King in Splendour

by George Shipway

  Diomedes picked a flower, his thumbnail slit the stem. ‘Of the Seven who marched against Thebes, Adrastus alone survived. Six dead Heroes’ sons are itching for revenge. Including me, remember: my father Tydeus died on Theban ramparts. All are Argives except one--and he has promised a strong Arcadian war-band.’

  I lay on my back, linked hands behind my head and gazed at the sky. An eagle circled lazily high in the blue. ‘Our ideas coincide, Diomedes. This time there must be no mistakes: if Creon beats us again he’ll invade your realm and mine.’

  ‘When can you be ready?’

  ‘Not this year.’ Diomedes, dismayed, dropped his floral chain. ‘Don’t look so unhappy, my friend. I’m committed to a campaign in Corinthia, and the outcome will add an Elian Host to the forces we bring against Thebes.’

  Diomedes crushed the flowers in his hand. ‘You may be right. I’ll probably need a year to organize support.’ He looked at the restive hounds and expectant Heroes. ‘Will you be drawing again?’

  I clambered to my feet and rubbed my ribs. ‘I feel as though I’ve been crushed by a falling house. You stay, Diomedes. Boars infest the mountains round Nemea, and lions roam the valleys. Hounds will flush one or the other and you’re sure to have good sport. I’m going home.’

  Using my spear as a crutch I limped painfully down the hillside.

  * * *

  Lambs gambolled in the meadows, the springtime sowing was done. Appointing Helice as the mustering place I set the Host in motion. In early summer sunshine Mycenae’s contingent trundled northwards over the mountain roads to Corinth. I enjoyed these marches. The scent of pine and myrtle tanged the air and alloyed an acrid stink of horses’ sweat and leather, the rancid mutton fat that greased the axles. From Corinth we swung westwards beside a wine-dark sea, breathed the smell of salt and seaweed, heard sand slurring softly beneath the chariot wheels. Scarlet, blue and yellow flowers speckled fields and hillsides, blazoned scrub and bushes that lapped to the water’s edge. Spearmen sang bawdy marching songs, Heroes shouted quips from chariot to chariot.

  In Achaea in the springtime it is good to be alive.

  The Host made camp at Helice. Odysseus’ stocky figure greeted me in the Hall. He had discarded his disguise, trimmed and oiled his beard, donned a supple deerskin kilt, gold-embroidered belt, a fine-spun purple tunic--and still looked every finger’s-breadth the wily rogue he was. I happily slapped his shoulder and, over wine and pickled olives, asked how our stratagem fared.

  ‘Well enough. Agasthenes agrees to your conditions. He’ll surrender Dyme as soon as you appear.’

  ‘A credulous fellow,’ I mused. ‘Once Dyme’s in my hands how can he be sure I’ll march on Elis?’

  Odysseus looked at me oddly. ‘I’ve pledged your word, Agamemnon. You surely can’t be considering--’

  ‘No, nothing of the sort! Agasthenes will have Elis before the summer’s out.’ My own interests--possession of the Corinthian shore, an ally in Elis instead of a hostile ruler, the help of the Elian Host against Thebes--compelled adherence to the bargain. None of these save the first could Agasthenes have known; in his place I’d have wanted stronger sureties. A trustful man, it seemed--an unfortunate trait in one who aimed to be king.

  ‘The Lord of Erineos,’ Odysseus said, ‘is shaking in his sandals. I dropped him a hint that Dyme will yield. He’ll probably ask for terms when he sees your vanguard’s helmets.’

  ‘You’ve done well, Odysseus,’ I approved.

  He grinned crookedly. ‘Don’t forget my reward. An estate at Mycenae, and a place in your court and Council.’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ I murmured, ‘promising you Councillor’s status.’

  The Ithacan laughed. ‘You didn’t--but you’ll find it worth your while.’

  After a three-day halt for rest and repairs--long marches find weaknesses in chariots and harness--we started for Erineos. I gave Ajax command of a powerful vanguard, fifty chariots and five hundred spears, and told him to deploy in battle array when he saw the citadel’s towers. The intimidating sight unnerved Erineos’ lord; the populace poured out weaponless; Ajax entered unguarded gates and received the city’s submission.

  Mindful of my Heroes’ enthusiasm for booty I halted the Host at a distance, encamped and set a guard on citadel and town. I banished the lord--a man who yields at the sight of spears is no damned use to anyone--distributed the surrendered warriors among my war-bands, appointed a Warden and a garrison from deserving noblemen who would thus enjoy demesnes their predecessors forfeited. (An expected perquisite of war: despite the bards’ ballads of glory and honour Heroes fight solely for land and loot.)

  The Host pushed on for Dyme, and halted the night beside a stream. Next day I accompanied Ajax’s vanguard in my chariot, Odysseus driving alongside. In early afternoon the walls of Dyme soared from the foreshore’s flats. Ajax deployed the vanguard. On drawing nearer I saw armoured men and chariots arrayed in line of battle across the town’s approaches. Ajax halted his war-bands, dressed ranks and prepared to charge. (A typical Hero’s reflex when the enemy heaves in sight.) Hastily I called to him to wait.

  ‘What in The Lady’s name is happening?’ I asked Odysseus angrily. ‘You said Agasthenes would surrender. Has he changed his mind?’

  Odysseus scrubbed his nose. ‘Damned if I know. I’ll drive ahead and ask him what he’s at.’ His Companion dismounted and broke fronds from a laurel bush. Brandishing the bunch above his head Odysseus cantered away.

  I examined Dyme’s citadel, and disliked what I saw: a formidable fortress perched on a rock-strewn mount climbing steeply from the plain. A proper brute to storm, the cost in casualties alarming. Ajax fumed, thumped spear butt on his chariot’s plaited floor thongs, begged me to loose his armour. ‘We’ll scorch them like withered grass,’ he asserted. ‘Why are you waiting, sire?’

  In spite of my doubts and fears his fire-eating made me smile. ‘You’re bad as Gelanor. One look at the foe and charge. More battles have been lost that way than you’ve got hairs on your head. You must learn to leaven audacity with caution.’

  A trailing curtain of dust marked the return of Odysseus’ chariot. He reined in a scurry of sand. ‘Crisis over. Agasthenes has merely paraded a guard of honour to receive Mycenae’s king in proper state. Dyme’s gates are open. Drive on, Agamemnon.’

  I chuckled at Ajax’s crestfallen expression. ‘See what I mean? Learn this lesson, my lad: never commit your armour until you’re sure it’s the only way to win. Close ranks, form column. Follow my wheels.’

  Dyme’s lord surprised me. Ambitious men--which he must have been to aim at Elis’ rule--are normally lean and sinewy, the fires of aspiration consuming unwanted flesh. Agasthenes was short and fat, his flaxen beard concealed a double chin. A countenance round and red as a ripe autumnal apple, humorous blue eyes and button nose. His greeting lacked servility, a meeting between equals.

  ‘Glad to see you, Agamemnon. Come to the palace and shed that suffocating armour. A bath is ready, a tasty dinner afterwards. My cooks are the best in Achaea, and a galley has just landed some excellent Samian wine!’

  We dismounted at the gate--the citadel's streets were narrow, steep and tortuous; chariot hubs scraped house walls--and climbed to the palace. Though the building was a hut beside Mycenae’s all the rooms were splendidly appointed. Freshly painted frescoes pageanted the Hall: Parian marble paved the floor--a luxury my palace could not boast. Four fluted cedar-wood pillars cornered the central hearth where joints revolved on spits above a charcoal fire. Curlicues and scallops of ivory and silver embellished the ebony furniture. A sculpted throne of green Laconian stone flaunted in the centre of the Hall.

  Agasthenes smirked at my evident admiration. ‘I’ve always believed in living well, and have been in Dyme long enough to adapt the place to my tastes. Palace was a pigsty before I--er-took it over.’ He led me along corridors to a spacious bathroom. Slave girls filled a bath from a cauldron of steaming water. ‘My squires will disarm you--or wou
ld you prefer your own? Take your time; the beef isn’t properly basted yet, and to judge by the savour the cooks have forgotten the fennel. I’ll go and scold the idiots.’

  The women washed me, dabbed me dry in soft woollen sheets, rubbed perfumed oil on my body. Talthybius stood distrustfully by the door--unaware of Agasthenes’ compact he believed me naked and vulnerable in a potentially hostile citadel. Clothed in doeskin kilt and linen tunic I joined Agasthenes in the Hall and seated myself deliberately on the throne.

  The Elian served a splendid dinner; the wine was all he had promised. Feeling comfortably distended I swallowed the final mouthful and regarded the feasting Heroes--Dyme’s and Mycenae’s--who thronged the Hall.

  ‘Tell me, Agasthenes, how many Heroes in Elis will rally to your support? Presumably you’ve kept in touch.'

  He stroked a swollen paunch. ‘Let me see. There’s Dolichus and Perimedes--’

  ‘Damn the names! Numbers, man, numbers!’

  Odysseus swallowed ten-year-old Samian, belched contentedly and said, ‘I acted as go-between once or twice. Disguised myself as a huckster peddling ivory and beads. I reckon a third of the palace nobles will rise against Phyleus when our helmets top the horizon.’

  ‘Then,’ I said, ‘the sooner we strike the better. Delay may damp their ardour.’ I turned to Agasthenes, remorselessly champing his way through a platter of figs. ‘You have surrendered Dyme in return for my help in winning Elis’ crown. Are you agreeable, once enthroned, to an alliance between Elis and Mycenae and a treaty binding us in mutual amity and aid?’ Agasthenes eyed me warily. ‘Aid? Do you mean military aid? That steps beyond the contract we agreed.’ He inclined his portly body and whispered in my ear. ‘Tell you the truth, Agamemnon, I’m not a pugnacious man. People seem to like me, and I find it easier to gain my ends through amicable negotiation and a bit of give-and-take. In any event,’ he continued in louder tones, ‘you’re suggesting a somewhat one-sided bargain. I can’t imagine anyone who wants to make war on Elis.’

  ‘No? Yet the realm for years has fought a running frontier war, cattle-raid and counter-raid, with Pylos.’

  Agasthenes airily waved a hand. ‘A way of life. Honours remain equal; and it keeps aggressive Heroes out of mischief.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure. King Nestor wearies of the everlasting bickering and considers an invasion to eliminate your raiders.’ Odysseus’ eyebrows twitched, his fingers hid a grin. ‘He’ll sit on any territory he wins, and may even threaten your citadel.’ Agasthenes’ fat features quivered in agitation. ‘I hadn’t heard this. Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely certain. My sources are reliable. So,’ I went on pleasantly, ‘a coalition will be all to Elis’ advantage. Nestor will think twice before offending a kingdom that can call on Mycenae’s help.’

  ‘True. True.’ Agasthenes pondered, pulling his lip. ‘But a military alliance cuts both ways. I’d have to send an Elian Host whenever you wanted help.’

  I laughed heartily. ‘Can you envisage any Achaean ruler challenging Mycenae? He’d get the thrashing of his life!’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’ Agasthenes looked at me ruefully. ‘In fact I haven’t much choice. If I don’t assent you’ll occupy Dyme, throw me out and march your Host away!’

  He could not have summarized the position more concisely. ‘You affront my honour, Agasthenes!’ I blared. ‘I’ve promised to set you on Elis’ throne--and simply offer a compact which is more to your profit than mine!’

  Agasthenes hurriedly disclaimed offence, and added, ‘If you absolutely insist...’ He saw my face and flinched. ‘No--I didn’t mean that. By all means, Agamemnon. An excellent idea.’

  ‘Let our Heroes, then, bear witness to the agreement.’ I called my principal nobles--Gelanor, Polyctor and other Wardens--and Agasthenes summoned his. They stood before the throne while I shortly stated the terms; Agasthenes gave his promise. (A rare event in Achaea, whose kings are properly prudent about committing themselves in public.) We sealed the treaty in wine, I clasped Agasthenes’ hand and wandered from the Hall.

  Odysseus overtook me at the gate. ‘I’ve seldom listened to so many lies so quickly told,’ he said genially. ‘I visited Pylos twenty moons ago, and know for a fact that Nestor never dreams of attacking Elis. What are you after, Agamemnon?’

  ‘Elian war-bands to swell my Host against Thebes.’

  ‘Boil my belly and bones!’ He looked at me admiringly. ‘You are, without exception, the most unscrupulous man I’ve met!’

  ‘Truly? Have you never looked in a mirror, Odysseus?’

  * * *

  From Dyme to Elis is a long day’s march. To allow for eventualities--an attack on the citadel, a battle in the open or, at worst, preparing for a siege--I wanted to reach my destination by noon. We broke camp in the dark, marched by moonlight along an easy road that traversed the coastal plain and saw the towers of Elis when the sun was overhead. Tamarisk and oleander chequered flat, open ground quilted here and there by pastureland and fields. Isolated farmsteads dotted the plain like toadstools.

  I halted the Host and deployed, sent mounted scouts in the van, then bowmen widely spaced, chariots in two long ranks treading on their heels, lines of spearmen in rear. Talthybius guided my chariot a spearcast ahead of the armour; Agasthenes drove alongside, jowls sagging in anxiety. Hooves and wheels raised dust in whorls that hovered like a doom-cloud above the advancing Host: a spectacle, I hoped, to daunt the opposition.

  The citadel gripped a rounded ridge that jutted from the foothills. Water gleamed at the foot, a curve of the Peneus stream. The township clustered on either bank. A stone bridge crossed the river which, Agasthenes swore, was elsewhere easily fordable since winter spates had abated. Cattle grazed in the pastures, ox-teams abandoned by terrified ploughmen stood patiently in fields. People ran confusedly among houses in the town, fugitives swarmed the pathway to the gate.

  I felt perplexed. We had met no resistance, so the Elians obviously intended to stand a siege. Sentinels on the ramparts must have seen us from afar. Why, then, was Elis so manifestly unready? An enemy force approached within ten bowshots of the walls, and still the gates gaped wide. I searched the distant houses, the figures flitting among them. A trap? An ambuscade concealed inside the township’s cluttered buildings? Unlikely--but as I’d told Ajax, look hard and long before striking.

  I halted the Host at the edge of the hovels that straggled along our side of the river.

  We were now within long earshot of the citadel. On the wings of a dying land-breeze came an indistinct rumble of noise: shouts and war-cries faint as whispers, the faraway tinkle of blade on blade. The ramparts seemed deserted, not a sentinel paced his beat, the sunlight flashed not a spark from a single spear.

  I looked at Agasthenes. ‘What do you make of it?’

  He moistened his lips. ‘I think my supporters have seen us coming and are fighting Phyleus’ men. They’re badly outnumbered, and they can’t last long.’

  ‘Right. We’d better move in a hurry.’

  My bellow summoned Ajax at a gallop. Take your chariots straight through the town, over the bridge to the gate. Dismount there, storm inside, seize gate towers, ramparts and watch towers. I’ll follow with the Host.’

  Ajax closed his war-bands from line to column, led them at a gallop across the bridge, brushed into the water a group of fleeing townsmen. Chariots stopped at the gate, Heroes dismounted, Companions swung the vehicles away. Their leader energetically checked an impetuous rush for the portals--even at that distance I could hear his blistering language--arrayed his men in column of fives and led them through the entrance at a run.

  I nodded approvingly. Young Ajax was learning fast.

  When the first of his Heroes appeared on the gate tower I signalled a general advance. The line moved forward at a walk and splashed across the river axle-deep. Talthybius rumbled over the bridge and mounted an easy slant to the gate. I dismounted and said to Agasthenes plodding at my side, The honour is yours, so lead the way
to the palace.’ (With its treasury and store rooms the palace is the key to every citadel.)

  The tubby Hero blenched. ‘Must I?’ he quavered. ‘Looks bloody dangerous to me. Well, if you insist ….’

  He waddled into his city, warriors crowding behind. Except for refugees cowering in corners we met nobody before a street that mounted steeply to the palace. Then a spate of shields and spears came hurtling down the slope. Agasthenes promptly backed beside me, Gelanor and Odysseus stood on either hand. The way was narrow, flanked by house walls, only four could stand abreast. We fronted shields and met the shock, lunged, recovered, lunged. I lost my spear in a bearded throat and groped for my sword. A swarthy warrior lifted an axe, chopped savagely at my head. I took the blow on my shield, my sword was halfway drawn. The axe soared up for a second cut, Agasthenes’ spear smashed the holder’s teeth. The fat little man squeaked happily, and lanced another’s belly. Odysseus at my shoulder fought with drilled efficiency, glaring over a tower-shield’s rim, grunting as he delivered his accurate, deadly thrusts. Gelanor flailed a two-edged sword and roared like a rampant bull.

  The fight was energetic and lasted far too long. Then our assailants turned and ran, leaving seven dead. They had seen the press behind us, spears surging up the street, and knew they had no hope of winning through. (Elians, I found later, are seldom very valiant.) We followed in their tracks and mounted steps to the palace. Corpses littered the Great Court; terribly wounded warriors crawled on knees and elbows. Uproar bellowed inside the Hall, the clash of weapons and hammering feet.

  Heavy chariot armour is not designed for fighting afoot. The gorget creased my throat, shoulder flanges weighed like sheets of rock, triple brazen skirts rasped hips and thighs. I was tired and breathless, every muscle aching, rank with sweat and feeling my age. But Agasthenes pranced cheerfully, chubby face aglow; Odysseus, grim and purposeful, marched to the portico’s pillars; Gelanor’s blood-streaked blade pointed the way to his braying Heroes stamping across the Court.