Lysis
Scarface's revelations concerning
my father were still spinning in my brain when Demaratus approached his
tent. I had been escorted and held there
since leaving Scarface's presence by a few of the Persian guards who had
surrounded him. They were a tough lot,
their raiment coarser than the king's guard and their manner thuggish and
surly. They stood silently, saying
nothing to me, ignoring my periodic questions.
All through the day, I waited in the shade of
the Spartan's awning and kept a wary eye out for Medarnes, the pug-nosed
warrior who had some reason to kill me.
I couldn't understand it, but that made my situation no less precarious. Demaratus, it appeared, was all over the
field. He did not return until
nightfall.
In any event, with the incredible
carnage of the battle mere yards away, it was enough for me to avoid the troops
moving toward it and the screaming wounded being carried away from it. From the Spartan's tent, I could see much, but
not all, of what transpired.
I was proud of the Spartans and
allied soldiers in the pass. It was
obvious Leonidas had spoken truly. They
were one solid unit, undeterred by the amazing Persian masses and united in their clear objective to keep
Xerxes out of the pass and out of Greece. I kept waiting for word of the triumph of the
enemy, word, perhaps, that Leonidas had fallen.
But none came. It was
excrutiating to watch, and again, my memory was drawn to far away Olympia.
I had gone there with Hippocrotes
four years before, part of a troop of Kynosarges boys intent on experiencing
for ourselves the wonder of the greatest athletic and religious festival in the
Greek world. The experience had been
amazing. Olympia itself was a sanctuary, not really a
town. It was administered by the town of
Elis, and the
Eleans maintained a jealous control.
When we arrived, just after the games officially opened, the place was a
madhouse. Tens of thousands inundated
the countryside, camping in the open, filling the local inns, denuding the area
of food and water, soiling the streams, and pouring into the stadium on a daily
basis. We followed the crowds and let
ourselves get jostled, pushed and
shoved, lost in the excitement of the multitude. They came from all over the world, these
visitors to the Olympic games. They
dressed as pilgrims and sporting fanatics, some arrived to worship Zeus in the
sanctuary of the Altis, some intent only to witness feats of athletic prowess.
It was intoxicating. On the first day, we swept by the Altis and
past the sacred altar, lost in the press of the crowd. The smells of roasting meat, of horse and
man, the scents of the perfumed and the unwashed were strong, intense,
overwhelming. Flies, insects, and all
manner of biting creatures filled the air, swarming around the open cess pits
and driving the meat vendors to distraction.
With little water to bathe and the hot sun burning overhead, dirt,
sweat, and grime accumulated in every bodily crevice, soon emitting a reek more
familiar in the lower reaches of Athens
than in the sanctuary of the great god.
Nevertheless, despite the discomfort, despite the noise, the dust, and
the smell, the palpable spirit of excitement charging the air overwhelmed our
senses of adventure, possibility, and life.
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