A Victor of Salamis
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