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Updated: May 3, 2025
It fell amid a blinding cloud of dust. All the heralds and presidents ran together into it. Then was a long, agonizing moment, while the stadium roared, shook, and raged, before the dust settled and the master-herald stood forth beckoning for silence. “Glaucon of Athens wins the foot-race. Lycon of Sparta is second. Mœrocles of Mantinea drops from the contest.
Amyntas of Thebes is poorest and drops from the games.” But who heard the herald now? By this time all save the few Mantineans who vainly clung to their champion, and the Laconians themselves, had begun to pin their hopes on the beautiful son of Conon. There was a steely glint in the Spartan athlete’s eye that made the president of the games beckon to the master-herald. “Lycon is dangerous.
Next the master-herald announced that now, on the third day of the games, came the final and most honoured contest: the pentathlon, the fivefold struggle, with the crown to him who conquered thrice. He proclaimed the names of the six rivals, their cities, their ancestry, and how they had complied with the required training.
The master-herald proclaimed the order of the leaping: that each contestant should spring twice, and he whose leaps were the poorest should drop from the other contests. Glaucon stood, his golden head thrown back, his eyes wandering idly toward his friends in the stadium. He could see Cimon restless on his seat, and Simonides holding his cloak and doubtless muttering wise counsel.
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