A Victor of Salamis. William Stearns Davis

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 [pg 42]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.”

      [pg 43]

      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 [pg 44]shoulders were very red. Lycon rose slowly. All could hear his rage and curses. The heralds ordered him to contain himself.

      “Now, fox of Athens,” rang his shout, “I will kill you!”

      Pytheas, beholding his fury, tore out a handful of hair in his mingled hope and dread. No man knew better than the trainer that no trick would conquer Lycon this second time; and Glaucon the Fair might be nearer the fields of Asphodel than the pleasant hills by Athens. More than one man had died in the last ordeal of the pentathlon.

      The silence was perfect. Even the breeze had hushed while Glaucon and Lycon faced again. The twenty thousand sat still as in their sepulchres, each saying in his heart one word—“Now!” If in the first wrestling the attack had been impetuous, it was now painfully deliberate. When the heralds’ wands fell, the two crept like mighty cats across the narrow sands, frames bent, hands outstretched, watching from the corners of their eyes a fair chance to rush in and grapple. Then Lycon, whose raging spirit had the least control, charged. Another dust cloud. When it cleared, the two were locked together as by iron.

      For an instant they swayed, whilst the Spartan tried again his brute power. It failed him. Glaucon drew strength from the earth like Antæus. The hushed stadium could hear the pants of the athletes as they locked closer, closer. Strength failing, the Spartan snatched at his enemy’s throat; but the Athenian had his wrist gripped fast before the clasp could tighten, and in the melée Glaucon’s other hand passed beneath Lycon’s thigh. The two seemed deadlocked. For a moment they grinned face to face, almost close enough to bite each other’s lips. But breath was too precious for curses. The Spartan flung his ponderous weight downward. A slip in the gliding sand would have ruined the [pg 45]Athenian instantly; but Poseidon or Apollo was with him. His feet dug deep, and found footing. Lycon drew back baffled, though the clutches of their hands were tightening like vices of steel. Then again face to face, swaying to and fro, panting, muttering, while the veins in the bare backs swelled still more.

      “He cannot endure it. He cannot! Ah! Athena Polias, pity him! Lycon is wearing him down,” moaned Pytheas, beside himself with fear, almost running to Glaucon’s aid.

      The stadium resumed its roaring. A thousand conflicting prayers, hopes, counsels, went forth to the combatants. The gods of Olympus and Hades; all demigods, heroes, satyrs, were invoked for them. They were besought to conquer in the name of parents, friends, and native land. Athenians and Laconians, sitting side by side, took up the combat, grappling fiercely. And all this time the two strove face to face.

      How long had it lasted? Who knew? Least of all that pair who wrestled perchance for life and for death. Twice again the Spartan strove with his weight to crush his opponent down. Twice vainly. He could not close his grip around the Athenian’s throat. He had looked to see Glaucon sink exhausted; but his foe still looked on him with steadfast, unweakening eyes. The president was just bidding the heralds, “Pluck them asunder and declare a tie!” when the stadium gave a shrill long shout. Lycon had turned to his final resource. Reckless of his own hurt, he dashed his iron forehead against the Athenian’s, as bull charges bull. Twice and three times, and the blood leaped out over Glaucon’s fair skin. Again—the rush of blood was almost blinding. Again—Pytheas screamed with agony—the Athenian’s clutch seemed weakening. Again—flesh and [pg 46]blood could not stand such battering long. If Lycon could endure this, there was only one end to the pentathlon.

      “Help thou me, Athena of the Gray Eyes! For the glory of Athens, my father, my wife!”

      The cry of Glaucon—half prayer, half battle-shout—pealed above the bellowing stadium. Even as he cried it, all saw his form draw upward as might Prometheus’s unchained. They saw the fingers of the Spartan unclasp. They saw his bloody face upturned and torn with helpless agony. They saw his great form totter, topple, fall. The last dust cloud, and into it the multitude seemed rushing together. …

      … They caught Glaucon just as he fell himself. Themistocles was the first to kiss him. Little Simonides wept. Cimon, trying to embrace the victor, hugged in the confusion a dirty Platæan. Democrates seemed lost in the whirlpool, and came with greetings later. Perhaps he had stopped to watch that Oriental who had given Glaucon good wishes in the foot-race. The fairest praise, however, was from a burly man, who merely held out his hand and muttered, “Good!” But this was from Leonidas.

      * * * * * * *

      Very late a runner crowned with pink oleanders panted up to the Athenian watch