A Victor of Salamis. William Stearns Davis

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: [pg 33]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

      [pg 34]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:—

      [pg 35]

      “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 [pg 36]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.

      [pg 37]

      “The quoit-hurling follows,” once more the herald; “each contestant throws three quoits. He who throws poorest drops from the games.”