"You made the finals, didn't you?" he shouts. "You absolutely did!"

Leander breaks into a spectacular grimace of shock and wide-eyed amazement, then jumps off the bench and dashes away as the others are up and running after him. He barely makes it to the gra.s.s along the side of the portico before they bring him down, pile on him in a heap, screaming, "Horse trough! Horse trough! Horse trough!"

An hour later, having doused their champion and sent away the masters, they sit in a companionable circle, laughing and slapping their thighs at the wonder of it all, while Leander gives his highly colored account of the race.

He had come in ninth. And of course he makes a huge drama of that, with the Giant of the North (of whom they've already heard) playing a strong supporting role-d.o.g.g.i.ng Leander's heels, frothing at the mouth, grunting and growling.

"And wait till you hear the best part," he says. They wait. He leans into the center of the circle, looks left and right, and drops his voice. "You'll never guess."

"That's right, you toad," t.i.tus says. "So tell us!"

"Oh, I'm wounded." Leander pretends to be wounded. Then there's another long pause with lots of feigned scowling. "All right," he says, relenting. "So. Here it is. Among the final eleven-plus Alexos, of course, who makes twelve-there are several from the royal city. We've seen them around, but I don't know any of them by name. There are also several of the type you'd expect-country gentlemen's sp.a.w.n, shining and earnest."

"And the Giant of the North."

"No, sadly, the Giant didn't make the cut. I would so have loved for you to see him."

"Shall we throw him in the trough again?"

"No, please. I'm almost dry."

"Tell us the amazing thing, then-or in you go."

Leander c.o.c.ks his head, grins wickedly: "And then there is Peles of Attaros."

"What is that?"

"That is a man-or rather, a youth; I'd guess he's sixteen, seventeen."

"But where is Attaros? I've never heard of it. All the great houses, even in the-"

"He doesn't live in a great house, Delius."

"Where does he live, then?"

"In a hovel, you boulder-for-brains! He's a peasant. He lives in a hovel and pushes a plow."

"No!"

"Yes! Peles of Attaros is a genuine, humble peasant-a bit greasy, kind of stringy, and none too clean. But he's in the final twelve for the festival race and you shall see him for yourselves."

"A peasant and a twelve-year-old in the very same year-that's too amazing! It'll go down in the records."

"Two twelve-year-olds," Leander says. "Don't forget Alexos."

"Oh, right-and a prince, too!"

"Is he fast?"

"Who?"

"The plowboy."

"Well, of course he's fast, you thick-wit. I don't know why I even talk to you people."

The afternoon slides away; the shadows of the buildings creep slowly out onto the empty track and the training yard. As the sun sinks, the wind drops. In an hour or so the day will settle into the thick, oppressive stillness of summer nights.

The boys have worn themselves out in their revelry. They have said everything witty or rude they can think of, and soon they will be expected back at their fathers' houses. They stretch and yawn. There are little silences. The party is breaking up. Alexos, who has said next to nothing all this time, now clears his throat to get their attention.

"May I say something?" He glances from face to face, as if this were an actual question, as in: Did he have their permission to speak?

They are stunned. These boys might be rowdy in a school yard setting, but all are sons of great families; they have good manners when they choose to use them, and a thorough knowledge of court protocol. And for the crown prince of Arcos to ask their permission for anything is so surprising that for a moment they do not answer. Then there follows a chorus of polite voices: "Of course, of course!"

"Thank you," Alexos begins. "I have wanted to explain to you about the decision to race for the laurel crown, but I could never quite find the right time or the right words. It seems appropriate now, and it will make me feel better." He pauses, marshaling his thoughts. "I never wanted-and still do not want-to run in the festival race. But my father insisted. It was also his decision that I not run in the trials, but be given an automatic place. I spoke strongly against both decisions and was overruled. I tell you this with his permission, by the way. And I tell you because I can't bear any longer for you to think less of me than I deserve.

"I also wish you to understand that I am quite aware of the difference between me and Leander-and I don't mean that I am a prince and he is not."

This draws a laugh and Alexos is encouraged.

"The difference is that he won his place fairly, while I was given mine. I am in awe of that, Leander. And envious, too. However things turn out at the festival race, you will long be remembered for what you've already accomplished, what you earned by your own merit. I am honored to race at your side."

There is a brief silence while everyone waits to see if there is more. When it's clear that Alexos has finished, the circle breaks into loud applause, punctuated by hoots and cheers. Alexos smiles, and blushes too, quite cheered by this display of affirmation.

"Oh, and something else," he says, a bit giddy with new hope and good feeling. "I would like to thank you, gentlemen, for just this once not being so annoyingly polite!"

Now they're roaring and pounding him on the back. For a moment Alexos is afraid he'll be the next one in the trough. But they do have to draw a line somewhere.

All the same, this is new. This is good. It's wonderful, in fact. And really, how hard was it?

Not very hard at all.

5.

THE PROCESSION TO THE temple begins at dawn. Alexos has been up for hours, performing the act of purification and dressing in his sacred robes. Now he walks in the place of honor beside his father. They are followed by Ektor's chief counselors and the priests of Athene. Altogether, they are about twenty.

Early though it is, the day is already muggy and hot. Alexos feels it as never before. He's ragged, too, having slept poorly the night before, worrying about the race and the part he must play this morning.

He's been rehearsing his temple speech for days, afraid that in his nervousness he might get tangled, or miss a word, or forget the whole thing. When he'd finally fallen asleep last night, he'd gone on reciting the speech in his dreams. Now, between the exhaustion and the heat, Alexos feels almost sick. He tries earnestly to hide it, telling himself not to slouch, to walk with dignity, to keep a solemn expression on his face.

They climb the wide marble steps, proceed through the gateway into the sacred compound, then stop in front of the altar. The four white heifers are already there, tied to iron rings, waiting placidly. Alexos has heard that sacrificial animals are usually dosed with special herbs to a.s.sure that they will die well. Certainly these heifers seem exceedingly calm.

Alexos has never liked sacrifices, but the G.o.ds apparently do, and it is important to please Athene on her festival day. So he stands, quiet and dignified, as the priests say the appointed prayers; as one after another the white throats are slit, their blood startlingly bright against the marble of the altar; as one after another their bellies are cut, their livers studied, and the omens declared to be good. The thigh bones, especially favored by the immortals, are removed from each carca.s.s and burned on the altar. The smell of roasting meat floats skyward, a tempting gift for blessed Athene. The rest of the meat will be carried away. They'll feast on it at the banquet tonight.

Usually the smell makes Alexos hungry. But today it makes his stomach turn-that and all the blood. His father and the masters were right. He'll never make a warrior.

The sacrifice complete, they enter the temple. The alcove in which the image stands has been draped with swags of laurel. The G.o.ddess herself is dressed in cloth of gold. Smoke and incense hang heavy in the air.

They have brought many gifts-golden goblets, wine bowls, statues, coins. In pairs they climb the steps of the dais and set their offerings before the G.o.ddess. When the last of the gifts has been presented, the priests begin their prayers while Alexos and his father lie prostrate on the floor, their arms outstretched in supplication.

"O great and compa.s.sionate Athene," the priests chant in unison, "wisest of all the immortals, we honor you this day with our humble gifts and heartfelt praise. We are as beetles and worms in your august presence. We are undeserving of your notice. But we dare to come before you . . ."

The cool stone is soothing against Alexos' body. But even here in the temple the air is stagnant and heavy with moisture. He has heard the stories of the old days, before the Time of Punishment. Back then summers in Arcoferra were fair and mild, a season of flourishing fields and wildflowers in the gra.s.s.

No one alive can remember those days; it was much too long ago. Yet Alexos senses it now as he lies sprawled on the temple floor, his arms reaching out toward the feet of the G.o.ddess, his cheek pressed hard against stone. He can almost see the fields and flowers, feel the fresh wind in his hair, hear the carefree laughter of children as they run in the gra.s.s, unafraid of stalking pestilence. Because, in that other world and time, the summer sickness doesn't exist.

"We are most heartily sorry, and penitent, and ashamed of the grievous sins that have brought disgrace upon our kingdom," the priests are chanting, "calling down upon our heads the wrath of all who dwell on Olympus, most especially the great king of the G.o.ds. Meekly we submit, and humbly we accept the righteous retribution they have seen fit . . ."

Alexos is no longer sensing this vanished paradise; he is seeing it clearly in the eye of his mind. The trees are so intensely green, so shiny and clean, it's as if someone has taken a cloth and polished every leaf. There are no dead branches; the trees are all perfectly formed: dream trees, like something the G.o.ds might have made. The gra.s.s is as soft as kitten fur. Alexos strokes it in his mind, noting the perfect little white and yellow blossoms that nest among the silky, green blades. There is a delicate mist floating across the landscape. Alexos can feel it, moist against his skin: cool but not cold; just right.

He sees a man and a girl sitting in a wild country garden. Flowers are everywhere, a riot of color. Like the trees, they are also perfect, every petal fresh and new, every leaf immaculate.

The man and girl seem to be peasants, judging by their clothes at least. But their faces aren't ravaged by hardship. Alexos thinks the man must be old, since his hair and beard are turning white. But his arms and shoulders are as strong and firm as those of a much younger man. His skin has the sheen of youth. And really, he doesn't seem peasantlike at all. He's-how to describe it? Serene. Confident. Almost regal.

How very odd.

The girl is remarkable too. Had it not been for the shabby dress she wears, he might have taken her for a G.o.ddess. Her skin is fair and creamy smooth, like Teo's: baby skin, breathtaking, flawless. And her hair, which has been hastily gathered up in a messy pile on the back of her head and fastened with a wooden comb, is the color of summer wheat. It shimmers like fine gold. It takes his breath away, just looking at such perfection.

The two sit at the edge of a gra.s.sy lawn as the father draws figures in the dirt with a stick. The girl leans over and points. Alexos, who floats above them unseen, studies the marks and is startled to see something quite familiar: a triangle with squares attached to each of its three sides. Now the man writes the formula and the girl, who can't be more than eight or nine years old, seems to understand it. She nods and smiles at the neatness of the theorem, just as Alexos had when the master first explained it.

This peasant man is teaching his little peasant daughter-geometry! How truly astonishing.

Alexos is dimly aware that the priests are no longer praying. The king is on his knees now and has just finished speaking. It's Alexos' turn to address the G.o.ddess now.

Dragging himself away from the vision is horribly wrenching. He doesn't want to go. Leaving that place and those people feels like a personal loss, like the death of someone he loves. And it's physically painful too. It's as if his spirit had somehow left his body and has now returned to find it a ruin, broken and bleeding. It takes all his strength just to rise to his knees.

He tries to calm himself as invisible hands begin to touch him. They squeeze at his throat, they form a tight band around his head, they suck the breath from his chest and grip his belly. He's afraid he's going to be sick. And this terrifies him most of all, for to vomit at the feet of the G.o.ddess would be the worst kind of sacrilege.

Also, he has completely forgotten his speech. For a moment he just kneels there, swaying, frantically trying to think. And then it comes to him that neither the beautiful vision nor his current torment is a natural occurrence. They are G.o.ddess-given, sent for a reason. And with this flash of understanding, the words come. They are not the words his father gave him to memorize; they are what the G.o.ddess wants him to say.

"O great Athene," Alexos cries in a startling voice, so full of anguish that the king turns and stares with alarm, "I submit myself to your will this day, and every day of my life, wholly and unreservedly. I put myself in your hands, trusting in your wisdom and goodness to guide me. I ask no pity for myself, whatever I must endure, but only for the suffering people of Arcos and Ferra. For them, I humbly beg your mercy and your blessing."

Somehow he manages to rise and leave the temple, descending the great marble staircase and continuing down the hill toward the palace. The road is lined with people. Some are from the city; others have come from far away to attend the festival. They are animated, smiling. They stare at Alexos, the embodiment of their hope. He hardly sees them.

Only now is he aware that his father has a firm grip on his arm. It must be obvious how unsteady he is; the king is afraid he will fall. But the grip is not friendly. Alexos can feel the anger in it. And he suspects he'll feel a great deal more anger when they reach his father's chambers.

"You are supposed to be so clever," Ektor says, his voice as cold as ice. "Yet you couldn't learn a simple speech, given to you well in advance. Or was it too much trouble, not worth the effort? Was that it, Alexos? You just decided it was easier to make something up on the spot? Because you didn't think it mattered? Well, let me tell you . . ."

Through it all, Alexos is strangely calm. He's still in his fog, but it's become more transparent now. He can hear his father's words; he can see the handsomely appointed room they're sitting in-the tapestries, the mosaics, the finely carved chairs and tables. He can smell the rank air and feel the oppressive heat.

The king has stopped shouting. His son's composure has unsettled him. It's an unnatural response to such a scolding, certainly not what he'd expected. And he begins to wonder if perhaps the boy-who is, after all, the chosen one-knows something he does not. His mouth goes slack. He leans forward.

"Well, then," he says. "Tell me."

Alexos meets his father's eyes directly. As before, the words do not come from conscious thought; they are already formed on his tongue.

"The G.o.ddess is ready for me now, Father. And I have accepted."

6.

THE CROWD HAS BEEN gathering since midday. Already the commoners' stands are full; those who came later sit on the gra.s.s. Many have walked great distances to get here; tomorrow most of them will head back home. But they will be able to say that they've been to the great polis of Arcos. They can say they've seen King Ektor in person, and the famous crown prince Alexos, the chosen champion of Athene. They will have witnessed the sacred procession and the festival race and dined at a royal banquet. Stories will be told about this day for as long as they live. They feel it was more than worth the trouble.

There has been a performance over in the theater-a play, or maybe it was poetry with pipes and a lyre, something like that. Apparently it has just let out, because the men of rank are coming in now, their ladies on their arms. They take their places in the stands reserved for them. They are quieter and more dignified than the common folk, but just as excited.

When everyone is settled, the first fanfare sounds. They all rise as the runners come onto the field, two by two, and go to stand on the gra.s.s in the shade of a special canvas awning. Moments later, the second fanfare announces the arrival of the king, his councilors, his greatest n.o.blemen, and the priests of Athene.

Everything about their entrance is majestic, just as it should be: flags flying, musicians playing, sunlight dancing off the gilt threads of flowing capes and robes, and sweet little Prince Matteo, as solemn as a priest, walking behind his father, dressed in purple linen and wearing a tiny crown on his head.

"Is that your baby brother?" Leander asks, hand to heart, a huge grin on his face. He and Alexos stand together at the edge of the little knot of elite runners.

"That's Teo, yes."

"But he's too adorable! Can I have him?"

"No, Leander, you can't."

"I'll trade you two of my brothers and throw in my father for free."

"No."

"Selfish!"

"Absolutely."

Alexos had joined the other runners at the last minute, just before they marched in (Ektor had insisted, on the grounds that a prince "does not wait around"), so he hasn't had a chance to study them till now. They are, as previously described by Leander, the sort of men you would expect: n.o.blemen's sons from the polis or great country estates. Several could still be described as boys-seventeen or eighteen-and a few are vaguely familiar. The rest are full-grown men with beards.

But Alexos isn't interested in them. He's looking for the famous greasy peasant from Attaros. Leander has refused to point him out, a.s.suring Alexos he'll know him when he sees him.

"It's going to be all right," Leander says.

"What?"

"The race. All you have to do is run really fast."