The Seven Wonders: A Novel of the Ancient World (Novels of Ancient Rome) (14 page)

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.