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.
âIs that your baby brother?â 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.
âThatâs Teo, yes.â
âBut heâs too adorable ! Can I have him?â
âNo, Leander, you canât.â
âIâll trade you two of my brothers and throw in my father for free.â
âNo.â
âSelfish!â
âAbsolutely.â
Alexos had joined the other runners at the last minute, just before they marched in (Ektor had insisted, on the grounds that a prince âdoes not wait aroundâ), so he hasnât had a chance to study them till now. They are, as previously described by Leander, the sort of men you would expect: noblemenâs sons from the polis or great country estates. Several could still be described as boysâseventeen or eighteenâand a few are vaguely familiar. The rest are full-grown men with beards.
But Alexos isnât interested in them. Heâs looking for the famous greasy peasant from Attaros. Leander has refused to point him out, assuring Alexos heâll know him when he sees him.
âItâs going to be all right,â Leander says.
âWhat?â
âThe race. All you have to do is run really fast.â
âIâm aware of that, Leander.â
âApologies, my lord. Itâs just that you were looking very flushed, thatâs all. I thought perhaps you were nervous.â
âItâs hot. Havenât you noticed?â
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.
Itâs not completely unheard of for a commoner to enter the race, but it is extremely rare. And usually theyâre 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 hereâby his own merits, when he is only twelveâhow much more astonishing is the path this peasant has taken?
Running for the laurel crown is a noblemanâs 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 timeâracing 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 Atheneâs 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.
âTouching, isnât it?â Leander says. His eyes crinkle and Alexos canât tell whether he means it or not.
âYes,â Alexos replies, no expression in his voice. âI rather hope he wins.â
A sudden blast of horns
Learning to Kill: Stories