Well — a gesture is a gesture. And Spartans love them. So I strigiled the dust and dirt and sweat off, scraping carefully, taking my time, and I oiled myself, while Bulis lay, barely able to move his lips. Then I handed the tools back to the slave and smiled my thanks.
My head swam from time to time — I had waves of dizziness, and then, suddenly, I’d be better. I put my hand to the side of my head and found that the left temple was mushy with blood.
I used my now-ruined chiton to fix that.
‘I feel like a new man,’ I said, lying. ‘Anyone else?’
Gorgo’s hand went up in front of my face as if to strike me. ‘He does not mean that!’ she said, as they all stepped forward. ‘He is not challenging you. He does not know our ways.’
They looked disappointed.
Zeus, the Agoge must be something.
A little after noon, everyone — all free men, that is — begin to gather in the sacred enclosure. I wore a good himation — it was a formal occasion, after all. I led all my rowers — all free men, and with Draco’s permission, cheerfully given — suddenly all Plataean citizens and thus eligible to attend. My head hurt.
Most of my oarsmen didn’t even have a himation, but some did, and I put them in front, and we formed a contingent with old Draco and Styges and the two other Plataeans, both competitors — Antimenides, son of Alcaeus of Miletus who fell at Marathon, and Teucer, son of Teucer of Miletus, who also fell at Marathon. We went together to the stadium with twenty thousand other men, and then we processed to the temple.
At the temple precinct, an old priest was standing with Empedocles. Empedocles pointed me out, and the priest of Zeus pushed his way over to me. He was a man of Elis — older, but very fit, and clearly very rich from the gold chain he wore as a zone.
‘Arimnestos of Plataea?’ he asked.
I nodded. ‘Reverend sir?’
He nodded. ‘Empedocles of Thebes tells me you are a servant of Hephaestus, an initiate of the highest degree.’
I bowed. ‘I have that honour,’ I acknowledged.
‘Empedocles says that you are the right man to make the sacrifice for Hephaestus. Indeed, we have six bulls for the smith god, and only three men to make the cuts.’
Empedocles had made his way to us — he was old enough that men would actually be polite and move aside for him.
‘I’m a little old to swing the sword myself,’ he said. ‘But I’ll say the words. You make the cuts for me.’ He met my eye with a mischievous glint. ‘There are not so many initiates of Hephaestos who can swing a sword, eh?’ he asked.
‘No, sir. Mostly we make them,’ I said.
Both priests laughed.
I turned to Hector. ‘Run and fetch the Raven’s Claw,’ I said. It was one of my first weapons — a heavy kopis, not long, but curved down like the beak of a big raven or any raptor, and sharp as flint.
The boy must have sprinted all the way to the tents. He came back scarcely able to breathe, bursting with pride. That pleased me — hard to say just why.
I took the sword and put the cord over my shoulder, and followed the priests out of the procession — or rather, to the front. There, the hundred or so men who would commit the sacrifices walked in splendour. It was almost the only occasion throughout the world when a man might wear a sword in public with a himation.
I was glad I’d worn so dignified a garment as a himation. I was in the same rank as the King of Sparta, and he smiled and winked as I was placed between two other Boeotians. The men around me were mostly hereditary priests, with a sprinkling of professionals — great aristocrats and powerful men. There, for example, was Adamenteis of Corinth, next to Leonidas.
It is, of course, an enormous honour to be asked to give a sacrifice at Olympia.
Just for a moment, I thought of my dead wife, Euphonia, who had been an aristocrat’s daughter in Attika, and who would have loved to know that her bronzesmith husband would sacrifice alongside Aristides of Athens — five men to my left — and the Agiad King of Sparta.
I hadn’t thought of her — just as a person, not an object of grief — in years. The thought of her simple pleasure in my achievement made me. . stronger. It was itself a gift from Aphrodite. I was not afraid. I was the husband of noble Euphonia, and I had every right to sacrifice in public as a priest of Hephaestus.
And something inside me healed.
We marched to the sound of flutes and horns, and we climbed the great steps.
Friends — what is life?
It is not the edge of the sword.
It is not all forbidden love and piracy.
That night — climbing the steps of the great temple of Zeus at Olympia with Leonidas of Sparta on my right and Aristides of Athens on my left — with Themistocles and Lykon of Corinth and a hundred other men I didn’t know as well — with a sea of torches going back across the plain to the stadium and the camp — going to sacrifice to the immortal gods. .
I was with Greece.
Friends, this is hard to say. Someday, I will die.
Every man who was there will die. Most are long since dead.
All our children, all our wives, all our slaves. All will die.
But this must never die.
Why did we fight the Persians?
So that, rather than one man walking alone into his temple to sacrifice for his people to his gods — like the Great King. .
So that all men might walk into their temples and sacrifice to their gods. Together. Quarrelling about precedence and complaining about the mosquitoes, all the way.
That is Greece.
I was elated, but my hands shook.
Bulls are enormous.
Leonidas of Sparta sacrificed the first animal. By right of kingship, he was the senior priest of Zeus present. He raised his hands, no sword visible, and made the great prayer to Zeus.
And then, in front of twenty thousand Hellenes, he swore to send two hereditary heralds to the Great King. He swore it at the great altar of Olympia. He swore it to make restitution for Sparta’s impiety. He didn’t say as much, but there was a collective gasp as he recited his prayers, asking for the forgiveness of great Zeus, god of kngs and kingship, and Hermes, god of heralds and messengers.
I happened to catch sight of Adamenteis of Corinth at that moment. I marked him down as a Medizer. He glared at the Spartan king with unconcealed hatred.
If Leonidas saw him, he gave nothing away. With all Greece watching, the Agiad King of Sparta walked up to his animal — all white, as tall as his shoulder — and he placed his left hand on the animal, and it stopped calling to its mates. It raised its head slightly. .
The sword came from under his arm with the fluidity of water flowing. He never let the bull see the weapon — the sword rose and fell, not two movements but a single beat, and the bull — headless — fell to its knees.
Twenty thousand men roared to Zeus.
Not every man killed as cleanly as the King of Sparta, but every man killed his animal. Aristides — my friend, the priggish man of justice — was the only man to kill his bull as elegantly as Leonidas. He was of an age with the Spartan king, and as an Athenian aristocrat, he’d trained just as hard, and his cut flowed like water from a broken dam — sudden and yet smooth like planished bronze.
And then it was my turn. Forty thousand eyes on me.
I did not attempt to draw and cut like the king. I had my kopis loose in my hand, and raised my arm and rolled my hips and my animal fell to its knees, its head cleanly severed, and there was a roar — a beautiful roar.
Empedocles slapped my back with surprising strength. ‘Beautiful, lad! Now follow me.’
I was. . not quite of the earth. Listen to twenty thousand Greeks roar their prayers to the gods and try to be calm.
He led me past Aristides, who clasped my hand, and past Lykon, who was still waiting his turn and didn’t even see me — well down the line.
To another bull.