Odysseus, whatever his faults, was ever supremely efficient.
Dismembering and stowing chariots proved easy in comparison, though Heroes made mistakes in priority of loading, sometimes piling baggage on top of wheels and poles. I indicated, none too gently, that in landing on a hostile shore we urgently needed war-cars; and made grumbling, sweating Heroes reverse the packing order. Ultimately the final sack of grain and lowliest slave was loaded; on a sparkling sunlit morning caressed by a gentle breeze thirty galleys in line ahead cruised under sail from the harbour.
One idiot master ran his vessel aground on a reef; the remaining ships beached safely on Creusis’ sandy shore. Well before dark the force was landed, chariots re-assembled, horses picketed, tents pitched and fires lighted. I rounded up the hamlet’s population and corralled them under guard to prevent any treacherous fisherman from carrying the news to Thebes.
Ruminating on the beach I considered my accomplishment. A war-band twenty score strong had crossed a narrow gulf in thirty ships and landed on a shoreline unopposed: an operation designed to test a seaborne assault on Troy. What exactly had I proved? Was this a rational precedent for transporting a Host ten thousand strong in over a thousand galleys on a four-day voyage to fight as they stepped ashore? Sadly I shook my head--but at least it made a start.
A sliver of moon rode the heavens like a golden penteconter. Horses whinnied and stamped, a murmur of talk mourned dying fires. Soothed by the rustle of breakers I drifted into sleep.
An outpost’s raucous challenge jerked me wide awake. My sentinel Hero announced through the tent flap that guards had caught an intruder. Spearmen hustled a stumbling figure, flung the captive sprawling. ‘Found her sneaking past me picket,’ a sentinel said.
Her? I called for torches, surveyed by the spitting flames a woman dressed in a wolfskin cape and frayed black robe. Hollow cheeked, emaciated, matted hair unbound. Privation scored deep lines on weather-roughened features which retained, beneath the grime, remembrances of beauty. She clambered to her feet and faced me proudly, no vestiges of fear in the hazel eyes.
‘Do I speak with the Argive leader?’ Though a thick Boeotian accent slurred the words her bearing attested a gentlewoman born.
‘I am Agamemnon, Atreus’ son whom Pelops begot, Mycenae’s king.’
‘You behold Antigone, King Oedipus’ daughter.’
I recalled a half-forgotten rumour springing from the Seven’s war on Thebes. Oedipus’ daughter, seed of Jocasta’s womb, begotten by a son upon his mother. Had she connections still in Creon’s court? If so, she could be useful.
‘Why are you here?’
‘I bring you Creon’s battle plans.’
‘A traitor,’ I said coldly.
‘No. I was hunted from Thebes and dishonoured. Would you deny me revenge?’
The commotion had roused the camp; torchlight splashed a ring of curious faces. I lifted the tent flap, ushered the woman inside, beckoned Odysseus. Eurymedon draped a cloak on my back--the midnight breeze wore ice-sharp fangs--served cups and a flagon of wine. I sat in a folding chair--that and a pallet the tent’s sole furniture. Odysseus and the visitor squatted on the ground.
‘Now,’ I said, ‘tell me why you have come to betray your city.’
Head bowed, fingers tracing patterns in the sand, Antigone related a tragic tale in low, monotonous tones. When the Seven leaguered Thebes Oedipus’ sons Polyneices and Eteocles fought a duel to decide the throne’s possession. Both men died in the fight. Creon accorded Eteocles an honourable burial; Polyneices, one of the Seven, he branded an outcast traitor, and ordered his corpse to be left unburied, a feast of flesh for carrion birds. Antigone defied the order, crept from the citadel by night and buried her brother in a shallow grave.
Antigone looked at her hands. The soil was hard and stony. My nails were torn from the fingers, his sister’s blood hallowed Polyneices’ tomb.’
Creon, enraged, had the corpse disinterred and put sentries concealed on watch. Antigone stole out again after dark, began to re-bury the mouldering carcase and was taken in the act. Creon raved and ranted, and finally decreed she be buried alive in the same grave as her brother’s.
Antigone lifted her head and gazed through the wind-shivered tent flap. Torches lighted the anguish harrowing her face. ‘I was promised in marriage to Haemon, Creon’s son. Haemon begged my life, swearing that so vile a crime would so disgust the Thebans they would turn against their king. Creon refused, and confined me in a dungeon. It would give me time, he said, to contemplate a truly terrible death.’
Haemon foiled his father’s vengeance. During the night he killed the spearman on guard and whisked Antigone away. Together they fled to the mountains, hid in caves and lived among shepherds: a bleakly harsh existence. All the searchers Creon sent failed to hunt them down; the pair survived for years. Eventually Haemon, scouring the foothills for a wether gone astray, was caught and taken to Thebes. To escape interrogation he fell on his sword.
‘He died a year ago,’ Antigone said exhaustedly, ‘and my life is now unbearable. Though herdsmen shelter and feed me I wish to live no longer. I’ll help you ruin Creon and afterwards die content.’
Odysseus said, ‘You stay isolated in the mountains. How can you know the plans concerted in Thebes?’
A sweep of the hand obliterated her tracings in the sand. ‘Heroes own the flocks the shepherds keep, come to inquire their welfare and give news of the world outside. Your invasion is expected, and counter measures prepared.’
I said, ‘How may I be sure this is not a trick the wily Creon plays? Should your information be false--’
‘I? Help Creon? Your brain is addled, my lord! I swear on The Lady’s Womb,’ Antigone said strongly, ‘I shall tell you nothing but truth.’
‘Say it, then.’
She clenched her teeth and spoke like a serpent hissing. ‘Since the Seven were routed from Thebes the king and all his Heroes are confident of victory over any Host the Followers may bring. The gates this time will not be closed, you won’t be allowed to burn the town and devastate demesnes. You’ll be met and fought in the open, my lords, on the banks of the river Asopos.’
I glanced at Odysseus, and saw acceptance in his eyes. We both believed her. No sane being would dare to lie on the terrible oath she swore; the penalties are torments unimaginable.
I said. ‘Will Creon hold Cithaeron?’
‘No. He’ll post scouts and pickets to warn him, nothing stronger.’
Slowly sipping wine I pondered her report. Antigone’s information accorded with my hopes: a decisive battle instead of a drawn-out siege. Though Creon knew we were coming--you can’t hide marching Hosts--he clearly underestimated the strength of the forces he faced. Thebes and her allies could field three thousand men, our numbers were nearly double: the largest Host that ever marched to war in all Achaea’s history. In pitched battle I was certain of the outcome. (Otherwise, you may be sure, I would not have been there.)
I rose and stepped from the tent. A leaden sheen in the eastern sky blanched guttering torches. The dawn wind pierced Antigone’s threadbare robe; she shuddered and hugged her breasts. I said, ‘The ships will sail for Sicyon at sunrise. I offer you a passage, and shelter in Mycenae.’
‘No, my lord.’ She clutched the wolf-pelt closer round her shoulders. ‘I return, by your leave, to the mountains, there to end my life.’
She limped from the camp, a pitiful, lonely figure, and was lost to sight in the dunes.
(The last time, to my knowledge, that anyone saw Antigone, whose fate remains a mystery. Her tragic story later caught the bards’ imagination, and I have often heard it sung in various versions.)
* * *
The foothills of Cithaeron descend in wooded spurs to a shallow vale embracing the Asopos. The spurs are rolling ridges parted by little streams which feed the river. A trackway from the pass bends west to a village called Platai on the hillsides’ lower slopes, a grey stone clump like boulders dropped from the sk
y. From Platai a road runs north to Thebes across an extensive plain chequered by fields and pastures: green and tawny patches on a pattern of bushes and scrub--the only driveable tract between Cithaeron and the river.
This I chose as the killing-ground.
Beyond Asopos the land rises gradually to a horizon smudged by the faraway towers of Thebes, a long tree-speckled slope, distance merging the trees to resemble continuous forest. All this I viewed from the defile’s mouth on Cithaeron’s highest crests, a well remembered spectacle, the scene of siege and slaughter nine years since.
My war-band had wound in column along the bases of the hills, met a track and mounted to the pass. A steep and searing climb, horses straining under yokes, spearmen slipping on stones. (Our baggage wagons, luckily, had gone with Diomedes.) On nearing the summit where cliffs closed in arrows started whirring from the heights. The column halted, spearmen climbed and chased the bowmen out. Neither numerous nor staunch they fled among the rocks and went to carry warning that Achaea’s Host approached.
I halted again at the top, penned in a narrow ravine, and waited the Host’s arrival. In late afternoon outriders on shaggy ponies scrambled up the track, saw warriors thronging the cleft and turned to fly. Odysseus, at the stretch of his lungs, checked our timid scouts and sent for Diomedes. I related Antigone’s version of Creon’s battle plans. Diomedes surveyed a panorama he knew as well as I, and pointed into the distance.
‘She hasn’t lied. They’re leaving the city to meet us.’
Sunlight twinkled on spears among the trees beyond Asopos.
‘The sooner we quit this horrible defile the better,’ I said.
‘We’ll concentrate behind Platai at the foot of that ridge on the left.’
A long vulnerable column descended the mountain track, rounded a boulder-strewn shoulder and assembled in vast disorder near the village’s scattered buildings. A sinking sun flung shadows from Cithaeron’s towering peaks. I worriedly scanned the plain beyond the river, saw distant dots and moving flecks and the transient glitter of metal.
When leaders had sorted out their war-bands I called a council of war.
‘The enemy are moving out,’ I told them, ‘but won’t be arrayed by dark and can’t attack before dawn. Thersander, post a picket line ten bowshots ahead on the plain. The Host will camp in front of Platai in battle order: your war-band, Euryalus, on the right-hand wing; Promachus next on his left; Sthenelus …’
Baggage trains were harboured in the gullies that sloped from the foothills. I kept Mycenae’s squadron out of the line: Ajax led his chariots to camp in a scrub-mottled hollow behind the village. War-bands trailed to position, crossed each other’s tracks, tangled with wagons and followers--the customary confusion wefting all Achaean tactics. Daylight dimmed to dusk before everyone was settled. Peering through gathering gloom I perceived no enemy movement; and as a precautionary afterthought sent mounted scouts through the picket lines to watch Asopos’ banks.
With my forces safe as warfare allowed I went to the village’s principal house where the chieftain formerly dwelt: an imitation palace crudely built from undressed stones. Eurymedon disarmed me; I chewed tough mutton charred on thorn-brush fires, swallowed rough red wine and watched a galaxy of camp fires starring the war-bands’ lines. A mingled aroma of cooking-oil, horses and woodsmoke flavoured the evening air. Flickering rosy pinpoints twinkled far beyond the river.
Diomedes sauntered from the dark and sat on a straw bale beside my chair. ‘Will we give battle tomorrow?’
A draught of sour wine washed mutton down my throat. ‘Certainly--provided the Thebans cross the river.’
‘I’ve been visiting the war-bands. The Followers are keen as knives to grapple their fathers’ killers.’
‘Then,’ I said genially, ‘they’ll have to bridle their ardour. I’ve chosen my fighting ground’--pointing into the night--‘on the plain between Asopos and Platai. There, and nowhere else.’
‘Creon may have other ideas. The river protects his front. In his place I’d wait for an Argive attack.’
‘He’ll be disappointed. Our warriors cross Asopos when they’re hunting a routed foe, and not a moment before.’ Diomedes cupped chin in hands. ‘I suppose you’re right. Considering our superior numbers it seems a pity to allow Creon the initiative. However ...’ He stood and dusted grass stems from his kilt. ‘I’m going to bed. Sleep well, Agamemnon.’
* * *
At dawn I arrayed the Host: an attenuated line of archers a bowshot in front, chariots hub to hub in two long lines, spearmen ranked in support. Ajax yoked his horses but remained behind Platai. Sunrise melted a morning mist: I shaded my eyes and examined the enemy’s position.
I could not distinguish details: the Thebans were far too distant. Streaks like fallen twigs showed vehicles in line, glinting spears marked scouts on the river.
We waited all morning in line of battle. At noon I bade the war-bands rest in rank: Heroes dismounted and stretched their legs, spearmen sprawled on the ground. I sent messengers to the baggage park for food to be cooked and served to the men. Followers carrying steaming cauldrons and bread in wicker baskets hurried about the ranks. I allowed one war-band at a time to retire and drink at a rivulet that watered Platai’s fields.
In mid-afternoon I drove to the river with Diomedes and Odysseus and stopped beneath a cypress tree a stone’s throw from the banks--an approach which flurried the Theban scouts. Having halved the distance I could see the enemy dispositions more clearly. Their ranks were posted north of Asopos as far as our own stood south: around four thousand paces divided the Hosts. They appeared to be felling trees and dragging boles to make a timbered enclosure round baggage train and tents.
‘Creon’s making himself comfortable,’ Odysseus observed. ‘Playing a waiting game,’ said Diomedes.
I said, ‘A trial of patience. Creon has chosen his battleground. So have I. He who imposes his choice will emerge the victor.’ A Theban bowstring twanged and an arrow whirred a warning. ‘Come, gentlemen. Let’s go back.’
At nightfall I stood the Host down. The following day was a replica of the first: a long monotonous vigil under arms and a blistering sun. Heroes started muttering. I heard, as I drove down the ranks, a mutinous shout from Echemus’ war-band: ‘What do you think this is--a bloody picnic?’ Diomedes told me the captains demanded a council of war. In the fading light of a westering sun they leaned upon their spears around the doorway of my house.
I said coldly, ‘You, my lords, desire this conference, not I. Let me hear your reasons.’
Thersander (a Theban by birth, Polyneices’ son) said sullenly, ‘How much longer must we dither? We’ve marched here to fight, not look at the view!’
‘What are we afraid of?’ Tegean Echemus growled. ‘The Thebans are half our numbers--a rattling charge will swamp them!’
‘My Heroes are fed to the gullet with hanging about all day!’ Aegialeus exclaimed. He was old King Adrastus’ son: a haggard wild-eyed scoundrel who bore Diomedes a grudge for taking the Argive throne.
‘Sire, we want to fight!’
‘Let’s get on with the war!’
I lifted a hand and quelled the gabble. ‘Listen to me, you blockheads! I have picked a favourable battleground, a wide uncluttered plain, first-class going for chariots, an easy slant for impetus in charging.’
‘When you find enough courage to charge,’ Aegialeus muttered rebelliously.
I swallowed rage, and steadied my voice. ‘If Creon can tempt us to cross the river we immediately lose these advantages, which accrue in turn to the Thebans.’ My anger exploded. ‘Will you offer battle with a river at your backs? You’re bloody well demented!’
In the uneasy silence that followed Diomedes said quietly, ‘The king has answered your objections. Go, my lords.’
Mumbling among themselves the leaders filed away. Diomedes said, ‘Agamemnon, we must somehow lure the Thebans across Asopos.’
‘Otherwise those mutinous sods will get
out of hand,’ Odysseus agreed.
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow we’ll advance to the river and test Creon’s response.’
* * *
At sunrise the entire Host, less Ajax’s squadron, marched in battle order and halted twenty bowshots from the banks. The Thebans banded the skyline, two thousand paces distant like a glinting palisade. Their war-bands took position--distant creeping threads--and settled into station. Then all movement ceased.
Creon awaited our onslaught.
The sun climbed high in the heavens. Larks sang overhead, crickets shrilled in bushes, swallows skimmed the water. A fragrance of thyme and warm dry earth scented the warm still air. Horses stamped and sidled, voices droned in the ranks. The faraway Theban battle line shimmered in a heat haze. Thirsty men broke ranks, filled helmets from the river.
The day dawdled into afternoon.
Beard bristling, eyes aflame, Echemus reined his chariot alongside mine. ‘In The Lady’s Name get moving! Cross the river and attack! We fought together at Corinth, sire--did Atreus your father flinch then in the enemy’s face?’
‘He did not,’ I answered calmly. ‘Nor do I. If you doubt my courage, Echemus, you may take your men and skulk off home to Tegea.’ I signalled Diomedes. ‘The Host will retire.’
Over a meal that evening even Diomedes voiced his doubts. ‘You’re conducting a kind of siege, and the odds are favouring Creon. He has unlimited supplies in Thebes, while ours are steadily shrinking.’
‘We’re covering our line of communication across Cithaeron and can replenish from Megara.’
Diomedes shook his head. ‘A four-day journey, there and back, and a day at least for loading. You can’t provision the Host from a base so remote.’
'Can’t, can’t, can’t, Diomedes!’ I snapped. ‘Have you nothing positive to offer?’
Odysseus said soothingly, ‘Tempt Creon again tomorrow. Advance to the river and feint a crossing. If he fails to respond I have an idea for drawing him like a stopper from a wine jar. A very risky manoeuvre--so try the other first.’
King in Splendour Page 13
