Tyrant by Christian Cameron Read Free Book Online

of making friends in the gymnasium. Everyone wanted to congratulate him on his skill, on the beauty of the moment. It made him happy. But he needed a massage and a rest, and he said so, declining innumerable offers of further contests until someone said they were all going to throw javelins and he couldn’t resist. He followed them outside and felt a pang - Philokles, forgotten or ignored, was running laps outside around a big field full of sheep.
     
    Kineas didn’t know what to do with the Spartan, who seemed to have become a dependant. Gentlemen weren’t supposed to be so bereft, but Kineas suspected that he himself wouldn’t have been much different if he had washed up on an alien shore with no belongings and no home. He waved. Philokles waved back.
     
    A slave herded the sheep well down the field and the men started to throw. It wasn’t a formal game; older men who were disgusted by their first throw took a second or even a third until they were satisfied, whereas younger men had to suffice themselves with one throw. It would never have done at the Olympic games, but it was comfortable, as the shadows shortened, to lie on the grass (mindful of the sheep turds) and watch the whole community of men compete. Kineas was conscious of his legs and the imperfections of his body, but he’d proven himself an athlete and was one of them now, making easy conversation with Isokles about the olive harvest in Attica and the problems of shipping olive oil.
     
    Calchus threw with a great cry, and his javelin came close enough to make one of the sheep move with unaccustomed speed. He laughed. ‘That’s the best so far. I have a mind to throw again - they’re my sheep, we could all eat mutton tonight.’
     
    Kineas was to throw next to last and Philokles last, places of honour because they were guests. Diodorus had thrown early - a good throw, with no grunt or cry, beaten only by Calchus. Most of the other towns-men had been competent, but the youth Ajax had surprised Kineas by his poor throw. Isokles had beaten it, throwing well, if short of the final mark, and he’d teased his son.
     
    Kineas was used to throwing from horseback, and he threw too flat, but it was still a long throw - again the sheep started as his javelin landed close to them.
     
    Calchus winced. ‘You’ve become an athlete while I run to fat in exile,’ he said.
     
    Philokles picked up several javelins before choosing one. He walked over to Calchus, who was talking business with another man. ‘This is scarcely sporting. I’m a Spartan.’ He said it with a smile, an overweight Spartan showing a sense of humor.
     
    Calchus didn’t understand. He indicated with a flick of his head that he had been interrupted. ‘If you can do better than we have, let’s see it.’
     
    Nettled, Philokles gestured at the sheep. ‘How much for the straggling ewe?’
     
    Calchus ignored him, returning to his conversation and then jerked his head around in time to see Philokles throw, arching his body and almost leaving the ground. The javelin leaped from his hand, flew high and descended fast. It knocked the ewe to the ground, all four feet splayed, the bolt from heaven pinning her to the ground through her skull.
     
    There was a moment of shocked silence and then Kineas began to applaud. Then they all applauded the throw and teased Calchus about his ewe, suggesting various prices for her, some obscene, until Calchus laughed. Most of the town’s social interaction seemed to revolve around keeping Calchus pleased. Kineas didn’t like to watch it.
     
    Isokles pointed down the field. ‘Let’s have a run,’ he said. And they set the distances and were off, running for a while in a pack until the better runners grew bored and took off. They circled the field three times, a good distance, and finished in the yard of the gymnasium. Kineas was close to last and took some good-natured teasing about his legs, and then they headed for the baths.
     
    Tired and clean,