Marathon Page 21

  see Stephanos’s cousin Harpagos run wel in both events. He

  was, by virtue of his position, a gentleman now, and he rose to it.

  Some men cannot. I shared a canteen with him and

  Epaphroditos after the second heat. We laughed together and

  told each other that we were stil the men we had been five years

  before.

  Stephanos placed wel in the javelin throw for distance, and I

  lost the throw for accuracy by the width of a finger.

  I think it was at this point that I recognized I might win. For

  those of you who have drunk the heady wine of victory, you

  know this moment – when you start to pul away from the pack.

  The next contest was a surprise, as Philocrates – my

  Philocrates – won the discus throw with his first throw, a throw

  so far and so mighty that much bigger men simply shook their

  heads and declined to throw. They put the olive wreath on his

  head before the last men had thrown, and men said the gods had

  filed him, which made me laugh. But the victory made him a

  different man – open-faced and beaming with good wil.

  ‘I have no idea where that throw came from!’ he said. ‘I’m

  stil not sure it was me.’

  ‘Have you made your victor’s offering?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Do not forget,’ I said. ‘Blaspheme in private if you like, but if

  you serve on my ship, you make public obeisance.’

  When you are in command, you are always in command,

  children. Even when a man you cal friend wins at the games. It

  children. Even when a man you cal friend wins at the games. It

  pleased me to do wel – but as commander, it pleased me more

  that many of my people were also doing wel. I walked around

  and congratulated them.

  The sun was stil high in the sky, and the judges declared an

  hour’s rest for al competitors. Then the archery started. The

  Lesbians had several fine archers, and the Samians had one,

  Asclepius, whose shots were so strong that I didn’t think he

  could be beaten. Most men’s arrows lofted into the target at fifty

  paces, but Asclepius’s arrows flew straight as if shot from

  Apolo’s bow. But as a group, the Cretans were the best.

  I was out in the first round. I can shoot a bow, but not with

  archers like these.

  Teucer was there, and he shot patiently and seriously. He just

  made the first cut and went on to the second round, the lowest-

  ranked man there. In the second round, he had to shoot against

  Asclepius. That was a bout to see – every arrow thudding home

  into the stretched hide at fifty paces, every shot inside the

  charcoal marking of the highest score. None of us had ever seen

  shooting like this. The judges sent both men to the third round

  with the issue undecided.

  Idomeneus also went to the third round, and one Lesbian, an

  archer in service to Epaphroditos. The four of them poured

  libations and drank wine together, and then the target hides were

  moved to one hundred paces.

  At that distance, even Asclepius had to loft his arrows. He

  shot first, and hit the charcoal every time. Idomeneus was next,

  and he placed two of his three arrows within the charcoal, but

  and he placed two of his three arrows within the charcoal, but

  the third was caught by a flutter of breeze and sailed high over

  the target. We al sighed together, and Idomeneus bowed and

  was applauded by two thousand men – out of the competition,

  but with great honour. The Lesbian shot next, and only hit the

  charcoal once. He, too, received the applause of the whole

  army. Finaly, Teucer stood to the line. He shot al three arrows

  so fast that a man who turned his head to speak to his neighbour

  might have missed the whole performance, and every shot went

  home in the charcoal.

  Now there was open argument about how to carry on –

  whether to award both men, or to move the target. Miltiades

  rose to his feet and held up the baton of the judges.

  ‘For the honour of Lord Apolo, we wil have both of these

  men shoot again,’ he said. ‘Although we deem both worthy of

  holding the prize.’

  There was much applause, and the hides were moved to one

  hundred and fifty paces.

  At that range, a bul’s hide is smaler than the nail on your little

  finger. A moment’s inattention and your arrow drops short. At a

  hundred and fifty paces, a man with a Greek bow must aim it at

  the heavens to drop the arrow into the target.

  It was Teucer’s turn to shoot first. He used the Persian bow I

  had brought him, which pleased me. He shot one arrow, as

  directed, and it hit the charcoal.

  We roared for him.

  Asclepius took a long time with his shot. By his own

  Asclepius took a long time with his shot. By his own

  admission, the Samian was an expert at close, flat shooting, and

  he didn’t excel at the long shots. He waited patiently for the

  breeze to die. There was no rule against it.

  I drank water.

  Suddenly, without warning, Asclepius lifted his bow and shot.

  His arrow went high – very high – and came down at a steep

  angle into the target. Dionysius proclaimed it in the charcoal and

  we roared again. This was competition, dear to the gods. I

  remember slapping Phrynichus on the back and saying that now

  he had something to write about.

  And then an arrow came from behind us. It lofted high over

  the spectators and the red awning where the judges sat, and it

  plummeted to earth like a stooping falcon to strike the target just

  a few feet from where Dionysius stood. He leaped in the air, and

  stumbled away.

  Because I was near the awning, drinking water, I turned and

  saw the archer, who had shot from at least two hundred and fifty

  paces. In fact, I counted later two hundred seventy paces. His

  shot hit the charcoal. He raised his bow in triumph, gave a long

  war cry and ran.

  He was a Persian. He must have slipped over the mudflats

  while we al watched the competition. He kiled no Greek. He

  shot further, and better.

  Miltiades awarded him the prize – an arrow fletched in gold.

  We roared our approval – even Teucer and Asclepius, both

  of whom had shot like gods.

  But later – much later – I saw Teucer pace off the distance.

  But later – much later – I saw Teucer pace off the distance.

  Night was faling, and he thought that no man watched him. He

  raised his bow and his shaft fel true, but a fist of breeze moved

  it, and later he told me that he missed the charcoal by the width

  of his hand.

  We were elated by the shooting – the sort of heroism in which

  any Greek (and apparently, any Persian) might take joy.

  I put on my armour with some trepidation. It wasn’t realy

  mine – it was a good bronze bel cuirass that Miltiades had given

  me, and while I liked it, it lacked the flexibility and lightness of

  the scale cuirass I had won in my first games – a cuirass that was

  hanging on its wooden form in my hal in Plataea with my shield<
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  and my war spears. A bronze cuirass never seems to fit just right

  over the hips. It flares there, so that the hips have ful play in a

  long run, but that same flare makes a waist where much of the

  weight of the armour is borne, just over the hard muscles of the

  stomach, and that can make running uncomfortable.

  Worse by far is running in il-fitting greaves. They snap over

  the lower leg, covering a warrior from the ankle to the knee, and

  if they are too big they slip and bite your arches, and if they are

  too smal, they pinch your ankles and leave welts that bleed –

  even in one stade. I’d spent al my spare time fitting and refitting

  those greaves – a plain pair in the Cretan style, worn over linen

  wraps.

  It was a strong field – Epaphroditos, Sophanes, Stephanos,

  Aristides himself, Lord Pelagius’s nephew Nestor, Nearchos of

  Crete and his younger brother, Neoptolemus, Sophanes’ friend

  Crete and his younger brother, Neoptolemus, Sophanes’ friend

  Glaucon, and Dionysius of Samos’s son Hipparchus, a fine

  young man without his father’s arrogance. He was next to me in

  the first heat, and I made the mistake of giving way at the first

  step – I never caught him. But I placed second, and went on to

  the next round.

  The men I named had al gone on in their rounds. We were

  down to two eights, and the men running were the heroes of our

  army, the champions of the East Greeks and their alies. I was

  proud just to run with them. I drank water, pissed some of it

  away and lined up, the aspis on my arm as heavy as lead after

  just one race.

  I was between Epaphroditos and Aristides, chatting with

  both, waiting for Miltiades to start us, when the cry went up.

  The Persian fleet was sailing around the point. Their fleet was

  immense, and it came and came and came. They crossed the bay

  under sail and put in to the beaches at the foot of Mycale, and I

  stood on the shore and counted them.

  Five hundred and fifty-three ships, first to last, biremes and

  hemioliai included. Just two hundred more ships than we had,

  including al of our lighter ships.

  On the other hand, the Cyprians sailed like fools, and the

  Aegyptians were so wary that they edged away from us, though

  we didn’t launch a single ship.

  We took it as an omen, that the Persians had come while we

  competed. We watched them, and we laughed and caled out to

  them to come and join us, and then, as if by common consent,

  we turned our backs on their display of imperial power and went

  we turned our backs on their display of imperial power and went

  back to our athletics.

  I remember that walk away from the shore, because I hated

  the aspis I had on my arm, an awkward thing with a badly turned

  bowl and an il-fitting bronze porpax. I stil had the cheap wicker

  Boeotian I had purchased on the beach at Chios a year before, a

  far less pretty shield with a split-ash face and a plain leather

  porpax, but it weighed nothing. In those days, there was no rule

  about competitions and shields, and besides, the Boeotian was,

  in fact, the shield I would carry to fight. I dropped my heavy

  aspis on my blanket rol, picked up my Boeotian and trotted to

  the start line.

  Aristides looked at my shield with interest. ‘Surely that big

  thing wil impede your running,’ he said.

  I shrugged. ‘It weighs less on my arm,’ I said.

  ‘I seem to remember that you beat me in this race four years

  ago,’ he said.

  I grinned. ‘Luck, my lord. Good fortune.’

  Aristides smiled. ‘You are rare among men, Arimnestos.

  Most men would tel me that they were about to beat me again.’

  I shrugged, watching Miltiades go to the start line. ‘In a few

  heartbeats, we wil know,’ I said.

  Epaphroditos laughed. ‘Listening to you two is like an

  education in arete,’ he said. ‘Me, I’l just run my best. But for the

  record, Aristides, he may have beaten you in this race,’ he

  grinned, and his teeth sparked, ‘but I beat him, as I remember.’

  We al laughed. I remember it wel, the eight of us laughing. In

  We al laughed. I remember it wel, the eight of us laughing. In

  al the Long War, there were a few moments like that, that

  sparkled like bronze in the sun. We weren’t fighting for our lives.

  We weren’t freezing cold or burning hot. No one was going to

  die. We were comrades – captains, leaders, but men who stood

  together. Later, when al Greece was at the point of extinction,

  we never laughed like that.

  There is a Spartan joke, that eirene – peace – is an ideal men

  discern from the observation that there are brief intervals

  between wars.

  You laugh, children. Hmm.

  I wish I could end this story right there – with eight of us lined

  up on the sand, ready to race. I remember it so wel. Young

  Hipparchus, the Samian, was retying his sandals when Miltiades

  caled us to order, and the poor boy fumbled the retie and ended

  up running with one sandal.

  Miltiades held his cane even with the ground, and then swept

  it away like a sword cut, and we were off.

  The race itself was an anticlimax of the worst sort, because

  Aristides and Epaphroditos became entangled within a few

  lengths of the starting line, and although neither fel, they never

  caught the rest of us – and they should probably have been first.

  Or perhaps not. But they were the two I had expected to have

  to outperform, and their removal gave me wings.

  I passed Sophanes in the first five steps and ran easily, knees

  high, arms pumping, because my greaves fitted perfectly. In the

  race in armour, the armour is part of the contest, and my armour

  fitted.

  fitted.

  Sophanes wasn’t going to surrender meekly, however, and

  after fifteen paces, we were side by side, wel in advance of the

  other runners. He tried to cut inside me at the turning post, and I

  shoved him with my big Boeotian shield, and he had to fal back

  a step.

  Hipparchus, running with one sandal flapping, was stil game,

  and he came on past the men who should have been the front-

  runners – because they were disheartened by their colision, I

  suspect. But his badly tied sandal finaly fel away, tripping him,

  and he went down. He let out a cry as he fel, and I think

  Sophanes must have looked back, and that was the step he

  never retrieved. I ran to the finish and crossed first by the length

  of my leg.

  Then I had a long rest while the other heats ran – three of

  them. The final eight had me and Sophanes of Athens, as wel as

  my own man, the Aeolian Herakleides, Nearchos of Crete and

  some Chians I didn’t know.

  Nearchos came and put an arm around me. ‘This is the life,’

  he said. ‘Better than ploughing fields on Crete.’

  ‘You’ve never ploughed a field in your life, lord,’ I said, and

  they al laughed.

  ‘He was my war tutor,’ Nearchos told Sophanes.

  ‘N
o wonder you are a hero now,’ Sophanes said – the boy

  had a nice turn of phrase.

  That was a race. No one fel, and no one clashed at the start

  line, where most mishaps happen. We al went off at ful stride,

  and in that final race, no one had a loose sandal strap, a bad

  and in that final race, no one had a loose sandal strap, a bad

  shield, a pebble.

  We ran for the gods. I don’t remember much of it – I was

  tired, and I was flying like a ship before the wind, without a

  thought in my head. But I remember that as we came to the

  turning post, al in a clump, Nearchos was first by a hand’s

  breadth – but his paces were a little too long, and he landed his

  left foot wel past the post and started his turn late. Quick as a

  shark takes bait, I turned inside him, my light shield almost

  catching the post as I scraped by, so that Sophanes, Nearchos

  and I were exactly together as we came out of the turn and ran

  for the spear Miltiades held out across the finish.

  What can I say? We ran. We flew. We were in step, stride

  for stride, al the way home, and the army roared its approval at

  us, although I remember none of that. What I remember is how

  fast that spear grew, and how nothing mattered but reaching it.

  Nothing.

  I won because my shield was a palm’s breadth larger than

  theirs, and touched the spear first. Nothing else. Rather than

  arrogance, my victory made me feel humble, and I embraced

  both of them.

  I’m not ashamed to say that I wept. As they say at Olympia,

  for a moment I had been with the gods. I think that al three of us

  had been.

  The rest is a blur of exhaustion. Stephanos took me out in the

  second round of pankration, but Sophanes of Athens put him

  down in the third round before losing to Aeschylus the poet’s

  down in the third round before losing to Aeschylus the poet’s

  brother in the finals. Athenians are good at games. They train

  harder than other men – even the Spartans.

  I passed at boxing, and I watched a big Lesbian brute –

  Calimachus, no less, and never was a fighter better named –

  beat his way through other men like a plough through a field on

  its second pass, when al the big chunks are broken and the bad

  rocks already puled. Aristides caught him again and again, but

  he was big enough to shake off the blows and continue, and he

  finaly wore Aristides down and hit him hard, and Aristides