wind in his hair, hear the carefree laughter of children as they run in the grass, unafraid of stalking pestilence. Because, in that other world and time, the summer sickness doesn’t exist.
“We are most heartily sorry, and penitent, and ashamed of the grievous sins that have brought disgrace upon our kingdom,” the priests are chanting, “calling down upon our heads the wrath of all who dwell on Olympus, most especially the great king of the gods. Meekly we submit, and humbly we accept the righteous retribution they have seen fit . . .”
Alexos is no longer sensing this vanished paradise; he is seeing it clearly in the eye of his mind. The trees are so intensely green, so shiny and clean, it’s as if someone has taken a cloth and polished every leaf. There are no dead branches; the trees are all perfectly formed: dream trees, like something the gods might have made. The grass is as soft as kitten fur. Alexos strokes it in his mind, noting the perfect little white and yellow blossoms that nest among the silky, green blades. There is a delicate mist floating across the landscape. Alexos can feel it, moist against his skin: cool but not cold; just right.
He sees a man and a girl sitting in a wild country garden. Flowers are everywhere, a riot of color. Like the trees, they are also perfect, every petal fresh and new, every leaf immaculate.
The man and girl seem to be peasants, judging by their clothes at least. But their faces aren’t ravaged by hardship. Alexos thinks the man must be old, since his hair and beard are turning white. But his arms and shoulders are as strong and firm as those of a much younger man. His skin has the sheen of youth. And really, he doesn’t seem peasantlike at all. He’s—how to describe it? Serene. Confident. Almost regal.
How very odd.
The girl is remarkable too. Had it not been for the shabby dress she wears, he might have taken her for a goddess. Her skin is fair and creamy smooth, like Teo’s: baby skin, breathtaking, flawless. And her hair, which has been hastily gathered up in a messy pile on the back of her head and fastened with a wooden comb, is the color of summer wheat. It shimmers like fine gold. It takes his breath away, just looking at such perfection.
The two sit at the edge of a grassy lawn as the father draws figures in the dirt with a stick. The girl leans over and points. Alexos, who floats above them unseen, studies the marks and is startled to see something quite familiar: a triangle with squares attached to each of its three sides. Now the man writes the formula and the girl, who can’t be more than eight or nine years old, seems to understand it. She nods and smiles at the neatness of the theorem, just as Alexos had when the master first explained it.
This peasant man is teaching his little peasant daughter—geometry! How truly astonishing.
Alexos is dimly aware that the priests are no longer praying. The king is on his knees now and has just finished speaking. It’s Alexos’ turn to address the goddess now.
Dragging himself away from the vision is horribly wrenching. He doesn’t want to go. Leaving that place and those people feels like a personal loss, like the death of someone he loves. And it’s physically painful too. It’s as if his spirit had somehow left his body and has now returned to find it a ruin, broken and bleeding. It takes all his strength just to rise to his knees.
He tries to calm himself as invisible hands begin to touch him. They squeeze at his throat, they form a tight band around his head, they suck the breath from his chest and grip his belly. He’s afraid he’s going to be sick. And this terrifies him most of all, for to vomit at the feet of the goddess would be the worst kind of sacrilege.
Also, he has completely forgotten his speech. For a moment he just kneels there, swaying, frantically trying to think. And then it comes to him that neither the beautiful vision nor his current torment is a natural occurrence. They are goddess-given, sent for a reason. And with this flash of understanding, the words come. They are not the words his father gave him to memorize; they are what the goddess wants him to say.
“O great Athene,” Alexos cries in a startling voice, so full of anguish that the king turns and stares with alarm, “I submit myself to your will this day, and every day of my life, wholly and unreservedly. I put myself in your hands, trusting in your wisdom and goodness to guide me. I ask no pity for myself, whatever I must endure, but only for the suffering people of Arcos and Ferra. For them, I humbly beg your mercy and your blessing.”
Somehow he manages to rise and leave the temple, descending the great marble staircase and continuing down the hill toward the palace. The road is lined with people. Some are from the city; others have come from far away to attend the festival. They are animated, smiling. They stare at Alexos, the embodiment of their hope. He hardly sees them.
Only now is he aware that his father has a firm grip on his arm. It must be obvious how unsteady he is; the king is afraid he will fall. But the grip is not friendly. Alexos can feel the anger in it. And he suspects he’ll feel a great deal more anger when they reach his father’s chambers.
“You are supposed to be so clever,” Ektor says, his voice as cold as ice. “Yet you couldn’t learn a simple speech, given to you well in advance. Or was it too much trouble, not worth the effort? Was that it, Alexos? You just decided it was easier to make something up on the spot? Because you didn’t think it mattered? Well, let me tell you . . .”
Through it all, Alexos is strangely calm. He’s still in his fog, but it’s become more transparent now. He can hear his father’s words; he can see the handsomely appointed room they’re sitting in—the tapestries, the mosaics, the finely carved chairs and tables. He can smell the rank air and feel the oppressive heat.
The king has stopped shouting. His son’s composure has unsettled him. It’s an unnatural response to such a scolding, certainly not what he’d expected. And he begins to wonder if perhaps the boy—who is, after all, the chosen one—knows something he does not. His mouth goes slack. He leans forward.
“Well, then,” he says. “Tell me.”
Alexos meets his father’s eyes directly. As before, the words do not come from conscious thought; they are already formed on his tongue.
“The goddess is ready for me now, Father. And I have accepted.”
6
THE CROWD HAS BEEN gathering since midday. Already the commoners’ stands are full; those who came later sit on the grass. Many have walked great distances to get here; tomorrow most of them will head back home. But they will be able to say that they’ve been to the great polis of Arcos. They can say they’ve seen King Ektor in person, and the famous crown prince Alexos, the chosen champion of Athene. They will have witnessed the sacred procession and the festival race and dined at a royal banquet. Stories will be told about this day for as long as they live. They feel it was more than worth the trouble.
There has been a performance over in the theater—a play, or maybe it was poetry with pipes and a lyre, something like that. Apparently it has just let out, because the men of rank are coming in now, their ladies on their arms. They take their places in the stands reserved for them. They are quieter and more dignified than the common folk, but just as excited.
When everyone is settled, the first fanfare sounds. They all rise as the runners come onto
the field, two by two, and go to stand on the grass in the shade of a special canvas awning. Moments later, the second fanfare announces the arrival of the king, his councilors, his greatest noblemen, and the priests of Athene.
Everything about their entrance is majestic, just as it should be: flags flying, musicians playing, sunlight dancing off the gilt threads of flowing capes and robes, and sweet little Prince Matteo, as solemn as a priest, walking behind his father, dressed in purple linen and wearing a tiny crown on his head.
“Is that your baby brother?” Leander asks, hand to heart, a huge grin on his face. He and Alexos stand together at the edge of the little knot of elite runners.
“That’s Teo, yes.”
“But he’s too adorable! Can I have him?”
“No, Leander, you can’t.”
“I’ll trade you two of my brothers and throw in my father for free.”
“No.”
“Selfish!”
“Absolutely.”
Alexos had joined the other runners at the last minute, just before they marched in (Ektor had insisted, on the grounds that a prince “does not wait around”), so he hasn’t had a chance to study them till now. They are, as previously described by Leander, the sort of men you would expect: noblemen’s sons from the polis or great country estates. Several could still be described as boys—seventeen or eighteen—and a few are vaguely familiar. The rest are full-grown men with beards.
But Alexos isn’t interested in them. He’s looking for the famous greasy peasant from Attaros. Leander has refused to point him out, assuring Alexos he’ll know him when he sees him.
“It’s going to be all right,” Leander says.
“What?”
“The race. All you have to do is run really fast.”
“I’m aware of that, Leander.”
“Apologies, my lord. It’s just that you were looking very flushed, that’s all. I thought perhaps you were nervous.”
“It’s hot. Haven’t you noticed?”
Leander starts to reply, then bites his tongue.
Alexos has found his man now. And, as described, he looks like a peasant, not a prodigy, with the sun-blasted skin and lean, ropy muscles of one who labors in the fields. His face is all angles; his wiry, short-cropped hair gleams with oil and sweat. His hands are brown and calloused, dark half-moons of dirt wedged beneath the fingernails.
It’s not completely unheard of for a commoner to enter the race, but it is extremely rare. And usually they’re eliminated in the first round. To have made it this far is remarkable. Alexos tries to imagine this hollow-cheeked country lad actually winning the laurel crown. He finds the thought surprisingly appealing. For as amazing as it is that Leander is here—by his own merits, when he is only twelve—how much more astonishing is the path this peasant has taken?
Running for the laurel crown is a nobleman’s sport, not the sort of thing a plowboy thinks of. Yet somehow this fellow did imagine it; then he presumably trained for it in his rare free time—racing down country lanes after a long day of grueling work, fueled only by the pathetic scraps that must constitute his diet. And now here he is: one of the final twelve on Athene’s festival day! For these few, brief hours, Peles of Attaros has earned the right to stand beside noblemen and a prince as their equal. Nothing Alexos has ever done remotely compares with that. It moves him so deeply that tears well up in his eyes.
“Touching, isn’t it?” Leander says. His eyes crinkle and Alexos can’t tell whether he means it or not.
“Yes,” Alexos replies, no expression in his voice. “I rather hope he wins.”
A sudden blast of horns startles them. The high priest of Athene comes out onto the field; they kneel as the prayers are sung. Then King Ektor formally announces that the race will begin: runners, make ready.
The surface of the track has been packed smooth, sand spread over clay. It’s dazzlingly white and hot under their feet after the cool of the shaded grass. They make discreet little hops as the sand stings the tender skin of their insteps. The sun is brutal. Already they are glistening with sweat. Alexos closes his eyes and fills his lungs with warm, damp air and lets it out again in a rush.
His assigned place is near the right edge. He’ll need to make a lightning start and stay ahead of the pack just long enough to work his way across to the far left side. If he misses this chance, he’ll have to wait till the mass of runners has started to spread out, which could take a while, perfectly matched as they are.
This strategy is mostly used when running on an oval track. But while it doesn’t exactly apply here, where the course meanders through the city and out into the countryside, the track will eventually make a wide turn to the left nearly a mile long, and the runners on the inside lane will have an advantage. So it’s worth the effort, the master had explained; the smallest thing can make a difference in a contest like this.
They are all on their marks now, tense and waiting. Then comes the final blast of horns and they are off. Alexos’ toes grip the sand and hurl him forward, his strides measured and graceful, his body straight, and his arms pumping. He shifts to the left a heartbeat before the man beside him moves up to block his way; then he slides left again.
Now he’s running beside Leander and can’t get past him. They race side by side like a pair of oxen pulling a plow, until Alexos puts on another burst of speed and crosses two more lanes. But it doesn’t come easily; it’s like running through steam. His legs ache as they’ve never ached before, his lungs can’t get enough air, and his head is pulsing with pain.
Alexos has run greater distances than this and done it with relative ease. He can’t think why, so early on, he seems to be nearing his limit. It makes no sense. It’s alarming.
At least he’s finished with strategy; that’s something, anyway. The field is spreading out a bit and he has the inside edge. Leander is right behind him, huffing and grunting as he runs. He’s doing it on purpose, of course. Leander never grunts. He’s trying to make Alexos nervous. But it has the opposite effect. It makes Alexos want to laugh. It lifts his spirits.
The miles fly past. They’ve left the city now, out through the east gate and into the drab, sun-baked landscape of the countryside, making the long turn back toward the finish line. Alexos has a good position. Now the time has come to put those famous wings on his heels.
He pushes everything out of his mind—Leander, the other runners, his exhaustion, the headache, the pain in his legs. He becomes a racing animal, as natural as a soaring hawk or a leaping deer. Sweat runs down his forehead and into his eyes; he blinks away the stinging salt and keeps on going. This is how Alexos runs, how he does everything—not to win, just to do his best.
There are four or five in the lead now, clustered loosely together. Alexos pays no attention to them, doesn’t even bother to notice who they are. He’s racing only for himself, just running as fast as he can.
But there really is something wrong with his legs. They’re trembling, unsteady; he’s half afraid they’ll suddenly refuse even to hold him up. He feels himself slowing down, just a little. He decides that’s probably wise. He doesn’t quite trust his balance anymore. Better to lose speed than to lose control.
Then someone passes him close on the right, startling him and putting him off his rhythm. Alexos stumbles, and for a horrible moment he’s afraid he might actually fall. But he doesn’t; he recovers his stride. Only now the man is directly in front of him on the inside lane.
It’s Peles of Attaros, and he is a wonder.
He runs as little children do, for the joy of it. No one has forced him to come here and compete with noblemen’s sons. No one has taught him technique or strategy. And certainly no one expects him to win. He’s just here because he wants to be. And he runs as simply, naturally, and beautifully as the wind moves across a meadow. Watching him, Alexos is struck by the sudden knowledge that this boy—who probably sleeps on straw in a one-room wattle hut—is freer than Alexos himself will ever be.
Alex
os has completely lost his concentration now. He’s overwhelmed by the troubling symptoms he’s mostly managed to ignore till now: his burning cheeks and stinging eyes, the rising nausea, the throbbing pain in his head, and the terrible, aching unsteadiness of his legs.
He’s falling behind. His form is terrible. He lurches from side to side as more runners pass him—two, three, four of them, including Leander.
He can’t concentrate at all anymore; his mind is heavy, as though he was just awakened from a deep sleep. His legs are still moving, but haltingly. Three more runners pass him, gasping for breath, putting on speed as they near the finish. Alexos can hear the screams of the crowd and is vaguely conscious of the pavilion up ahead, where his father and Teo sit in regal splendor, expecting him to win this race.
But Alexos is only trotting now—stumbling, almost. His face is on fire; he feels as if he will melt onto the track like candle wax. He’s not sure he can even finish the race.
A huge roar goes up from the crowd: the winner has crossed the line. And from the amazed exuberance of the shouting—it goes on, and on, and on—Alexos is pretty sure he knows who it was.
Was-buzzzz, buzzzzzzzz. His mind is buzzing, as though flies have crawled inside his head. He listens, inert. He can’t see much of anything. It’s all blurry, the world around him. Like fog—hot, stifling fog. He wants to lie down somewhere cool. Grass would be nice.
And then, from deep inside his consciousness, he wills himself to stop drifting and come back to the race. He looks lazily down at his feet and is startled to see that they aren’t moving at all. He’s just standing there, bleeding sweat onto the track.
The shock of this clears his mind—not completely, but enough to understand that he has failed to a degree that was unimaginable till now. He has failed his father, he has failed the goddess, and he has failed Teo. The shame of his performance will dog him for the rest of his life. But at least, at the very least, it will not be said that Alexos didn’t finish the race.
The Chosen Prince Page 4