Meantime, the heavy drill strengthened my shoulders, and helped to balance them with my legs and loins, which were marked already with the Runner’s Girdle. At about this time, a man took to following me in the palaestra so boldly that I took offence at it, and would not speak to him. He overtook me, however, when I was scraping-down, and turned out not to be a suitor but a statuary, who wanted a model. Feeling I owed him something for my incivility, I let him make some sketches, in spite of the annoyance of people standing to watch. But when he importuned me to come to his workshop, I had to refuse for want of time. I was now working every day with my trainer, for the Panathenaia was coming near; and this was the Great Year, when her new cloak is carried to Athene, and they hold the Games.
Thrice in my life I had seen the sacred procession; at four, at eight and at twelve years old: the ship-carriage of the Goddess, with the maidens holding out the robe to show the work; the gilt-horned oxen wreathed for sacrifice, the girls with the sacred baskets, the ephebes picked for beauty, and the winners of the Games. Twice I had stood in the street, among the sweating crowds from the country, to see my father ride by with the knights, his purple-bordered cloak taken out from the chest of sweet herbs, his head crowned with myrtle, his horse groomed till it shone like bronze. This year he did not ride. Nor did I watch. For I won the long-race for boys, and marched with the winners.
More clearly than the race, I remember standing on the starting-stone, toeing the lines, afraid of getting off too soon and being thrashed by the umpires, or too late and losing. It was very hot; for many days Helios had parched the fields without rain. The dust of the track was scorching to the foot; it filled my throat and my nostrils, covered my tongue and burned my lungs; in the last lap I seemed to breathe knives, and to choke, and to be made of lead, and scarcely to move. My ears roared with the shouting and with blood; I could hear my breath sobbing, yet as I toiled more the sound grew less; it was the runner-up I had heard and he was falling behind. And I had passed the mark before I knew it; of a sudden people were catching me in their arms and laughing, unbinding the sweat-rag from my head, wiping my face, and tying on my arm and thigh the ribbons of the victor.
I felt myself snatched as it were from hand to hand; my eyes dazzled, my body clothed with thick dust seemed to boil with heat; I felt smothered with the pressure of so many; my heart swelled and beat like a drum; I thrust my hands outward, feeling I must breathe or die. An umpire shouted, “Back there, back, make room for the boy.” Then the crowd grew less, and my great-uncle Strymon appeared in it, saying the proper things. My breath came easier, and looking round I saw all the people who used to crowd on me every day at the palaestra, the same faces again. While my eyes had been clouded, and all those hands were about me, I had fancied I know not what, some happiness, drawn by my victory as a moth flies to the torch. But the faces were all the same.
So I heard my name proclaimed by the herald, and in the Temple of the Maiden I was crowned with the olive crown; and seemed, as one does at such moments, to belong no more to myself but to the City and her gods, and to be clothed with gold. Outside, the sun beat white and scorching on the High City, and dazzled back from the rock, but it was cool in the Temple; we stood in our order, while they sang the Victors’ Hymn. Before me, Autolykos, who once again had won the men’s pankration, stood like marble, modest and calm. So it was over and I came down from the Temple, and saw on the steps Autolykos greeted by his father Lykon; laughing now and returning the embrace. I went home with my uncle Strymon, holding in my hands the oil-vase they had given me, with a picture of the race on one side and the Goddess on the other. The sacred
Thrice in my life I had seen the sacred procession; at four, at eight and at twelve years old: the ship-carriage of the Goddess, with the maidens holding out the robe to show the work; the gilt-horned oxen wreathed for sacrifice, the girls with the sacred baskets, the ephebes picked for beauty, and the winners of the Games. Twice I had stood in the street, among the sweating crowds from the country, to see my father ride by with the knights, his purple-bordered cloak taken out from the chest of sweet herbs, his head crowned with myrtle, his horse groomed till it shone like bronze. This year he did not ride. Nor did I watch. For I won the long-race for boys, and marched with the winners.
More clearly than the race, I remember standing on the starting-stone, toeing the lines, afraid of getting off too soon and being thrashed by the umpires, or too late and losing. It was very hot; for many days Helios had parched the fields without rain. The dust of the track was scorching to the foot; it filled my throat and my nostrils, covered my tongue and burned my lungs; in the last lap I seemed to breathe knives, and to choke, and to be made of lead, and scarcely to move. My ears roared with the shouting and with blood; I could hear my breath sobbing, yet as I toiled more the sound grew less; it was the runner-up I had heard and he was falling behind. And I had passed the mark before I knew it; of a sudden people were catching me in their arms and laughing, unbinding the sweat-rag from my head, wiping my face, and tying on my arm and thigh the ribbons of the victor.
I felt myself snatched as it were from hand to hand; my eyes dazzled, my body clothed with thick dust seemed to boil with heat; I felt smothered with the pressure of so many; my heart swelled and beat like a drum; I thrust my hands outward, feeling I must breathe or die. An umpire shouted, “Back there, back, make room for the boy.” Then the crowd grew less, and my great-uncle Strymon appeared in it, saying the proper things. My breath came easier, and looking round I saw all the people who used to crowd on me every day at the palaestra, the same faces again. While my eyes had been clouded, and all those hands were about me, I had fancied I know not what, some happiness, drawn by my victory as a moth flies to the torch. But the faces were all the same.
So I heard my name proclaimed by the herald, and in the Temple of the Maiden I was crowned with the olive crown; and seemed, as one does at such moments, to belong no more to myself but to the City and her gods, and to be clothed with gold. Outside, the sun beat white and scorching on the High City, and dazzled back from the rock, but it was cool in the Temple; we stood in our order, while they sang the Victors’ Hymn. Before me, Autolykos, who once again had won the men’s pankration, stood like marble, modest and calm. So it was over and I came down from the Temple, and saw on the steps Autolykos greeted by his father Lykon; laughing now and returning the embrace. I went home with my uncle Strymon, holding in my hands the oil-vase they had given me, with a picture of the race on one side and the Goddess on the other. The sacred
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