He was always called The Archon. Polykrates, who lived close to Asia, never made any bones about being Tyrant. But Pisistratos was all Athenian; he respected custom and the form of law. There were still nine Archons, even though most were his kin and all of them his supporters. His big old house next the Erechthid shrine, though very handsome inside, made no outward show of opulence. It took me two years to get through the door.
They were pleasant years, though, visiting other cities, or staying with Athenian guest-friends such as Prokles and people I’d met through him. When the lyre went round with the wine, I would have some little thing ready, a lyric, or a skolion on events. Those lyres! Never in tune, passed on by some man whose hands were calloused with the bridle or the disk. Not that anyone cared, it was the song they wanted, and it would have been conceited in a young foreign guest to bring his own instrument along. After a while, though, the lyres improved, because I began to be handed them first, before they had been ill-treated.
Then at the Feast of Athene—the yearly one, not the Great—I entered the contest for the choral odes.
In Keos, men do not sing at supper; it is better to choose one’s choir from boys who can still be taught. But in Athens, men sing from their youth and keep it up. I used men that first time, and have done there ever since.
We put on our fresh white robes and our wreaths of wool and olive-sprays, and went up to the High City in the late summer heat to wait in the temple forecourt. Before our turn came, I looked at the seats of honor. In the midst sat the Priestess of Athene on the highest throne, between the priests of Zeus and of Apollo. Then came the priests of the other gods, and next to them the Archons.
Pisistratos had the right-hand place, with a small respectful space around his chair; but one could have picked him out without it. He was already past seventy, and Theodoros could have carved him for a Zeus. Tall and still straight, fresh-faced, with hair and beard of a pure shining silver, and bright unfaded blue eyes, he was handsome even now, and must have been remarkable when he was young. He had a festal wreath on, of gold leaves with a few real ones stuck in for modesty; and his white robe had a gold border, but not too much. I compared this regal dignity with Polykrates’ new-rich showiness, and could see why the Archon had never been without a following, whether he was in or out. He was listening, I noticed, to the present singers, like a man who knows what he is hearing.
Our turn came. I stepped up between the spotted lions by the terrace steps. My choir knew their order and moved into it neatly. One expects that nowadays; then, one often saw choirs jostling about, even arguing aloud about where to stand. I bowed to the High Priestess—here was no Polykrates who’d expect to be noticed first—took in the other hierophants with a general reverence, and made the Archon my homage. He responded gravely; I was reminded of Zeus in the Iliad, shaking his ambrosial locks to a slight sound of thunder. Yet it never quite lost a human courtesy. I lifted my wand to the flautist (one must always praise Athene with the flute, which was her own invention) and began to sing.
The ode was about Athene’s help to Perseus when he killed the Gorgon; how she borrowed for him Hermes’ winged sandals and his sword, and Hades’ hood of invisibility, and set him on his way. For all this I praised her; but I ended praising Perseus, because when he became a king, still owning Medusa’s deadly head, he hid it underground, making a dedication of his power to justice.
No doubt the Archon had had plenty of such tributes; in his long career it was agreed he had deserved them. One look had told me he had too much dignity to let compliments decide a contest for him; on the other hand, my choir had sung clearly and in tune, and I thought my ode was better than the others. As it turned out, he and the other judges thought so too. I was awarded a fine bronze tripod with gilded rings for handles, and a white bull with gilded horns. The Priestess of Athene declared me winner; the victory chariot was led up, and the men of my choir, as they pulled me around the precinct, sang me a paean.
Later, I got to know that painted chariot like my own chair at home. I have stood in it some fifty times. The Medes burned it, of course. I have a ring from its yoke-pole, bent with heat, which someone picked up among the ruins and gave me for a memento, saying I had ridden it oftener than anyone else. Yet I can still recall the wonder of that first time, and how I said to myself, not that I had pleased the Archon—I had forgotten even that—but that I was at last a victor in Athens.
After my sacred ride, I was led back to Pisistratos, who said what he had doubtless said a hundred times before with equal graciousness. He added that he hoped it would not be long before he and his friends had the pleasure of hearing me again.
The man next him said a few words of assent, which surprised me till I saw the likeness. This must be Hippias, the eldest son. He was then a little over forty. Beside his father, he put one in mind of a famous statue, copied by a sculptor not quite so good. I said what one ought, wondering, as I went, whether the words about hearing me again were spoken every time, or whether they were worth something.
My prize beast was duly sacrificed at the altar before the porch, the priestesses’ portion delivered to the temple servants, the rest of the meat carried to my host’s house for the victory feast. For the first time I saw the trophy head of a victory bull, mine, hung in its garlands above the door.
My host was Prokles; he had asked everyone he knew. After having found me in Keos when nobody had heard of me, he was naturally pleased that he had backed a winner. The supper-couches went all around the wall; he had borrowed from half his guests.
All the Athenian poets had been invited. No doubt they said to each other what losers say of winners, some of which is sometimes true; but they were far more civil than I had hoped for, and, indeed, we had some very good talk about our craft. After the wine and the garlands had come in, guests wandered from couch to couch, greeting friends or getting acquainted with strangers. To me it was all delight; the first time in my life, I think, when I forgot that I was ugly.
The hour came when people drift in after leaving other parties, and a well-trained doorkeeper will tell unwanted ones that the drinking is over. Once or twice I heard the discordant singing going off down the street. Then suddenly there were laughing voices, the doorman was all civility, and my host got so swiftly to the door, one wondered how he did it without running.
Four or five men came in. The leader was a little over thirty, of middle height, graceful and slender, dressed with the greatest elegance in a robe of fine-combed wool dyed light green, and scarlet sandals buckled with gold. His hair was dressed in the latest style, bound round his head in two plaits, with a curled fringe combed down in front over the ends, as neat as if done in gold wire. His face, though it would not have inspired a sculptor, was comely, and seemed from liveliness handsomer than it was. He was clean-shaved, which you don’t see today. Then, many young men of rank kept it up well into their thirties; it’s a fashion which has disappeared, like others now thought to smack of aristocracy. His friends, though outshone by him, were very much in his style. Since my host, whose couch I had been sharing, had gone to greet him, I turned to my neighbor to ask who he might be.
He, and the next man, both fixed their eyes on me in wonder. It was as if I had pointed to the moon, and asked what was that light. “Why,” said the nearer one, “that is Hipparchos”; and the other, seeing me still no wiser, added, “The Archon’s second son.”