The Seven Wonders

IV

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” said Antipater. “Have you ever imagined such a spectacle?”

I had not. Romans love a festival; a play or two put on in a makeshift theater, an open-air feast, chariot races in the Circus Maximus-all these things I had seen many times in my eighteen years. But no celebration in Rome could compare with the free-spirited chaos, or the sheer magnitude, of the Olympiad.

Greeks love an athletic competition. One could almost say they live for these events, where naked young men show off their manly prowess in fierce competitions. Several cities in Greece host such contests, but the Games at Olympia, held every four years, are the grandest and most well attended. They are also the oldest. Antipater and I had arrived for the 172nd Olympiad. Multiplying that number by four, I realized that the Games at Olympia had been going on for nearly seven hundred years. When the first Olympiad was held, Romulus and Remus were mere infants suckling at the she-wolf’s teats, and Rome did not yet exist.

This would be the third Olympiad Antipater had attended in the span of his long life. It was to be my first.

Simply to reach Olympia proved to be an ordeal. From Ellis, the city that administered the Games, the journey took two days. The road was jammed with wagons and pedestrians. Antipater and I rode in a hired mule-cart along with several other travelers, proceeding on the crowded road at a pace that bored even the lazy mules. Food and wine, sold at roadside stands or from moving carts, were plentiful but expensive. Water was harder to come by. After a long, hot summer, the river that ran alongside the road was nearly dry. Local landowners with access to a spring charged exorbitant fees for drinking water. Bathing was out of the question.

On the first night out we slept on the ground, for the rooms at every inn were already taken, with some guests sleeping on the rooftops. Many travelers brought their own tents. Some of the richer visitors, accompanied by entourages and slaves, brought entire pavilions. Competition for flat, smooth patches of ground amid the rocky terrain was fierce.

“Where will we sleep when we reach Olympia?” I asked.

“About that, Gordianus, you need not worry,” said Antipater, and I did not ask again. On our journey to see the Seven Wonders, I was learning to trust my old tutor about our travel arrangements and not to question him too closely.

On the second day, as we drew near Olympia, the road became so congested that the cart came to a standstill.

“Let’s walk the rest of the way,” said Antipater, climbing cautiously from the cart. He stepped behind a boulder and I followed him, thinking he meant to relieve himself and ready to do so myself. But as soon as we were out of sight, Antipater produced an eye patch and affixed a putty nose to his face.

I laughed. “What’s this, Teacher? Do you intend to put on mime shows when we finally reach Olympia?” The query was half in earnest. Antipater loved to entertain an audience.

“I am disguising myself because I do not wish to be recognized in Olympia,” he whispered.

“But that hasn’t been a problem in our travels so far.”

“True, Gordianus, but as you can see, the whole of the Greek world is arriving in Olympia. There’s no telling whom we might encounter. So while we are here, I shall sport a false nose as well as a false name.”

“You’re likely to run into something, wearing that eye patch.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

I laughed. “How peculiar you sound! It must be the putty, pinching your nose.”

“Good. My voice shall be disguised as well.”

Instead of returning to the crowded road, Antipater insisted that we follow a winding footpath up a hillside, saying it would be worth our while to see the lay of the land. When we reached the crest of the hill, I saw below us the valley of the river Alpheus, with Olympia laid out like a city in miniature.

Properly speaking, Olympia is not a city, but a religious center. Its only purpose is to host the Games, which are dedicated to Zeus. I had expected to see a racetrack or two, some public squares for the wrestling and boxing competitions, crowds of spectators here and there, and of course the Temple of Zeus, which contained the famous statue by Phidias, the Wonder of the World we had come to see. But everything about Olympia was of a magnitude far exceeding my expectations.

I took in the awesome natural beauty of the setting, an alluvial plain dotted with poplars, oaks, and olive trees, with pine-covered hills in the distance. Looming just behind Olympia was Mount Kronos, not a particularly high peak but imposing because it stood alone, and famous because of its history; on its summit Zeus wrestled his father, the king of the Titans, for control of the universe. In the valley below, Apollo once took on Ares in a boxing match, and emerged victorious. Off to the east, where the stadium now stood, Apollo defeated Hermes in a footrace. Hercules himself paced out the running track for them-and there it was, freshly groomed and ready to be used by this year’s contestants, covered with raked white sand that sparkled under the bright sun.

At the heart of the complex was the famed Altis, the Sacred Grove of Zeus. Enclosed by a wall, the Altis still contained a number of trees-including the fabled olive tree planted by Hercules, from which the winners’ wreaths would be harvested-but where once a wild forest grew, there now stood a host of temples, shrines, civic monuments, and colonnades, erected over the centuries. The Altis also contained thousands of statues, some of gods, but many more depicting nude athletes, for every winner of an Olympic event was entitled to be immortalized in bronze. Dominating all else was the massive Temple of Zeus with its soaring columns and a roof made of marble tiles. The frieze that ran all the way around the temple, below the roof and above the columns, was decorated with gilded shields that glittered under the afternoon sun.

Outside the Altis were a great many buildings of practical purpose, including assembly halls, barracks for athletes, and an opulent lodge where only the most important visitors to the Games would be housed.

Thronging the entire site, filling the valley and spilling onto the hillsides, were tens of thousands of visitors. I had never seen so many people in one place.

We descended into the valley and were swallowed by the festive crowd. My eyes and ears were given no rest. Here was a juggler, and there a poet with a lyre reciting verses. A hawker announced the upcoming program of recitations, musical performances, and philosophical debates. A herald called for family members of contestants to register for a limited number of reserved places in the stadium. A buxom fortune-teller at a makeshift stall loudly proclaimed to a doddering graybeard that he would live to be one hundred, then took the fellow’s money, pushed him aside, and called for the next customer.

Men rushed this way and that, or stood in groups, talking, eating, and laughing. A religious procession passed by, headed by a priestess in a trailing white gown followed by little boys carrying trays of burning incense. The sweet smoke mingled with the scent of freshly baked flatbread from a nearby food vendor, and then with a confusion of perfumes as a party of visiting dignitaries-Egyptians, to judge by their nemes headdresses-passed in the opposite direction, carried on gilded litters.

We found ourselves in a vast marketplace where vendors hawked an amazing variety of charms, amulets, and souvenirs. There were tiny images of athletes-runners, wrestlers, boxers, javelin throwers, charioteers-as well as miniature replicas of Phidias’s statue of Zeus, executed in painted wood, metal, and even glass.

While Antipater examined a small statue of the famous Discus Thrower by Myron, I was distracted by a pair of beautiful women who sauntered by, laughing and whispering to each other. One was blond and the other brunette and both were as tall as Amazons. Their chitons were so flimsy it seemed the merest breeze might blow them away. Married women were not allowed in Olympia, but other sorts of women were. The blond saw me looking at her and nudged her companion. They both gave me sultry smiles, making it clear their company was for sale-and far beyond my means.

It seemed that the entire world had contracted to a single, swirling vortex, and I stood in the very center of it.

That was when Antipater saw the look on my face and asked if I had ever seen or even imagined such a spectacle-the crowded, chaotic festivity of Olympia on the eve of the Games-and I could only shake my head in wonder, admitting by my silence that I had not.

Continuing to make our way through the throng, we came to a group of spectators who stood in a compact circle. From their bursts of laughter I assumed quite a funny mime show was being performed-or perhaps not, for the laughter had a derisive edge to it and was peppered with catcalls and scoffing noises. Some of the spectators turned away and stalked off, shaking their heads and making faces. Antipater and I slipped into their spots to see what the fuss was about.

The tall man who was holding the crowd’s attention was barefoot and dressed in beggar’s rags, with long, scraggly hair and a beard that might have concealed a bird’s nest or two. His naked limbs were long and spindly. His skin, dark and leathery from long exposure to the sun, made his blue eyes all the more startling, especially since he maintained a wide-eyed stare that showed circles of white all around.

“Fools!” he shouted, shaking a gnarled walking stick in his equally gnarled fist. “You say you come here to honor Zeus, but all you honor is your own appetites. Those you truly worship are not the gods, but the athletes who compete for your amusement-the stupidest and most worthless among you!”

“If the Games are so stupid, what are you doing here, you old fool?” someone shouted back at him.

“Just as a good doctor rushes to help in places full of the sick or wounded, so the wise man must go where idiots gather,” declared the beggar.

“Ugh!” exclaimed Antipater. “The man is a Cynic, here to spoil everyone’s enjoyment.”

“Ah! So that’s what a Cynic looks like.” I had heard of these itinerant philosophers, who cared nothing for personal comfort (or hygiene) and went about loudly disparaging all the things that gave their fellow mortals pleasure. According to Antipater, Cynics were common in the Greek-speaking world, but I had never seen one in Rome, where it was hard to imagine that such antisocial gadflies would ever be tolerated.

A man in a green chiton spoke up. “How dare you come here, to the most sacred of all the Games, and speak against the athletes? What gives more pleasure to the gods than beauty, and what could be more beautiful than the sight of young men running in competition? I put it to you that running is the most noble of mortal pursuits.”

“What you’re really saying is that you get a thrill from watching all those naked, straining backsides,” said the Cynic. The crowd laughed and the object of his derision blushed bright red. “What’s so noble about running, anyway? The rabbit and the antelope are the fastest of creatures-and the most timid! Do you think Zeus gives a whit which coward can flee the fastest?”

This elicited more jeering. In Rome, the crowd would have pelted the fellow with bits of food, or even with stones. But though they sneered and shook their heads, no one raised a hand against the Cynic or made any effort to silence him. Just as the Greeks worship athletes, they also respect the free speech of philosophers-even Cynics.

I turned to Antipater and lowered my voice. “The fellow does have a point.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, what is all this fuss about who can run the fastest, or throw a stick the farthest, or keep on throwing punches after his head’s a bloody pulp? The idea that all these tens of thousands of people should travel hundreds of miles just to watch some athletic competitions-it’s all a bit silly, isn’t it?”

Antipater looked at me as if I had uttered a shocking blasphemy. “I suggest you keep those thoughts to yourself, Gordianus. A Cynic can get away with saying such things, but a visitor from Rome is expected to show more respect.”

“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.”

“The athletes are here to honor Zeus!” shouted someone.

“Are they? I’ll tell you why most of these greedy fellows come here-they’re hoping to strike it rich. Oh, an olive wreath is all they’ll get from the judges, but every city rewards its winners with a fortune in gold and silver, as we all know. Not only do you bow down to these men and throw your sons and daughters at them, you make them rich as Croesus. Then you watch them grow fat and bloated and turn into the very opposite of what they once were. Your beloved Olympiad is a farce!”

Some in the crowd jeered at the Cynic, while others tried to ignore him. The athletes passing before the wall looked up at him and laughed. Some made obscene gestures at him. Suddenly, one of them bolted from the procession and bounded up the wall. He was tall and broad, with massive limbs and a deep chest, and wore only a loincloth. His pale, close-cropped hair and eyebrows, bleached by the sun, were almost as white as his dazzling grin.

“Isn’t that Protophanes of Magnesia?” said someone in the crowd.

“He’s favored to win the pankration,” said another. “What a splendid specimen!”

The young athlete certainly presented a striking contrast to the shaggy, bony Cynic. Protophanes might have been satisfied to show off his own physical perfection next to Simmius’s unsightliness, but with his fellow competitors cheering him on, the brawny athlete stripped off his loincloth, grabbed hold of the Cynic-who flailed his arms in a show of feeble resistance-and stuffed the garment in Simmius’s mouth, tying it in place. The humiliated Cynic turned his back on the crowd and struggled to remove the gag. Next to him, Protophanes stood naked atop the wall, stuck out his chin, and raised his arms in a victor’s pose, pumping the air with his fists.

The crowd roared with laughter. Athletes jumped up and down, grinning and slapping each other on the shoulder. In a spontaneous act of homage, some of them followed Protophanes’ example and stripped off their loincloths, then waved them above their heads. The action spread like wildfire through the procession. In a matter of moments, every one of the hundreds of athletes was naked and had his arms in the air. The onlookers were delighted.

I looked back at the wall and saw that Simmius had vanished; the Cynic must have climbed down the far side, into the Altis enclosure. Protophanes remained atop the wall for a moment longer, soaking up the adoration of the crowd, then jumped down to rejoin his fellow athletes, who cheered and swarmed around him, playfully pelting him with their discarded loincloths.

I glanced at Antipater, half-expecting to see another sentimental tear run down his cheek, but his expression was grave.

“Are you not amused, Teacher? Much as I might tend to agree with your fellow Sidonian, I wasn’t sad to see someone shut him up. What a grating voice he has!”

Antipater shook his head. “I fear it’s the judges who are not amused. Look at them.”

The purple-robed elders at the head of the procession had come to a halt and were staring, stone-faced, back toward the commotion. They whispered among themselves, then at last turned around and strode on. The grinning athletes fell back into ranks and resumed the procession. Protophanes strutted past us, smiling and waving to acknowledge the accolades of the crowd, unaware of the judges’ dour reaction.

As the last of the athletes passed by, the crowd gave a final cheer and then quieted down. Gradually, people resumed the business of shopping, eating, and otherwise amusing themselves. The day’s excitement was over. The swearing of oaths by the athletes and the first of the competitions would begin the next morning.

“There’s still an hour or two of daylight left. What shall we do now?” I asked Antipater. I feared he might suggest that we attend a philosophical debate or poetry recitation, but instead he pointed toward the Altis enclosure. Above the wall I could see the marble roof of the Temple of Zeus, and some of the golden shields that decorated the frieze above the columns.

“We came here to see a Wonder of the World, did we not? I should hate for us to miss a single one of the competitions in the next few days, so why not see it now?”

To this proposal I enthusiastically agreed.

* * *

There was a queue to enter the Temple of Zeus. A donation was demanded of each visitor, and admission was by guided tour only. Our group of fifteen gathered at the bottom of the steps. There we were met by a young guide who informed us that he was a descendant of Phidias, the Athenian sculptor who had created the fabled statue of Zeus.

“As you may know,” the guide said, “the statue is of a type invented by Phidias which is called ‘chryselephantine’-the god’s flesh is made of ivory, while his hair, sandals, and drapery are plated with gold. The statue of Athena by Phidias that stands in the Parthenon in Athens is of this same sort. The gold is incorruptible, but the ivory must be regularly oiled and polished to prevent it from cracking. Here in Olympia, this sacred duty was bequeathed to the descendants of Phidias. It is our hereditary honor to anoint the statue of Zeus. Thus we serve the god, and also the memory of our ancestor, who was the greatest of all the sculptors who ever lived.”

This seemed a rather extravagant claim, and a bit suspect, coming from a descendant. But I decided to reserve judgment until I saw the statue for myself.

“Before we enter the temple, allow me to give you some history, and to point out some architectural details,” the guide continued. “The Temple of Zeus was completed in time for the eighty-first Olympiad; that was three hundred sixty-four years ago. The statue of Zeus was not installed until some twenty-four years later, in time for the eighty-seventh Olympiad. Thus, the statue you are about to see is three hundred forty years old. When you see it, you will understand why it is commonly said that nature created the elephant so that Phidias might harvest the tusks to make his statue.”

I rolled my eyes. “He certainly fawns over his ancestor,” I whispered to Antipater, who shushed me.

“The temple itself is a marvel. It is two hundred thirty feet long and ninety-five feet wide, and stands sixty-eight feet high. The apex of the pediment is surmounted by a thirty-foot statue of Nike, goddess of victory; appropriately, she gazes down on the ancient stadium to the east, from which the runners can look up to her for inspiration.

“Any questions? No? In a moment, then, we shall enter the antechamber of the temple. There you will see a statue of King Iphitos of Ellis, who established the games here at Olympia. He did so at the behest of the Oracle at Delphi, who declared that all Greeks must cease fighting and lay down their arms in the months preceding the Games. Thus did the Olympiad bring to the Greeks the boon of peace and put an end to constant warfare.”

“It’s the Romans who enforce the peace between us now,” mumbled a man behind me. Others in the group grunted to acknowledge this comment. Though they had no way of knowing that I was Roman, I suddenly felt self-conscious.

“In the antechamber,” the guide continued, “you will also see the heavy bronze shields that are carried in the footrace of the armored hoplites on the last day of the Games. And around the top of the chamber’s walls you will see a frieze that depicts the labors of Hercules, an inspiration to the athletes who come here and a reminder that, like Hercules, they must constantly prove themselves. Now, if you will follow me-”

I raised my hand. “Actually, I have a question.”

The man behind me, who had mumbled the anti-Roman comment, made a grunt. I felt painfully aware of my Roman accent, but pressed on. “You mentioned the shields carried by the hoplites in their race. But I’ve been wondering about the gilded shields that decorate the frieze that runs all the way around the temple. What do they signify?”

“An excellent question! There are twenty-one gilded shields in all. They were donated some fifty-four years ago by the Roman general Lucius Mummius when he visited Olympia after he put down the revolt of the Achaean League.”

“After he stamped out the last flicker of Greek resistance!” hissed the man behind me. Antipater looked back at the man and shushed him.

The guide continued. “It was feared that Mummius would do to Olympia what he had done to Corinth-loot the temples and shrines, perhaps raze the entire site-but instead Mummius saw fit to honor the Altis with new statues of Zeus, and to donate the golden shields that you see adorning the frieze of the temple.”

“Paid for by booty from defeated Greeks!” growled the man behind me.

“In gratitude,” the guide went on, “the city of Ellis, which administers the sanctuary of Olympia, erected an equestrian statue of Mummius, which stands in a place of honor among the statues of gods and athletes here in the Altis.”

“And should be pulled down!” declared the man behind me, no longer lowering his voice.

“You there!” said the guide. “I remind you that we are about to enter the house of Zeus. You will not raise your voice again-indeed, you will not speak at all once we enter the temple-or I shall have you ejected. Do you understand?”

I turned around to take a good look at the grumbler. He was a brawny fellow with blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard-perhaps a former athlete himself. He stared back at me for a moment, then at Antipater, who was also looking at him. The man looked elsewhere and mumbled a begrudging acknowledgment to the guide.

We followed the guide up the steps to the entrance, where the huge bronze doors stood open. I paused for a moment to gaze up at the massive marble columns of the portico, then followed the group into the temple.

Perhaps the statue of Iphitos and the hoplites’ shields were impressive, but I could not say, for upon entering the antechamber I had my first glimpse of the statue that occupied the farthest recess of the temple, and from that moment my senses could register nothing else.

I forgot my discomfort at the anti-Roman sentiment I had just encountered. I gaped, and would have walked straight on, directly to the statue, had not Antipater taken hold of my arm. The guide droned on-recounting each of Hercules’ labors, I imagine-but I did not hear. I stared in awe at Zeus seated upon his throne.

There are rare moments in life when the mind refuses to accept what the eye beholds, because the thing beheld simply cannot exist in the world as we know it; it has no place in nature, is thus unnatural and therefore cannot be. Almost always the mind is correct and the eye is mistaken, duped by an optical illusion; but until this tug-of-war between mind and eye is resolved, a kind of stupor grips the beholder. So it was when I beheld Zeus-for surely this was not a mere statue, but the god himself.

At last the guide ceased chattering and stepped past me, inviting the group to follow. With Antipater still holding my arm-a good thing, for I needed his touch to steady me-I moved forward. Each step brought me closer to the god. Larger and larger he loomed, until I felt almost suffocated by his presence. As vast as it was, the temple could hardly contain him. Indeed, were he to rise from his throne, the temple would have been unroofed and the columns scattered.

The dim lighting contributed to the eerie effect. The doorway faced east, to catch the rays of the rising sun, and to allow Zeus to gaze out at the stadium in the distance; by late afternoon, the daylight that penetrated the temple was soft and uncertain, supplemented by braziers on tripods and by torches set in sconces along the high galleries on either side. A long pool directly before the throne of Zeus reflected his image, along with flickering points of light from the flames. The pool added yet another element of unreality, for there was something very strange about the surface. It seemed somehow denser than water, shimmering with a reflectivity more akin to polished black marble. When we reached the edge of the pool and stared down at it, I realized that it was not filled with water at all, but with olive oil. This was the reservoir used by the descendants of Phidias who daily anointed the statue.

The voice of the guide gradually penetrated my consciousness. “The throne of the god is itself a remarkable creation, larger and more opulent than the grandest monument to be found in many a city. Fierce-looking sphinxes form the arms of the chair; their wings curve up to support the god’s elbows. The massive struts and sides of the throne are covered with exquisite paintings and sculptures depicting tales of gods and heroes. Not even the smallest portion of the throne is without ornament; every surface is decorated with elaborately carved marble, or plated with precious metals, or encrusted with sparkling jewels. If Phidias had created nothing more than the Throne of Zeus, we would still say he was the greatest of all artists.

“But behold Zeus himself! The awesome serenity of his visage beneath the golden wreath upon his brow, the majesty of his broad chest and powerful arms, the elegance of the golden drapery that falls from one shoulder and covers his loins. In his left hand he holds a scepter surmounted by a golden eagle. In his right palm he displays to us winged Nike, goddess of victory. Some say that Phidias took his inspiration from the Iliad; when Zeus merely nodded his head, says Homer, ‘All Olympus to the center shook!’ Others think that Phidias must have beheld Zeus with his own eyes.”

“I can believe it!” I whispered.

“Now, if you will follow me back toward the antechamber, we shall ascend to the gallery, and you will be privileged to behold the statute at even closer quarters.”

As we made our way up a narrow spiral staircase in single file, my attention was briefly drawn from the statue. In a daze I took in the sumptuous architectural details of the temple interior. This was a smaller structure than the great Temple of Artemis in Ephesus, but impressive nonetheless. What amazing wealth these Greeks had accumulated in previous centuries, and what remarkable artists and engineers had lived among them!

When we reached the gallery I paused to lean over the parapet and look down at the long reflecting pool, which seen from above was utterly black. Another group of tourists had just entered and were gazing in awe at the statue.

Antipater hissed at me, and I hastened to join the rest of our group at the western end of the gallery. Our guide was silent, which seemed appropriate, for no words could adequately capture the sensation of standing so near the god. Pressed against the balustrade, I stood as close as any mortal could to the face of Zeus Almighty. Had the god turned his head, we would have been eye to eye. Even seen this close, the details of his golden beard, ivory flesh, and lapis eyes were uncanny. Had he blinked, or raised his mighty chest with a sigh, or shaken his head to unloose the golden curls upon his shoulders, I would not have been surprised, for in that moment I had no doubt that the vessel created by Phidias did in fact contain the god.

I flinched, for by the flickering light I perceived a tremor of intent. Zeus was about to turn his face to mine! I braced myself, for were the god to speak, his voice would surely be more deafening than a thunderclap.

Then I blinked, and realized the movement I perceived had been an illusion, for no one around me had reacted to it, and the statue remained just as it was. Fool! I said to myself. Everyone knows the gods in temples never speak aloud. They express themselves through oracles, or dreams, or flights of birds that only augurs can decipher.

Still, as the tour reached its end and the guide led us back to the entrance, I kept looking over my shoulder, feeling the gaze of Zeus upon me.

As we exited the temple and reemerged into daylight, I blinked and shook my head, as if awakening from a dream. The guide seemed unfazed. After all, he gave this tour many times each day, and was privileged to actually touch the statue to anoint the ivory. He handed each of us a small wooden disk. “Use it today, and this token will allow you to visit the workshop of Phidias for half the usual donation requested. The workshop still contains the actual tools and molds used by the master sculptor and his assistants.”

“Shall we press on to see the workshop, Gordianus?” said Antipater.

I sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted. “I think I should lie down for a while. It must be the heat.” I felt a bit chagrined, because it was usually Antipater who grew tired first.

“Very well, let’s return to our host’s pavilion. The crowd will be up and milling about until long past sundown, but there’s no reason we shouldn’t go to bed early.”

“Should we buy a bit of food from one of the vendors, so as to have something to eat later?”

“Oh, I suspect there will be plenty to eat and drink in the pavilion, anytime we need it. Our host can afford to be generous.”

The sun was low on the horizon as we crossed the Altis. The statues all around cast long shadows. One of the longest was that of a warrior atop a horse. His Roman armor made him conspicuous among the naked bronze athletes. I paused to read the Greek inscription on the pedestal:

TO THE HONOR OF LUCIUS MUMMIUS

COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE ROMANS

THE CITY OF ELLIS ERECTS THIS STATUE

IN RECOGNITION OF HIS VIRTUE

AND THE KINDNESS HE HAS SHOWN

TO ELLIS AND TO THE REST OF THE GREEKS

I gazed up at the figure of Mummius. His bland face showed no emotion. One hand held the reins of his horse. The other was raised in a gesture of peace.

“So here it is, the statue the guide mentioned. What do you think of it, Teacher?” I turned my head, only to see that Antipater was striding quickly on. I hurried to catch up.

* * *

Back at our quarters, I fell onto my cot and was asleep at once.

In the middle of the night I woke, prompted by a need to pass water. I stumbled out the flap, still half-asleep, and made my way to a nearby trench that had been dug for the purpose. The moon was nearly full, filling the valley with a dull white light and casting stark black shadows. Not everyone was dozing; above the general quiet I heard echoes of drinking songs and bits of distant conversation, and here and there I saw the glow of a few campfires that were still burning.

I returned to the tent, lifted the flap to our quarters, and was about to duck back inside when I heard a voice coming from elsewhere within the pavilion.

“Something will have to be done about him, and soon!” The speaker seemed to have raised his voice in a sudden burst of emotion. He sounded oddly familiar. Someone answered him, but in a much lower tone that was barely audible.

The first man spoke again. “Harmless? It’s all an act! The fellow’s dangerous, I tell you. Deadly dangerous! I think he’s a spy for the Romans.”

This prompted another hushed reply, and then the first man spoke again. His voice was naggingly familiar. “Whether he’s a spy or not, he’s still liable to expose us as agents of Mithridates. The Sidonian must die!”

At this, I was wide awake. Not only had Antipater been recognized, but someone was talking about killing him-someone in the very pavilion where we were sleeping!

I ducked under the flap. The little room was so dark that I could barely make out the shape of Antipater on his cot, apparently sound asleep. But when I reached out to shake him awake, what I took to be his shoulder turned out to be only a pillow and some folds of a blanket.

“Teacher?” I whispered.

Antipater was gone.

I stood stock-still in the silence and listened. I no longer heard the others elsewhere in the pavilion. Had they heard me whisper? I considered trying to find my way through the maze of flaps and dividers to confront them-whoever they were-but decided that would be madness. If they thought Antipater was a Roman spy, they would know that I was his traveling companion, and would surely wish me harm as well. What had Antipater been thinking, to arrange for us to lodge in a pavilion full of agents for the King of Pontus?

And where was Antipater?

I could not possibly stay in the tent. Nor did it make sense to go about shouting for Antipater, waking others and calling attention to myself. I left our sleeping quarters and under the bright moonlight I threaded my way past smaller tents nearby as well as a number of men sleeping in the open on blankets. By a lucky chance I found an unclaimed spot under an olive tree. Sitting with my back against the trunk, hidden amid deep moon-shadows, I had a clear view of the flap to our quarters. I settled in to watch for Antipater, thinking he would surely return soon. Perhaps, like me, he had gone out to relieve himself, or, unable to sleep, had taken a nocturnal stroll. I would watch for his return, and stop him before he entered the tent where someone-perhaps even our host?-was plotting to kill him.

I underestimated the power of Somnus-or Hypnos, as the Greeks call the god of sleep. Though I fought to keep my eyes open, a power stronger than myself kept shutting them, and the next thing I knew, someone was shaking me awake. I opened my eyes and was startled to see, crouching beside me, a stranger with an eye patch and a lumpy nose-then realized it was Antipater.

“Teacher! Are you all right?”

“Of course I am. And you, Gordianus? Could you not sleep inside the tent?”

By the soft light of dawn, people all around were waking and stirring. In starts and stops, for I was not yet fully awake, I tried to explain to him what I had overheard during the night.

Antipater was silent for a long moment, then shook his head. “It was a dream, Gordianus. What you heard were voices from a dream.”

I shook my head. “No, Teacher, I was wide awake-as awake as I am right now.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Which is still half-asleep, I think. Perhaps you heard something, yes, but I’m sure you misunderstood.”

“No, Teacher, I’m absolutely certain.…”

But was I? The day before, I had been certain that Zeus was about to speak to me, and that had been an illusion. Suddenly the events of the night seemed murky and unreal. “But where were you last night, Teacher? Where did you go?”

He smiled. “It was too hot and stuffy inside the tent for me to sleep. Like you, I found a spot outdoors and slept like a stone. Now wake up, sleepyhead! Let’s have a bite to eat in our host’s pavilion.”

“Are you mad? They may poison you!”

“Gordianus, your fears are groundless, I assure you. But if you wish, we can purchase our breakfast from a vendor on our way to the Bouleuterion.”

“The what?”

“The building in which the athletes will take their solemn oath. They must all promise, before a statue of Zeus clutching thunderbolts, to compete fairly, obey the judges, accept no bribes, and foreswear the use of magic. They do so in small groups, then come out to be greeted by the crowd. It’s a wonderful chance to see all the athletes at close quarters.”

“Didn’t we already see them all yesterday, in the procession?”

Antipater rolled his eyes, then without another word he stood up and headed off. I followed, stumbling a bit, for my limbs were still heavy with sleep.

Outside the Bouleuterion, a crowd had already gathered, but something was amiss. No sooner had we arrived than a complete stranger turned to Antipater and asked, “Is it true, what people are saying?”

“What is that?”

“That Protophanes of Magnesia won’t be allowed to take the oath this morning-which means he won’t be able to compete in the pankration!”

“But why not?”

“Because he laid hands on that Cynic yesterday. Had Protophanes not touched the old fool, there’d be no problem. But because he manhandled the fellow, and because it happened on the Altis enclosure wall, the judges think Protophanes may have broken some sacred law or other.”

“It’s ridiculous!” said another man. “Protophanes only did what we all wanted to do.”

“But he shouldn’t have touched the philosopher,” said another, piously wagging his forefinger.

“They say it may all be up to Simmius the Cynic,” said another.

“How’s that?” said Antipater.

“It seems that none of the judges actually saw what happened-they were too far ahead and didn’t look back in time. So they’ve called on Simmius to testify. If he shows up this morning and declares that Protophanes laid hands on him atop the Altis wall, then it’s all over for Protophanes. Four years of training and his chance for fame and glory-gone like a puff of smoke! And all because of a technicality.”

“And if the Cynic doesn’t show up?” said Antipater.

“Then perhaps Protophanes can take the oath after all. I doubt that any of the other athletes will testify against him, and nor will any of the spectators.”

There was a sudden commotion. The crowd parted for Protophanes, who was coming through, dressed in a modest chiton. Men cheered and clapped. Some rushed forward to give him a supportive slap on the shoulder. The young man, who had been so exuberant the previous day, showed a very different face this morning. Looking grim but determined, Protophanes mounted the steps to the Bouleuterion, but two of the purple-robed judges stepped forward and used their forked rods to block his way.

“You know the charge against you, Protophanes,” said one.

The athlete opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Showing disrespect to the judges would disqualify him from competition as surely as an act of impiety. He swallowed hard and spoke in a low growl. “When will it be decided?”

“Soon enough, I think,” said the judge. “Here comes the Cynic now.”

People stepped back to make way for Simmius, who had just appeared at the edge of the crowd. As usual, the Cynic was making a spectacle of himself, staggering as if he were drunk, clutching at his throat with one hand and making a beseeching gesture with the other.

“What’s he playing at now?” said one of the onlookers in disgust.

“He’s making fun of Protophanes-holding up his right hand, the way fighters in the pankration do when they admit defeat! What nerve the Cynic has, to make fun of a young man even as he’s about to ruin his life!”

Simmius staggered directly toward Antipater and me, coming so close I jumped back. As he veered away, I heard him cry out in a thin, croaking voice, “Thirsty! So thirsty!”

“He’s not acting,” I said to Antipater. “Something’s really wrong with him.”

On the steps of the Bouleuterion, directly in front of Protophanes and the judges, Simmius collapsed. He thrashed his bony arms and legs and rolled his head. “Thirsty! By the gods, so thirsty!”

After a final, hideous convulsion, Simmius rolled over, facedown, with his limbs splayed-and did not move again. The Cynic was dead. His right arm was extended above his head, so that his gnarled forefinger appeared to be pointing directly at Protophanes.

The event was so unexpected and so bizarre that for a long moment no one moved or spoke. Then someone cried out: “Protophanes has killed him!”

There was a great commotion as people pressed forward, drawing as close to the dead Cynic as they dared. The judges took charge, fending off the crowd with their forked rods. Protophanes stayed where he was, looking dumbstruck.

Pushed forward by those behind me, I found myself at the front of the crowd, very close to the corpse. More judges appeared from inside the Bouleuterion. One of them poked his rod at me and told me to back away. I pushed back against the crowd, which pushed forward. Fearing I might step on the corpse, I found myself staring down at the dead Cynic. The forefinger that pointed toward Protophanes was smeared with blood. Looking closely at the finger, I saw two puncture wounds.

“Poisoned! The Cynic must have been poisoned!” cried someone.

“For shame, Protophanes! Why did you do it?” cried another.

“We all know why,” said someone else. “But murder, Protophanes? No man can commit such a shameless crime and expect to compete in the Games of Zeus.”

It appeared that Protophanes was to be tried then and there, if not by the Olympic judges, then by the court of public opinion. People immediately assumed he must be guilty of the Cynic’s death.

“For shame!” said a man behind me. I felt a shiver of recognition. It was the same voice that had muttered words of disdain about Mummius and the Romans behind me at the Temple of Zeus. I frowned, for his voice was familiar for another reason.…

I turned around and spotted the speaker in the crowd, recognizing him by his brawny shoulders and blond beard. In one hand he held a sack made of thick leather, tightly cinched with rope at the top.

“But how did Protophanes manage it?” asked someone.

“Must have tricked the old fool into eating something,” answered another.

“Or more likely drinking something!”

“The Cynic wasn’t poisoned,” I said.

“What’s that?” The judge who had poked me now peered at me and wrinkled his brow. “Speak up, young man!”

I cleared my throat. “Simmius wasn’t poisoned. Not properly speaking-not by anything he ate or drank, anyway.”

“Then what killed him?” said the judge.

“A snake.”

This caused a new commotion in the crowd. Was a deadly snake loose among us?

“Look there,” I said, “at his finger. A snake bit him. I can see the marks from here.”

Some of the judges stooped down to examine the puncture wounds in Simmius’s forefinger.

“He complained of a terrible thirst,” I said. “My father-” I was about to explain to them that my father back in Rome had taught me everything there was to know about snake venoms and their effects, the handling of snakes, the extraction of their venom-but what did they care about that? “It was probably a dipsas that bit him. The venom of the dipsas causes terrible thirst, then convulsions, and then death, all in a matter of moments.”

“I think this young man may be right,” said one of the judges who had been examining the wounds. “But I’m not sure this absolves Protophanes. It’s awfully convenient that the Cynic should have died just now. How did he come to be bitten by a dipsas just when he was about to testify before the judges? Where is this snake, and how did it come to be here? If Protophanes didn’t do the deed himself, perhaps he arranged for someone else-”

“The snake was brought to Olympia not by any friend of Protophanes,” I said, “but by an agent working for a foreign king-the sort of person who’s used to carrying poisons and other weapons for killing people. This man was plotting to kill Simmius of Sidon at least as early as last night; I know, because I overheard him. He’s standing right there.” I pointed at the man with the blond beard. “How he tricked Simmius into reaching into that sack he carries is anyone’s guess.”

The crowd stepped back from the man, who gave me a venomous look.

“You, there!” cried one of the judges. “What do you carry in that sack?”

The man smiled crookedly. “That’s what the Cynic said, when I told him it contained a gift for him. See for yourself!” he shouted, untying the rope and flinging the sack before him. A serpent as long as my forearm flew through the air and landed on the steps, not far from the body of Simmius. Hissing and writhing furiously, the creature darted first in one direction, then in another.

The crowd panicked. Men shouted and tripped over one another in a mad rush to flee.

I grabbed a rod from the nearest judge, who cried out in protest. Ignoring him, I stepped toward the snake and used the forked end of the rod to scoop it up. I grasped the close-set prongs so that the creature was trapped just below the head and could not escape, no matter how furiously it twisted and writhed.

I held the snake aloft. “Someone, cut the creature in two!” I shouted.

Men looked at each other in helpless confusion. No one carried weapons in Olympia.

Protophanes bounded down the steps. He seized the snake with both hands and tore the creature in two, then threw the wriggling remains on the ground and stamped them into oblivion.

The gaping crowd was silent for a long moment. Then a great cheer went up-for Protophanes, not for me.

In all the excitement, the killer had escaped.

* * *

After swearing the oath, the athletes went to the Altis to make offerings at the altars of various gods in preparation for their events. The crowd drifted toward a lavishly decorated marble structure called the Colonnade of Echoes, where the heralds and trumpeters of the Games competed in their own contests, seeing who could hold a note the longest or send the most echoes up and down the colonnade. This tradition had been going on for hundreds of years, and was more engaging than I expected.

The contest had just ended when I saw a familiar figure striding toward us. It was Protophanes. His broad, handsome face was lit with a grin.

“You’re the one who caught the snake, right?”

“I am. Thank you for noticing.” For my quick thinking that morning, I had expected some sort of acknowledgment-perhaps even a reward-but all I got was a begrudging grunt from one of the judges when I returned his forked rod.

“You’re a Roman?” asked Protophanes, catching my accent.

“Yes. The name is Gordianus.”

He nodded. “They let me take the oath, you know. I’m going to win the pankration for sure!” Seeing him so close, I realized that Protophanes was a head taller than I, and twice as broad. “But I still don’t understand. Why did that fellow with the snake kill the Cynic?”

“Because the man with the snake was an agent of Mithridates,” I said. “He didn’t come here to enjoy the Games, but to pursue his own agenda. And he believed that Simmius was a Roman spy who might expose him.”

“That old windbag?” Protophanes laughed.

“Who better to act a spy than the person least suspected?” said Antipater.

“Maybe,” said Protophanes. “But you’d think a spy would keep his head down and not draw attention to himself.”

“Or do the very opposite,” said Antipater.

“A pity the killer got away. The judges could have got the truth out of him, I’m sure. But what’s all this about spying and agents and such? Everyone comes to Olympia in peace. That’s the whole point.”

“On the contrary, young man, Olympia has always been a hotbed of intrigue,” said Antipater. “This is the largest gathering in the Greek world. When so many meet in one place, including some of the richest and most powerful men in the world, there is always more afoot than meets the eye-including espionage. Many a scheme has been hatched in Olympia that has nothing to do with athletics, I assure you.”

Protophanes shook his head. Politics did not interest him. “Well, I just wanted to say hello, and thank you for catching that snake. If they had a contest for quick reflexes, you’d be a hard one to beat, Gordianus! When I win the pankration, I won’t forget you.”

Protophanes walked away. Antipater sighed. “What a pleasant young fellow. I do hope he wins.”

“At least he had the manners to thank me,” I said.

“Well, then, before the afternoon events, shall we return to our quarters for a bite to eat?”

“What! Surely you don’t intend to spend any more time in the pavilion of Exagentus, Teacher.”

“And why not?”

“Because the man’s a killer! Or as good as.”

“Why do you say that, Gordianus?”

“Because of what I overheard last night.”

“You say you overheard the blond man insisting that ‘the Sidonian’ be killed-you thought he meant me, but as you later realized, he actually meant Simmius. But if I understand you correctly, you didn’t clearly hear the other speaker-who may or may not have been our host, and who, if anything, seemed to be disagreeing with the killer.”

“True enough,” I said. “But someone in that pavilion is most certainly in league with Mithridates. ‘He’s liable to expose us as agents of Mithridates’-that’s what the man with the snake said.”

“Even so, what have we to fear from such a person?”

“I exposed the killer! I may have ruined whatever plot they were hatching. What if they mean to take revenge?”

Antipater smiled. “Gordianus, you exposed an assassin. Assassins are expendable. If you fear that you’ve made yourself a target for retribution by the King of Pontus, I think you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Now, let us return to the pavilion. If our host is there, I shall introduce you. Exagentus is quite a nice fellow, I assure you. And he’s justly famous for laying a sumptuous table. I don’t know about you, but this morning’s events have given me quite an appetite.”

* * *

Of the numerous events we attended over the five days of the Olympiad, my memories are all a blur. There were footraces, chariot races, and horse races, as well as the race of hoplites in armor, a cumbersome, clanking affair that struck me as more comical than fearsome. There was something called the pentathlon, which involved throwing a discus and a javelin as well as jumping and running and wrestling. It made me tired just to watch it. Among the final events were the man-to-man combats of wrestling, boxing, and the brutal pankration. Besides these official events, there were exhibition contests for boys not yet old enough to compete, and in the evenings a great deal of drinking and feasting, including the slaughter of a hundred oxen at the Great Altar of Zeus in front of his temple.

Antipater insisted on attending every event, and enjoyed them all immensely. His delight in the pankration struck me as particularly ironic. Here was a man who had devoted his life to the crafting of beautiful verses, striving to capture in words the most delicate sensibilities and elusive states of mind, reduced to a screaming, stamping, bellowing maniac along with his fellow Greeks at the spectacle of two men grappling in the dirt, pummeling each other’s faces with their fists, and gouging each other’s most tender parts. The pankration even allowed choking, and during one of Protophanes’ early bouts, I thought we were about to see him strangle his opponent to death before our very eyes. The sight of the poor fellow’s bright red face, protruding tongue, and bulging eyes caused tears of joy to run down Antipater’s cheeks. The loser barely managed to lift his finger to signal submission before he fainted dead away.

Seeing Antipater’s behavior at the Olympiad, I realized that, though I had known him most of my life, in some ways my old teacher was still a mystery to me.

When all the punching, poking, bone crunching, arm bending, and general mayhem was finally over, Protophanes emerged victorious in the pankration. His face was bloody, one eye was swollen shut, and his whole body was covered with scrapes and bruises, but his grin was brighter than ever as he accepted his victor’s wreath-his second of the Games, for not only did he win the pankration, but the wrestling competition as well, a feat that thrilled Antipater.

“Hercules was the first to win both wrestling and pankration,” he gushed, “and in all the hundreds of years since then, only three others have done the same. Now Protophanes is the fourth. His fame shall outlast us all!”

“Even the fame of Antipater of Sidon, Teacher?”

Antipater sighed. “What is the achievement of a mere poet, compared to that of an Olympic victor?”

To his credit, Protophanes was gracious in victory. After the closing ceremonies, and the procession in which the victors were showered with leaves, he sought me out in the crowd.

“Gordianus! What did you think of the Games?”

“Grueling,” I said.

“Indeed! But to those of us who win, it’s worth all the effort.”

“I’m sure. But may I be candid? The so-called spirit of the Games eludes me. Such a fuss is made about the ideals of sportsmanship, discipline, piety, and fair play, yet the contests themselves seem to me sweaty, hectic, brutish, and violent. What’s touted as a gathering in honor of sport simmers just beneath the surface with politics and intrigue; we even witnessed a murder! And the unspoken tension between Greek pride and Roman hegemony casts a shadow over everything. It makes me wonder about the times we live in, and the customs men live by-‘O tempora! O mores!’ as my father says in our native Latin.”

Protophanes looked at me blankly. Somewhere along the way I had lost him.

“I suppose you’ll be off to the victors’ banquet now,” said Antipater, sighing at the thought of all the winners gathered in one place.

“Yes, and what a feast it’s going to be! But before I go, I wanted to settle a debt.”

“A debt?” I said.

“To you, Gordianus. If they’d blamed me for the Cynic’s death, I’d never have been allowed to take the oath. You took care of that! The city fathers of Magnesia have promised to be very generous to me-doubly generous, since I’ll be taking home not one but two Olympic wreaths.” He held forth a leather pouch. “This is all the money I brought with me, but I won’t be needing it now-rich men will be fighting each other to provide my lodging and to pay for my dinners all the way home. So I want you to have it.”

He pressed the money bag into my hands. It felt quite heavy.

“But I couldn’t-”

“Don’t be modest, Gordianus. Cynicism gets a man nowhere in this life-and neither does modesty. But if you take my advice, you’ll donate whatever portion you can afford to the Temple of Zeus. It’s Zeus who makes all things possible. Zeus gave me victory, and I have no doubt it was Zeus who opened your eyes to the truth about the Cynic’s death. Now I must be off. Safe journeys to you! If you should ever get to Magnesia, look me up.”

“What a fellow!” whispered Antipater, watching him depart. “And what a windfall for you, Gordianus. You should heed his advice, and donate every drachma to Zeus.”

I frowned. “A good part of it, perhaps, but not every drachma, surely.”

“But what would you spend it on? I’ve seen you in the market. You care nothing for all the trinkets and souvenirs for sale.”

“I did see a couple of desirable items,” I said, remembering the blond and brunette who had sauntered by on our first day, as tall as Amazons and wearing chitons no more substantial than a spider’s web. I wondered if they were still in Olympia.