Melankomas surveyed the palaestra with disgust. The city’s communal grounds were mediocre compared to his father’s prized training arena. All athletes followed a stringent regimen at his father’s palaestra that induced elegance and discipline even in the most unmanageable student. The blond sneered as he observed that none of the rowdy athletes, exercising in front of him, possessed any credible skill or aptitude for the Olympic Games. Even the flute performers, whose music athletes exercised to, were tawdry in comparison.

“The standard of Elean’s Palaestra has really gone down,” Theagenes drawled, as he jogged up next to Melankomas.

“Yes, they’re certainly not what I remember in my father’s days.” The blond replied.

Mel continued to walk up to the main building that contained the administrative office to announce their contingent’s arrival. The building’s entrance was simple and the only ornate thing it contained was a rough mosaic of Achilles in a godly pose. Mel felt himself sneer at the drab and uncultured confines of the building. His father may have a no nonsense outlook on vanity but he certainly didn’t let his standards go down this drastically. Noble families couldn’t afford to look shabby.

He walked into another airy room that had a young man sitting at a table with a name tablet in front of him. Without looking up he called out, “Name?”

Mel gave him a haughty, exasperated look.

“Melanomas Miloagusto, of the Cairan agency.”

The man still didn’t give him the pleasure of acknowledging his existence.

Mel resisted the urge to stamp away like a spoilt child. He placed his strongly sculpted hands on each edge of the undersized table and leaned in closer.

“Could you tell me where, Trainer Polydamas is?”

Stunning grey eyes peered back at him and Mel felt his throat constrict at the sight. His urge to swoon was minimized by the coldness the eyes exuded.

“He’s outside, training pupils,” the man replied, blankly, and resumed his job.

Mel wanted to throttle the man but decided behaviour of that kind would not be conducive for his team.

Mel was a young man who lived for his sport. He had chosen athletics because it was thought of as the most honorable path for a young man to follow. His father had also illuminated his family name by remaining unbeaten, even at retirement. Mel had not only inherited his father’s skill but also his devastatingly good looks. In his youth, his father had plenty of men and women enchanted by his looks and fame. From the looks of things, Melankomas was going in the same direction.

Mel was famous in his own right. He was known for his endurance that was constantly tested throughout the strenuous training regime he performed everyday. “Your body is your temple,” Mel’s father had once told him, and Mel had paid heed to this advice completely. Dedication that Mel exuded was rare in young men his age. He had been known to perform endurance increasing acts requiring him to stay in one position for days.

Even with the many noble virtues joined to his name, Mel, had been unable to resist one flaw; vanity. He was skilled, brave and beautiful and he knew it. He walked with a confident swagger and rarely associated himself with anyone having a less then noble standing.

Mel walked out of the building with his infamous strut.      

He could see several trainers, with long sticks, pointing out incorrect body positions and other faults to the raw looking athletes. Most of those men looked hardy and experienced but one man stood out in particular. He was a tanned, olive skinned man with strapping muscles and a hawk like gaze. He was teaching a nervous looking man the correct positions for warm up exercises.

“Master Polydamas,” The older man placed his intent gaze on the boy.

“Yes,”

Mel, quite uncharacteristically, showed humility towards the world renowned trainer by bowing his head down solemnly. “My name is Melanomas Miloagusto of the Cairan agency and I am honoured to be in your presence, trainer Polydamas.”

The man raised his eyebrows in surprised and then gave out a gruff short laugh. The trainer’s jumpy pupil fell down from his awkward position, in surprise. Apparently the man rarely laughed or let go of his surly attitude. The trainer pulled the novice up with one easy motion.

“You’re Milo’s son,” The man asked Mel with a twinkle in his eye.

Mel hesitated before giving a short sharp nod. The gargantuan man shook his head, indicating that Mel should follow him. He tapped his training stick on one stretching red head and then started walking towards a stone bench. Mel stared in unmasked awe as the man’s muscles flexed with each movement. Polydamas had been known to once kill a lion with his bare hands on Mount Olympus in a quest to imitate the labours of Herakles, who slew the Nemean lion. Mel had assumed that ounce of information was sheer fallacy but looking at the man he knew he had been wrong. 

The man sat down on the crudely carved bench and motioned for Mel to sit down beside him. The rest of Mel’s Cairan friends also began to flock next to him. Theagenes crouched down besides the seated men.

“Welcome to our humble palaestra; I have heard great things about the Cairan training grounds and the athletes it produces.”

Mel smirked proudly at the comment, “I’m sure we won’t disappoint.” The rest of the gang murmured in agreement.

The burly trainer surveyed his audience and nodded in approval.

“Indeed,” The man agreed softly. He shot up suddenly with a clap on his thighs. “I must be going then. My nephew will lead you to your quarters.”

The man nodded to someone standing behind them and the group turned backwards to see who the trainers were referring to.

Mel’s lips parted in slight surprise. The grey eyed man he had met earlier was leaning against a pillar, waiting impatiently.