Inside the palaistra Polites saw workmen filling the newly built baths under the guidance of the foreman, Choros, a slender Thrakian. Polites had come to trust the man implicitly. Beneath a gentle demeanor Choros was ferociously efficient, and only the very foolish gave less than their best when working for him.
“Greetings, my lord,” Choros said. “Fear not, we will be ready.”
“The regiments will be here soon,” Polites said. It was a redundant comment. Choros was well aware that this was the Day of the Judges. Polites’ mouth was dry, his heart hammering. Priam would be arriving soon after the regiments, and with him would be many of the guests. It would be appalling should anything go wrong on this first day. Priam would shame him before the kings.
He will shame me anyway, he thought. If a seabird shits on the running track, it will somehow be my fault. Though maybe not today. Polites had seen Priam earlier that morning, and the king had seemed in a joyous mood. May the gods cause that to last for the five days of the games, he prayed.
Leaving Choros with the workmen, he moved through the building, emerging at the rear onto a narrow walkway leading to the stables. They were empty at present, but later that day the first of the horses would be brought in to be examined by the judges and marked for competition. Polites went on past the stands where the crowds would gather, then through the gate and onto the racetrack. There he kicked off his sandals. Slaves had been working for days to remove all the loose stones from the surface before tamping it flat. Even so, the chariot wheels would bite deep on the turns, and it was almost certain that some jagged piece of rock would be dug up and flung into the crowds. Polites slowly walked the length of the course between the turning posts, scanning the ground. The new judges would be performing the same task a little later, and their eyes would be keener than his, he knew.
At the last games, five years before, Polites had been merely a spectator. He had not appreciated the intensity of the work involved in preparation. Had it not been for the involvement of his half brother Antiphones, he knew he would have made a mess of it. It was a depressing thought. Polites left the track and climbed up onto the embankments, seating himself on a new bench and running his hand lightly along the polished wood. No sign of splinters.
“The first thing to do,” Antiphones had told him when Father first had given Polites his role, “is to find good foremen, men you can trust to see the work through. Assign each man a specific task, then appoint an overseer to coordinate the work.” Antiphones had been recovering from his wounds then, but he had kept a brotherly eye on the organization. Polites was grateful yet curiously resentful. Antiphones was clever and quick-witted, his mind able to grasp complexities with ease. Polites always needed time to think problems through and invariably would become lost in alternatives, unable to make a decision.
As he sat on the bench, his heart sank. In what do you excel, Polites? he asked himself. You cannot run, and you cannot ride well. You are no fighter, nor are you a thinker. He thought of his garden and the joy it gave him. Even that did not lift his spirits, for many of the new seedlings would die now that he had been forced to turn his palace over to Agamemnon. Uncared for, they would wither in the fierce sunlight.
In the distance Polites could hear the sound of marching feet. The regiments were moving, gathering there to select the hundred judges, the Incorruptibles. Now, there is something to be grateful for, he thought. You could have been a soldier and then been chosen for such a thankless role. He wondered why any common soldier would agree to become a judge. For five days, under the baleful gaze of kings and nobles, the judges would make decisions on races and events on which fortunes had been wagered. They would endure the wrath of monarchs and sometimes the fury of the crowds. For this they would receive no reward save a small silver token shaped like a discus and bearing the embossed image of Father Zeus. For five days these former peasants would have powers beyond those of kings and be expected to use them wisely and without favor.
Well, that was the theory. Would any judge go against Priam, knowing that within five days he would once again be no more than a soldier and subject to the whims of the king? Hardly.
Polites rose from the bench and made his way back along the racetrack, put on his sandals, and returned through the stables and the palaistra to watch the selection of the judges. Soon Father would be there. Polites’ stomach turned. What have I missed? he wondered. What hideous error will he discover?
In the middle of a large crowd Kalliades and Banokles made their way up the long slope to the Scaean Gate. Banokles was happy to be free of the ship, but Kalliades had felt a sinking of the heart as they had sighted the city. The voyage had been dreamlike, with no sense of the passing of time. Kalliades had stood with Piria on the deck of the Penelope, walked with her on moonlit beaches, laughed with her and joked with her. Now here they were, at the end of their journey. Soon he would be saying farewell to her, and the thought frightened him. She can never love you, he told himself. Better to say farewell than to watch her run into the arms of her lover with never a backward glance toward you. No, it was not better. To wake to a day when he could not gaze at her face was unthinkable.
“You ever seen Odysseus that angry?” Banokles asked. “I thought he was in a rage when we fought the pirates, but today his face was so red, I thought he’d bleed from the ears.”
“He was furious,” Kalliades agreed, recalling the moment when Odysseus had tried to steer the Penelope toward Priam’s private beach. A small boat manned by a beachmaster and several sailors had cut across them.
“You cannot beach here,” the master yelled.
Odysseus rushed to the prow and stared angrily down at the man. “You moron,” he shouted. “I am Odysseus, king of Ithaka. With me are Nestor of Pylos and Idomeneos of Kretos. This is where all the vessels of kings beach. Now move away or I’ll sink you.”
The beachmaster called out to some soldiers on the beach. Some twenty of them came running forward, hands on their sword hilts. “My orders are explicit, King Odysseus,” the beachmaster replied. “No more ships are to beach here. You may sink this craft if you will, but those soldiers will still prevent your landing. There will be bloodshed. I promise you that.”
Kalliades moved away from Odysseus. The man had been shamed before his crew and before his fellow kings. The Ugly King stood there, blinking in the sunlight, almost unable to speak. It was Bias who called out for the men to reverse oars and draw back, and the Penelope sailed farther along the bay. They beached some distance from the city, and the men clambered down to the sand. Odysseus remained at the stern, arms folded across his chest. The other kings, Nestor and Idomeneos, did not speak to him as they, too, departed the ship. Even Bias walked away without a word.
Piria approached Kalliades. “The slight has pierced him like a dagger,” she said.
“I fear so. Banokles and I are going into the city to enter the games,” he said. “Would you like to accompany us?”
“I cannot. I could be recognized by… by those who would cause me harm. Odysseus says I should remain here.”
And so Kalliades and Banokles had left her.