The Chosen Prince (4 page)

“So here's the real, true story, little man. Long ago, on the day I was born, Father and the priests and the augur took me to the temple of Athene, as is traditional.”

“I know that part. Carissa— I mean, I've heard it before.”

“Of course. Everyone has. And everyone thinks that while I was there, the goddess gave me all sorts of magical gifts. But she didn't, Teo. She just gave me a big, hard job to do. And I have to do it all by myself, without the help of special powers. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure what it involves; I expect Athene will tell me when the time comes. That's not very exciting, I'm afraid. Absolutely no flying to Olympus or magical wings on my heels.”

Teo shrugs. “She still chose you. That's exciting.”

“I suppose it is. And now that I think about it, there is one other thing. I'm only guessing, since I was a little baby at the time and can't remember anything at all. But I see how things have been arranged in my life, and it makes sense.”

“What?” Teo has perked up again.

“Well, the goddess Athene is, as you know, famously merciful and kind. And I think she must have looked down on me that day—so tiny and defenseless, you know, with all that hard work ahead of me—and felt pity in her heart. So she changed her mind and gave me one gift after all. What do you suppose it was?”

Teo cannot imagine.

“It was you, Teo. The goddess gave me you.”

“Oh,” Teo says with a contented sigh. “That was very nice of her.”

“Yes, I think so too.”

THE MORNING HAS FOLLOWED
the usual schedule: mathematics, literature, poetics, then music. But in no other way has it been routine. The boys are inattentive; the masters are distracted. They all keep glancing at the door or gazing out windows as if expecting news to arrive at any moment. This is pointless, of course. They aren't likely to hear anything till midday at least. And since this is the final round, there will probably be some formalities afterward—speeches of congratulations, instructions on where and when to assemble for the race, how they will enter in procession—which will take even more time.

But the formalities would only apply to the eleven winners, the ones who will run on festival day (Alexos, who already has his place, being the twelfth). So the
longer they wait for Leander, the better the news is likely to be.

And no one wants Leander to succeed more than Alexos does. But his reasons are complicated, a web of dark and light, genuine good wishes woven with his own deep fears: What if Leander fails to win a place, and after his brave struggle and well-earned glory, he has to sit in the stands on festival day while Alexos gets to run? Far worse, what if he comes in
twelfth
—but
too bad
, that place is already reserved this year?

This thought is so appalling that Alexos has been seriously thinking about arranging some kind of accident, conveniently breaking a leg and thereby opening up that twelfth spot. The more he thinks about it, the more appealing the idea becomes, regardless of how Leander fares in today's trials. It would be such an easy way out of an impossible situation. Why did he not think of this before?

He'd have to plan it carefully, though; it mustn't look suspicious. And it would have to be a serious fall, enough to do real damage without causing his actual death. He's mentally working out the details, not paying the least attention to his classmates (two of whom are trying, in an unfocused sort of way, to play a duet on their lyres), when his thoughts are rudely interrupted by the music master's voice.

“Markos! Timon!
Stop!
” The master has covered his ears and is scowling as if in physical pain. “You offend the very gods with that disgusting noise—I will not dignify it with the name of music.”

Markos and Timon fall silent as ordered. They know their playing wasn't that bad. It's just the master's way of breaking early for the midday meal. He, like everyone else, is too nervous to concentrate today.

In summer they eat outside on the covered porch, the whole class at a single long table. For Alexos this has always been the hardest moment of the day. Sitting together like this, free of masters, free to talk, the boys at their ease, he is made keenly aware that he really isn't part of the group. When they speak to him, it's always with forced politeness. But most of the time they don't.

It's even more uncomfortable now that they talk of nothing but Leander and the race. Alexos is never mentioned; you'd think he wasn't running at all. So he sits quietly in his usual spot at the far end of the south bench, tearing off bits of bread and putting them in his mouth. He isn't the least bit hungry.

“What should we do if he makes the finals?” Titus asks. “Throw him into the horse trough?”

“Don't be stupid,” Delius says. “We carry him
around the track with a chamber pot for a crown.”

“No, I think Titus is right. We should throw him in the trough.”

“But what if he doesn't make the cut?” Felix says.

That brings the conversation to a halt. It's not that they haven't considered this possibility. But by the time Leander made it to the finals, it had come to seem inevitable that he'd go all the way. It would be bad luck even to suggest otherwise.

“I say we throw him in the trough anyway,” Titus says.

And then Delius spots Leander far in the distance, ambling across the field at an easy pace, looking down at his feet as he goes. He seems to be in no hurry, kind of thoughtful, lazy, perhaps even a little bored. When he's near enough, they see he isn't smiling.

This is exactly how Leander would act if he had lost: casual, easy, dignified. He wouldn't have the heart to joke about it, but nor would he show them his pain.

“Oh, no!” Gaius says.

“Don't jump to conclusions,” Markos says. “He's probably just tired from the race.”

“Yeah, probably.”

Alexos feels sick. He's back to thinking about falling down stairs.

The master of arms takes a step forward. The boys
hadn't heard him come out onto the portico, hadn't even known he was there. He'd probably been standing nearby all along, waiting like the rest of them. Now the other masters emerge from various doorways. Together they watch his approach.

At last Leander reaches the porch and flops down on his end of a bench. He is red-faced and slick with sweat. He looks around at the shocked, expectant faces, raises his brows, shrugs, and gives a brave, false smile. “Oh, well,” he says.

There is a deep silence in which all of them search for comforting things to say, then wonder if some sort of joke might be better, more in keeping with Leander's style, less humiliating. They gaze down at the table, at their hands, at their feet. They nod silently, in a sad, “Oh, well” sort of way.

But Alexos continues to look directly at Leander. So he is the only one to notice when Leander starts to lose control. There's a twitching at the corners of his mouth, a pursing of the lips. And now Alexos is leaning in, drilling him with his eyes,
daring
him to keep it up, knowing he can't do it.

“You made the finals, didn't you?” he shouts. “You absolutely did!”

Leander breaks into a spectacular grimace of shock and wide-eyed amazement, then jumps off the bench and dashes away as the others are up and running
after him. He barely makes it to the grass along the side of the portico before they bring him down, pile on him in a heap, screaming, “Horse trough! Horse trough! Horse trough!”

An hour later, having doused their champion and sent away the masters, they sit in a companionable circle, laughing and slapping their thighs at the wonder of it all, while Leander gives his highly colored account of the race.

He had come in ninth. And of course he makes a huge drama of that, with the Giant of the North (of whom they've already heard) playing a strong supporting role—dogging Leander's heels, frothing at the mouth, grunting and growling.

“And wait till you hear the best part,” he says. They wait. He leans into the center of the circle, looks left and right, and drops his voice. “You'll never guess.”

“That's
right
, you toad,” Titus says. “So tell us!”

“Oh, I'm wounded.” Leander pretends to be wounded. Then there's another long pause with lots of feigned scowling. “All right,” he says, relenting. “So. Here it is. Among the final eleven—plus Alexos, of course, who makes twelve—there are several from the royal city. We've seen them around, but I don't know any of them by name. There are also several of the type you'd expect—country gentlemen's spawn,
shining and earnest.”

“And the Giant of the North.”

“No, sadly, the Giant didn't make the cut. I would
so
have loved for you to see him.”

“Shall we throw him in the trough again?”

“No, please. I'm almost dry.”

“Tell us the amazing thing, then—or in you go.”

Leander cocks his head, grins wickedly:
“And then there is Peles of Attaros
.
”

“What is that?”

“That is a man—or rather, a youth; I'd guess he's sixteen, seventeen.”

“But where is Attaros? I've never heard of it. All the great houses, even in the—”

“He doesn't live in a great house, Delius.”

“Where does he live, then?”

“In a hovel, you boulder-for-brains! He's a
peasant.
He lives in a hovel and pushes a plow.”

“No!”

“Yes! Peles of Attaros is a genuine, humble peasant—a bit greasy, kind of stringy, and none too clean. But he's in the final twelve for the festival race and you shall see him for yourselves.”

“A peasant and a twelve-year-old in the very same year—that's too amazing! It'll go down in the records.”

“
Two
twelve-year-olds,” Leander says. “Don't forget Alexos.”

“Oh, right—and a prince, too!”

“Is he fast?”

“Who?”

“The plowboy.”

“Well,
of course
he's fast, you thick-wit. I don't know why I even talk to you people.”

The afternoon slides away; the shadows of the buildings creep slowly out onto the empty track and the training yard. As the sun sinks, the wind drops. In an hour or so the day will settle into the thick, oppressive stillness of summer nights.

The boys have worn themselves out in their revelry. They have said everything witty or rude they can think of, and soon they will be expected back at their fathers' houses. They stretch and yawn. There are little silences. The party is breaking up. Alexos, who has said next to nothing all this time, now clears his throat to get their attention.

“May I say something?” He glances from face to face, as if this were an actual question, as in: Did he have their permission to speak?

They are stunned. These boys might be rowdy in a school yard setting, but all are sons of great families; they have good manners when they choose to use them, and a thorough knowledge of court protocol. And for the crown prince of Arcos to ask their
permission for anything is so surprising that for a moment they do not answer. Then there follows a chorus of polite voices: “Of course, of course!”

“Thank you,” Alexos begins. “I have wanted to explain to you about the decision to race for the laurel crown, but I could never quite find the right time or the right words. It seems appropriate now, and it will make me feel better.” He pauses, marshaling his thoughts. “I never wanted—and still do not want—to run in the festival race. But my father insisted. It was also his decision that I not run in the trials, but be given an automatic place. I spoke strongly against both decisions and was overruled. I tell you this with his permission, by the way. And I tell you because I can't bear any longer for you to think less of me than I deserve.

“I also wish you to understand that I am quite aware of the difference between me and Leander—and I don't mean that I am a prince and he is not.”

This draws a laugh and Alexos is encouraged.

“The difference is that he won his place fairly, while I was given mine. I am in awe of that, Leander. And envious, too. However things turn out at the festival race, you will long be remembered for what you've already accomplished, what you earned by your own merit. I am honored to race at your side.”

There is a brief silence while everyone waits to see if there is more. When it's clear that Alexos has finished, the circle breaks into loud applause, punctuated by hoots and cheers. Alexos smiles, and blushes too, quite cheered by this display of affirmation.

“Oh, and something else,” he says, a bit giddy with new hope and good feeling. “I would like to thank you, gentlemen, for just this once not being
so annoyingly polite
!”

Now they're roaring and pounding him on the back. For a moment Alexos is afraid he'll be the next one in the trough. But they do have to draw a line somewhere.

All the same, this is new. This is good. It's wonderful, in fact. And really, how hard was it?

Not very hard at all.

THE PROCESSION TO THE
temple begins at dawn. Alexos has been up for hours, performing the act of purification and dressing in his sacred robes. Now he walks in the place of honor beside his father. They are followed by Ektor's chief counselors and the priests of Athene. Altogether, they are about twenty.

Early though it is, the day is already muggy and hot. Alexos feels it as never before. He's ragged, too, having slept poorly the night before, worrying about the race and the part he must play this morning.

He's been rehearsing his temple speech for days, afraid that in his nervousness he might get tangled, or miss a word, or forget the whole thing. When he'd finally fallen asleep last night, he'd gone on reciting the speech in his dreams. Now, between the
exhaustion and the heat, Alexos feels almost sick. He tries earnestly to hide it, telling himself not to slouch, to walk with dignity, to keep a solemn expression on his face.