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You find a hidden reserve of strength – Argives, twice descended from Zeus, are known to be capable of feats beyond the capability of most others, and you prove this reputation true once again. You break out into a legitimate run, your strides lengthening, despite the huge weight on your back – rivers of sweat emerge from your flesh, and your legs burn, but you pay no mind. Across the fields, you see the Aegyptian putting in his own heroic effort – but the man’s lean build works against him; he simply doesn’t have the muscle to break out into a full run, the enormous boar on his back slowing him down. You keep a watchful eye on him, but your concern fades – you'll beat him by a wide margin!
When you step over the chalked line, victorious, you don’t stop running – you continue a bit further until you are before Eurykratides, and dump the slumbering boar into the grass – it sprawls bonelessly there, breathing shallowly. The roar of the crowd is deafening and rolls across the foothills of Oeta – you spread your arms wide and bellow in victory! You watch with amusement as Eurykratides pretends to quail in fright - and then, in keeping with the legend, crawls inside a man-sized πίθος – a large brazen pot. When Heracles returned with the Erymanthian Boar to Athens, Eurystheus was so overcome with fright, he hid himself within a similar vessel. You chuckle aloud when the fat Trachian king's play-acting becomes all too real - he's wedged himself inside the large pot and begins waving frantically at his attendants. The crowd notices their king’s distress, releasing waves of laughter. A team of attendants strain to pry Eurykratides loose when the Aegyptian arrives, dumping his boar.
The brown man is clearly exhausted, his face drawn and paler than normal, but he nonetheless manages a friendly smile in your direction, even with breathless, with his hands on his knees. Under the light of Helios, you see that he's older than you first guessed - perhaps fifty summers, with fine creases under his eyes. The foreigner’s absence of hair (for he is both shaven and beardless) now seems more practical to you – your own flowing mane is stifling under these sunny conditions. His dress is strange - really, just a brazen chest-piece over a leather skirt, leaving his scarred shoulders bare - the marks of old blade wounds sitting atop those of lashes. Finally, the man is quite thin, and nearly your height.
“Get raiz prenz!” he says to you, in his thick foreigner’s accent. You are momentarily puzzled before your mind supplies the translation – <span class="mu-i">Good race, prince!</span>. You smile in return, in a show of good sportsmanship, and you clap him on the shoulder in an amiable fashion.
“Tell me again please, what is your name?” you ask him. “And go slowly!”
“Fai-bok-ra-nef,” he sounds out to you patiently. “Wuz nem ov fater also. Iz nem ov sen.” <span class="mu-i">Was name of father also. Is name of son.</span>
>cont
