I found Nestor in his stables inspecting mares and stallions shipped from the famous horse herds of Epiros, and said I suspected Aegisthus skulked in Pylos. He smoothed the mane of a skewbald mare and said uncomfortably, ‘Yes, he’s here. Fled from Elis and asked for asylum. I could hardly refuse the boy; he’s committed no crime I’m aware of. Sent him to a nearby hamlet and told him to stay out of your way. Sheer bad luck you saw him. Most unfortunate.’
Tartly I demanded, as the nearest living relative, he surrender Aegisthus to my charge. Nestor stooped and felt a stallion’s foreleg. ‘I can’t do it--surely you must see that? He’s a guest-friend and I have my obligations.’ The horse whickered and lunged at the royal rump. ‘Steady, blast you! I believe the brute is throwing a splint near-fore--you can never trust those damned Epirot dealers. No, Agamemnon. Everyone knows you’re after Aegisthus’ head, and I’d disgrace my name as a host if I gave the lad up.’
Reluctant to antagonize him I accepted defeat. In comparison with Nestor when he had made up his obstinate mind a mule became a paragon of pliancy and reason.
In other negotiations he was more forthcoming. We discussed the nascent rivalry between Pylos’ merchant venturers and mine, the brawls that occurred when they met in foreign ports; and decided upon a division of the markets. Pylos would have a monopoly of overseas lands to the west--Sicily and Apulia and all the regions between; to Mycenae were allotted the islands far as Rhodes and the Carian coast. We agreed to share Egyptian and Cretan commerce where our markets were already well established.
Amid mutual declarations of everlasting friendship I quitted Pylos and started the long march home. Riding over the mountains to Sparta, where I intended to break my journey, I brooded over the information Nestor had dropped as we parted. ‘Aegisthus has disappeared,’ he said. ‘Left without a word, and no one knows where he’s gone.’ A fugitive on the run, I thought, forever seeking a refuge beyond the grasp of my claws.
My arrival in Sparta and Menelaus’ marriage to King Tyndareus’ daughter Helen coincided to the day. The wedding, conducted in the palace Hall, followed the usual simple ceremony: Menelaus took Helen’s wrist and declared her his fond and willing wife, the Daughters snipped and burned a lock of her hair, an ox was ritually sacrificed. Contrariwise the celebrations afterwards were splendidly magnificent: games and races, lavish banquets, generous donations--tripods, cauldrons, wine and trinkets--distributed to Heroes, and an amnesty for criminals awaiting execution.
I found Menelaus unchanged, the same sturdy, honest warrior incapable of trickery or deceit. He plainly adored his bride, mooning like a love-sick adolescent, his gaze forever lingering on her face. I allow he had reason: Helen’s astonishing loveliness fired strange desires in the most phlegmatic men. A waterfall of red-gold hair, eyes deep-sea blue, soft sensuous lips and dimpled cheeks in a perfect heart-shaped face. Her attractive charm was potent as her beauty--a gay, vivacious, sparkling sweetheart. I had not seen Helen since the Athenian war which avenged Theseus’ abduction. Menelaus accepted her deflowering by Theseus--a man who given twenty heartbeats’ grace would rape a female tortoise--but owned not the slightest inkling of Iphigeneia’s parentage: a secret Clytemnaistra hid from every eye but mine.
Tyndareus had aged beyond his years since last I visited Sparta. His fragile, elderly queen had died a little before. Although his love for Leda had never been apparent her death distressed him deeply; Tyndareus lost his ruddy complexion, his face grew grey and lined, a stoop diminished his height. After promptly executing Leda’s swan--a combative, bad-tempered bird, a menace to all save the owner--he became increasingly unapproachable. He easily lost the thread of a conversation and retreated into brooding introspection.
‘It’s very worrying,’ Menelaus confided. ‘Sparta needs a vigorous hand on the rein. The king’s energy declines, his judgements in Council are vague and obscure. Heroes are growing restless.’ Unfortunate news for me. Years before, during my Spartan exile, I extracted from Tyndareus a half-promise that after he had helped me win Mycenae’s throne his realm and mine together would war on Thebes. With this end in view Tyndareus formed a loose confederation which proved useful later in my efforts to unite Achaean kingdoms against Troy--but over the years the original cause was forgotten. Nobody wanted to take on Thebes; even Nestor had ducked the suggestion.
When Tyndareus received me in audience I tentatively raised the question. After reminding him of the hardship Theban intransigency inflicted on our peoples and pointing out that the city’s destruction provided the only cure I added, ‘A treaty of alliance binds Sparta and Mycenae.’
‘A defensive alliance,’ the king mumbled. ‘I won’t take part in a war of aggression.’
All my arguments met stubborn refusals. I gave it up; and grumbled to Menelaus. ‘I’m not surprised,’ my brother replied. ‘He’s foundering in senility and won’t agree to anything, least of all a war. Tyndareus has even tried to prohibit the private battles his cities fight to keep their Heroes fit.’
‘You’re his acknowledged heir. Can’t you persuade Tyndareus to abdicate? You can quote a precedent: King Adrastus, sick and ailing, surrendered Argos’ throne to Diomedes not so long ago.’
‘Argos lost a war, Sparta hasn’t.’ Menelaus pensively tugged a strand of his russet hair. ‘You have a point. I’ll try to work on Tyndareus, though I doubt you’ll see a result before campaigning in the spring. So don’t rely on a Spartan war-band.’ Helen entered the Great Court where we sauntered while we talked. A radiance like summer sunrise dawned on my brother’s face; he left me flat and hastened to his wife. I sighed. Politics and love are horses from different stables. Watching Helen and Menelaus I none the less repressed an envious twinge.
When the festivities ended I took leave of King Tyndareus, embraced my brother and left for Argos, a two-day journey north. Summer was nearly over, ox teams ploughed the stubble of a lately gathered harvest. Diomedes said his recruiting prospered: all the sons of the Seven who died at Thebes pledged war-bands, and Agapenor King of Arcadia had promised to send a strong contingent. I told Diomedes we could also count on an Elian force; totting up spears we arrived at a Host six thousand strong.
‘Which,’ said Diomedes, ‘should settle Thebes for ever.’
‘Numbers aren’t everything,’ I observed. ‘Leadership is important. Who is going to command the Host--you or I?’
We squabbled equably for a time, and left the question open. (I had not the smallest intention of relinquishing command.) Before departing I inquired briefly--as I had in Sparta--whether a youth called Carmanor had been seen of late in Argos. Diomedes said nobody of that name had visited the palace; he could not vouch for travellers lodging in the town.
And so, when I reached Mycenae and entered Clytemnaistra’s room, I hardly believed the eyes that saw Aegisthus standing beside her.
Chapter 4
Sitting in a tall-backed chair the queen stitched silver spangles on a gauzy linen bodice. Two of her ladies spun thread, twirling earthenware egg-shaped weights. In sunlight by the window another clacked the shuttles of a loom. A slave woman polished a vase, spitting on the design--double axes painted red and black--and rubbed the plaster dry with a woollen cloth. In the Great Court three storeys below a steward could be heard berating a servant. Sunlight splashed through the window and spread sharp-edged golden carpets on blue and yellow floor tiles.
My entry froze the picture motionless as frescoes, cut chatter like a door that is suddenly slammed.
Fear dilated Aegisthus’ eyes. Step by shuffling step he backed away. My fingers crept to the dagger at my belt. Anger cold and pitiless as a winter wind from the sea bristled the hairs on my nape and choked the questions forming on my tongue. Kill the obscenity, instinct howled, pluck the incestuous fruit that poisons the House of Pelops!
Clytemnaistra dropped her needlework. ‘Greetings, my lord.’ She sounded calm, indifferent. ‘Your summer campaign succeeded, I’m told. Will you not relate the stories of your vict
ories?’
I pointed a shaking hand at the frightened youth. ‘Why is he here? Why do you receive in your quarters a--’
‘Should I not?' Her ladies gathered skeins and cloth, started for the door. An imperious gesture checked them. ‘Stay, Thaleia! Panope, continue your work!’ The women slunk back to their places. ‘Aegisthus came as a traveller and pleaded for food and shelter. Why should I refuse him my house and hospitality?’
‘You know his name and history,’ I raged. ‘As well allow a serpent to nestle in your breast!’ My dagger came out, I stepped towards the shrinking figure pressed against a wall. Clytemnaistra flung wide her arms and barred my way.
‘No, my lord! Aegisthus is my guest-friend! Will you slay him in my chamber before my ladies’ eyes? Your name will stink in the nostrils of every man in Achaea!’
We stood closely, face to face, her naked bosom thrust against my chest. I glared into her eyes. She said in a voice so quiet that only I could hear, ‘Think well, Agamemnon. If you lay a finger on Aegisthus I’ll publish abroad how Broteas died--let the consequence be what it may!’
For ten slow heartbeats our glances locked. The room was still as a tomb, the women afraid to breathe. I sheathed my dagger, tapped it home. ‘Not here. Not now,’ I grated. ‘His time will come, my lady. I’ll let the bastard live for a while and savour the end that dogs him as certainly as summer follows spring.’
‘You will never harm Aegisthus.’ Her tone was definite as a royal decree condemning a thief to death in the Chaos Ravine. ‘I have given him refuge; he stays under my protection. The laws of hospitality forbid your interference.’
‘You know what he is,’ I snarled. ‘A vile, unnatural creature begotten by a father on his daughter! Why do you shelter such ordure, a filth that fouls the earth?’
‘Because I’m sickened beyond endurance by the crimes that blacken your House!’ Her voice rang loud and clear, the syllables distinct as hammers striking bronze. ‘Atreus hurled your mother to her death--have you forgotten, my lord? He killed young Tantalus, and fed the boy to his father! In this very room Thyestes took revenge and hacked his brother in pieces! For that wickedness you--you, my lord--beneath this palace buried Thyestes alive! Mycenae reeks of blood, the stones themselves exhale decay and death. Is there to be no end to the murdering and slaughter the children of Pelops wreak?’ She pointed to the youth who listened in awestruck silence. ‘There stands the last of the line, unblemished, hands unstained. He has done you no hurt, Agamemnon, nor anyone else in the world! Why avenge upon this innocent a crime his father committed?’
A hunting party clattered across the Great Court, talking and laughing loudly. Wagon axles screeched in the distance; picks and mattocks clinked on stone where slave gangs built the walls. A pigeon perched on the window ledge and warbled clucks and coos.
I looked at the tongue-tied, flinching youth. ‘What misbegotten impulse brought you to Mycenae?’
Aegisthus spread his hands. ‘Where else could I go? To whatever haven I fled, sire, I knew you would hunt me down. I was desperate, distraught--and decided to beg your mercy.’
I said grimly, ‘You crave for death, it seems.’
‘Regard your victim, my lord.’ The stridency had vanished from Clytemnaistra’s voice; she spoke softly, almost tenderly. ‘The Lady has endowed him with a beauty unsurpassed since Zeus first saw light on Cretan Dikte. Will you wantonly destroy such rare perfection?’
Deliberately I spat, and ground my foot on the gob. ‘My lady, you have tricked me by accepting a spawn of incest in my house. So be it. In the citadel he is immune: neither by word nor deed will I do him hurt.’ I eyed Aegisthus venomously. ‘One step outside the walls and your mantle of safety is lost; I’ll crush you like the pestilent louse you are. In a word, Aegisthus, you’re my prisoner henceforth!’
I swung on my heel and left the room.
* * *
I passed a sleepless night, and quivering fury possessed me all next day. Clytemnaistra’s blackmail clamped my sword-hand in a grip I could not break. For reasons I have related, the truth about Broteas’ death must never be bruited abroad. I had no doubt she meant every word she whispered when we stood with bodies touching, eyes searching hearts and minds. I could only guess at her reasons for shielding Aegisthus: perhaps the creature’s physical beauty appealed to her motherly instincts. Motherly? Perhaps.
More likely she used Thyestes’ son as a dagger to prick my pride, a reminder of my helplessness against a woman’s spite, a symbol mutually recognized that her will prevailed over mine.
My credit would certainly suffer. Anyone who counted in the Councils of Achaea knew I was determined to eliminate Aegisthus: now they saw him honoured as a guest within my palace. Heroes would appraise me as a man of wavering purpose, a fellow who vaunted loudly and failed in the end to perform.
I smothered anger in work. The summer had accumulated a host of pleas and appeals which only a king could settle. I sat for days in the Throne Room listening to arguments and issuing decrees. Gelon insisted on an exhaustive auditing of revenues and debits. While trade in general flourished our corn stocks dwindled fast in spite of a plentiful harvest; shorn of the gold dust sieved from Colchis’ sandy streams our gold reserves looked lonely in the smallest palace treasure-room.
The new west wall was almost finished; the Gate of the Lions proudly barred the entrance; the sculpture that named it awaited mounting above an enormous lintel. The Daughters insisted on a ritualistic ceremony when the heavy limestone carving was hoisted into place; their chanted invocations threaded thin disharmony in the slave gangs’ raucous shanties as they hauled on blocks and tackle. A remarkable piece of statuary, which appeased the Daughters’ ire about preserving Zeus’ tomb. (My masons had done a magnificent job: the ancient sepulchre, raised and refurbished, might have been structured the day before yesterday.) But my practical eye admired more a formidable bastion beside the gate and the towers studding the wall.
When gangs began demolishing the old interior wall Apisaon started tunnelling towards the Perseia spring. (He finished two years afterwards: an engineering triumph. A hundred steps lead underground to a cistern which the spring keeps always filled, the shaft so ebony-dark that torches burn in cressets continually on the walls.) Apisaon’s feat encouraged a similar endeavour at Tiryns, a fortress which was also short of water. There he drove through adamant rock two tunnels tapping springs outside the walls.
Odysseus often accompanied my investigations in and around the citadel. I bestowed on him a productive estate near the Argive border. The Ithacan, by nature a seaman, thought husbandry a tedious occupation and appointed a competent bailiff to manage the manor, remained in Mycenae and lived in a chamber above the palace kitchens. (‘Handy for snacks,’ he grinned. ‘I’m everlastingly hungry!’) I gave him chariot and horses, squire and body-slaves; he chose for his Companion a youngster who handled the ribbons cleverly as any driver in Mycenae, Talthybius excepted.
Nobody had ventured to mention Aegisthus’ presence. Odysseus braved my wrath. While we were watching labourers excavating the Perseia tunnel he said abruptly, ‘I see you’ve changed your mind. Thyestes’ son runs free about the palace.’
I glowered. ‘He does. Such is my will--and prudent men, Odysseus, don’t question a king’s behest.’
He peered into the pit where slaves swung brazen picks that the rock face quickly blunted. ‘Who would dare?’ he murmured. ‘A sensible move, if I may say so. You’re shedding your reputation as a harsh and inflexible tyrant and earning people’s esteem as a forgiving, merciful man.’
‘A weak-kneed ninny, rather,’ I countered angrily.
‘Not so. Gentlemen approve your clemency, particularly when they’ve seen Aegisthus. An extremely attractive boy.’
‘A boy without a future,’ I said bleakly. ‘I forbid him squire’s training, he will never win his greaves nor hold a demesne. If he goes outside the citadel my executioners pounce.’
‘An unhappy prospect.�
� Odysseus contemplated an overseer belabouring a slave. ‘What will he become--a sort of hanger-on in the women’s quarters?’
‘The problem,’ I said sourly, ‘fails to disturb my sleep. We’ll talk no more of this, Odysseus.’
‘As you wish.’ He craned over the wall at the stony slope that slanted from the footing. ‘How far will the tunnel reach, Agamemnon?’
Odysseus obeyed my order. He never mentioned Aegisthus’ name again.
Our patrols by land and sea on the Corinthian Gulf bore satisfactory fruit. Periphetes’ galleys intercepted a fishing hoy off Aegira, found Dorians in the crew and drowned the lot. A foot patrol from Erineos caught Dorians disembarking and threw the bodies back to the sea they came from.
Winter’s swordsmen flayed the land: rain and wind and bitter cold. I journeyed to Argos and informed Diomedes that Sparta refused her help against Thebes. ‘I never depended on Tyndareus,’ Diomedes said. ‘He’s in permanent mourning for Leda’s death and quite unfit to rule. The sons of the Seven are ready--we call ourselves the Followers.’ He ticked off names on his fingers. ‘There’s Thersander, Alcmaeon, Adrastus’ son Aegialeus, Sthenelus, Euryalus, Promachus from Arcadia and myself. Also another volunteer. Remember Echemus of Tegea?’
‘The fellow who slew Hyllus son of Hercules in single combat at Corinth all those years ago?’
‘The very man. Getting on now but still a doughty fighter. He has promised a sizeable war-band.’
Over wine and honeyed grapes we discussed mustering and routes, and decided to mobilize at Corinth before moving across the Isthmus to Eleusis--the road Adrastus followed when he led the Seven to Thebes.
‘Thence,’ Diomedes said dubiously, ‘we’ll have to thread the pass across Cithaeron. We’ve seen that horrid defile: a perfect place for ambuscade. Creon must know we’re mounting an invasion. He closed Thebes’ gates against the Seven, defeated an assault and later made a sortie which cut our Host to pieces. I wonder what he’ll do this time?’
King in Splendour Page 11
