And I had gained a first-class fighting Hero, an asset to anyone’s Host.
I voided my breakfast into the sea, wiped my mouth and smiled at the swooping gulls. Provided you’re crooked enough there’s a lot to be said for diplomacy.
Chapter 3
Throughout a dreary winter I lived mostly in Mycenae. The west wall and the Lion Gate climbed to a spear-length height; I kept the slave gangs working however vile the weather. A well-planned township arose from the ashes the Goatmen left, houses built mostly of stone, less flammable than the former timber-framed construction. To discover the number the citadel must shelter in emergencies I carried out a population census. Despite the extra area our new defences enclosed the garrison would be packed like olives in a jar. Such conditions are common to beleaguered citadels and did not worry me until Ajax remarked, ‘You’ll run short of water.’
‘Rubbish!’
‘I’ve explored every foot of the citadel. There are three wells inside the walls and a couple of tanks for rainwater storage. The wells are shallow and, your Heroes tell me, liable to fail unless the winter rains are heavy, while the tanks run dry before midsummer.’
I contemplated Ajax with dawning respect. Thick-headed though he was in other ways it seemed he was astonishingly alert about anything of military significance. 'You envisage a lengthy siege. Mycenae has not been leaguered since Perseus’ days. I plan for raids of short duration, hit-and-run affairs.’
‘I don’t know much about the situation in Achaea but,’ lips curving in a smile that dissolved impertinence, ‘a prudent commander prepares for the worst.’
On reflection I decided Ajax was perfectly right. While it was hard to imagine any existing enemy who alone might force a leaguer of any length you could not foretell the future and the hostile combinations a realm might have to meet I resolved to tap the Perseia spring, a perennial source outside the citadel that fed a fountain in the valley whence townsfolk drew their water.
Access to the spring, which rose thirty paces beyond and beneath the northern wall, had obviously to be concealed from enemy view. Consulting the engineer Apisaon I planned a steeply sloping underground passage starting inside the wall. Apisaon scratched his head--the tunnel had to be hewn through solid rock--calculated gradients and decided it could be done. Because all available slaves were labouring on the wall I told him to start work after the defences were finished.
Winter journeys, however brief, emphasized the deplorable state of Mycenae’s military highways. Chariots lurched in potholes deep as buckets, crossed culverts crumbled in rubble, met trenches scoured by winter spates. Sixty years earlier King Sthenelus had fashioned a network of roads to link the realm’s principal cities; no one since, apparently, had troubled about repairs. With Apisaon in my travelling chariot--a heavy vehicle more solidly built than the nimble hide-bodied war cars--I bumped the ways to Asine, to Nemea and Corinth and onwards to Helice. (From Corinth to Helice we drove on unpaved tracks: in Sthenelus’ time Mycenae's dominion ended at the Isthmus.) Apisaon drew up plans for reconstruction; I delegated to Wardens responsibility for repairs.
* * *
On one of my highway inspections I halted a day in Nemea, where the Warden informed me an unemployed mariner pleaded for an interview. Seamen are technicians--unlike rowers who can be found anywhere and quickly trained--skilled in the arts of handling sheets and sails, experienced navigators who read the stars and comprehend the sea’s unpredictable moods: valuable men who are ever in short supply. I told the Warden I would see him after dinner.
A chamberlain conducted a ragged apparition into the Hall, shock-haired and heavily bearded, clad in a faded tunic and the short woollen breeks that mariners often wear. (Kilts, they say, get tangled up with ropes.)-He walked with a bowlegged, rolling gait as though he trod a heaving deck, halted and saluted, back of the hand to forehead. ‘Begging yer pardon, me lord,’ he said in a thick Aitolian accent, ‘but me ship ran ashore off Sicyon, and I’m wanting a job in one of yer galleys at Nauplia.’
Concealing astonishment I said, ‘An experienced seaman can always be found a place. Let me hear your qualifications.’
I beckoned him to the central hearth--the day was winter-cold and cheerless, the rustic Hall a maze of draughts--and leaned against a pillar. Nobody could hear us except a slave-cook basting a joint on a spit.
‘Why the masquerade, Odysseus?’
White teeth flashed in a grin. ‘No pretence, in fact--I’m an expert master mariner. However, in Dyme they know my identity, and I thought it best to cut the connection before we met.’
Odysseus, I reflected--and time confirmed the judgement--was the kind who loved subterfuge for its own sake, who preferred to follow a devious course when the easier one was straight. I said, ‘You must be bringing important news to have travelled afoot in foul weather. Are Erineos and Dyme persuaded they can meet me in the field?’
‘No. Something better by far. Remember Phyleus King of Elis?’
I said grimly, ‘I’m unlikely to forget the sod. His war-bands helped Thyestes filch Mycenae’s crown and sent me running to Sparta.’
‘His younger brother Agasthenes lives in Dyme, and is plotting to depose him.’
I gathered my recollections of Elis’ domestic difficulties. Phyleus and Agasthenes were sons of King Augeas--famed for trapping that ruffian Hercules and making him work as a stable-hand. Phyleus killed his father, chased his brother Agasthenes out and succeeded to Elis’ rule.
‘Agasthenes,’ the bogus mariner continued, ‘was old Augeas’ favourite son. He escaped to Dyme and is mad to avenge his father’s killing.’
‘What,’ I asked irritably, ‘has all this ancient history to do with taking Dyme?’
‘Patience, Agamemnon,’ Odysseus smiled. ‘During the years Agasthenes lived in exiie rebellious Elian Heroes who objected to a parricide holding the throne flocked to him in Dyme. With their support he banished the citadel’s lord and rules Dyme in his place.’
‘So. I’ll have to fight Agasthenes instead of another. What difference does it make?’
‘Not so.’ Odysseus drew his dagger, cut a slice from the smoking joint and stuffed it in his mouth. ‘Hungry work, walking,’ he mumbled indistinctly. ‘I’ve talked seriously with Agasthenes, used all my persuasive powers. He’s agreed to surrender Dyme directly he sees your spears. On one condition.’
‘And that is?’
‘You lead your Host to Elis, a day’s march further on, throw Phyleus out and put Agasthenes on the throne.’
I pondered the proposition. To secure Dyme without battle or siege was certainly a temptation. All sorts of other advantages could flow from having a friendly ruler in Elis. Agasthenes imposed conditions on me in order to win his crown; I could afterwards impose my terms on him. Which was all very fine, but an obstacle blocked the way. I had seen Elis when travelling there on Atreus’ behalf; the citadel was strong and not to be taken lightly.
I said, ‘Instead of Dyme’s slender garrison and weak defences’--a slight exaggeration--‘you want me to attack a major fortress. I see no advantage in that!’
‘In Elis’ palace,’ Odysseus said patiently, ‘there’s a faction opposed to Phyleus which keeps in touch with Agasthenes. They’ll revolt when you appear and open the gates. So he says, and I believe him.’
‘A deal of supposition, and reliance on the word of a man I’ve never met. The whole affair is a gamble.’
‘What have you to lose?’ Exasperation edged Odysseus’ tone. ‘Either way Mycenae’s Host will march when sowing’s done. If Dyme resists you fight. If she doesn’t you’ve won a city and the way is open to Elis. Come on, Agamemnon--try your luck!’
I studied his weather-worn face, the wary, twinkling eyes. ‘What about Erineos?'
Odysseus hunched his shoulders. ‘By-pass the place. Her lord will surrender when Dyme yields. He knows Helice’s fate, and won’t stand alone against you.’
‘You sound damnably optimistic. I’ll give the matte
r thought.’ I spread my hands to the fire, and said slowly, ‘A boy named Aegisthus, rising fourteen now, lives with Phyleus in Elis.’
‘I’ve heard of him,’ Odysseus said impassively.
‘If and when my war-bands enter Elis I want him taken, and taken alive. Agasthenes’ sympathizers in the citadel will be so instructed. On no account must Aegisthus be allowed to escape.’ Odysseus propped an arm against a scarlet-painted pillar and stared into the hearth-fire’s leaping flames. ‘I realize why you’re after him, and can guess what you’ll do when you find him. Is it wise, Agamemnon? The Elian flyaways in Dyme say he’s a good-looking, popular lad, already something of a handful with the girls. And Aegisthus, so far as I know, has done you no harm.’
‘He’s the last of Thyestes’ evil brood,’ I said savagely, ‘and I’ll beat him to death like a poisonous snake.’
Odysseus sighed. ‘All right. I’ll do my best.’
‘What are your plans now? Will you stay with me?’
‘No. I’ll return to Dyme and keep the pyre stoked. See you when you arrive there in the spring.’ He hitched his ridiculous breeks and yawned cavernously. ‘More tramping in the rain. Incidentally, on my way here I had trouble in shaking off a most persistent fellow who attached himself soon after I left Dyme. A vendor of cheap jewellery, so he said--he had a donkey-load of trinkets. Very curious about my doings, always probing. I thought it damned suspicious.’
‘Oh,’ I said boredly. ‘Did you manage to get rid of him?’
‘Cut his throat somewhere near Aegira and chucked his body into the sea. Found the donkey useful to carry my pack.’ Odysseus sent me a wicked leer. ‘Can’t be too careful, can you? Well, I must be off. I’ll get in touch when you reach Helice.’
I returned to Mycenae, summoned the Spy, and told him to end his watch on Odysseus. Good agents are not found easily: no point in losing the few you have.
* * *
Orestes had grown into a lusty pink-faced morsel crowing mightily in his cot and tangling stubby fingers in my beard. But a single son was not enough to safeguard a royal line: plague and disease were rife, the young died far too easily. (In Nauplia’s festering slums they have a saying that if a child survives the first five years he’s immune to illness for all his days.) Therefore I periodically bedded Clytemnaistra, an ordeal to which she submitted with weary resignation. Once I believed I had roused her; she writhed and squirmed in my arms, wrapped her legs around me, heaved and panted. At the apparent moment of crisis she cried Broteas’ name, abandoned her feigned ecstasy and snickered in my face. Enraged beyond endurance I slapped her cheeks across and across and left her weeping and bloody-mouthed.
These unsatisfactory couplings produced, at the winter’s end, a girl child she called Electra. I had half a mind to expose the brat, a ploy Clytemnaistra foiled by guarding her day and night until she was weaned. (You have to get rid of unwanted daughters at birth, pretending a deformity or mortal sickness.) I comforted myself with the thought that Electra might in years to come be a suitable mate for some royal sprig and thereby boost my influence.
I avoided whenever possible my supposed daughter Iphigeneia, now three years old and clearly idiotic. An ugly girl, hollow-cheeked, lank-haired and still unable to talk. With feminine contrariness Clytemnaistra doted on her sister’s secret bastard, constantly embracing the girl and kissing her slobbering lips. The spectacle turned my stomach.
When the first faint flush of greenery touched the alder-trees’ gaunt branches I started preliminary measures for assembling the Host, sent my Wardens warning orders., named a mustering place and bade them hurry the springtime sowing. A herald from Argos interrupted preparations. King Diomedes, he announced, desired consultation on affairs of great importance.
A formal emissary indicated a state visit; I arranged a ceremonial reception. Spearmen lined the roadway from citadel to town; Heroes arrayed in battle armour ranked below the walls. Golden crowned and crimson robed I rode to meet my guest and saw his familiar figure at the head of a glittering retinue. We dismounted and embraced; I took the reins from Talthybius and drove the King of Argos in my chariot through the gates.
The years had graven lines on Diomedes’ square-jawed face, spun silver threads in corn-coloured hair, bruised shadows beneath brown eyes. Age had added no surplus flesh to a muscular, thick-set body. I had known Diomedes since boyhood and stormed with him the Theban walls and mourned our dead together. After he came to the throne we conducted diplomatic dealings--and I discovered an intellect keen as a sword. Diomedes in his younger days was a straight, high-principled Hero, but years of ruling Argos had honed his principles thin. (My brother Menelaus remains the only honest king I know. Astonishingly he still rules Sparta.)
Parades and games on the Field of War, hunting in the hills and banquets in the Hall occupied our time. Though the herald had said that urgent affairs dictated Diomedes’ journey, etiquette forbade a host to initiate inquiries. Anyway, you never hustle kings.
On a sunlit morning when we hunted boar on a hillside near Nemea he elected to mention the reason for his visit. Stunted oak, wild olive trees and thorn scrub raddled the stony slopes which a line of Heroes, hounds and beaters climbed. Diomedes paused to thong his boots and said, ‘I am facing trouble in Argos.’
‘What is your worry, friend?’
‘Yours also, if I’m not mistaken.’ Diomedes knotted the boot thong, hefted his spear. ‘Shortage of corn, Agamemnon. Drought in Sparta halved last year’s harvest, the people approach starvation level. Somewhere I must find supplies.’
A Hero shouted and pointed his spear. On the hillside far ahead a grey shape fled in the scrub, glimpsed briefly like an eagle flying in mist.
‘Veer left,’ I told the huntsman. ‘Put hounds on the scent ... A perennial problem, Diomedes. In Mycenae we have rationed wheat and barley for years, cultivated every strip that supports a crop, imported every grain that Egypt can spare. We’ve been fortunate with our harvests, but the kingdom feels the strain.’
The hounds found the line, and bayed in chorus, a resonant clangour that echoed among the crags. I stumbled on a cypress root, and swore. We trudged on, breathing hard, the slant too steep for running.
‘We’ve got to do something. I’ve come here, Agamemnon, to concert a plan of action.’
I used my spear as a staff to surmount a beetling boulder. ‘Any ideas?’
‘We must force a way to the Orchomenos cornlands which Thebes has closed since the War of the Seven.’
‘Orchomenos? Touch the place, and you war against Thebes.’
‘That,’ said Diomedes, ‘is what I’ve come to propose.’
A fall of bare rock brought hounds to their noses. I halted thankfully, leaned on my spear. ‘We learned a lesson, together, when Adrastus took his war-bands across the Asopos. He led three thousand men; less than a thousand returned. The bones of the dead lie mouldering in front of the walls of Thebes.’
‘Therefore we must mobilize a stronger Host, twice or more than twice Adrastus’ strength.’
An Argive hound found the line and shouted to the skies. Huntsmen hurried leashes to the scent and scrambled on and up. I scanned a jumble of crags a bowshot from where we stood.
‘Hold hard!’ I panted. ‘The boar’s in there. Argos and I will take first spear. A moment while we recover our wind.’ I quirked an eyebrow at Diomedes. ‘Twice the force of the Seven? Do you suggest an alliance, Argive and Mycenaean Hosts marching against Thebes?’
‘Yes--and as many others as we can persuade.’
‘An interesting scheme. We’ll discuss it after we’ve killed the boar.’ I scrubbed moisture from my palms, and gripped the spear. ‘Watch the going, Diomedes: the stones will yield and slide. Ready?’ He nodded. ‘Huntsmen, slip the hounds!’
A yowling tawny cataract flooded the rocks. A huge grey body lumbered from a cleft, hounds clinging to his shoulders, tearing at his flanks. Fiercely tushed and hairy, he stood a bow-stave’s height at the withers. A lunge
of his head gashed a hound from underjaw to breastbone. Grunting with rage he charged his tormentors and tried to re-enter the boulder-bank walling his lair, skidded on stones and turned, hurtled like an avalanche down the scree.
I closed to Diomedes’ shoulder, warily planted feet on slithering stones. (Silly to stand apart: a maddened boar attacks the first he sees, and two spears are safer than one.) We dug in heels and waited, arms braced and spearheads low. A charging boar, head-on, presents a difficult target: all you see are curving tushes, a hairy black head and bristling shoulders. He came in a scatter of pebbles, fast as a galloping horse. My point hit his snout and jarred on bone. The shaft was wrenched from my hands, a monstrous body knocked me head over heels. His hide rasped my face in the fall, I smelt a fetid stench. On hands and knees, breath knocked from my lungs, I faced at a forearm’s distance a wounded, furious boar.
Small wicked eyes glared straight into mine. Voicelessly I called upon The Lady. A shout, and the beast rolled away, kicking and grunting in pain. His convulsions tore the embedded spear from Diomedes’ grasp; he grabbed my fallen weapon, lunged deep behind the shoulder. Satisfied the wound was mortal he came and sat beside me; together we watched our gallant quarry die. Huntsmen whipped off hounds, Heroes gathered round and admired the dead boar’s girth, exclaimed at the long curved tushes.
‘A narrow squeak,’ Diomedes said.
‘Damned stupid. I aimed between his shoulders; he lifted his head at the last and I was slow in raising my point. Thank you, Diomedes. Mycenae nearly lost a king.’
Beaters tied the carcase to a pole, huntsmen leashed the hounds. We descended the glen and stopped in a glade. Beaters brought wine-skins, wheaten cakes and honey; we sprawled on soft green grass dappled with springtime blossoms and broke our fast. Diomedes plucked small white flowers, threaded them together stem to stem.
He said, ‘Argos and Mycenae combined should settle Creon’s hash.’
‘Thebes can call on allies: Locrians and Phocians. After leaving our citadels garrisoned to discourage those blasted Goatmen we may raise between us a Host five thousand strong. Scarcely enough to guarantee victory.’
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