‘No idea. My spies in Thebes are merchants and pedlars; I’ve none among the nobles who decide strategical questions.’ I delved for a grapestone lodged in my teeth. ‘You’ll lead the Host to Eleusis. I shall ship a Mycenaean detachment--three or four hundred spears--across the Gulf.
Diomedes choked on his wine. ‘By sea? Why on earth--’
The basic underlying reason was not for revelation; I prevaricated boldly. ‘Partly to gain experience. Years ago Minos of Crete invaded Attica by sea, and levied tribute from King Aegeus of Athens, an impost which Theseus--’
‘Old fables,’ Diomedes interrupted, ‘and quite beside the point!’
‘Nobody since has tried transporting warriors in galleys,’ I said impassively, ‘and I’ve a mind to find out how it’s done. If Crete could carry troops by sea then so must we.’
Diomedes snorted. ‘Who the blazes wants to?--and a major war is hardly the time for experiments!’
‘Also,’ I persisted, ‘I can land my war-band behind the Cithaeron range and, if Creon holds the pass, take him in rear. Like this.’
I dipped a fingertip in wine, traced lines on a greenstone table. ‘Here’s the Isthmus, bending west to the Corinthian shore.’ I dabbed a drop on the stone. ‘Sicyon, where my ships are harboured. A short day’s rowing across the Gulf there’s a fishing port called Creusis--here. From Creusis a morning’s march will bring me north of the pass--like this--behind any Theban war-band waiting to oppose your Host advancing from the south. We’ll have them nipped like a flea between finger and thumb.’
Diomedes studied the wine-map. ‘It’s an idea,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘Anyway, knowing you’--a dour smile--‘whatever I say won’t change your mind.’
Having settled in outline the campaign’s opening stages I returned home, called Periphetes to Mycenae, disclosed my plans for crossing the Gulf and said, ‘I’ll take thirty chariots and three hundred spears. How many galleys do you reckon we shall need?’
The question floored the Master of the Ships. ‘That’s a poser, sire! We’ve often carried horses: there used to be a Trojan trade in stallions and brood mares. They need a deal of room aboard, and knowledgeable tethering. Let me see.’ He screwed his face in thought. ‘Seventy horses, say, including spares. Around four hundred men, counting followers. And those damned chariots!’
‘Come on, Periphetes,’ I said testily. ‘I’m not asking for the moon: it’s all been done before.’
‘Not in my time,’ the Master said.
‘Look--you can dismember the chariots, remove wheels, axles, poles and pack them small. Let’s calculate a triaconter’s stowage.’
I summoned the Curator to our aid. With quill and charcoal ink Gelon sketched on papyrus a triaconter’s plan, marking poop-deck, benches, thwarts and holds; and outlined, drawing to scale--a skill beyond my understanding--semblances of men and cars and horses. After a gale of argument Periphetes allowed a warship could embark twenty warriors besides the rowers--‘The Lady send calm seas!’--or fifteen knocked-down chariots or twelve horses.
Gelon scribbled, dropped his pen. ‘For the force you’re taking, sire, you’ll need twenty-eight triaconters. Say thirty, to be safe.’
I drained a goblet in three long gulps. ‘Very well. Periphetes, you will sail thirty triaconters to Sicyon and harbour there by the first full moon after sowing. That’s all. Don’t go, Gelon.’
I cradled head in hands and thought. I was of course mounting a rehearsal for shipping a Host to Troy. If four hundred fighters and followers demanded thirty ships how many more would be needed for a Host some thousands strong? I had but the faintest notion of the numbers to be mobilized for descent on the Trojan coast. Eight thousand? Twelve thousand? Possibly somewhere between: a war on such an enormous scale required a strength of warriors previously unimagined. Assume, for argument’s sake, eight thousand fighting men and two thousand followers--a meagre enough allowance. Followers on campaign--armourers, wheelwrights, carpenters, sutlers, cooks and slaves--frequently outnumbered warriors two to one.
I raised my head. ‘Gelon, how many ships would be needed to transport ten thousand men, including at a guess seven hundred chariots and fifteen hundred horses?’
Gelon’s quill scratched busily. ‘Three thousand triaconters, sire.’
I groaned. All the fleets of Achaea would scarcely muster the half.
Gelon looked at me curiously. ‘What have you in mind, sire?’
Nobody save Nestor owned an inkling of my amorphous scheme for conquering Troy. Not the smallest hint must escape before my plans were completed. Should Gelon be told? Of course. I relied on his experience--and a more dependable friend I didn’t possess.
I recounted my intentions. A blend of surprise and horror crumpled his saturnine face. He started to speak, stopped, and recovered his composure. I read the thought that flashed through his mind: financial boundaries limit a Scribe’s advice; politics and war extend beyond his province.
I was wrong. Gelon said bleakly, ‘Do you seek to emulate Zeus, sire?’
‘What do you mean? He ruled as king, and so do I.’
‘More than a king: High King of Achaea. Zeus, the first of the Heroes, subdued the entire country south of the Isthmus. He governed an empire before he died.’
‘Irrelevant, Gelon. I don’t.’
‘Sire, you’re on the way. Mycenae in your name has colonized islands, conquered Corinthia, made Elis a sphere of influence. Her prestige casts a shadow over Sparta and Argos. If you vanquish Thebes then Boeotia is a tributary realm. Now Troy becomes a target for your spear.’
'You weave fantasies, my friend. Anyway, the Trojan idea is finished. We haven’t anything like three thousand ships.’
I crossed to the window--we talked in my state apartments--and flung the shutters wide. Watery winter sunlight paled the oil-lamps’ flames, a gust of freezing air routed the brazier’s warmth. I propped hands on the balustrade and stared at Saminthos’ snow-streaked peaks soaring above the flat-topped roofs. My ambitions were dead as the winter-browned grass that sprouted in tufts from the tiles.
Gelon said quietly, ‘There’s a remedy, sire.’
I said bitterly, ‘A shipbuilding programme? Mycenae will be starving years before the last keel’s laid!’
‘No. Allow me a moment.’ Gelon figured rapidly, goose-quill squeaking like mice. ‘If warriors replace rowers you may ship eighty to a galley. Can followers be trained to pull an oar? Unlikely. For them and the baggage you’ll still need a hundred ships.’ He went on writing. ‘Say seventy galleys for chariots, for horses a hundred and seventy.’ The Curator drew a line beneath his ciphering. ‘On paper, sire, to transport eight thousand warriors, their baggage and chariots and followers you’ll need six hundred ships, more if you launch penteconters.’
I said morosely, ‘Heroes and spearmen can learn to row in a couple of days on the benches. But it won’t apply to the Sicyon crossing. If Creon heard that a war-band there is learning to row he’d guess my purpose and oppose the landing.’ I lifted a flagon and brimmed my cup. (No use inviting Gelon; Scribes drink nothing but water.) ‘Have you any other ideas?’
‘Yes. Transport your Host to Troy in separate waves. When the first has landed the galleys return to bring the rest. You’ll use far fewer ships.’
‘Dangerous. We’d risk defeat in detail: Trojans in superior numbers could annihilate the leading wave before the second beached. A four-day voyage to Troy, remember: can we ask the spearhead to fight unsupported for eight? I think not.'
‘As you will, sire.’ Gelon folded the paper. ‘I advise on the arithmetic; unfortunately I am ignorant about military matters.’
‘So you always say--and I don’t believe a word.’ I rapped my golden goblet on the table. ‘Listen, Gelon. I want you to visit Nauplia and measure galleys. Carry out practical tests: load chariots and horses, baggage and men. I’ll give Periphetes my authority for anything you do--but never let him guess the reason why.’
‘You command
and I obey.’ Gelon pulled a face. ‘Such complicated work can’t be finished in a day. Meanwhile who will keep Mycenae’s accounts?’
I laughed. ‘The Procurator and a troop of Scribes. I think you’ll manage somehow.’
Gelon, smiling, gathered his robe and went.
During the ensuing years he supervised every detail of the seaborne expedition that eventually sailed from Aulis, became in effect the forces’ quartermaster. I truly believe, without him, Troy would be standing today.
* * *
Gales and lashing rainstorms welcomed the new year in. Before leaving Mycenae to reconnoitre the Gulf crossing I interviewed my corpulent Spy. His report was entirely negative. Clytemnaistra’s relations with palace Heroes were unsullied as a Daughter’s, her contacts beyond the city non-existent--to all appearances a chaste and dutiful queen. I dismissed him, highly dissatisfied--the woman, in my view, was neither one nor the other. He lingered on the threshold, crumpling in his hands a ferret-skin cap. ‘There is,’ he mumbled awkwardly, ‘another small point.’
‘Spit it out, man!’
Hesitantly he mentioned Aegisthus, flinched from my frozen eyes and stuttered into silence. Encouraged brusquely to continue he murmured doubts about Aegisthus’ standing in my household and mentioned the violent quarrel when I found him in Clytemnaistra’s room. ‘Forgive me, sire. The slave who is my agent witnessed the--um--difference of opinion, which is why I know.’
I told him curtly he exceeded his instructions.
The Spy cringed. ‘I crave pardon, sire. But ...’ He swallowed hard, the apple bobbing beneath layers of fat that swathed his throat. ‘The queen has become very fond of Lord Aegisthus. He seldom leaves her side, accompanies her when she walks on the ramparts and’--a hunted look in his eyes--‘sleeps often in her bedchamber like a squire attending his Hero.’
Slowly I rubbed my palms together, propped chin on steepled fingertips. ‘What of it? The lad is fourteen, rising fifteen. The queen is thirty years old. Do you suggest...’
He said falteringly, ‘No, sire. I’d not dare to draw conclusions, lacking proof. You’ve commanded me to observe the queen and tell you all that passes. I considered it my duty ...’
‘So it is.’ I twirled the tip of my beard to a point. ‘You have done well. Ask the Curator to give you a dozen oxen and five bronze ingots. And,’ I added coldly, ‘if your agent blabs a word she’ll roast alive on a spit.’
Gabbling his thanks the Spy departed. I brooded over a means of killing Aegisthus without incurring Clytemnaistra’s vengeance. A contrived accident, perhaps a fall from an upper balcony, something to lull suspicion in the queen’s mistrustful mind. Damned difficult, near impossible.
I abandoned the conundrum.
However, I tested the Spy’s allegation by striding unannounced into Clytemnaistra’s bedroom after sunset. She reposed on the bed, coverlets drawn chin-high, unguents smearing her face, ribbons binding hair in complicated curls--a noble lady retired for the night. (That supple voluptuous body naked beneath the sheet!) Aegisthus sat on a footstool beside the bed, plucked a seven-stringed lyre and chanted a lay concerning Zeus and Hera--a disgustingly scabrous story the bards are fond of recounting. His singing, light and melodious, ceased abruptly when I entered. Bronze and alabaster oil lamps shed a wavering glow, flicked scintillating stars from phials and crystal jars. Orestes slumbered peacefully in his cot, a nursemaid nodded beside him. The lady-in-waiting on duty drowsed in her chair, and a slave woman crouched in a corner--a sloe-eyed, red-haired slut I recognized as the Spy’s employee.
An innocent, idyllic scene. Not a grain of suspicion to fret a jealous husband.
Clytemnaistra said drowsily, ‘What is your pleasure, my lord?’
Aegisthus rose to his feet; an expression of timid defiance returned my glare. I said, ‘Continue your playing.’
He looked helplessly at Clytemnaistra. She murmured, ‘Obey the king, Aegisthus.’
He seated himself on the stool and touched the strings. Under my wintry gaze his singing faltered, notes mistuned and false, the cadence halting. He shot me a beseeching glance. I held his eyes and beat them down. The verses went from his mind, nervous fingers scraped the strings and sheared the tune in a harsh discordant jangle. The lyre dropped from his hands.
I said evenly, ‘Go on. The tale is not half told.’
Clytemnaistra said, ‘The hour is late, my lord, and the boy is weary. I pray you let him retire.’
As though she had not spoken I told Aegisthus, ‘Finish the song.’
Miserably he retrieved the lyre, stroked the strings and chanted the opening bars. He found the diapason, found also an inner courage and met the challenge I set. His singing soared melodiously, a symphony true in feeling and tone as any that Orpheus sang. In a flourish of strings he ended the ballad, cradled the lyre and gazed worshippingly at Clytemnaistra--a lapdog begging approbation from his mistress.
She said, ‘A fine performance, Aegisthus. Don’t you agree, my lord?’ A tendril of triumph threaded her voice. As well as I she recognized my small defeat.
‘Sheer caterwauling. Leave music to the bards.’ I surveyed the silent women who had risen at my entrance, and Aegisthus sitting, head bowed, on the stool. ‘Go!’ I ordered. ‘You, Aegisthus, stay.’
They flitted from the room. I stalked to the seated figure. ‘Stand up, boy! Disrobe me.’
Clytemnaistra said levelly, ‘He is not your squire, my lord.’
I made no reply, and waited. A look of pure hatred contorted Aegisthus’ beautiful features. Sullenly he unfastened a golden pin and lifted the cloak from my shoulders, folded the garment neatly and laid it on a chair. He slipped the tunic over my head, stooped and unlaced sandals. Then he paused. I rested a hand on my dagger. Fumbling fingers loosed the buckle of my belt and dropped the deerskin kilt about my feet.
I strode naked to the bed and whipped away the coverlet, revealing creamy shoulders and thrusting, pink-tipped breasts. Clytemnaistra uttered a strangled sound. I slid beneath the blankets and delicately stroked a nipple. Aegisthus turned his back, hands balled tight in fists.
I said pleasantly, ‘You may leave. Don’t bother to dowse the lights.’
Before he had crossed the threshold I mounted between her thighs.
A petty revenge, but sweet.
* * *
Three days later when storms had abated I started out for Sicyon to reconnoitre the seaborne crossing to Creusis.
The Gulf flotilla patrolled whenever the weather allowed--I had forbidden winter beaching. Thesprotus, the citadel’s potbellied Warden, entertained my retinue and bragged loudly about the Dorians his patrols had intercepted. (To hear him talk you’d think he’d defeated Argos, Sparta and Pylos combined.) I bespoke a penteconter which was hauled ashore in the harbour for caulking and re-rigging. Because of his seafaring experience I entrusted Odysseus with overseeing repairs and choosing a day sufficiently calm for the crossing. I had no wish to drown in a leaky storm-riven craft.
In a cold grey dawn, on a cold grey sea the galley rowed from Sicyon, skirted three small islands and landed at Creusis by early afternoon. Twin headlands protected a shelving beach; fishermen’s huts and stranded hoys speckled a sandy foreshore. Dressed in simple mariner’s garb--stupid to advertise a military reconnaissance--I splashed ashore and examined the landing place. Room and enough to ground thirty triaconters, Odysseus confirmed. I inspected the road leading inland from the shore, a rough and rocky track but passable for chariots. After telling the fishermen we berthed merely to replenish water jars--a pretence the rowers dutifully fulfilled--we launched the penteconter and returned, making port at Sicyon after dark.
I went back to Mycenae, and saw the cold moons out in perfecting plans for the summer’s campaign against Thebes.
* * *
Heavy rain at the end of winter waterlogged fields and hindered sowing. The Host mustered at Corinth a moon later than I had planned.
War-bands came from Argos, Arcadia and Elis;
I led Mycenae’s Host, two thousand men. A vast encampment flowed from the foot of Corinth’s mount. I met the sons of Adrastus’ fallen Heroes and greeted Echemus of Tegea, stumpy, grey, bull-shouldered, still trumpeting the famous duel he fought with Hyllus. (‘I defeated single-handed the Heraclid invasion!’) My seaborne detachment marched to meet Periphetes at Sicyon.
Timing was important. Ideally Diomedes’ Host and my warriors from the sea should reach Cithaeron’s pass simultaneously from opposite directions. Overmuch to hope for, we both agreed: once Diomedes crossed the Isthmus our communications were severed and our movements could no longer be coordinated. I therefore agreed to wait at Creusis until the day Diomedes reckoned to cross Cithaeron, and then move swiftly east. Avowedly a hit-and-miss arrangement, but the best we could contrive.
I had to be unpleasant about the multitude of followers. Mycenaean baggage trains were rigorously limited--a restriction dating from Atreus’ time. Our Heroes and Companions brought a body-slave apiece, a limited number of cooks in proportion to each man’s retinue, and essential technical tradesmen--wheelwrights, smiths and so on. Arcadians, Argives and Elians, unused to such constraints, allowed a bevy of useless mouths, even concubines and bards, to swell the war-bands’ trains--not to mention furniture and luxuries stuffed in wagons.
When Diomedes was ready to march I hastened to Sicyon. Odysseus had press-ganged from the port a number of horse-coping traders: men who in the past shipped animals from Troy and nowadays brought horses by sea from Epiros. I blessed his inspiration. When a galley is beached you can’t embark horses; their weight prevents the ship being launched. Therefore vessels anchor in the shallows, allowing a foot of water beneath the keels, and timber ramps are rigged to openings in bulwarks. So far so good. The trouble arrives in leading baulking horses into water brisket-deep and driving the brutes up the ramps.
Odysseus had been practising this manoeuvre; I found his temper fragile, and strange new oaths embellished his speech. Aided by the copers he nevertheless induced sixty-odd horses to embark and debark smoothly, losing only three or four which suffered broken legs.
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