Citius, Altius, Fortius.

Written for a writing prompt contest... This day in history...

Marathon, Greece.1896

It is just before two o’clock on this April afternoon and it’s hot, unbearably, stifling hot. We stand, seventeen of us, grouped together waiting for the droning speech of Major Papadimantopoulos to end. It seems we’ve waited an eternity when the moment finally comes and he raises his right arm to call us to attention. The starting pistol glints in the glare of the sun and we drop to relaxed crouches in preparation for the race to begin. The soft dulled sound of the gun's detonation sets us in motion.

I am tired of watching Flack’s back sweat. His muscles and tendons straining. I'm tired of keeping pace with him, mile after mile. He is drained. Since we left Pikermi his pace has slowed. Still I wait for the right instant to break loose and pound him into the ground.

At last I can see Athens through its blanketing haze in the distance. A heat-wave shimmers over the city. Humidity is high and the salt sting of sweat runs into my eyes and blurs my vision. I increase my speed and start to leave him behind. He is exhausted and seeing I have stamina left has dispirited him. His legs fold under him and he collapses in a crumpled heap. I do not look back.

The olive trees lining the sides of the route are covered in a patina of red-brown dust. As I run past them the crickets in the branches start to chirp my victory song.

The messenger has sped ahead on horseback to break the news to the waiting throng that I have taken the lead. I hear the crowds cry as the message is relayed. It is incredible. From the Panathenaic Stadium, nestled between the hills of Agra and Ardettos, the roar of fifty thousand voices rises into the still, Hellenic sky as I run straight into the bosom of Athens.

“Ella Louis!”

The chant rises from the crowd as I enter the stadium.

“Ella! Ella! Ella!”

The stamping of feet and clapping of hands matches the beating of my heart. I have become one with the crowd. They carry me. My feet are leaden. These last few hundred yards infinitely longer than the twenty four miles that lay behind me. The roar of the crowd lifts me and I fly into the arena of my ancestors like a god with winged feet.

Two men fall into stride with me. Matching the rhythm of my staggering gait. The Princes have joined me on the track to run with me these last few historic yards. The crowd is standing, wild with approval.

“Egine Louis!” they cry.

` Fly like Louis!' The crowds shout to their prince and future king, spurring us on.

Today it is I who ride like a king, as the Greek princes, in celebration of our victory, lift me high onto their shoulders and carry me around the track.

Citius, Altius, Fortius … I am.



NB: Citius, Altius, Fortius is the motto of the Olympic Games and means swifter, higher, stronger.

Word Count:497 (phew!!)