The Chosen Prince by Diane Stanley Read Free Book Online

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 grass in the shade of a special canvas awning. Moments later, the second fanfare announces the arrival of the king, his councilors, his greatest noblemen, 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.
    â€œIs 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.
    â€œThat’s Teo, yes.”
    â€œBut he’s too adorable ! Can I have him?”
    â€œNo, Leander, you can’t.”
    â€œI’ll trade you two of my brothers and throw in my father for free.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSelfish!”
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    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: noblemen’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, assuring Alexos he’ll know him when he sees him.
    â€œIt’s going to be all right,” Leander says.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe race. All you have to do is run really fast.”
    â€œI’m aware of that, Leander.”
    â€œApologies, my lord. It’s just that you were looking very flushed, that’s all. I thought perhaps you were nervous.”
    â€œIt’s hot. Haven’t you noticed?”
    Leander starts to reply, then bites his tongue.
    Alexos has found his man now. And, as described,he looks like a peasant, not a prodigy, with the sun-blasted skin and lean, ropy muscles of one who labors in the fields. His face is all angles; his wiry, short-cropped hair gleams with oil and sweat. His hands are brown and calloused, dark half-moons of dirt wedged beneath the fingernails.
    It’s not completely unheard of for a commoner to enter the race, but it is extremely rare. And usually they’re eliminated in the first round. To have made it this far is remarkable. Alexos tries to imagine this hollow-cheeked country lad actually winning the laurel crown. He finds the thought surprisingly appealing. For as amazing as it is that Leander is here—by his own merits, when he is only twelve—how much more astonishing is the path this peasant has taken?
    Running for the laurel crown is a nobleman’s sport, not the sort of thing a plowboy thinks of. Yet somehow this fellow did imagine it; then he presumably trained for it in his rare free time—racing down country lanes after a long day of grueling work, fueled only by the pathetic scraps that must constitute his diet. And now here he is: one of the final twelve on Athene’s festival day! For these few, brief hours, Peles of Attaros has earned the right to stand beside noblemen and a prince as their equal. Nothing Alexos has ever done remotely compares with that. It moves himso deeply that tears well up in his eyes.
    â€œTouching, isn’t it?” Leander says. His eyes crinkle and Alexos can’t tell whether he means it or not.
    â€œYes,” Alexos replies, no expression in his voice. “I rather hope he wins.”
    A sudden blast of horns