At any rate, I tell you this so that you won’t think that I went soft between bouts of combat. None of us could afford to be soft in those days, when freedom from slavery depended on your ability to cut a rival down.
I made the final heat in the one-stade run, and again in the two-stade run, where I finished second, to my own delight. Sophanes won the one-stade, and finished behind me in the two-stade, which Epaphroditos won. I was surprised, and pleased, to see Stephanos’s cousin Harpagos run well 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 still the men we had been five years before.
Stephanos placed well 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 pull 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 filled him, which made me laugh. But the victory made him a different man — open-faced and beaming with good will.
‘I have no idea where that throw came from!’ he said. ‘I’m still 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 call friend wins at the games. It pleased me to do well — but as commander, it pleased me more that many of my people were also doing well. I walked around and congratulated them.
The sun was still high in the sky, and the judges declared an hour’s rest for all 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 Apollo’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 the third was caught by a flutter of breeze and sailed high over the target. We all 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. Finally, Teucer stood to the line. He shot all 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 Apollo, we will 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 bull’s hide is smaller 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 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 all watched the competition. He killed 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. Night was falling, and he thought that no man watched him. He raised his bow and his shaft fell 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 really mine — it was a good bronze bell 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 hall in Plataea with my shield and my war spears. A bronze cuirass never seems to fit just right over the hips. It flares there, so that the hips have full 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 ill-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 small, they pinch your ankles and leave welts that bleed — even in one stade. I’d spent all my spare time fitting and refitting those greaves — a plain pair in the Cretan style, worn over linen wraps.