Ottonius sneered at Miros and the older man wondered if Ottonius knew what Miros had been asked
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to do. Then he saw Ottonius glance down toward Miros's dark and heavy genitals, and decided Ottonius knew nothing, either about Plinates' demand or about genitals. If genital heft were the measure of a wrestler, then surely the bull of the fields would be the greatest wrestler of all.
The audience quieted as the referee signalled time and the two naked wrestlers moved warily toward each other in the center of the twenty-foot square. As they circled, Miros saw that Ottonius moved improperly to his right. The blond man stayed classically high on his toes, but when he moved to his right, he put too much of his weight on that foot and came down off his toes. It was not much but it was enough.
The two wrestlers came together and locked hands. Miros took two steps to his right, forcing Ottonius to circle to his right to keep facing his opponent. Miros felt Ottonius's steps. One. Two. Just as Ottonius planted his weight again on his right foot, Miros threw his own weight back to the left, fell onto his back, planted his right foot in Ottonius's belly and tossed the big blond up in the air, over his head. Ottonius landed on his back with a thump. Dust exploded in the air as his body hit. Before he had a chance to scramble to his feet, Miros was on him. He wrapped his arms around the blond man's neck.
"Don't you ever sneer at me, you son of a Kuristes dog," Miros hissed in the younger man's ear. Ottonius struggled fiercely to free himself from the head lock, but his movements just seemed to burrow his head and neck deeper into Miros's giant arms.
"You move like an ox," Miros hissed softly. "That is why you lie here like a sheep for shearing." He tightened his hold around Ottonius's throat, and the man from Kuristes tried to kick up into the air with his feet so his weight would slide his sweaty head out of Miros's arms. But the maneuver failed.
"And you wrestle like a woman," Miros said. "I
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could hold you like this until you go to sleep. Or I could just simply move my arms and snap your neck. Do you understand?"
Ottonius tried to wriggle loose. Miros tightened his hold still more and twisted his body slightly sideways so that his weight put pressure on Ottonius's neck. The blond could feel his head starting to pull away from his spine.
"I said, do you understand?" Miros demanded.
"Yes," Ottonius said. "Yes."
"Very well," Miros hissed. "Now, you giant clod, I am going to let you go without killing you, but try to wrestle well enough to make it look believable. Kick out with your feet again."
Ottonius kicked both feet up into the air. This time Miros loosened his grip and Ottonius slid out from his arms. As the younger man scrambled to his feet, Miros dove across the ground at him. He made himself come up inches short. He lay on his face in the dirt. He felt Ottonius jump onto his back and wrap his arms around Miros's throat.
"Why?" Ottonius asked as he lowered his face toward Miros's ear. "Why did you do that?"
"I don't know," Miros said. "Perhaps I just wasn't ready today." He let Ottonius hold him for a reasonably long time before he raised his hand in surrender. Ottonius stood up, raised his hands over his head in a gesture of victory, then reached down to help Miros to his feet.
Miros got up by himself. "I don't need your help, you peacock," he hissed. The audience still sat silently, stunned by the swiftness of the victory, but they cheered minutes later when Ottonius received the gold medal on a chain. Miros stood alongside his opponent and praised Ottonius's strength and quickness. Ottonius praised Miros's skill and called him the greatest champion of all time. It made Miros feel good, but not good enough.
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Back in his tent, Miros found a small bag that Plinates had left. In it were six gold pieces. It was a fortune, designed to make Miros feel better about losing. He went to the river and threw the gold pieces in.
Ottonius led his delegation of athletes home that night to their village of Kuristes. He had already forgotten the peculiar circumstances of his victory that afternoon, and he swaggered at the head of the athletes' line like Achilles marching around the walls of Troy. As they neared the walls of Kuristes, the other athletes lifted Ottonius onto their shoulders. It was the signal the villagers had waited for.
Using heavy hammers, they began to chop a hole in the wall surrounding their village, because the tradition that had come down through the ages said: with such a great champion in our midst, who needs fortifications to defend against enemies? It was a tradition as old as the Olympic games themselves, said to have come from the land of the gods far across the seas.
The Kuristes athletes stopped in front of the hole in the wall. On a hilltop, a hundred yards away, the dark-haired Miros of Arestines sat and watched, shaking his head sadly, finally understanding.
Ottonius postured in front of the wall, marching back and forth, inspecting the hole. Up on the hill, Miros could hear his voice complaining.
"I have vanquished Miros of Arestines," Ottonius bellowed. "Is this tiny little crack what you think I deserve?"
Even as he spoke, men with hammers made the hole in the wall wider and higher. Finally, it was large enough for Ottonius to pass through without stooping. The other athletes followed him. Soon darkness covered the land, but inside the village, fires burned and there were sounds of singing and dancing.
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All night, Miros sat on the hilltop watching. The noise stopped two hours before daybreak. Then, as he had expected, he saw a group of men, dressed in full battle gear, scurrying over a hill toward the village.
That would be Plinates leading the men of Ares-tines, Miros knew. The troop passed unchecked through the hole in the wall of Kuristes. Soon, screams rent the air that had resounded with music only a few hours before. By dawn, the village of Kuristes had been slaughtered down to the last man, including Ottonius, Olympic champion wrestler.
On the hilltop, Miros stood. He sighed heavily, thought of all the dead inside the village of Kuristes, and wiped a tear from his eye. The Olympic games had been made an instrument of war and politics, he realized, and they would never again be the same.
It was tune to go back home and get to work in the mines. He walked away and into the dim mists of Olympic history.
The lesson he had learned-to keep politics out of the games-would be largely heeded until, twenty-five centuries later in a city called Munich, a gang of barbarians would decide to make a political point by killing innocent young athletes. The world's horror and revulsion at this act was short-lived, and soon the terrorists were the adopted darlings of the left-looking, and others thought to copy their tactics-in a city called Moscow. In a country called Russia. In the 1980 Olympic games.
Jimbobwu Mkombu liked to be called "president" and "king" and "emperor" and "ruler for life" of what he vowed would one day be the unified African nation that would succeed South Africa and Rhodesia on the world's maps. He certainly did not like to be called "Jim."
In deference to this preference, Flight Lieutenant
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Jack Mullin, late of Her Majesty's Royal Air Force, did not call Mkombu Jim. He called him "Jim Bob," which he knew Mkombu did not like, but which he was sure Mkombu would prefer to Mullin's private name for him, which was "pig."
That this last name had a solid basis in fact was reinforced for Mullin when he walked into Mkom-bu's office in a small building hidden inside the jungle, just across the Zambia border. The entire desk top in front of Mkombu was covered with food, and the food was covered with flies. This did not discourage Mkombu, who ate with both hands, shovelling food into his face and swallowing any of it that did not manage to drop onto his bare chest. Flies and all.