Simonides wrote a poem about him, which we all heard that night at the fires. We ate beef — there was a lot of beef around, after the killing of a hundred bulls, and we had another hundred to go — and Aeschylus composed an epigram in his honour, and the boy wandered from fire to fire with his father and his trainer — he was the day’s hero, and everyone wanted to applaud him.
I sat with Megakles and Leukas and Sekla and Aristides and Cimon — an odd mixture of races and classes, but that’s the Olympics for you — and we toasted the boy and a dozen more, and finally I turned to Aristides when the newly famous athletes had passed my free wine and my fire, and said -
‘I hear a rumour you are threatened with exile,’ and smiled to take out the sting.
He shrugged. ‘I have been on the verge of exile since first I raised my voice in the assembly,’ he said.
‘Men call you Aristides the Just!’ I said. ‘Why does Themistocles seek your exile? Why is anyone else foolish enough to vote for it?’
He drank. And smiled. ‘Perhaps Jocasta seeks a rest from wearisome guests who prate endlessly about politics!’ he said.
Cimon leaned forward. ‘Last year, Themistocles put it to the vote — ostracism for Aristides. And he had the nerve to do it while Aristides was serving on the boule — standing right there, counting the votes. This thes — this lower-class arsehole — comes up and asks Aristides to help him write a name on the ostricon — the shards of pottery we use as voting slips. . Do you know what I’m talking about, Plataean?’
‘We vote, even in boorish Plataea,’ I said. No one likes being patronised, even by great men.
‘You are spending too much time with the Spartans. So this fellow is illiterate, a potter or a vase painter of something, and he says, “Help me write Aristides.”’
We all laughed.
Aristides looked at the fire, as men do when annoyed.
‘And,’ Cimon went on, laughing so hard he was spitting, ‘and old Aristides here scratches his own name, just as deep and easy as if it had been Themistocles, eh?’ He laughed. ‘And when he’s done, he says, “What do you have against Aristides, sir?” to the fellow, who clearly has no clue who he is.’
You must imagine that by this time we’re all roaring with laughter.
‘And the man shakes his head and says, “I don’t know who in Hades he is, but everyone calls him ‘the just’ and that makes me feel unjust, and I hate him!”’
I spat my wine. It wasn’t that Cimon’s story was so funny — I mean, it was, but it’s a pretty well-known story now — but the way he told it and the agonised expression on Aristides’ face. . Aristides hated being talked about, while his enemy Themistocles loved it.
Hector moved around, pouring more wine, and Aristides raised an eyebrow as if to say if you people are quite finished and drank. ‘As I was saying. .’ he began.
It was something about his priggish air and his aristocratic manner, but that set us all off again, whooping and laughing.
I loved the man — but he could be an arse.
At any rate, when we were all done, he turned to me. ‘Like Cimon, I believe that a naval solution to our problems is possible. Unlike Cimon and Themistocles, I think that such a solution would be a disaster for Greece, almost equal to failing to resist the Medes. We must best the Medes in a fair fight, man to man. Only that way do we prove ourselves worthy of the challenge — and only that way do we hold on to our political rights. If the oarsmen win the day, the oarsmen will be the new hoplites — won’t they?’
Megakles looked away and smiled. Leukas didn’t really understand Aristides’ quick Greek amd Sekla pretended interest in the hem of his chlamys.
But I didn’t. I sat back. Hector gave me a roll of bread with some olive paste and anchovies — a sort of opson-laden snack — and I ate it, and then I shook my head. ‘Cleisthenes gave every Athenian heroic ancestors, didn’t he? If the ships beat the Persians, surely all those thetes-class men will merely prove themselves worthy of the gift they have been given?’
I thought Aristides would snarl, he looked so angry. Cimon grinned.
‘Well put, Plataean. Damn it, I should make you a citizen just to hear you argue with Aristides.’
Aristides frowned. ‘I already have fifty men to do that, thanks.’
Cimon leaned in. ‘Besides, Aristides is rich and from the oldest aristocracy, and Themistocles is rich and from new money, so they are bound to tangle. They represent different interests in every way.’
I looked at Aristides. ‘At the time of Marathon, you were the enemy of any kind of faction.’
Cimon had the good grace to look away.
Aristides nodded. ‘I feel the state is threatened.’ He shrugged. ‘To be fair, so does Themistocles. We agree on many things — but not at all on how to solve them.’ He looked at me. ‘One of us must go. I’m sure it will be me. I promise hard times and hard labours, and he promises free silver and an overseas empire.’ Aristides managed a thin smile. ‘Who would you exile?’
‘You,’ I said. I laughed.
Cimon nodded. ‘But then. .’ He looked around. ‘I know Sekla. Can I trust these others?’
‘I only trust them with my money and my life and my honour,’ I said. ‘Other things you have to be wary about.’
Cimon nodded again. ‘If Aristides is exiled. .’ he began, and Aristides actually reached out and put a restraining hand on him.
‘Not even here,’ he said. ‘Not even to Arimnestos.’
I tried for half an hour to pry the secret out of them, and failed.
We all went to bed.
The third day dawned clear, bright and desperately hot. I went for a good run, my leg hurt me less than usual, and I didn’t see Gorgo. And yes, I was disappointed.
I did run past the Lacedaemonian camp. And Sparthius waved at me, dropped his chiton and joined me for my run. Despite his lack of front teeth, he was a good talker and in top shape, and we ran along the river and he made more conversation than I’d probably heard from Brasidas in a thousand stades of ocean sailing. Mostly about chariot racing.
I left him at his camp before the sun was really hot, bathed in the shallow, clean waters of the river upstream of the temples and the camp, and then walked back and put on a clean linen chiton for the events. And then I went to see the games.
The third day is, in some ways, the first full day. The whole of the pentathlon is performed on the third day, and I watched it — indeed, I devoured it. I’m not sure I can tell you exactly why, but I walked back and forth around the stadium, watching the events — javelin, always my own weakest event, held me riveted to the spot like a hilt to a blade. The races were splendid, and the jumping was felt by many to be the best in twenty years.
No Spartan placed higher than fifth.
All the Spartans tend to sit or stand together in a single block, and they move together — like a taxeis of infantry, really. It can be imposing, until you understand that they feel themselves to be different and, like many different people, they are shy with outsiders. Sparthius, for example, having run with me, showed no reserve at all — he grinned when our eyes met and took my hand. He introduced me to four other men from his mess, and they seemed a pleasant, if silent, crew.
None of them spoke to Brasidas, but then none of them attacked him, either.
I went back to my campfire that night to find that we’d sold all of our wine, that I had a nasty sunburn despite my huge straw hat, and that I still hadn’t had my surfeit of the Olympics. I was in love with the whole thing. I don’t think that I had ever seen so many men demonstrate arete in so many ways. I don’t think I had ever been so proud to be a Greek.