The Greek Games

THERE is one feature of the old Hellenic life that should make it seem familiar and friendly to us. The Greek was a thorough sportsman, who loved athletic games of all sorts, played them with all his heart and strength, and, best of all, played them, in the main, for the love and honour of the thing, not for the prize. In all this he was very different from the Roman, who was no true sportsman, in spite of his Circus Maximus and his Colosseum. The Roman's idea of sport was to sit by the fifty thousand in a place like the Colosseum, and watch gladiators hacking one another to death, boxers smashing one another's faces to a bloody pulp with hard leather gloves, weighted with lead and iron, or poor creatures, with no weapons to speak of, fighting a hopeless battle in the arena against fierce wild beasts. He played no games himself, and the games he liked to watch must have plenty of blood and death about them.

But the Greek was different. He belonged to a race of athletes. Games, to begin with, were part of his religion. All his great athletic festivals—the Olympic, the Nemean, the Isthmian, the Delphic, the Panathenaic—were festivals in honour of the gods. They began and closed with solemn sacrifices and religious rites, and through all the competitions ran the idea of offering the beauty and strength of perfectly trained bodies to the glory of God.

Moreover every Greek, whether he were competing in the great games or not, was more or less of an athlete himself, and rather more than less. For every Greek was a soldier, who had to be ready at a moment's notice to take the field in defence of his country and his home, and who had to keep himself always fit to bear his heavy armour, and to endure all kinds of physical strain. So athletics were a regular part, and no small part, of his education. Constant practice in running and jumping kept him sound and supple in wind and limb; throwing the diskos and the spear was the best of practice for the battlefield; wrestling and boxing kept him hard, and trained his hand and eye for the stern work of actual fighting. So, of the countless thousands who looked on at the games at Olympia or Delphi, each man was really a trained expert, who understood and appreciated each feat of skill or strength, and was a prompt and severe judge of every mean dodge or underhand trick.

Besides, there were two features about the Greek games which distinguished them honourably from a great deal that goes by the name of sport nowadays. There was no betting, and there was no pot-hunting, at least, at the great festivals, and in the best days of Greek athletics. Some of the smaller local festivals, indeed, offered handsome prizes in order to attract competitors; but this was looked upon as quite below the dignity of the great games. At Olympia the prize was a crown of wild olive leaves; at Delphi, a crown of bay leaves; at the Isthmian and the Nemean games, a wreath of wild celery or pine-leaves; while at the Panathenæa the victors were rewarded with painted jars of oil. To-day we count these Panathenaic painted amphoræ priceless treasures of art; but, as things went then, they were very humble rewards.

The great thing that the Greek strove for in his games was to bring credit and honour to his native city. Each competitor was regarded as the representative of his city; when the herald proclaimed the victor's name, he proclaimed also the name of the city to which he belonged, and the whole state shared in his success, and gloried in it. When he came home after his victory, his fellow-citizens came out in procession to meet him, led him in through a breach specially made in the walls, freed him from taxes for the rest of his life, or sometimes, as at Athens, granted him a free seat for all meals at the Prytaneum, along with the highest and best of the land, as long as he lived. On one occasion a famous athlete of Croton, named Astylus, who had won races for his town at two successive Olympiads, entered himself the third time as a Syracusan, in order to curry favour with the despot of the great Sicilian city. In their indignation at such meanness, the Crotoniats destroyed the statue which they had set up to the victorious athlete, and turned the house which they had given him into a common prison. Such an action shows how keenly the Greek felt that the glory of the victor belonged to his city even more than to himself.

In the days when Greek athletics were at their best, the greatest poets of the land did not think it beneath their dignity to sing their sweetest songs in honour of the victorious runner or wrestler, nor the greatest painter or sculptor to record the figure of the champion. Some of the noblest works of Greek art that have come down to us are the statues of athletes—the diskos-thrower at the top of his swing, the racing charioteer standing stiff and stark in his long straight robe, the runner scraping the dust and oil from his limbs after the race, or binding upon his head the garland of victory. And the wisest of the Greeks held that nothing taught better than athletic sports the virtue that they held in greatest reverence. I can't find a single word to translate it to you; but it meant respect to the gods, to your fellow-men, to yourself, reverence, modesty, courtesy, the sense of honour and fairness which distinguishes the true soldier and sportsman from the bully and the cheat. Some of the Greek games—boxing, wrestling, and the rough-and-tumble that they called the "pankration"—demanded a very high sense of honour and self-restraint, if they were not to end in sheer brutality; and the Greeks held, perhaps rightly, that the man who trained himself to take part honourably in such sports was likely to be honourable in other things also.

Altogether, I fancy that there never was a nation of better sportsmen than the Greeks at their best, and that no people ever had a higher idea of what true sport could do for a man or of what it required of him. Unfortunately, like the rest of us, the Greeks were not always at their best. Even in the palmy days of the games, there were cheats who bought and sold some of the competitions, and at the entrance to the Stadium at Olympia there stood an ominous row of bronze statues of Zeus, paid for by the heavy fines exacted from those who had tried to cheat in the games, and bearing the warning inscription that "not with money, but with speed of foot and strength of body must prizes be won at Olympia."

Bit by bit professionalism, too, began to creep in, and in Greece, as everywhere else, it was the death of all true sport. Gradually, the Greeks degenerated from a nation of athletes into a nation who looked on at the feats of professional racers, boxers, and wrestlers, and made heroes out of the paid strong men. In our own days we have heard Mr. Kipling telling us bitter things about "the flannelled fool at the wicket, the muddied oaf at the goal." It is strange to hear a greater poet of twenty-three centuries before saying much the same kind of thing to the Athenians of his day. Listen to Euripides, the great Greek dramatist: "Of all the countless evils throughout Hellas, there is none worse than the race of athletes. In youth they strut about in splendour, the pride of their city, but when bitter old age comes upon them they are cast aside like threadbare garments. It is folly for the Greeks to make a great gathering to see useless creatures like these, whose god is in their belly. What good does a man do to his city by winning a prize for wrestling, or speed, or quoit-heaving, or jaw-smiting? Will they fight the enemy with quoits? Will they drive the enemy out of their country without spears by kicking? No one plays antics like these when he stands near the steel. Crowns should be given to the good and wise, to him who guides his city best—a temperate man and just." I am afraid that Euripides got few to listen to his warning, and Greek athletics and Greek freedom decayed and went down together to destruction.

And now, after all this long story about the sportsmanship of the Greeks, I must try to tell you something of what their games were really like. Suppose that we travel away to the western side of the Peloponnese, where, in the territory of the little town of Elis, by the side of the river Alpheus, the greatest of all the Greek athletic festivals was held, at a quiet, out-of-the-way spot called Olympia, with neither town nor village near it. So famous and so sacred was the Olympic Festival, that the Greeks reckoned all their dates from the year (776 b.c. when it was first properly organized, and the First Olympiad was counted the beginning of Greek history.

We make our journey in the late summer of a year about the middle of the fifth century b.c., for the festival takes place at the second full moon after the summer solstice. Olympia has now reached the height of its fame and splendour. Libon, the great architect of Elis, has completed the magnificent temple of Zeus, which is the glory of the Altis, the sacred enclosure; and the new Stadium for the foot-races and the Hippodrome for the horse and the chariot races have been laid out. If we have luck, we may hear Pindar singing one of his odes in honour of the victors, and see some of the bronze statues that Myron and Polykleitus have made to celebrate the champions of the arena.

Several weeks before the festival is due, three truce-bearers of Zeus set out from Elis, crowned with olive and bearing herald's staves. They have journeyed to all the states and cities of Greece proclaiming the holy truce, and inviting all the Greeks to the festival. For three months, from the day on which they set out, no Greek dares to lift a finger against anyone, whether competitor or visitor, journeying to or from Olympia, no matter though he be his bitterest enemy, and within the sacred territory of Elis itself none may bear arms on any pretext.

The competitors have gradually been drifting into Elis for the thirty days' final training under the eyes of the judges, which is compulsory on all. The judges themselves have been trained for ten months in their sacred duties, and only those competitors who come up to their standard will be allowed to compete. Now that training is over and the games are about to begin, they call together all the competitors who have entered for the events, and speak thus to them. "If you have exercised yourself in a manner worthy of the Olympic festival, if you have been guilty of no slothful or ignoble act, go on with a good courage. You, who have not so practised, go whither you will."

A few days before the full moon the whole multitude that has been gathering into Elis sets out for the march to Olympia. The sacred way leads down from Elis to the coast, and then follows the valley of the Alpheus, and the journey takes two days. First come the Judges, the Hellanodicæ, as they are called, and the other officials of the games; then the athletes and trainers, the horses and chariots, with the owners, jockeys, and charioteers; last comes a motley crowd of spectators from all parts of the Greek world. Glittering tyrants from the great Greek colonies of Sicily rub shoulders with peasants from Arcadia or fishermen from the coast. Poets with their latest odes ready for recitation, philosophers eager to dispute with rival teachers, merchants on the outlook for fresh business, and swindlers seeking for fools to cheat, all ranks and classes of the Greek world from Marseilles to Trebizond and from Thrace to North Africa are represented. Each state has its own official embassy, and each embassy strives to outdo its rivals in splendour. How the vast and motley crowd was housed it is difficult to see, for at Olympia there were no houses save the temples of the gods and the treasuries, or official residences, of the various states. Probably most slept in tents, or in the open air, for the five days of the festival—a pleasant enough experience in a Greek summer.

On the first day of the festival, there are no competitions; but all the judges, the competitors, their trainers, and everyone else connected with the sports, gather in the great Council Chamber. There stands a statue of Zeus the Hearer of Oaths, a thunder-bolt in his hand to remind evildoers of judgment. Before this statue a pig is sacrificed, and, over the offering, they all swear in turn to give just decisions, and to use no unworthy means to secure victory in the sports. For the rest of the day we are at liberty to do as we choose. We can stroll about through the Altis, and watch the athletes offering sacrifices at the altars of the various gods or heroes whom they specially fancy, and praying for success in the games, or we can take a look into the sculptor's workshop where Pheidias is hard at work on the great ivory and gold statue of Zeus that is to sit in Libon's temple. If your tastes are literary, here is a new sensation for you—Herodotus, the historian, from Halikarnassus, is reciting that part of his history that tells of the Persian Wars, and the crowds around him are wild with delight as they listen to the story of the great deeds of their forefathers. Herodotus is a great man; but standing there in the crowd is a young fellow, Thucydides, son of Olorus, the Athenian, who is destined to be greater still. To-day as he stands there, he is drinking in the inspiration that will set him also writing when the time comes—a history that the world will never let die. All the news of the world is being passed from group to group, and friends long separated from one another are renewing old acquaintance, and telling the story of their fortunes in the colonies. So the busy, bustling scene goes on till the night falls, and the full moon casts its pale light over the vast gathering.

Next day the sports begin early in the morning. The boxing and wrestling take place in the Festal Square before the Altar of Zeus; the foot-races, the throwing of the diskos and the spear, and the long jump, in the Stadium; the chariot-races in the Hippodrome. Huge crowds of spectators are gathered on every point of vantage to view the contests. There isn't much in the way of comfort; you have to sit or stand where and how you can, on the banks of the Stadium or the Hippodrome, or on the rows of steps beneath the treasuries, where the embassies of the states are housed; and there is nothing to shelter you from the sun and the dust. But nobody seems to care much about discomfort; we are all too eager to watch our own special champions, and the great crowds grow wild with excitement, leap from their seats, wave their arms frantically, and shout till they are hoarse, as the runners flash up the Stadium in the sprint, or as a famous wrestler flings his opponent clean over his shoulder with the trick that we call "the flying mare."

Perhaps the quaintest of all the contests, as it is one of the most popular, is the hoplites' race, run by men in full armour. It is only a race up the Stadium, round the turning-pillar, and back again, 400 yards or so; but it is no joke to run even 400 yards at top speed under a blazing sun, and clad in a heavy bronze helmet and greaves, with a big clumsy shield on your left arm. Here are the runners, twenty of them, crouching on their marks, ready for the blast of the trumpet. The starting-line runs almost from side to side of the Stadium. It is a stone sill, made of slabs about eighteen inches wide, sunk into the ground level with the rest of the course. From end to end of the sill run two parallel grooves, about seven inches apart, and the runners toe these grooves, left foot foremost, crouching a little forward, with the right arm stretched out to keep balance. They are separated from one another by pillars set in sockets four feet apart, so that there can be no jostling at the start, whatever may be the case at the turn.

Now the starters have got all the twenty safely settled on their marks, and, at the sharp blast of the trumpet they are off, clattering away up the Stadium in a cloud of dust. The best place to see the fun is near the turning-post, for while the other foot-racers have each a special post, marked out by a particular colour, to run round, the poor hoplites have only one post for the whole twenty, and as the field comes thundering up to the turn there is plenty of jostling and elbowing and confusion. One runner trips over his neighbour's greave, and comes down in the dust with a resounding clash, another drops his shield, and has to stop to pick it up again, the catch of another man's greave bursts, and he falls out in great disgust. Now all who have kept their feet, and stuck to their equipment, are round the post, and they stream away down the Stadium towards the winning-post. Well to the front is a big black-bearded fellow, with a slim clean-shaven lad hard at his heels. It is only a few yards to the line now, and black-beard, as he runs, snatches off the heavy helmet and carries it in his hand, looking round with a glance of triumph at his rival. He had better have waited till he had passed the line, for the change of action has checked his speed for a moment. The youngster draws up to his shoulder, flashes past him, and crosses the line in front of the judges—first by inches. A great roar of laughter goes up all round the Stadium as black-beard flings down his helmet and shield in disgust. The trumpeter blows a ringing blast, the herald steps forward and announces that the hoplites' race has been won by Callisthenes, son of Aristides, of the city of Athens; and, amidst thunders of applause, one of the judges places the crown of wild olive on the head of the successful runner, whose father comes forward beaming with joy, and leads his son off the course.

Now, if you care, we may take a look at the men who are contesting the long jump, which is part of the competition which the Greeks called the "Pentathlon," or "Five Contest," because it included five different events, of which the victor had to win at least three. The five were the foot-race, the long-jump, throwing the diskos, throwing the javelin, and wrestling, so that the winner of the pentathlon had to be a good all-round athlete. In fact, with the possible exception of the chariot-race, there is no contest more popular than the pentathlon, and no higher honour in the games than to win it.

Long jumping is rather wearisome to watch for long, so we shall only look on for a minute or two. The Greek jumper comes up to his mark with a short run, and as he leaps he helps his spring by the skilful swinging of the jumping-weights which he carries in his hands—things rather like light dumb-bells. The ground on which he lands is carefully dug up with a pick, so that he may have a soft landing. But the story goes that Phaÿllus, the most famous of Greek jumpers, once broke his leg by leaping 5 feet beyond the prepared ground. That means that his leap measured 55 feet; but I am afraid something must have been wrong with the measuring-tape that day. No doubt there were fine jumpers among a race who practised jumping so much, but half the length of Phaÿllus's jump would be a fine performance even for the best leaper.

Strangest of all the games, to our minds, is that called the "Pankration," which is a sort of mixture of boxing, wrestling, throttling, pummelling, kicking, and every other means which a fighter can adopt to force his opponent to give in. Biting and gouging are almost the only tricks that are forbidden; apart from these, you may use almost any device you like to get your opponent down and keep him down, till he holds up his hand as a sign that he has had enough. It sounds very brutal to us, and indeed it is brutal—the only Greek game that is almost as savage and as cruel as were all the Roman sports. One of the famous legends of the games tells how a pankratiast named Arrhichion was being strangled by an opponent who had forced him to the ground, and was choking the life out of him. The dying athlete caught his enemy's foot, and twisted it out of the socket with such force as to oblige him to yield; then he fell back and died, victorious even in death. No doubt the game tried the endurance and pluck of the competitors to the utmost; but at best it must have been an ugly business.

One feature of the games is very noticeable. Our athletes of to-day often wear little enough in the way of clothing; but no Greek athlete ever wore any clothing at all. Runners, wrestlers, boxers, diskos-throwers—all were stripped to the bronzed and well oiled skin. For the Greek prided himself on the beauty of the well-trained body, and delighted to expose it to the sunshine and the air. To him the only shame about the body was that it should be weak, deformed, or out of condition, and he scorned the Persian for his flabby muscles, and his white skin always muffled in flowing robes. A gathering of Greek athletes showed the human frame in its highest and most perfect development—an assemblage of living statues.

So, day after day, for five days, the sports went on, varied in the evenings by great banquets and festal processions under the light of the full moon. On the last evening the victors were all entertained at a great public banquet by the officials of the festival. The next morning they set out on their homeward journey, to be welcomed, on their return to their native cities, with honours and dignities greater than any king could claim. The great gathering melted away to all the ends of the Greek world, and Olympia was left silent and deserted, till four years later the next Olympiad drew fresh multitudes to the holy place again.