It was a dry year; the dust was almost a fog, with people muffling their faces up to the eyes. From our good seats we would see the start and the finish, and all the turns at our end; the further turnpost was invisible in the murk. One saw only a turbulent mass like driftwood in a swirling river, heard the cheers of the crowd, the shouts and neighing that meant a crash or a foul. One chariot at our end had a wheel wrenched off on purpose by another; the charioteer, a fine driver, got his car and horses somehow off the course, and the man who’d fouled him was disqualified. He must have hoped that the dust would hide it. At the far end, we learned later, two teams tangled their yoke-poles and a man was killed. There were one or two other crashes from which men and horses were dragged out with broken bones, the men to race again, the beasts to die.
However, near a turnpost one does not only see disasters; one sees all the skill. All up the straight they have been working and weaving for places inside the turn; but many a driver has taken it too close and wrecked his car on the column. The man who can cut it fine and skim past is a winner, but he needs clever horses, all of whom know him and each other well. All this is as true as when prosy old Nestor instructed his son, who no doubt knew it all already, at Patroklos’ funeral games.
The Athenian chariot was running a steady, well-judged race, neither fouling nor being fouled, getting the most from the team, coming fairly close in without collisions. But at each turn one saw, on the outside, a flash of bright yellow swinging round, the outside taken by choice, trusting in speed and in horses who knew their work. The driver in yellow was Kimon’s; he showed up well, even after the sixth lap when the pale dust was cloaking horses and men alike. His team knew the track of old; he had no need to whip the outside horse or check the inmost, to get them turning as cleanly as a wheel. You could not have asked better of cavalry chargers with knights on their back to guide them.
At last came the twelfth, last lap. The ancient fever rose; the crowds roaring, the drivers cracking their whips and giving their shrill yells; the horses screaming as they had the last ounce flogged out of them. One team swerved across the course into another still running the lap before, so that they crashed head on; the frightful din of shouts and squeals hardly seemed to increase an uproar that was splitting one’s ears already.
Only fifteen chariots finished, about the usual number. The Athenian team came fourth, which was creditable at least. But leading by half a length came Kimon’s team with its yellow-robed charioteer and the neat-footed mares, their chestnut sides dappled with foam, their nostrils flaring scarlet, but game to the last, stepping off from the finishing post as prettily as deer.
We turned round to acclaim the owner. He stood up smiling, and lifted an arm to the cheers. In the thrill of the race, I had lost all thought of politics, which are made by men, while beauty and bravery are from the gods. It was not till Anakreon poked me in the ribs that I remembered.
The chief of the judges mounted the platform with the herald. At Olympia, the herald himself is the victor of a heralds’ contest held beforehand. This one was a first-class trumpeter with a ringing voice. “In the name of Olympian Zeus, the winner of the four-horse chariot race is Kimon, son of Stesagoras, of Athens.”
This time, Kimon of the god-descended Philead clan had claimed his victory for himself.
The chariot drew up before the podium, the mares jingling their harness as they got the air back into their lungs. Above them stood the wiry dark Sicilian, in the stillness this moment demands. He had been through it twice before; from where I sat I could see his eye already stealing down to the foam-flecked mares, with the fondness of a father, longing for all this to be over, waiting to caress them, to give them the little drink they must have before the deep one; to see them rubbed down, and put into their blankets. But he was only the charioteer, and must await the crowning of the victor.
Even at Olympia, I have seldom heard such cheering. People were standing on their seats, tearing the wreaths from their heads to fling flowers and oak-sprays at the podium. In the whole long history of the games, over the centuries, it had only been done once before, three victories running with the same team. It would become a legend.
And when that thought came to me, I saw what else it meant. The legend would be Kimon’s, and his alone. Whatever had been proclaimed at the games last time, whoever had worn the crown, it would be forgotten. Men would talk forever of Kimon’s triple victory. At that moment, he was bending his head for the olive crown.
In so much commotion, it was quite safe to look round. But if there had been anything to see, we had already missed it. Hippias and Hipparchos were sitting in quiet talk, like any two lords whose rank restrains them from vulgar acclamations.
Anakreon said, “They are taking it very well.”
“Of course. They know how to behave in public.”
Lasos was still in ecstasy from the race. It took him a moment to follow us. Then he cried in his headlong way, “It was an epic! No one, no man born of woman upon this earth, could be asked to give that away!”
“No,” I said. “It would have been policy, of course; but policy has its limits.”
Anakreon said softly in my ear, “Policy? Well, my dear, that depends upon what he wants.”
Neither of us turned to share this thought with Lasos. He was quick-witted, but indiscreet. Before long, he would think for himself what an Olympic chariot crown can mean to a man who aspires to power; power that his forebears held for generations and never surrendered willingly—on sufferance to Solon, to Pisistratos not even that. Let Lasos think for himself, said Anakreon’s sidelong eye. When the crowds were breaking up we slipped away from him and strolled off past the Hera temple to the shady slopes of Kronos’ oak wood. Of course there were people all about, but one need not be overheard.
Anakreon said, “How much do you think it means?”
“Hard to say. Maybe no more than Lasos sees in it. He took the gift of the god, thinking he’d done enough last time for the Pisistratids, or not thinking about it at all. He could have counted on nothing beforehand. Think of the odds.”
“Someone might have murmured to him how acceptable such a thing would be, if the long chance came off.”
I said, “His family call him Simple Kimon, because he won’t play politics. He lives for his horses and his land; he must have missed them badly in exile. That gift to Pisistratos got him home, which he wanted more than a second victory. On the other hand, he’s a Philead, and he may not be so simple after all.”
Anakreon picked up a green acorn, and turned it in his hand to admire the gloss. “Isn’t his half-brother a petty king somewhere up north?”
“Miltiades? Indeed, and not so petty, sitting there in the Thracian Chersonese on the throat of the Euxine corn-run. You should ask my brother, who’s had to pay his tolls. He’s been a chariot victor too, it’s in the family.”
“Then so is money. How did he get among the Thracians?”
“He exiled himself in the Old Archon’s time, and was asked by the Dolonkians to command a war for them, because of some oracle they’d had.”
“Ah yes, I heard of that in Abydos. They’re forever at war. They were grateful and made him King. Could that, too, be in the family?”
“I doubt it’s come down to Kimon. He got tarred with the Philead brush, and had to go; you have to take care with a house that goes back to Ajax. But I’d be surprised if he’s thinking now of anything much but his crown and his triple victory and his mares. Didn’t you see him beaming from ear to ear? Simple Kimon, I thought, and none the worse for that. I should like to make him a praise song, if only for the mares’ sake. But I suppose it wouldn’t do.”