Champion of Olympia
Meg Leigh
Smashwords Edition
Champion of Olympia
Copyright © 2010 by Meg Leigh
All rights reserverd.
Cover Design by Alex Beecroft
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Champion of Olympia
Chapter I
The courtyard of the palaestra Demetrius was quiet. The athletes had finished training for the day and most of them had retired to the baths and to be tended by the aleiptae. Some had moved from the baths to listen to the sophists and other learned men who gathered in the palaestra colonnade in the evening to teach and entertain the athletes.
Iason, aliptes to the palaestra, waited for the last few athletes to come for their medicines or for a massage. He anxiously watched the entryway from the bathroom, hoping that he would be the one free when Ariston arrived. Whenever Ariston came for his massage and to have his feet treated, Iason’s heart would leap for joy and begin a ragged tattoo within his chest.
Iason sought opportunities to touch this beautiful young man as often as possible. His unusual colouring and delicate features combined to give Ariston an almost unearthly appearance. Golden hair was a rarity and the blue eyes and golden skin that accompanied it made Ariston remarkable. Iason felt coarse and overly dark in contrast but he loved to be the one to tend to the pentathlete.
Tonight, he was in luck. Ariston had lingered over his bath and was one of the last to enter the massage room. He saw Iason’s table was free and came over to stretch out on the bench. As he eased himself down, he winced.
“I have injured my shoulder,” he grumbled. “The Gymnasiarch says I must have it massaged and report to him in the morning to see if I am fit to train tomorrow.” His golden brows drew together in a scowl. “I cannot afford to miss a day,” he said. “The games are only two months away and every minute of training is important. It is the damned Javelin!” He winced as Iason began to smooth oil across his shoulders. “It has never been my strength, and today I have hurt myself trying to perfect it!”
Iason was used to these moods. It was the one drawback of the young man’s nature that he was prone to fits of pique that marred his good looks by creasing his face in frowns of displeasure. Making soothing sounds, he began to work the warmed oil into Ariston’s shoulders. Gradually the tension in Ariston’s face eased and he grew sleepy. Drooping lids closed over sea-blue eyes, only to be forced open as he sighed and stirred a little, shifting position on the bench.
Keeping the pressure even, Iason kneaded the young man’s flesh, feeling the knotted muscles in the right shoulder begin to loosen and relax under his touch. He licked his lips in concentration, letting his gaze trail from Ariston’s face to where his own brown hands soothed and rubbed. His sigh echoed Ariston’s – a sound of pleasure, happy for any opportunity to touch the man.
As he worked, Iason allowed his imagination free rein. He dreamed of turning the massage from a medicinal treatment to one of much deeper meaning. He wanted to trace his fingers over the athlete’s skin in a sensual caress. He imagined the soft moans his touch would bring forth, and his heart began to beat raggedly as he thought of turning Ariston onto his back, leaning down to claim the ripe mouth in a passionate kiss. In his fantasies, Ariston always returned his kisses with equal fire and they made love for hours until their bodies were spent and sated with passion.
He glanced at Ariston’s face, and was startled to find the athlete looking over his shoulder at him, a drowsy, sensuous smile playing about his mouth. Blushing, Iason reached for the arybollos, pouring more oil into the palm of his hand.
“What are you dreaming of, Iason?”
Iason rubbed his hands together to warm the oil before moving to apply it to Ariston’s back. “I was thinking of Olympia.” He lied. “And the glory it will bring to our city when you win the Pentathlon.”
Ariston laughed, turning his head so that his chin rested on his folded arms. “A dream we share,” he murmured. He stretched, flexing his muscles with a soft moan. “I will be a Gymnasiarch someday,” he said softly. “Boys will come to me for training in the art of war and the skills of the stadium.” He sighed, rolling over when Iason nudged him. “Will you come and work in my Palaestra?” Blue eyes met his. “Will you be my Aliptes?”
Smiling, Iason worked oil into Ariston’s shins. “If you offer me a good wage,” he quipped, although in his heart, he knew he would follow Ariston anywhere and work for nothing more than the chance to be near to him.
Ariston grunted with amusement and closed his eyes. “I shall be champion this year,” he said dreamily. He fell quiet until his massage was finished.
Iason watched as Ariston got up and picked up a cloak left nearby, wrapping it about his shoulders against the evening air. He moved with fluid grace, pausing by the exit to glance back and smile at Iason before he slipped out to join the other athletes under the colonnade. After Ariston had gone Iason glanced around, assessing the other young men of Palaestra Demetrius. None of them came close to the beauty and grace that embodied Ariston. He was perfect, Iason thought. Everything required in a champion was encompassed in the graceful, lithe form. Iason delighted to watch him at his bath, or when he used the strigil to scrape sand and oil from his body after training. His every movement spoke of strength, grace and beauty. He was what every Gymnasiarch hoped to find, what most of them never saw in a lifetime. If anyone could live up to the dream of becoming champion and returning to Demetrius to start his own palaestra, Ariston was that man.
With a sigh, Iason beckoned to the next athlete awaiting his attention and began to vigorously massage the young man’s body when he lay down. He allowed his mind to wander as he worked, barely paying attention to the practiced movements.
Chapter II
Dust kicked up by wrestlers blew lazily across the courtyard as the athletes trained under the blazing sun. Bodies glistened with oil and sweat and the air rang to their grunts of effort and the occasional pained cry as a trainer brought a cane down across a wrestler’s back, cautioning him for gouging or biting. At one end of the courtyard, young men practiced throwing the discus and javelin, whilst others practiced for foot races. All of them were lean and muscular, their bodies honed and developed to peak condition.
Iason watched them at work and idly practiced short tunes on the aulos. Athletes moved to the lively tunes of the double flute when they practiced jumping, throwing and running. It added to the aesthetics of the games to see men display their skills in rhythm to the music. Wrestlers moved to the deep thrum of the tambourine and drums. Everyone was expected to learn an instrument. Iason had chosen the aulos because it was considered an instrument of healing.
Glancing towards the entry to the palaestra he laid the flute in his lap and watched as Ariston entered the courtyard. Ariston’s body shone with oil and his skin glowed with health as he made his way to the Gymnasiarch. Iason bit his lip, trying to gauge from Ariston’s movements whether his massage the previous evening had helped to heal the injured shoulder. The athlete carried himself proudly, head up and shoulders thrown back to display the fine musculature of his chest.
Iason was relieved to see that the soreness from the injury seemed to have settled and Ariston was permitted to train. But instead of walking to the area where the javelin throwers were training, Ariston made his way towards Iason. He raised his hand in greeting to the aliptes as he drew nearer.
“Welcome,” Iason said as Ariston came up to him. “Your shoulder is recovered?”
“Completely, thanks to you.” Ariston smiled, strong white teeth flashing for an instant. “I heard you playing.”
“Yes,” Iason replied. “I am not as good as I would like to be.”
“What I heard just now sounded good enough,” Ariston said. “Why don’t you play for me while I train today?”
Blinking in surprise, Iason glanced down at the flute lying in his lap and then raised his eyes to meet the sea-blue ones that studied him, awaiting an answer. It was a great honour to be asked to play for an athlete, to help him focus on his studies and it was an even greater honour, in Iason’s mind that the request should come from Ariston. He bit his lip, one hand stroking his chin as he thought. There was nothing he would like more than to play for the man he had spent so many weeks and months admiring from afar, but still he hesitated.
Playing for Ariston meant that he would also be playing for the rest of the Palaestra. His skills would be on display to everyone in the courtyard. What if he should make an error and embarrass not only himself but the beautiful golden-haired man as well?
“It would be an honour,” Iason began, “But…”
“Then it is settled!” Ariston smiled broadly and extended a hand to him. “Come, Iason! You will play for me today!”
It would be an insult to decline such a pointed invitation. Iason put his hand in Ariston’s, allowing the athlete to pull him to his feet. He could only hope and pray that the gods would show favour and his playing would be true.
Walking across the dusty courtyard, Ariston removed the loincloth he had worn and squatted to pick up handfuls of sand which he rubbed onto his oiled skin. The dirt would absorb sweat and protect him from the fierce sun.
Watching him, Iason drew a sharp breath. He had seen Ariston stripped for training before, but it was a sight that never failed to delight him. Muscles rippled under taut skin and the sun gleamed on oiled limbs as Ariston straightened and moved to select a javelin from a rack beside the training ground. He weighed it in his hand, seeking the point of balance and checking the leather thong attached to the wooden shaft to ensure it was fastened correctly. Once he was satisfied, he moved to join the other javelin throwers and await his turn.