Aphrodesia
By: A.F.Allen
ISBN: 978-1-877546-65-5
All rights reserved
Copyright © Aug 2009, A.F.Allen
Cover Art Copyright © Aug 2009, Brightling Spur
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Dedication
Above all to my wife for putting up with me as I go from angst to anxiety to triumph and back again as I write. Her support and her belief in me make it more than just worthwhile.
Thanks also to David and Paulette at Bluewood Publishing for their confidence in me and my work.
Aphrodesia
“State your name, state your business in the city of Aphrodisias.”
The man in front of him mumbled something and gestured to the cage of chickens he was carrying. The guard nodded and let him through, leaving Hermias at the front of the queue.
“State your name, state your business in the city of Aphrodisias.”
The person immediately behind Hermias jostled him, impatient to get through the gate.
“Hermias, I am here for the games.”
“What land?”
“From the city of Athens.”
“Ah, a Greek, I thought you had the look of one of them. Do you have an invitation?”
“Aye, here.”
Hermias thrust the parchment toward the gate guard, who simply shrugged and stood aside to let him pass. Belatedly Hermias realised the man almost certainly couldn’t read.
The streets teemed with people of all nationalities and Hermias couldn’t help himself, gawking at all the marble buildings lining the streets. Although not as large a city as his, Athens, was obviously richer, still in its prime. The immediate pang of jealousy, as he compared the bright marble facades with his own run down home city, still living on its former glory, was ruthlessly suppressed. He was here on a mission. To win the Stadia Valodorium, the crowning event in the bi-annual games held in the magnificent stadium here. Pushing through the throngs of people, he asked directions of the merchants until he found the Inn of the Seven Grapes, where his sponsor had arranged lodgings for him until the day of the race.
* * * *
“Urrah!”
Hermias thought the roar of the crowd was loud enough even to wake the dead. The nine young men, who made up the field for the final event, the Valodorium, were lined up at one end of the massive marble stadium. The seating rose up thirty tiers high, blocking out all views of the city from down here on the sandy floor. The narrow structure stretched out in front of him for exactly three hundred standard paces.
Hermias knew all this from the elimination rounds that had he had won through in, during the previous few days. Today though was the real test. Those races had been over a mere three laps, not the stamina sapping twenty-two the competitors faced today.
There was another crucial difference too. The elimination races had been in front of almost empty seats, only a few die-hard spectators watching. Today the stadium was full, every seat taken, even the less favoured ones at the narrow ends of the stadium.
“To your positions.”
The official in charge of the start called out his orders, scarcely heard over the continuous tumult of the crowd.
“Ready!”
The nine young men took their position. Hermias had been drawn number five, the middle man in the line, not regarded as a favoured position, but he didn’t intend to compete to be first to the far turning post anyway. Let the others jostle and run themselves to a standstill if they wanted.
He had studied the other competitors, watching the other elimination races even as he prepared for his own. He believed he had the beating of them over the longer distance but the wiry Scythian was perhaps his greatest challenger. This man, drawn on the outside position, the most favoured, looked a dangerous competitor, indeed, and in the last of his races had shown an astonishing burst of speed to win.
“Runners . . . Go!”
The nine men left the starting line to a roar of approval from the crowd. Several of the competitors surged ahead, almost sprinting for the honour of getting to the first turn in the lead. Hermias let them go. The Scythian hung back as well and the two tracked the other seven runners down the long length of the stadium. In front, the two largest runners vied for position, intent on winning the minor honour in the race. Elbows flashed and the leaders jostled all the way down the three hundred paces with the crowd roaring them on all the way.