In a tent at the lower end of the long stadium stood Glaucon awaiting the final summons to his ordeal. His friends had just cried farewell for the last time: Cimon had kissed him; Themistocles had gripped his hand; Democrates had called “Zeus prosper you!” Simonides had vowed that he was already hunting for the metres of a triumphal ode. The roar from without told how the stadium was filled with its chattering thousands. The athlete’s trainers were bestowing their last officious advice.
“The Spartan will surely win the quoit-throw. Do not be troubled. In everything else you can crush him.”
“Beware of Mœrocles of Mantinea. He’s a knavish fellow; his backers are recalling their bets. But he hopes to win on a trick; beware, lest he trip you in the foot-race.”
“Aim low when you hurl the javelin. Your dart always rises.”
Glaucon received this and much more admonition with his customary smile. There was no flush on the forehead, no flutter of the heart. A few hours later he would be crowned with all the glory which victory in the great games could throw about a Hellene, or be buried in the disgrace to which his ungenerous people consigned the vanquished. But, in the words of his day, “he knew himself” and his own powers. From the day he quitted boyhood he had never met the giant he could not master; the Hermes he could not outrun. He anticipated victory as a matter of course, even victory wrested from Lycon, and his thoughts seemed wandering far from the tawny track where he must face his foes.
“Athens,—my father,—my wife! I will win glory for them all!” was the drift of his revery.
The younger rubber grunted under breath at his athlete’s vacant eye, but Pytheas, the older of the pair, whispered confidently that “when he had known Master Glaucon longer, he would know that victories came his way, just by reaching out his hands.”
“Athena grant it,” muttered the other. “I’ve got my half mina staked on him, too.” Then from the tents at either side began the ominous call of the heralds:—
“Amyntas of Thebes, come you forth.”
“Ctesias of Epidaurus, come you forth.”
“Lycon of Sparta, come you forth.”
Glaucon held out his hands. Each trainer seized one.
“Wish me joy and honour, good friends!” cried the athlete.
“Poseidon and Athena aid you!” And Pytheas’s honest voice was husky. This was the greatest ordeal of his favourite pupil, and the trainer’s soul would go with him into the combat.
“Glaucon of Athens, come you forth.”
The curtains of the tent swept aside. An intense sunlight sprang to meet the Athenian. He passed into the arena clad only in his coat of glistering oil. Scolus of Thasos and Mœrocles of Mantinea joined the other four athletes; then, escorted each by a herald swinging his myrtle wand, the six went down the stadium to the stand of the judges.
Before the fierce light of a morning in Hellas beating down on him, Glaucon the Alcmæonid was for an instant blinded, and walked on passively, following his guide. Then, as from a dissolving mist, the huge stadium began to reveal itself: line above line, thousand above thousand of bright-robed spectators, a sea of faces, tossing arms, waving garments. A thunderous shout rose as the athletes came to view,—jangling, incoherent; each city cheered its champion and tried to cry down all the rest: applause, advice, derision. Glaucon heard the derisive hootings, “pretty girl,” “pretty pullet,” from the serried host of the Laconians along the left side of the stadium; but an answering salvo, “Dog of Cerberus!” bawled by the Athenian crowds opposite, and winged at Lycon, returned the taunts with usury. As the champions approached the judges’ stand a procession of full twenty pipers, attended by as many fair boys in flowing white, marched from the farther end of the stadium to meet them. The boys bore cymbals and tambours; the pipers struck up a brisk marching note in the rugged Dorian mode. The boys’ lithe bodies swayed in enchanting rhythm. The roaring multitude quieted, admiring their grace. The champions and the pipers thus came to the pulpit in the midst of the long arena. The president of the judges, a handsome Corinthian in purple and a golden fillet, swept his ivory wand from right to left. The marching note ceased. The whole company leaped as one man to its feet. The pipes, the cymbals were drowned, whilst twenty thousand voices—Doric, Bœotian, Attic—chorused together the hymn which all Greece knew: the hymn to Poseidon of the Isthmus, august guardian of the games.
Louder it grew; the multitude found one voice, as if it would cry, “We are Hellenes all; though of many a city, the same fatherland, the same gods, the same hope against the Barbarian.”
“Praise we Poseidon the mighty, the monarch,
Shaker of earth and the harvestless sea;
King of wide Ægæ and Helicon gladsome
Twain are the honours high Zeus sheds on thee!
Thine to be lord of the mettlesome chargers,
Thine to be lord of swift ships as they wing!
Guard thou and guide us, dread prince of the billows,
Safe to their homeland, thy suppliants bring;
Faring by land or by clamorous waters
Be thou their way-god to shield, to defend,
Then shall the smoke of a thousand glad altars,
To thee in reverent gladness ascend!”
Thus in part. And in the hush thereafter the president poured a libation from a golden cup, praying, as the wine fell on the brazier beside him, to the “Earth Shaker,” seeking his blessing upon the contestants, the multitude, and upon broad Hellas. Next the master-herald announced that now, on the third day of the games, came the final and most honoured contest: the pentathlon, the fivefold struggle, with the crown to him who conquered thrice. He proclaimed the names of the six rivals, their cities, their ancestry, and how they had complied with the required training. The president took up his tale, and turning to the champions, urged them to strive their best, for the eyes of all Hellas were on them. But he warned any man with blood-guiltiness upon his soul not to anger the gods by continuing in the games.
“But since,” the brief speech concluded, “these men have chosen to contend, and have made oath that they are purified or innocent, let them join, and Poseidon shed fair glory upon the best!”
More shouting; the pipers paraded the arena, blowing shriller than ever. Some of the athletes shifted uneasily. Scolus the Thasian—youngest of the six—was pale, and cast nervous glances at the towering bulk of Lycon. The Spartan gave him no heed, but threw a loud whisper at Glaucon, who stood silently beside him:—
“By Castor, son of Conon, you are extremely handsome. If fine looks won the battle, I might grow afraid.”
The Athenian, whose roving eye had just caught Cimon and Democrates in the audience, seemed never to hear him.
“And you are passing stalwart. Still, be advised. I wouldn’t harm you, so drop out early.”
Still no answer from Glaucon, whose clear eye seemed now to be wandering over the bare hills of Megara beyond.
“No answer?” persisted the giant. “Eu! don’t complain that you’ve lacked warning, when you sit to-night in Charon’s ferry-boat.”
The least shadow of a smile flitted across the Athenian’s face; there was a slight deepening of the light in his eye. He turned his head a bit toward Lycon:—
“The games are not ended, dear Spartan,” he observed quietly.
The giant scowled. “I don’t like you silent, smiling men! You’re warned. I’ll do my worst—”
“Let the leaping begin!” rang the voice of the president,—a call that changed all the uproar to a silence in which one might hear the wind moving in the firs outside, while every athlete felt his muscles tighten.
The heralds ran down the soft sands to a narrow mound of hardened earth, and beckoned to the athletes to follow. In the hands of each contestant were set a pair of bronze dumb-bells. The six were arrayed upon the mound with a clear reach of sand before. The master-herald proclaimed the order of the leaping: that each contestant should spring twice, and he whose leaps were the poorest should drop from the other contests.
Glaucon stood, his golden head thrown back, his eyes wandering idly toward his friends in the stadium. He could see Cimon restless on his seat, and Simonides holding his cloak and doubtless muttering wise counsel. The champion was as calm as his friends were nervous. The stadium had grown oppressively still; then broke into along “ah!” Twenty thousand sprang up together as Scolus the Thasian leaped. His partisans cheered, while he rose from a sand-cloud; but ceased quickly. His leap had been poor. A herald with a pick marked a line where he had landed. The pipers began a rollicking catch to which the athletes involuntarily kept time with their dumb-bells.
Glaucon leaped second. Even the hostile Laconians shouted with pleasure at sight of his beautiful body poised, then flung out upon the sands far beyond the Thasian. He rose, shook off the dust, and returned to the mound, with a graceful gesture to the cheer that greeted him; but wise heads knew the contest was just beginning.
Ctesias and Amyntas leaped beyond the Thasian’s mark, short of the Athenian’s. Lycon was fifth. His admirers’ hopes were high. He did not blast them. Huge was his bulk, yet his strength matched it. A cloud of dust hid him from view. When it settled, every Laconian was roaring with delight. He had passed beyond Glaucon. Mœrocles of Mantinea sprang last and badly. The second round was almost as the first; although Glaucon slightly surpassed his former effort. Lycon did as well as before. The others hardly bettered their early trial. It was long before the Laconians grew quiet enough to listen to the call of the herald.
“Lycon of Sparta wins the leaping. Glaucon of Athens is second. Scolus of Thasos leaps the shortest and drops from the pentathlon.”
Again cheers and clamour. The inexperienced Thasian marched disconsolately to his tent, pursued by ungenerous jeers.
“The quoit-hurling follows,” once more the herald; “each contestant throws three quoits. He who throws poorest drops from the games.”
Cimon had risen now. In a momentary lull he trumpeted through his hands across the arena.
“Wake, Glaucon; quit your golden thoughts of Eleusis; Lycon is filching the crown.”
Themistocles, seated near Cimon’s side, was staring hard, elbows on knees and head on hands. Democrates, next him, was gazing at Glaucon, as if the athlete were made of gold; but the object of their fears and hopes gave back neither word nor sign.
The attendants were arraying the five remaining champions at the foot of a little rise in the sand, near the judges’ pulpit. To each was brought a bronze quoit, the discus. The pipers resumed their medley. The second contest was begun.
First, Amyntas of Thebes. He took his stand, measured the distance with his eye, then with a run flew up the rising, and at its summit his body bent double, while the heavy quoit flew away. A noble cast! and twice excelled. For a moment every Theban in the stadium was transported. Strangers sitting together fell on one another’s necks in sheer joy. But the rapture ended quickly. Lycon flung second. His vast strength could now tell to the uttermost. He was proud to display it. Thrice he hurled. Thrice his discus sped out as far as ever man had seen a quoit fly in Hellas. Not even Glaucon’s best wishers were disappointed when he failed to come within three cubits of the Spartan. Ctesias and Mœrocles realized their task was hopeless, and strove half heartedly. The friends of the huge Laconian were almost beside themselves with joy; while the herald called desperately that:—
“Lycon of Sparta wins with the discus. Glaucon of Athens is second. Ctesias of Epidaurus throws poorest and drops from the games.”
“Wake, Glaucon!” trumpeted Cimon, again his white face shining out amid the thousands of gazers now. “Wake, or Lycon wins again and all is lost!”
Glaucon was almost beyond earshot; to the frantic entreaty he answered by no sign. As he and the Spartan stood once more together, the giant leered on him civilly:—
“You grow wise, Athenian. It’s honour enough and to spare to be second, with Lycon first. Eu!—and here’s the last contest.”
“I say again, good friend,”—there was a slight closing of the Athenian’s lips, and deepening in his eyes,—“the pentathlon is not ended.”
“The harpies eat you, then, if you get too bold! The herald is calling for the javelin-casting. Come,—it’s time to make an end.”
But in the deep hush that spread again over the thousands Glaucon turned toward the only faces that he saw out of the innumerable host: Themistocles, Democrates, Simonides, Cimon. They beheld him raise his arm and lift his glorious head yet higher. Glaucon in turn saw Cimon sink into his seat. “He wakes!” was the appeased mutter passing from the son of Miltiades and running along every tier of Athenians. And silence deeper than ever held the stadium; for now, with Lycon victor twice, the literal turning of a finger in the next event might win or lose the parsley crown.
The Spartan came first. The heralds had set a small scarlet shield at the lower end of the course. Lycon poised his light javelin thrice, and thrice the slim dart sped through the leathern thong on his fingers. But not for glory. Perchance this combat was too delicate an art for his ungainly hands. Twice the missile lodged in the rim of the shield; once it sprang beyond upon the sand. Mœrocles, who followed, surpassed him. Amyntas was hardly worse. Glaucon came last, and won his victory with a dexterous grace that made all but the hottest Laconian swell the “Io! paian!” of applause. His second cast had been into the centre of the target. His third had splintered his second javelin as it hung quivering.
“Glaucon of Athens wins the javelin-casting. Mœrocles of Mantinea is second. Amyntas of Thebes is poorest and drops from the games.” But who heard the herald now?
By this time all save the few Mantineans who vainly clung to their champion, and the Laconians themselves, had begun to pin their hopes on the beautiful son of Conon. There was a steely glint in the Spartan athlete’s eye that made the president of the games beckon to the master-herald.
“Lycon is dangerous. See that he does not do Glaucon a mischief, or transgress the rules.”
“I can, till they come to the wrestling.”
“In that the god must aid the Athenian. But now let us have the foot-race.”
In the little respite following the trainers entered and rubbed down the three remaining contestants with oil until their bodies shone again like tinted ivory. Then the heralds conducted the trio to the southern end farthest from the tents. The two junior presidents left their pulpit and took post at either end of a line marked on the sand. Each held the end of a taut rope. The contestants drew lots from an urn for the place nearest the lower turning goal,—no trifling advantage. A favouring god gave Mœrocles the first; Lycon was second; Glaucon only third. As the three crouched before the rope with hands dug into the sand, waiting the fateful signal, Glaucon was conscious that a strange blond man of noble mien and Oriental dress was sitting close by the starting line and watching him intently.
It was one of those moments of strain, when even trifles can turn the overwrought attention. Glaucon knew that the stranger was looking from him to Lycon, from Lycon back to himself, measuring each with shrewd eye. Then the gaze settled on the Athenian. The Oriental called to him:—
“Swift, godlike runner, swift;”—they were so close they could catch the Eastern accent—“the Most High give you His wings!”
Glaucon saw Lycon turn on the shouter with a scowl that was answered by a composed smile. To the highly strung imagination of the Athenian the wish became an omen of good. For some unknown cause the incident of the Oriental lad he rescued and the mysterious gift of the bracelet flashed back to him. Why should a stranger of the East cast him fair wishes? Would the riddle ever be revealed?
A trumpet blast. The Oriental, his wish, all else save the tawny track, flashed from Glaucon’s mind. The rope fell. The three shot away as one.
Over the sand they flew, moving by quick leaps, their shining arms flashing to and fro in fair rhythm. Twice around the stadium led the race, so no one strained at first. For a while the three clung together, until near the lower goal the Mantinean heedlessly risked a dash. His foot slipped on the sands. He recovered; but like arrows his rivals passed him. At the goal the inevitable happened. Lycon, with the shorter turn, swung quickest. He went up the homeward track ahead, the Athenian an elbow’s length behind. The stadium seemed dissolving in a tumult. Men rose; threw garments in the air; stretched out their arms; besought the gods; screamed to the runners.
“Speed, son of Conon, speed!”
“Glory to Castor; Sparta is prevailing!”
“Strive, Mantinean,—still a chance!”
“Win the turn, dear Athenian, the turn, and leave that Cyclops behind!”
But at the upper turn Lycon still held advantage, and down the other track went the twain, even as Odysseus ran behind Ajax, “who trod in Ajax’ footsteps ere ever the dust had settled, while on his head fell the breath of him behind.” Again at the lower goal the Mantinean was panting wearily in the rear. Again Lycon led, again rose the tempest of voices. Six hundred feet away the presidents were stretching the line, where victory and the plaudits of Hellas waited Lycon of Lacedæmon.
Then men ceased shouting, and prayed under breath. They saw Glaucon’s shoulders bend lower and his neck strain back, while the sunlight sprang all over his red-gold hair. The stadium leaped to their feet, as the Athenian landed by a bound at his rival’s side. Quick as the bound the great arm of the Spartan flew out with its knotted fist. A deadly stroke, and shunned by a hair’s-breadth; but it was shunned. The senior president called angrily to the herald; but none heard his words in the rending din. The twain shot up the track elbow to elbow, and into the rope. It fell amid a blinding cloud of dust. All the heralds and presidents ran together into it. Then was a long, agonizing moment, while the stadium roared, shook, and raged, before the dust settled and the master-herald stood forth beckoning for silence.
“Glaucon of Athens wins the foot-race. Lycon of Sparta is second. Mœrocles of Mantinea drops from the contest. Glaucon and Lycon, each winning twice, shall wrestle for the final victory.”
And now the stadium grew exceeding still. Men lifted their hands to their favourite gods, and made reckless, if silent, vows,—geese, pigs, tripods, even oxen,—if only the deity would strengthen their favourite’s arm. For the first time attention was centred on the tall “time pointer,” by the judges’ stand, and how the short shadow cast by the staff told of the end of the morning. The last wagers were recorded on the tablets by nervous styluses. The readiest tongues ceased to chatter. Thousands of wistful eyes turned from the elegant form of the Athenian to the burly form of the Spartan. Every outward chance, so many an anxious heart told itself, favoured the oft-victorious giant; but then,—and here came reason for a true Hellene,—“the gods could not suffer so fair a man to meet defeat.” The noonday sun beat down fiercely. The tense stillness was now and then broken by the bawling of a swarthy hawker thrusting himself amid the spectators with cups and a jar of sour wine. There was a long rest. The trainers came forward again and dusted the two remaining champions with sand that they might grip fairly. Pytheas looked keenly in his pupil’s face.
“ ‘Well begun is half done,’ my lad; but the hottest battle is still before,” said he, trying to cover his own consuming dread.
“Faint heart never won a city,” smiled Glaucon, as if never more at ease; and Pytheas drew back happier, seeing the calm light in the athlete’s eyes.
“Ay,” he muttered to his fellow-trainer, “all is well. The boy has wakened.”
But now the heralds marched the champions again to the judges. The president proclaimed the rules of the wrestling,—two casts out of three gave victory. In lower tone he addressed the scowling Spartan:—
“Lycon, I warn you: earn the crown only fairly, if you would earn it. Had that blow in the foot-race struck home, I would have refused you victory, though you finished all alone.”
A surly nod was the sole answer.
The heralds led the twain a little way from the judges’ stand, and set them ten paces asunder and in sight of all the thousands. The heralds stood, crossing their myrtle wands between. The president rose on his pulpit, and called through the absolute hush:—
“Prepared, Spartan?”
“Yes.”
“Prepared, Athenian?”
“Yes.”
“Then Poseidon shed glory on the best!”
His uplifted wand fell. A clear shrill trumpet pealed. The heralds bounded back in a twinkling. In that twinkling the combatants leaped into each other’s arms. A short grapple; again a sand cloud; and both were rising from the ground. They had fallen together. Heated by conflict, they were locked again ere the heralds could proclaim a tie. Cimon saw the great arms of the Spartan twine around the Athenian’s chest in fair grapple, but even as Lycon strove with all his bull-like might to lift and throw, Glaucon’s slim hand glided down beneath his opponent’s thigh. Twice the Spartan put forth all his powers. Those nearest watched the veins of the athletes swell and heard their hard muscles crack. The stadium was in succession hushed and tumultuous. Then, at the third trial, even as Lycon seemed to have won his end, the Athenian smote out with one foot. The sands were slippery. The huge Laconian lunged forward, and as he lunged, his opponent by a masterly effort tore himself loose. The Spartan fell heavily,—vanquished by a trick, though fairly used.
The stadium thundered its applause. More vows, prayers, exhortations. Glaucon stood and received all the homage in silence. A little flush was on his forehead. His arms and shoulders were very red. Lycon rose slowly. All could hear his rage and curses. The heralds ordered him to contain himself.
“Now, fox of Athens,” rang his shout, “I will kill you!”
Pytheas, beholding his fury, tore out a handful of hair in his mingled hope and dread. No man knew better than the trainer that no trick would conquer Lycon this second time; and Glaucon the Fair might be nearer the fields of Asphodel than the pleasant hills by Athens. More than one man had died in the last ordeal of the pentathlon.
The silence was perfect. Even the breeze had hushed while Glaucon and Lycon faced again. The twenty thousand sat still as in their sepulchres, each saying in his heart one word—“Now!” If in the first wrestling the attack had been impetuous, it was now painfully deliberate. When the heralds’ wands fell, the two crept like mighty cats across the narrow sands, frames bent, hands outstretched, watching from the corners of their eyes a fair chance to rush in and grapple. Then Lycon, whose raging spirit had the least control, charged. Another dust cloud. When it cleared, the two were locked together as by iron.
For an instant they swayed, whilst the Spartan tried again his brute power. It failed him. Glaucon drew strength from the earth like Antæus. The hushed stadium could hear the pants of the athletes as they locked closer, closer. Strength failing, the Spartan snatched at his enemy’s throat; but the Athenian had his wrist gripped fast before the clasp could tighten, and in the melée Glaucon’s other hand passed beneath Lycon’s thigh. The two seemed deadlocked. For a moment they grinned face to face, almost close enough to bite each other’s lips. But breath was too precious for curses. The Spartan flung his ponderous weight downward. A slip in the gliding sand would have ruined the Athenian instantly; but Poseidon or Apollo was with him. His feet dug deep, and found footing. Lycon drew back baffled, though the clutches of their hands were tightening like vices of steel. Then again face to face, swaying to and fro, panting, muttering, while the veins in the bare backs swelled still more.
“He cannot endure it. He cannot! Ah! Athena Polias, pity him! Lycon is wearing him down,” moaned Pytheas, beside himself with fear, almost running to Glaucon’s aid.
The stadium resumed its roaring. A thousand conflicting prayers, hopes, counsels, went forth to the combatants. The gods of Olympus and Hades; all demigods, heroes, satyrs, were invoked for them. They were besought to conquer in the name of parents, friends, and native land. Athenians and Laconians, sitting side by side, took up the combat, grappling fiercely. And all this time the two strove face to face.
How long had it lasted? Who knew? Least of all that pair who wrestled perchance for life and for death. Twice again the Spartan strove with his weight to crush his opponent down. Twice vainly. He could not close his grip around the Athenian’s throat. He had looked to see Glaucon sink exhausted; but his foe still looked on him with steadfast, unweakening eyes. The president was just bidding the heralds, “Pluck them asunder and declare a tie!” when the stadium gave a shrill long shout. Lycon had turned to his final resource. Reckless of his own hurt, he dashed his iron forehead against the Athenian’s, as bull charges bull. Twice and three times, and the blood leaped out over Glaucon’s fair skin. Again—the rush of blood was almost blinding. Again—Pytheas screamed with agony—the Athenian’s clutch seemed weakening. Again—flesh and blood could not stand such battering long. If Lycon could endure this, there was only one end to the pentathlon.
“Help thou me, Athena of the Gray Eyes! For the glory of Athens, my father, my wife!”
The cry of Glaucon—half prayer, half battle-shout—pealed above the bellowing stadium. Even as he cried it, all saw his form draw upward as might Prometheus’s unchained. They saw the fingers of the Spartan unclasp. They saw his bloody face upturned and torn with helpless agony. They saw his great form totter, topple, fall. The last dust cloud, and into it the multitude seemed rushing together....
... They caught Glaucon just as he fell himself. Themistocles was the first to kiss him. Little Simonides wept. Cimon, trying to embrace the victor, hugged in the confusion a dirty Platæan. Democrates seemed lost in the whirlpool, and came with greetings later. Perhaps he had stopped to watch that Oriental who had given Glaucon good wishes in the foot-race. The fairest praise, however, was from a burly man, who merely held out his hand and muttered, “Good!” But this was from Leonidas.
Very late a runner crowned with pink oleanders panted up to the Athenian watch by Mount Icarus at the custom-house on the Megarian frontier.
“Nika!—He conquers.”
The man fell breathless; but in a moment a clear beacon blazed upon the height. From a peak in Salamis another answered. In Eleusis, Hermippus the Noble was running to his daughter. In Peiræus, the harbour-town, the sailor folk were dancing about the market-place. In Athens, archons, generals, and elders were accompanying Conon to the Acropolis to give thanks to Athena. Conon had forgotten how he had disowned his son. Another beacon glittered from the Acropolis. Another flashed from the lordly crest of Pentelicus, telling the news to all Attica. There was singing in the fishers’ boats far out upon the bay. In the goat-herds’ huts on dark Hymethus the pan-pipes blew right merrily. Athens spent the night in almost drunken joy. One name was everywhere:—
“Glaucon the Beautiful who honours us all! Glaucon the Fortunate whom the High Gods love!”
