The discus flies and flies and flies. Wump, it hits the barren ground. A murmur goes through the crowd. In the name of Olympus, 214 podiums. How can Manólis throw like that? The gods must be in his favour. The crowd certainly favours him.

Roxáni, how can I fulfil what you asked me to do? ‘Win with the discus at the temple of Zeus and I am yours.’ Your words are etched in my mind like a prayer. I practised, sweated, suffered with the best teachers. I have paid tribute to Perseus, Hermes and Apollo.

And now I stand here, I, Varnávas of Memphis. I stand here and know that I have lost. I have not yet thrown, but Zeus himself would have to wield my discus to reach 214 podes. Even with the favour of Hermes, I can only reach 200 podes. And that's with a lighter discus than is customary in Olympia.

Manólis, son of Kassandros of Mycenae. Who sent him? Roxáni is already looking at him with a bewitching gaze. I may not be standing near her, but I can see it. A fire burns inside me, it seems to distort me. It is not the fire of the will to win.

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My name is called. I step forward. The ground is firm, my muscles are ready. I pick up the discus, it's a foot tall and heavy in my hand. My blood glows inside me. I pray to Apollo for strength and inner peace. As my teachers showed me, I step onto the ring and prepare myself. I twist and let my strength and the fire and I run free. The discus flies, a perfect throw. I hear the disc whirring away. But my eyes are fixed on the ground because I know what's going to happen. I look at Roxáni. She knows it. She knows it too. Because her eyes are not on the disc either, but solely on him, Manólis, who is standing there confident of victory.

Wump. I hear another murmur. I look round, the judge calls out the result. 213 podes. The greatest performance I've ever achieved. Indifferent. Because it's not what she asked me to achieve. I turn round and leave the stadium. Why, oh Zeus. What a test you put me through. Why does he win and not me!