King in Splendour

by George Shipway

  The name plucked memory’s lyre strings. Something to do with Atreus. ‘Agamemnon, King of Mycenae; son of Plisthenes son of Atreus son of Pelops.’ (Cataloguing one’s ancestry is accepted etiquette on meeting strangers: Odysseus, omitting the rigmarole, had breached gentlemanly manners.) ‘You’re my enemy’s friend. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t kill you?’

  ‘Give me a sword and I’ll show you one.’ Odysseus rose to his feet, a man of medium height in an oxhide kilt which a gold-thonged belt secured. ‘Here’s another. My father is king of Ithaca, and you’d have a war on your hands.’

  My bodyguard chafed impatiently, anxious to resume the serious work of looting. ‘Split the sod and let’s get on!’ somebody muttered. I turned and barked, ‘Find the Wardens, stop the sack and prevent the city’s burning.’ (A miracle it wasn’t when you think of all the chances: a hearth-fire’s embers scattered, braziers kicked over, clay oil lamps shattering in rivulets of fire.)

  Heroes clattered away, leaving only Talthybius. I said contemptuously, ‘Ithaca’s Host wouldn’t bother me much. Give the fellow your sword, Talthybius. Let him prove his boast.’ Odysseus grinned. ‘Ask me to fight half-naked a fully armoured warrior? You’re a careful man, Agamemnon!--and I’m no ruddy fool. Why should we quarrel? I met your grandfather Atreus years ago. He landed at Ithaca on his way to Dodona’s shrine.’

  Atreus had mentioned the incident. What did he say? ‘I liked Laertes’ son Odysseus: a crafty rogue if ever I saw one.’ You didn’t spurn Atreus’ judgement of men; perhaps I could use the rascal.

  I said, ‘You’re a long way from home.’

  ‘Ithaca’s a small island, and I’m a wanderer by nature.’ Alcmaeon, leading a plundering band, burst into the hall. He checked at sight of his king. ‘Sorry, sire--didn’t realize you’d got here first. Out, lads--we’ll find another--’

  ‘Wait!’ Tersely I told him to control his war-bands; the sack was over. (Helice now was mine; why let your property be pillaged?) To Odysseus I said, ‘You’ll wander no more for a while. Alcmaeon, conduct this gentleman to my tent, provide food and wine and leave him under guard.’

  A smile creased Odysseus’ rough-hewn features. ‘Your prisoner, Agamemnon? What ransom will you ask? My father, regrettably, is far from a wealthy man!’

  I smiled in return. ‘No ransom, Odysseus. Perhaps friendship and advice. Later on we’ll talk things over.’

  Alcmaeon hustled his charge from the Hall.

  * * *

  My idiotic loot-mad Host had killed every man in Helice except for a handful of Heroes given quarter on promise of ransom. I could not complain: the citadel paid the usual penalty for fortresses stormed after standing siege. Helice surrendered too late for me to prevent a massacre. Luckily the city had not been burned--another traditional punishment.

  The following days were passed in cleaning up. We buried bodies, including our own--not everyone in Helice went to his death submissively--set slaves to scour the streets, put looted houses to rights. I collected the booty, chose my share, divided slaves and treasure among other Heroes of the Host.

  Odysseus gave his parole; so I removed the guard, provided clothing, slaves and furniture befitting his rank. Heroes dined and wined him, made him welcome in their tents. Odysseus’ craggy face and stumping gait--he walked bowlegged like a Thessalian horseman--became a familiar sight in the camp. Meanwhile summer advanced; already in Helice’s fields slaves were sickling barley. Wardens reported restive gentlemen counselling return: harvesting, as everyone knows, requires the master’s eye.

  I appointed a day of oblation in gratitude to The Lady Who guided our forces to victory and donated four young bulls; Helice’s Daughters conducted the ceremonial sacrifice. (Although in the heat of storm and sack mistakes occasionally happen nobody in his senses harms the Daughters.) Games and races followed, and finally a banquet in the Hall. At dawn, I announced, the Host would retrace its steps.

  I placed Odysseus beside my throne--a crudely carved elm-wood chair, the seat of a rustic lordling--an honourable position appropriate to a descendant of Acrisius. He talked pleasantly about politics in Achaea and the characters of her rulers. I commented on the scope of his acquaintance.

  ‘I travel a lot, as I told you. The Lady has cursed me with itching feet ...’

  ‘Been to Erineos and Dyme?’

  ‘Both.’ He gave me a speculative look. ‘I hear you intend to have them.’

  ‘I’ll be back for the purpose next year.’

  ‘Yes. A pity Helice resisted so long. Erineos and Dyme, by my reckoning, will also stand siege and delay you--maybe force another year’s campaign.’

  ‘A third year’s fighting, Odysseus? Well, that’s the way of leaguers. I’m averse to storm-assaults on strongly built and well defended citadels. No short cuts in fortress warfare--too damnably expensive.’

  Odysseus spiked roast venison into his mouth, chewed reflectively and said, ‘They might be induced to give battle in the open.’

  ‘Against Mycenae’s Host? Neither city can fight--’

  ‘Neither alone would dare. Together they have a chance.’

  ‘An alliance of independent cities? Unlikely. What are you implying?’

  Torches reflected the crafty glint in Odysseus’ jet-black eyes. ‘I believe, if you set me free, I can persuade Erineos’ and Dyme’s lords that in concert they could break your Host in battle. Both are aggressive warriors, averse to suffering leaguers.’

  ‘They’ll need a deal of convincing.’

  ‘I’m a very persuasive man.’

  True enough, I mused: Odysseus could charm a lion from his lair. I felt my doubts dissolving.

  I drank from a silver goblet, examined his guileful face across the rim. ‘Without intending offence, Odysseus, how can I be sure you’ll do as you say?’

  ‘You can’t.’ He smiled broadly. ‘You only have my word as heir to a royal House descended from Poseidon.’

  ‘Everyone,’ I murmured, ‘claims descent from Poseidon or Zeus. However. If you undertake this mission what reward do you want?’

  He said firmly, ‘A place in your court at Mycenae.’

  I gaped. ‘But one day you’ll be Ithaca’s king--’

  Odysseus rapped the beechwood table--all ornamented furniture had been stolen in the sack. ‘Ithaca’s a remote and petty kingdom, no place for adventurous men. My father Laertes is king, not I. Though old and frail he may live for years. What may I do in the meantime--tend my vines, plough fields and sow and reap? I seek glory and fame--and riches too. I want to yoke my chariot to Achaea’s rising star. You, Agamemnon!’

  Odysseus drank deeply, relapsed into thoughtful silence. I traced a finger on my goblet’s graving--a stag in a field of lilies--and cogitated. Certainly an exceptional man, clever, cunning and probably quite unscrupulous. Just the type to have at one’s side for counsel in statecraft or war. I’d test him on the mission he propounded--nothing would be lost--and, if the scheme succeeded, settle him at Mycenae on one of my estates.

  I touched his arm. ‘You’ve convinced me, Odysseus. Go to Dyme and Erineos. I’ll return after next year’s sowing, and hope to meet their war-bands in the field!’

  * * *

  Odysseus refused to take the servants and clothes I’d provided. Dressed in a shabby kilt, worn sandals and tattered cloak, hair disarrayed and beard uncombed he stumped away on the westward track. ‘I’ve been taken prisoner, stripped of possessions and badly treated,’ he grinned as he said farewell, ‘and hate your guts. Avid for revenge. Adds conviction to the part, don’t you think?’ I laughed and slapped his shoulder, wished him luck.

  The Host marched from Helice, reached Sicyon by the second day’s sunset and camped below the citadel. I collected my palace Heroes, told them to rest and fill their bellies: a night march lay ahead. After a pole-axed silence somebody recovered his voice and inquired the destination. I said curtly he would know it in the morning. No baggage or servants, I added: the war-bands marched straight i
nto battle.

  I had found a guide, a goat-herd who pastured his charges on the hillsides south of Sicyon. He promised he knew the way, and I had no reason to doubt him--the fellow walked all night with a spearpoint pricking his spine. I gave Gelanor command of the Host, bidding him march to Corinth, thence Mycenae. Gelanor was full of questions; my answers were short and unsociable.

  Leading thirty Heroes and three hundred spears I left the camp when darkness fell. A half-moon lighted a stony track that slanted from the plain and plunged through wooded hillsides. Chariots jarred in potholes, horses strained at yokes up steep ascents, slid on their hocks down cliff-like slopes. Companions wrestled reins and cursed. A chariot snapped its axle, a precipice swallowed another. Spearmen trudged phlegmatically in rear, following unquestioningly the lords who gave them land.

  From time to time I halted, allowed the column to close, chewed wild olives plucked from trees and drank face-down in gurgling streams. The moon sank behind mountain crests. We struggled on in darkness for a while; Companions driving slack-reined let horses find the way. A leaden radiance washed the eastern sky; soon drivers could see the pebbles that crunched beneath the wheels. The guide stopped at a rise in the track and pointed.

  ‘Stymphalos, my lord.’

  Vengeance long delayed lay in my grasp. Fifteen years I had waited to avenge Clymene’s murder. Retribution hovered in the hills--a swift and sudden massacre while the victims were unready. Hence secrecy, the night march. The mountains crawled with goatherds and the like; war-bands afoot by day would find Stymphalos warned.

  The city--a flattering name; Stymphalos in fact was merely a brigands’ nest--lay in a hollow which forested slopes surrounded. I examined the ground. Tree-clad hillsides afforded cover. Heroes dismounted, formed a column six files broad with spearmen ranked in rear. I enjoined strict silence and, stooping beneath the branches, slipping on stony slopes, crept slowly down the slant upon my sleeping prey.

  The Lady, bless Her, fought on our side. During our approach a day watch relieved the night guard--a time when tired sentinels let vigilance relax--the gates were opened and, best of all, an ox-cart awaiting admittance lumbered into the entrance. (Much the same conditions allowed Hercules, in my childhood, to capture Pylos.) I instantly abandoned stealth, pointed spear at the gate and brayed the order to charge.

  We had a hundred paces to run. Guards strove frantically to close the gate--but you can’t move oxen quickly. I reached the gap before portals met and followed my spear within. Heroes roaring behind me battered the gates wide open. A bronze-barbed torrent cascaded into Stymphalos.

  Bleary-eyed men, still half asleep, died before their dawntime dreams had faded. I shall not describe the carnage. Since Thebes and Troy the whole world knows what slaughter and sack are like. I spared not a soul in the citadel, neither man nor woman nor child. Before sunlight gilded the mountains Stymphalos become a tomb; and I loosed my blood-crazed Heroes on the town.

  By noonday all was over. Heroes ransacked the citadel, plundered the township’s huts and houses. Spearmen hunted fugitives flying to the hills. We spared the comeliest women found in the town. (Blood-letting rouses passions best cooled by quick coition; and handsome female slaves fetch excellent prices.) Then we lighted torches. Stymphalos burned in banners of flame, a memorial pyre for sweet Clymene.

  Drinking and feasting we stayed there the night, and next day crossed the mountains to a night-halt at Nemea. I reached Mycenae the following noon, doffed my armour, bathed, and went in procession to The Lady’s shrine above the Perseia spring where, on a wooded hillock, a small courtyard rings an altar beneath an oak. I sacrificed ten milk-white bulls in thanksgiving for a territory large as Argos added to my dominions; and prayed for success in the war Odysseus fostered.

  * * *

  I found Clytemnaistra on suspiciously friendly terms with the brawny Hero she had ogled on the ramparts. While no one expects high-born ladies to live like secluded Daughters I considered her behaviour unbecoming. She sauntered with the fellow in the Great Court, smiled at his jests as she never smiled at mine, rode in his chariot to meets. (She never actually followed hounds: a practice growing outmoded among our palace ladies.) I remonstrated roughly, said she set a bad example.

  ‘Do you want me immured in my bedchamber whenever you ride to war?’ she inquired tartly. ‘To judge by your fondness for fighting, my lord, I’d seldom see the sky!’

  I growled a surly rejoinder, resolved to teach her a lesson, spoke to my executioners. A shepherd found the indiscreet Hero’s body crumpled in the sunless depths of the Chaos Ravine. His dog nosed out the head beneath a bush some paces off. (A sad loss: he wasn’t really a bad chap, fought gallantly in the Goatmen’s escalade.) When Clytemnaistra heard the news she retired to her quarters and stayed confined for two entire days.

  On the third morning I strolled into her room. She sat in a chair by the window, feet on an ivory footstool, stitching woollen embroidery stretched on a small round frame. A lady in waiting beside her combed out coloured strands.

  ‘Are you ailing, my lady? I’ve not seen you walking abroad. Shall I call Machaon to mix a physic?’

  Clytemnaistra gave me a smouldering look. ‘I am indeed sick, Agamemnon--sick of your vindictiveness! Are all my friends to be done to death? Has your savagery no boundaries?’

  Her lady gathered wool skeins and scuttled from the room--witnesses to royal bickers seldom feel quite safe. I said woodenly, ‘You talk in riddles. Please explain.’

  She said in brittle tones, ‘Don’t feign ignorance, my lord. Will you kill every man who touches my hand? Poor Hylas was not the first!’

  An icy finger touched my spine. ‘What do you mean? Not the first? Who else--‘

  ‘Do you need to ask?’ Clytemnaistra laid down the tambour, gazed through the window. A wind-breath stirred a ringlet caressing her brow. Absently she smoothed it into place. ‘We can speak no more of this. The thing must be hidden, never admitted, otherwise--’ She covered her face in her hands. ‘Leave me, Agamemnon. Leave me to grieve in peace.’

  I said coldly, ‘Your sickness lies beyond Machaon’s potions. Falsities and lies are curdling your mind. The Lady knows how Hylas died. What other friend of yours do you think I’ve killed?’ Clytemnaistra dropped her hands. Her face was stark, she avoided my eyes. ‘No, Agamemnon. I will not utter a name we both know well. The amity of kingdoms depends on our keeping silence. I swallowed a bitter draught years since; I’ll not spew the poison now. Let you and me pretend it never happened.’ She pointed to the door. ‘Go, my lord!’

  The woman was near hysteria. I left her brooding by the window, went to hold an audience in the Throne Room and listened with half an ear to a quarrel about a bee swarm. (More serious than it sounds: honey production was grievously down that year.) Obviously Clytemnaistra had unravelled the complicated plot that ended in her husband Broteas’ killing. Her father Tyndareus, Sparta’s king, had secretly connived at the murder because with Broteas dead the way was cleared for a marriage uniting Sparta and Mycenae. I wedded Broteas’ widow and brought her home.

  Should the murder come to light Tyndareus’ part and mine would be blazoned abroad to scandalize the world. (Though kings in the past have survived worse deeds.) I would have to put away Clytemnaistra. My friendly relations with Sparta would suffer strain, my brother’s hopes of the Spartan throne would be endangered. Through Menelaus I hoped, one day, to have Sparta under my thumb.

  How she discovered the truth I never learned. I had wrapped a web of secrecy around the operation: Tyndareus later exterminated the underlings concerned. We thought all tongues were stilled; Clytemnaistra proved us wrong. Fortunately she had breathed from birth the miasma of palace intrigue and foresaw the repercussions, realized that sentiment must yield to political imperatives. A practical, hard-headed queen, I thought approvingly--and a woman I’d be lunatic to trust. She had loved Broteas. Short of revealing the truth she was capable of anything to avenge his ugly death.

&n
bsp; Was Helen’s bastard daughter a means to that end, a deception which nurtured her malice? I saw no practical objective: Iphigeneia could never succeed to the throne. Perhaps she aimed at her marriage to some important royalty, then disclosure of her parentage to inflict upon me ridicule and shame. Unlikely, because Helen also would be disgraced--but you seldom plumbed the workings of Clytemnaistra’s mind.

  I must guard my back in future when my queen was in the offing.

  I decided the swarm’s ownership, dismissed the audience and summoned my chief of intelligence, a Boeotian trader in hides long settled in Mycenae. For obvious reasons I hide his name and refer to him as the Spy. He had started life as a wandering pedlar, was enlisted by Atreus to gather information during his travels and showed himself so able that the king eventually entrusted to him the intelligence network’s weaving. He visited during his journeys every city in the land, planted agents in sensitive places, discovered through trading connections their rivalries and factions. From secret subsidies Atreus paid and I continued the Spy grew wealthy over the years, became respected and influential in our mercantile community. He was cynical and unscrupulous, a man whom nothing surprised.

  I stated my requirements baldly. The Spy stroked a dew-lapped chin and said, ‘No problem, sire. A Siphnian slave I sold is now employed as Queen Clytemnaistra’s handmaid. She’s a quick-witted woman who’ll do as I say--her husband works in my tanneries, her children at my looms. Not a mouse will stir in the queen’s apartments without her bringing me word.’

  ‘That’s settled, then. The Curator tells me Lord Alcmaeon of Midea is negotiating a contract for leather corselets. I’ll see it steered your way.’

  ‘I’m grateful, sire.’ The Spy continued hesitantly, ‘While the woman will inform me about any--um--intrigues in the queen’s entourage she can’t, of course, keep track of wider conspiracies beyond the citadel’s precincts. I don’t know whether ...’

  ‘I’ve told you to keep a watch on any attachments the queen may form among the palace Heroes. Let’s not chop words--will she take lovers or not? Do you suggest she’ll frame subversive plots in my tributary cities or even beyond?’