To the Olympics! Ch. 3
Title: To the Olympics!
Genre: Adventure/Drama
Rating: FRT/PG/K+
Summary: The summer of 340 BC: Alexander and Hephaestion attend the Olympics! While exploring new places, meeting new people, facing culture clashes and getting into a fistfight or two, friendship deepens into something more.
Chapter 3: For some, Pella is home. For others, it's . . . not.
© Copyright Joyeee 2008
A/N: Laying groundwork here; Alexander and Hephaestion will star in the next chapter, I promise! Also, if I got any historical details/perspectives wrong please feel free to point out.
Chapter 3: Home
Pella was just as Cleocritus had expected.
Each morning waking here, he felt certain that even Sisyphus, ever rolling the stone up the mountain, could not be more miserably bored than he was among these craggy hills. Blessed Athene, how in the world had he not already wasted away of dullness during this fortnight in Pella? It was a joke to even compare this place to the teeming, bustling city-state that was his home. Small, simple, crude; Pella remained rocky and rough despite painfully obvious efforts spent on the gardens, palace, and marketplace. And if this was the capital of Macedon, Cleocritus shuddered to think of the rustic wastelands that must lie beyond Pella's walls.
He had never expected to miss home; just a few weeks ago he would have dismissed such thoughts as womanly sentiments, unworthy of a man. But in Athens, there was a festival nearly every other day; in Athens, one could visit a different gymnasium every day of the week; in Athens, one could find orators, philosophers, men of influence and power around every corner. In the shops lining the streets, craftsmen turned out wares of the highest quality, including the best pottery in all of Hellas. Silver poured in from the coastal colonies; the port of Piraeus was but a few hours' brisk stroll away, offering quick access to any place of importance in all of Attica.
Cleocritus knew the strengths of Athens well, her history, her culture, her power and influence - greater than Sparta's, though every Spartan citizen devoted his life to the army; greater than Thebes', despite her great generals and Sacred Band. Athens had more than military might; she had culture, philosophy, arts, and a democratic government, and Cleocritus was proud of such a city-state.
If he considered his situation more deeply, he might even admit to pride at his inclusion in the current Athenian delegation to Macedon. At last, he had been deemed ready to assume his duty as an envoy, and this was his first assignment. Understandably, he was under the supervision of his elders - but they were some of the most respected Athenian delegates. And of course, since Philip of Macedon was blustering his way through Attica (why, to hear Demosthenes talk, it would be the end of civilization as they knew it!) Athens was sending its best to deal with Macedon these days.
Not that Pella should even be mentioned in the same breath as Athens. But if Macedon had nothing else, it had brute force, force which Philip had used to gain riches, and with the riches came the money for bribery, the means to buy power, prestige, and the cooperation of other city-states. But quality, character . . . Cleocritus frowned into his half-empty cup. These could never be bought.
As he sat now in Philip's antechamber, sipping wine and listening to his fellow delegates wrangle some final details with the monarch himself, Cleocritus could not help a sullen silence. He had sworn by the shield of Athene that he would prove himself as a delegate, that he would help make Macedon heed Athens and turn the game around, back to what it should be, back to what it was before this one-eyed commander of a few rough hillside tribes had somehow gained influence over a city-state that was far better than any he could ever dream to build. It was bad enough that Cleocritus' own father had helped Aeschines, the orator most opposed to Demosthenes; even worse still that Aeschines was a kinsman of Philocrates, head of a delegation eight years ago which had negotiated the "peace" which gave Amphipolis to Macedon, opening the road for Philip to conquer Thrace.
Demosthenes had also been part of that delegation, but as he asserted so often during his public talks about the threat of Philip, he had no way of preventing his colleagues from giving up Amphipolis. Cleocritus was determined to carve a path for himself away from his father's, back toward Athenian dominance, Athenian glory.
But he had to get back to Athens first. And next time, he would know to bring along more items to keep him from losing his mind here. Perhaps he would even finally get around to reading those old treaties he had skipped in school, unbeknownst to his pedagogue.
Just then, a messenger entered and spoke a few words in the king's ear. Philip blinked. He seemed pleased - no, that was too strong a word. But nevertheless, he had smiled, which was rare enough.
"My son has just arrived back home from his studies, and will join us here shortly. Forgive a father," Philip grinned, his manner entirely too collected to be a mere father welcoming his son home. "But I think perhaps you gentlemen would not mind a short reunion between us?"
Already tall tales about Philip's son abounded all over Hellas - stories about a horse, and a tyrannical childhood teacher, and some ridiculous tall tale about Artemis leaving her temple unprotected to attend his birth. And there was the fact that Aristotle - a wily sort, clever enough to have been second in line to inherit Plato's Academy - was teaching him now. Politely hiding their curiosity with affable smiles, the delegates assented.
Cleocritus absently swirled his cup, his thoughts already focused far away, back in Athens with his favorite girl at a nice, civilized dinner party, with proper fish and fowl, and wine much sweeter and finer than the absolute swill they quaffed around here . . .
"Alexander!" Philip smiled. "Welcome home."
Rather than turning their attention immediately toward the door, the more experienced delegates kept their eyes on Philip; still, only the most observant among them noted that although the king's gaze never lost its shrewd, appraising gleam, there was a flash of something warmer, as a youth entered the room in answer to his greeting. Cleocritus' attention, however, was entirely captured by the youth; he froze with his cup halfway to his lips, and was rather chagrined to realize, however distantly, that the abrupt halt had caused the wine to spill on his pristine robes.
So then, according to the rumors, this was Philip's son - the student of Aristotle, the tamer of a stallion priced at a whopping thirteen talents. Cleocritus could not help staring as the youth advanced through the room, greeting the guests with proper, but very princely, courtesy. His voice was rather high, but the calm self-assurance in his tone more than made up for that, and the accent of his Greek was barely noticeable. He was not overly tall or large, but his physique was enough to make one believe all those stories about Spartan training. Red-gold curls, bearing that seemed to vibrate with energy; and such determination in those luminous grey eyes . . .
Cleocritus shook his head, wondering yet again at the strength of Macedonian drink.
On the spot, he decided that he disliked Alexander as much as anything and anyone else in this misbegotten place.
After all, who was this boy, who did not even look old enough to participate in proper games at the paestra, to walk in like he owned the room and everyone in it? Just another example - perhaps the epitomy! - of Macedon's overweening arrogance in trying to vie with Athens! Gods be praised, in a few hours, right after this accursed little talk with Philip, the delegation would be departing, heading for the nearest port and sailing for home!
to be continued
Genre: Adventure/Drama
Rating: FRT/PG/K+
Summary: The summer of 340 BC: Alexander and Hephaestion attend the Olympics! While exploring new places, meeting new people, facing culture clashes and getting into a fistfight or two, friendship deepens into something more.
Chapter 3: For some, Pella is home. For others, it's . . . not.
© Copyright Joyeee 2008
A/N: Laying groundwork here; Alexander and Hephaestion will star in the next chapter, I promise! Also, if I got any historical details/perspectives wrong please feel free to point out.
Chapter 3: Home
Pella was just as Cleocritus had expected.
Each morning waking here, he felt certain that even Sisyphus, ever rolling the stone up the mountain, could not be more miserably bored than he was among these craggy hills. Blessed Athene, how in the world had he not already wasted away of dullness during this fortnight in Pella? It was a joke to even compare this place to the teeming, bustling city-state that was his home. Small, simple, crude; Pella remained rocky and rough despite painfully obvious efforts spent on the gardens, palace, and marketplace. And if this was the capital of Macedon, Cleocritus shuddered to think of the rustic wastelands that must lie beyond Pella's walls.
He had never expected to miss home; just a few weeks ago he would have dismissed such thoughts as womanly sentiments, unworthy of a man. But in Athens, there was a festival nearly every other day; in Athens, one could visit a different gymnasium every day of the week; in Athens, one could find orators, philosophers, men of influence and power around every corner. In the shops lining the streets, craftsmen turned out wares of the highest quality, including the best pottery in all of Hellas. Silver poured in from the coastal colonies; the port of Piraeus was but a few hours' brisk stroll away, offering quick access to any place of importance in all of Attica.
Cleocritus knew the strengths of Athens well, her history, her culture, her power and influence - greater than Sparta's, though every Spartan citizen devoted his life to the army; greater than Thebes', despite her great generals and Sacred Band. Athens had more than military might; she had culture, philosophy, arts, and a democratic government, and Cleocritus was proud of such a city-state.
If he considered his situation more deeply, he might even admit to pride at his inclusion in the current Athenian delegation to Macedon. At last, he had been deemed ready to assume his duty as an envoy, and this was his first assignment. Understandably, he was under the supervision of his elders - but they were some of the most respected Athenian delegates. And of course, since Philip of Macedon was blustering his way through Attica (why, to hear Demosthenes talk, it would be the end of civilization as they knew it!) Athens was sending its best to deal with Macedon these days.
Not that Pella should even be mentioned in the same breath as Athens. But if Macedon had nothing else, it had brute force, force which Philip had used to gain riches, and with the riches came the money for bribery, the means to buy power, prestige, and the cooperation of other city-states. But quality, character . . . Cleocritus frowned into his half-empty cup. These could never be bought.
As he sat now in Philip's antechamber, sipping wine and listening to his fellow delegates wrangle some final details with the monarch himself, Cleocritus could not help a sullen silence. He had sworn by the shield of Athene that he would prove himself as a delegate, that he would help make Macedon heed Athens and turn the game around, back to what it should be, back to what it was before this one-eyed commander of a few rough hillside tribes had somehow gained influence over a city-state that was far better than any he could ever dream to build. It was bad enough that Cleocritus' own father had helped Aeschines, the orator most opposed to Demosthenes; even worse still that Aeschines was a kinsman of Philocrates, head of a delegation eight years ago which had negotiated the "peace" which gave Amphipolis to Macedon, opening the road for Philip to conquer Thrace.
Demosthenes had also been part of that delegation, but as he asserted so often during his public talks about the threat of Philip, he had no way of preventing his colleagues from giving up Amphipolis. Cleocritus was determined to carve a path for himself away from his father's, back toward Athenian dominance, Athenian glory.
But he had to get back to Athens first. And next time, he would know to bring along more items to keep him from losing his mind here. Perhaps he would even finally get around to reading those old treaties he had skipped in school, unbeknownst to his pedagogue.
Just then, a messenger entered and spoke a few words in the king's ear. Philip blinked. He seemed pleased - no, that was too strong a word. But nevertheless, he had smiled, which was rare enough.
"My son has just arrived back home from his studies, and will join us here shortly. Forgive a father," Philip grinned, his manner entirely too collected to be a mere father welcoming his son home. "But I think perhaps you gentlemen would not mind a short reunion between us?"
Already tall tales about Philip's son abounded all over Hellas - stories about a horse, and a tyrannical childhood teacher, and some ridiculous tall tale about Artemis leaving her temple unprotected to attend his birth. And there was the fact that Aristotle - a wily sort, clever enough to have been second in line to inherit Plato's Academy - was teaching him now. Politely hiding their curiosity with affable smiles, the delegates assented.
Cleocritus absently swirled his cup, his thoughts already focused far away, back in Athens with his favorite girl at a nice, civilized dinner party, with proper fish and fowl, and wine much sweeter and finer than the absolute swill they quaffed around here . . .
"Alexander!" Philip smiled. "Welcome home."
Rather than turning their attention immediately toward the door, the more experienced delegates kept their eyes on Philip; still, only the most observant among them noted that although the king's gaze never lost its shrewd, appraising gleam, there was a flash of something warmer, as a youth entered the room in answer to his greeting. Cleocritus' attention, however, was entirely captured by the youth; he froze with his cup halfway to his lips, and was rather chagrined to realize, however distantly, that the abrupt halt had caused the wine to spill on his pristine robes.
So then, according to the rumors, this was Philip's son - the student of Aristotle, the tamer of a stallion priced at a whopping thirteen talents. Cleocritus could not help staring as the youth advanced through the room, greeting the guests with proper, but very princely, courtesy. His voice was rather high, but the calm self-assurance in his tone more than made up for that, and the accent of his Greek was barely noticeable. He was not overly tall or large, but his physique was enough to make one believe all those stories about Spartan training. Red-gold curls, bearing that seemed to vibrate with energy; and such determination in those luminous grey eyes . . .
Cleocritus shook his head, wondering yet again at the strength of Macedonian drink.
On the spot, he decided that he disliked Alexander as much as anything and anyone else in this misbegotten place.
After all, who was this boy, who did not even look old enough to participate in proper games at the paestra, to walk in like he owned the room and everyone in it? Just another example - perhaps the epitomy! - of Macedon's overweening arrogance in trying to vie with Athens! Gods be praised, in a few hours, right after this accursed little talk with Philip, the delegation would be departing, heading for the nearest port and sailing for home!
to be continued