Steven Saylor - The Seven Wonders

At this, I was wide awake. Not only had Antipater been recognized, but someone was talking about killing him-someone in the very pavilion where we were sleeping!

I ducked under the flap. The little room was so dark that I could barely make out the shape of Antipater on his cot, apparently sound asleep. But when I reached out to shake him awake, what I took to be his shoulder turned out to be only a pillow and some folds of a blanket.

“Teacher?” I whispered.

Antipater was gone.

I stood stock-still in the silence and listened. I no longer heard the others elsewhere in the pavilion. Had they heard me whisper? I considered trying to find my way through the maze of flaps and dividers to confront them-whoever they were-but decided that would be madness. If they thought Antipater was a Roman spy, they would know that I was his traveling companion, and would surely wish me harm as well. What had Antipater been thinking, to arrange for us to lodge in a pavilion full of agents for the King of Pontus?

And where was Antipater?

I could not possibly stay in the tent. Nor did it make sense to go about shouting for Antipater, waking others and calling attention to myself. I left our sleeping quarters and under the bright moonlight I threaded my way past smaller tents nearby as well as a number of men sleeping in the open on blankets. By a lucky chance I found an unclaimed spot under an olive tree. Sitting with my back against the trunk, hidden amid deep moon-shadows, I had a clear view of the flap to our quarters. I settled in to watch for Antipater, thinking he would surely return soon. Perhaps, like me, he had gone out to relieve himself, or, unable to sleep, had taken a nocturnal stroll. I would watch for his return, and stop him before he entered the tent where someone-perhaps even our host?-was plotting to kill him.

I underestimated the power of Somnus-or Hypnos, as the Greeks call the god of sleep. Though I fought to keep my eyes open, a power stronger than myself kept shutting them, and the next thing I knew, someone was shaking me awake. I opened my eyes and was startled to see, crouching beside me, a stranger with an eye patch and a lumpy nose-then realized it was Antipater.

“Teacher! Are you all right?”

“Of course I am. And you, Gordianus? Could you not sleep inside the tent?”

By the soft light of dawn, people all around were waking and stirring. In starts and stops, for I was not yet fully awake, I tried to explain to him what I had overheard during the night.

Antipater was silent for a long moment, then shook his head. “It was a dream, Gordianus. What you heard were voices from a dream.”

I shook my head. “No, Teacher, I was wide awake-as awake as I am right now.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Which is still half-asleep, I think. Perhaps you heard something, yes, but I’m sure you misunderstood.”

“No, Teacher, I’m absolutely certain.…”

But was I? The day before, I had been certain that Zeus was about to speak to me, and that had been an illusion. Suddenly the events of the night seemed murky and unreal. “But where were you last night, Teacher? Where did you go?”

He smiled. “It was too hot and stuffy inside the tent for me to sleep. Like you, I found a spot outdoors and slept like a stone. Now wake up, sleepyhead! Let’s have a bite to eat in our host’s pavilion.”

“Are you mad? They may poison you!”

“Gordianus, your fears are groundless, I assure you. But if you wish, we can purchase our breakfast from a vendor on our way to the Bouleuterion.”

“The what?”

“The building in which the athletes will take their solemn oath. They must all promise, before a statue of Zeus clutching thunderbolts, to compete fairly, obey the judges, accept no bribes, and foreswear the use of magic. They do so in small groups, then come out to be greeted by the crowd. It’s a wonderful chance to see all the athletes at close quarters.”

“Didn’t we already see them all yesterday, in the procession?”

Antipater rolled his eyes, then without another word he stood up and headed off. I followed, stumbling a bit, for my limbs were still heavy with sleep.

Outside the Bouleuterion, a crowd had already gathered, but something was amiss. No sooner had we arrived than a complete stranger turned to Antipater and asked, “Is it true, what people are saying?”

“What is that?”

“That Protophanes of Magnesia won’t be allowed to take the oath this morning-which means he won’t be able to compete in the pankration!”

“But why not?”

“Because he laid hands on that Cynic yesterday. Had Protophanes not touched the old fool, there’d be no problem. But because he manhandled the fellow, and because it happened on the Altis enclosure wall, the judges think Protophanes may have broken some sacred law or other.”

“It’s ridiculous!” said another man. “Protophanes only did what we all wanted to do.”

“But he shouldn’t have touched the philosopher,” said another, piously wagging his forefinger.

“They say it may all be up to Simmius the Cynic,” said another.

“How’s that?” said Antipater.

“It seems that none of the judges actually saw what happened-they were too far ahead and didn’t look back in time. So they’ve called on Simmius to testify. If he shows up this morning and declares that Protophanes laid hands on him atop the Altis wall, then it’s all over for Protophanes. Four years of training and his chance for fame and glory-gone like a puff of smoke! And all because of a technicality.”

“And if the Cynic doesn’t show up?” said Antipater.

“Then perhaps Protophanes can take the oath after all. I doubt that any of the other athletes will testify against him, and nor will any of the spectators.”

There was a sudden commotion. The crowd parted for Protophanes, who was coming through, dressed in a modest chiton. Men cheered and clapped. Some rushed forward to give him a supportive slap on the shoulder. The young man, who had been so exuberant the previous day, showed a very different face this morning. Looking grim but determined, Protophanes mounted the steps to the Bouleuterion, but two of the purple-robed judges stepped forward and used their forked rods to block his way.

“You know the charge against you, Protophanes,” said one.

The athlete opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Showing disrespect to the judges would disqualify him from competition as surely as an act of impiety. He swallowed hard and spoke in a low growl. “When will it be decided?”

“Soon enough, I think,” said the judge. “Here comes the Cynic now.”

People stepped back to make way for Simmius, who had just appeared at the edge of the crowd. As usual, the Cynic was making a spectacle of himself, staggering as if he were drunk, clutching at his throat with one hand and making a beseeching gesture with the other.

“What’s he playing at now?” said one of the onlookers in disgust.

“He’s making fun of Protophanes-holding up his right hand, the way fighters in the pankration do when they admit defeat! What nerve the Cynic has, to make fun of a young man even as he’s about to ruin his life!”

Simmius staggered directly toward Antipater and me, coming so close I jumped back. As he veered away, I heard him cry out in a thin, croaking voice, “Thirsty! So thirsty!”

“He’s not acting,” I said to Antipater. “Something’s really wrong with him.”

On the steps of the Bouleuterion, directly in front of Protophanes and the judges, Simmius collapsed. He thrashed his bony arms and legs and rolled his head. “Thirsty! By the gods, so thirsty!”

After a final, hideous convulsion, Simmius rolled over, facedown, with his limbs splayed-and did not move again. The Cynic was dead. His right arm was extended above his head, so that his gnarled forefinger appeared to be pointing directly at Protophanes.