Before them all he was crowned with the simplest wreath on earth, made of wild olive-leaves, but the wild olive-tree from which they had been gathered grew only in that sacred grove, and the wreath was worth more to him and every other Greek than any kingly diadem. There was a great feast given by the architheori that night to the several victors in the games; and first among them, calm and radiant, sat the Athenian conqueror.
When it was over and he had retired to the tent provided for him by the state of Ephesos, and his servants and companions had left him, seeking their various amusements or repose, he strolled forth disguised, to muse in quiet after the day’s excitement. The scene was a curious one, the plain and its surrounding hills glimmering with ten thousand lights, and far and near resounding with music, mirth, and revelry; yet he heard and saw but little. While deep in a dreamy state of happiness, and some half-conscious sense of being still unsatisfied, a well-remembered voice recalled him to himself:
‘Son of Kleinias, art thou now content?’
‘Why not, Sokrates?’
‘Does the prize which thou hast won, that barren wreath of olive, satisfy thy soul?’
‘What could on earth, if that did not?’
‘Thou seest these thousands of the Greeks of every state and city except one, all engaged in peaceful rivalry and games, and in the service of the gods; would it not be well if Greece could ever be at peace, and all the cities and peoples live together, like one state?’
‘Indeed, I think it might be well.’
‘And hadst thou not an opportunity of late to keep peace with the bravest of them all—the rough and manly Spartans?’
‘I know not what you mean, Sokrates. I did the best I could for Athens. But tell me, thou who art so fond of questioning, when first the gods made man, did not they put into his heart a love of war? And if we should have peace for ever, might not mankind, grown sleek and fat, perchance forget the gods, nor ask for courage, nor delight in manly exercise?’