“Glaucon of Athens wins the foot-race. Lycon of Sparta is second. Mœrocles of Mantinea drops from the contest. Glaucon and Lycon, each winning twice, 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.”
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?”