“But surely you’re not like these others, Teacher? You’re a poet. What have you to do with running and jumping and throwing?”
Antipater simply stared at me. I had forgotten how very Greek he was-and how passionately all Greeks love athletics. Cynics are the only exceptions.
“You can take the boy out of Rome…,” Antipater muttered, shaking his head. Then he stiffened as the Cynic suddenly rushed up to him.
“You! One-eye!” shouted the Cynic. “Don’t I know you?” He twisted his head this way and that, crouching low and peering up at Antipater, as if trying to see under the eye patch.
“I think not.” Antipater drew back, looking flustered. All eyes were on him now. “Who are you, Cynic?”
“I am Simmius of Sidon. And who are you? And how did you lose that eye?”
“That is none of your business. But if you must know, I am Zoticus of Zeugma.”
“And who’s this young fellow?” The Cynic turned to me. The odor of his unwashed body was overpowering. “Is this one of the athletes who’ll be competing tomorrow? He has a boxer’s nose-a wrestler’s arms-a discus thrower’s chest. A candidate for the pankration, perhaps?”
As Antipater had informed me, the pankration was the most brutal of Greek combat sports, invented by Hercules and Theseus. It was a combination of boxing and wrestling with no holds barred; broken bones and even fatalities could result.
“My name is Gordianus,” I declared, straightening my back. Of Rome, I was about to add, but there was no need, since the Cynic spotted my accent at once.
“What’s this? A Roman, taking part in the Games?”
I shook my head. “I’ve come to see the statue of Zeus-”
Ignoring my answer, the Cynic turned to the crowd and launched into a fresh rant. “From the beginning, and for hundreds of years, only those of Greek descent could compete in the Olympiad. Now, to please our Roman overlords, there’s talk of allowing anyone who can simply speak Greek to take part in the Games-even Romans! What’s next? Shall we open the Olympiad to competitors from all over the world, so foreigners can boast and spit on the ground and erect statues of themselves in the Sacred Grove of Zeus?”
Simmius abruptly wheeled around, ran back to Antipater, and resumed his scrutiny. “But I could swear I know you. What’s this thing?” He reached out with two fingers, and I realized he was about to pinch Antipater’s putty nose, which had lost some of its shape under the fierce sun and was looking a bit peculiar.
“Come away, Teacher!” I grabbed Antipater’s arm and pulled him out of the Cynic’s reach. “I’ve had enough of this fellow’s rancid odor.”
The Cynic peered after us for a while, then turned back to his audience and resumed his diatribe.
“Simmius of Sidon, the fellow calls himself. That’s your hometown, Teacher. Does he know you?”
Antipater shrugged. “A man meets many people over the course of a long lifetime. One can’t remember them all.”
“He might look very different if he were to take a bath and trim his beard. But surely you wouldn’t forget those blue eyes. They’re quite striking.”
Antipater shook his head. “Who can remember anything, in this stifling heat? Come, let’s find our quarters for the night.”
“And where would that be?”
“We must look for the tent that’s been pitched by a man named Exagentus.”
We asked around, and soon enough were directed to an area not far from the stadium. I had been expecting a modest accommodation where we might stow our things and later bed down with others in cramped quarters, but the tent of Exagentus turned out to be one of the grander pavilions, a veritable palace of many rooms made of brightly colored canvas held up by ornately carved poles. Exagentus was not about, but a slave who had been told to expect Zoticus of Zeugma greeted us and allowed us to enter, asking us first to remove our shoes. The ground inside the tent was strewn with rugs that felt delightfully soft under my tired feet. The slave showed us to a small side chamber and informed us we would have it all to ourselves. The space contained two narrow cots for sleeping. Between them was a small table with a silver pitcher filled with water and two silver cups. Next to one of the cots a flap opened to the outside, so that we could come and go as we pleased.
I filled a cup and drank thirstily. The water was sweeter than any wine. “How did you merit this bit of luxury?” I asked, falling back on one of the cots, which was surprisingly comfortable.
Antipater shrugged. “One knows people. One calls in a favor now and then.” He pushed the eye patch up to his forehead and rubbed the skin around his eye.
“But who is our mysterious host?”
“A friend of a friend.”
“But surely you know something about him.”
“Exagentus is a wealthy man from Pontus, if you must know,” said Antipater curtly. The long day of traveling had made him testy.
“Pontus? The kingdom of Mithridates?” It seemed that Mithridates came up everywhere we went. “Pontus is awfully far from Olympia, isn’t it?”
Antipater nodded. “Pontus is at the farthest edge of the Greek-speaking world, to be sure, but King Mithridates himself is part Greek, and a great many of his subjects are Greek speakers of Greek ancestry. No doubt there will be athletes from Pontus competing in the Games, and our host wishes to cheer them on.”
“Whoever he is, he must be wealthy indeed, to afford such a-”
A braying of trumpets interrupted me. The steady murmur of the crowd outside the tent rose to a cheer.
Antipater smiled. “They’ve arrived!”
“Who?”
“Come and see, Gordianus!” He put on his shoes and hurriedly replaced the eye patch. “Is my nose on straight?”
I followed him out the flap and into the crowd, which was moving in a rush to greet the arrival of the athletes. The procession was headed by men in purple robes wearing olive wreaths and clutching wooden rods forked like a serpent’s tongue at one end. These were the Olympic judges, who would oversee each event; their forked rods were not mere symbols of authority, but weapons to be used on any athletes who dared to cheat or flout a rule. Behind the judges were several hundred youths, some dressed in loose chitons but most wearing only loincloths, all tanned to a golden brown after a month of outdoor training and elimination rounds in Ellis. Some had the long legs and slender build of runners, while others were brawny with muscle. Most were my age or only slightly older. Only a handful looked to be in their late twenties, and even fewer in their thirties-longtime veterans of the Games who, against the odds, were still viable competitors.
The procession drew nearer, passing between us and the wall that enclosed the Altis. The crowd went wild with excitement. Men waved their arms and shouted the names of the most famous athletes, who smiled and waved back. Some of the competitors looked cocky and aloof, but most of the young men in the procession appeared to be as giddy with excitement as the spectators. For many, this was their first journey away from home.
“Behold the best that Greece can offer!” cried Antipater. “It brings a tear to one’s eye.” I grunted and shrugged, then realized he meant this literally, for I saw him reach up and dab a bit of moisture from each cheek. I looked around and realized that Antipater was not the only spectator shedding a tear at the sight of the athletes entering Olympia. How sentimental these Greeks were, especially the older ones, always looking back to the golden days of their youth spent in a gymnasium!
From the corner of my eye I saw a figure in rags scramble atop the Altis wall. Simmius of Sidon stood upright and loomed above the parade of athletes, waving his scrawny arms and howling like a dog to catch everyone’s attention.
“Are these your heroes?” he shouted. “These vain young cocks, all puffed up with pride and self-love? What good is an athlete, I ask you? What do they do but run around in circles, punch each other in the face, and roll in the dirt like animals, grunting and grabbing each other by the crotch? And for such nonsense you all cheer and roll your eyes to heaven! Shame on you all! Instead of fawning over these brutes, you should line them up and slay them for sacrifice, like oxen-that way you’d all at least get a good meal out of them. Oh, you find my words offensive, do you? I say that a young man who exalts his body and neglects his mind has no more soul than an ox, and should be treated with no more consideration, yet you make idols of these creatures. What truly makes a man noble? Not playing games, but confronting the hardships of everyday life. Not wrestling for an olive wreath, but wrestling day and night to sort truth from falsehood. Not lusting after fame and prizes, but seeking truth, and living an honest life.”