King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

The air rushed over Odysseus’s face and through his thick red hair, increasing the sensation of speed as new bursts of vigour fed his muscles and drove him on still faster, his lungs pumping the air in and out of his body, his heart pushing the blood through his straining chest and limbs. And yet he saw Little Ajax disappearing through the city gates ahead of him and knew his opponent was intent on losing him. He had felt nothing but confidence since seeing Penelope hand a small vial to a wine steward the night before; his sense of certainty had diminished only slightly when, to his surprise, Little Ajax had defied Clytaemnestra’s poison to show up for the race; but now it was draining rapidly away as he realized the truly unbelievable speed and power of his rival. The man’s reputation was well deserved.

For an instant Odysseus tasted fear. The bitter gall of imminent defeat now replaced the expectation of victory that had accompanied his dreams the night before. Though visibly weakened, Little Ajax had somehow found the strength not only to run fast, but to outstrip Odysseus and keep stretching the distance between them. Dispirited, Odysseus pressed on in his wake, through the city gates that loomed up large before him and past the lone guard in full armour. As he sprinted fiercely to catch up with the Locrian, his thoughts turned despairingly to Penelope and, with a stab of terror, he realized he was about to lose her for ever.

He gasped a prayer to Athena and focused his thoughts on Penelope, trying to forget the exhaustion in his limbs and remember all the things that he loved about her. All he could think of was the way she had humiliated him when they first met, but it was enough. Suddenly a surge of energy filled his muscles. Like a giant hand at his back, it pushed him on to meet the sharp slope of the main street of Sparta, up which he must pursue Little Ajax if he was to win the woman he loved. It wound its serpentine way up the hill on which the city was built, doubling back on itself several times until it reached the palace gates where Menelaus and Diomedes were waiting to greet the victor. The broad route had been cleared of townsfolk for the purpose of the race, so Odysseus knew that the figure disappearing around the bend ahead of him could be none other than Little Ajax.

Encouraged to see his opponent still within his grasp, Odysseus sensed his limbs held yet more in reserve and threw himself into the pursuit. He took the bend, his bare feet finding footholds in the rutted, sun-baked mud, and saw his quarry ahead of him, struggling now against the steepness of the hill. The sweat poured from Odysseus’s naked body as he lengthened his stride to close the gap further, but he doubted he was suffering to the same degree as his rival, whose rasping breath he could now hear just ahead of him.

The road bent back again to the left then suddenly gave way to a gentler angle. Both men found a new surge of speed and ran as fast as their flagging muscles would allow, their arms pumping desperately as they sought advantage over each other. They raced on through the winding streets, their hearts thumping horribly inside the stifling confines of their chests, and slowly Odysseus began to close the distance between them. Soon they were barely a sword’s length apart, and in desperation Little Ajax threw a punch with the side of his fist. It caught his pursuer in the ribs, but the blow lacked the strength to throw him off his tail. He repeated the tactic, this time moving nearer to the house-fronts on the right-hand side of the street, trapping his opponent before aiming a higher punch at his face. Odysseus, unable to distance himself without falling back, received the blow in his left eye. He lost his balance and crashed into the wall of a house, before stumbling to his knees in a cloud of dust.

He was up again in an instant, but his rival had already disappeared around the final bend in the road. Odysseus heard the cheering of the warriors who lined the last stretch of the race to the palace gates, and for a dark moment he sensed defeat.

Then, as his heart sank, a new resolve stirred within him. The thought of losing Penelope was something he could not accept, or even contemplate. It clanged against the solid core of his character and insisted the race was not yet over. A shock of anger erupted through him, pouring every last drop of remaining strength into his legs. He began to draw fresh speed from his tired limbs. The muscles tensed agonizingly, but with each thrust of his legs he sensed the burden of his body weight decrease. Suddenly they launched him around the final bend and back into the race.