King in Splendour

by George Shipway

  Eyelids drooped on smarting eyes; despite the shouting and drunken songs I dropped like a stone into bottomless sleep.

  We set neither pickets nor sentries. There was nobody left to disturb us.

  Chapter 5

  Spearmen scoured the battlefield and collected our dead and wounded. The search was prolonged: carcases sprinkled the plain and poisoned Asopos. Followers buried Mycenaean and Argive bodies; Theban corpses, stripped to the skin, were left in the open to rot. Diomedes, who alone in the Host had met Creon face to face, hunted for his body and found it beneath a bush. It was dragged to the camp and left outside my tent. I scanned a face contorted by the rictus of an agonizing death--a spear had ripped his bladder--and bade silent farewell to Thebes’ grey eminence, the man who banished blind Oedipus and seized the throne when Eteocles was killed.

  A king whose ruthlessness rivalled mine was now a decomposing husk, a phantom from the past.

  I had the corpse removed and abandoned to the vultures. A deputation from the Theban Daughters trailed into the camp and pleaded that the body be given them for burial. I pretended surprise. ‘Why so? Your king refused funeral rites for those who fell in battle.’

  ‘You are mistaken, sire,’ a white-haired Daughter wheezed. ‘Creon respected the dead.’

  ‘Didn’t he direct his nephew Polyneices’ body be left unburied, and inflicted fearful punishment on any who tried to inter him? Is it not so?’

  ‘It is so,’ the crone muttered.

  ‘There you are, then. In accordance with the precedent he set the scavengers of ground and -air shall gorge themselves on Creon and the thousands who died in his cause.’

  A drift of bleached and brittle bones speckles the vale to this day, a memorial for sorrowful Antigone.

  Under a midday sun the Host paraded. Heroes nursed aching heads; during the night’s debauch they had drained to the lees the wine-jars stored in the camp. We marched to Thebes in column of route and deployed in battle order three bowshots from the walls. I viewed apprehensively those formidable ramparts; a small but determined garrison could keep us out for days. But the gates hung open, no spearheads gleamed on the parapets. I sent in scouts and followed close, leading the Host in my chariot.

  Thebes had been evacuated during the night. The streets were strewn with litter from a panic-stricken flight, furniture, clothing and household goods scattered like sea-wrack after a storm. Inevitably a residue of old and sick remained, and were quietly dispatched--none would have fetched a billy-goat’s price in the markets.

  I went to the deserted palace and organized a systematic pillage--a contrast to the frenetic plundering inflicted on the Theban war encampment. Thebes contained a treasure house of loot: she was comparable to Mycenae in the wealth accruing for ages from tributary cities and the sale of Copais’ corn. All that day, and the next, we searched the citadel and town and piled booty in a heavily guarded mound outside the walls.

  Not till the fall of Troy did Achaeans again set eyes on such enormous spoils.

  We spent a day dividing the loot. As leader of the Host I took the customary tenth--a fortune in itself--and allotted shares to the Followers according to the numbers each man led. After the Daughters had conducted a sacrificial ceremony to celebrate our victory I dispatched these inviolable women to Megara under escort; and then prepared to destroy the city.

  Thebes’ walls are indestructible: you’d need an army of slaves and a year’s hard work to raze them. Spearmen tumbled some weaker towers and flattened the gates’ defences. (Thebes boasts seven gates; three are merely sally-ports or posterns.) Afterwards, having ascertained that not a painted vase or bolt of cloth remained inside, I sent in firing parties.

  The houses, like ours, were timber framed, pillars sawn from cypress wood or cedar, humbler dwellings thatched. The citadel blazed like a haystack, flames thrashed skywards vomiting smoke, the fire roared like a hurricane, belched swirling sparks and cinders. The surrounding township caught alight and flared in lesser pyres. The heat was so intense we had to shift encampment. For a day and a night the city burned; and a tower of smoke that soared to the heavens informed the world great Thebes was dead.

  So she remains today, blackened walls defending mounds of cindery, powdered ashes.

  * * *

  Having avenged their fallen fathers and filled wagons with hard-won wealth the Followers wanted to go home. I could not prevent them--Thebes’ destruction, and booty, had been their sole incentives for going to war. My aims, from the start, were wider; and I confided them in part to Diomedes during a drive across the plain to test an Epirot team he had taken after the battle. When he reined to a walk at a gully I said, ‘What do you intend now, Diomedes?’

  ‘Return to Argos, of course. No point in hanging around that ruin’--he pointed his whip to Thebes’ gaunt pile--‘and kings shouldn’t stay from home overlong.’

  ‘Why worry? You’ve no rivals in Argos.’

  Diomedes frowned. ‘I can never be quite certain. Adrastus, though senile, is still alive--and a number of older nobles have always disliked my succession. They consider his son Aegialeus the rightful heir.’

  ‘That sullen brute? Don’t be silly. You’ve reigned undisputed for years. There’s no necessity for you to hurry back. I want Argos’ city war-bands to reinforce Mycenae’s troops. Together we’ll number twenty-five hundred spears.’

  The chariot mounted the gully’s lip; Diomedes fluttered the reins and urged the team to a canter. ‘Reinforce? The campaign’s over. What on earth for?’

  ‘Together we can lay Boeotia under tribute.’

  He brought the car to a halt and scrutinized my face. ‘Starting another war, Agamemnon?’

  ‘Unlikely. Have you forgotten the true object of destroying Thebes? Not revenge for fathers slaughtered a decade ago--that’s pap the Followers swallow--but to unlock the stranglehold on Lake Copais’ cornlands.’

  ‘It’s done. The harvests henceforth are free for all.’

  The nearside grey pawed the ground and reared. I stooped and patted his quarters. ‘Perhaps--and maybe not. Creon’s sway extended far beyond his walls; he ruled Boeotia, controlled Locris and Phocis, influenced Athens and Aitolia. He’s gone, his city burned; and there’s now a power vacuum which an able man could fill. With your help, Diomedes, I intend to be that man.’

  Diomedes clicked his tongue; the horses sprang straightway from halt to canter. ‘A well-schooled pair,’ he commented. ‘I wonder who the Theban owner was? In brief, you intend to enlarge Mycenae’s dominion. Most commendable but’--he cocked an inquiring eyebrow--‘what’s in it for me?’

  A reasonable question--no ruler offers his services free. ‘A quarter of the tribute we’ll exact from Boeotia’s cities.’

  ‘Boeotia’s cities? Beggarly shanty towns! Orchomenos alone has any wealth.’

  ‘And therefore may try stepping into the sandals Thebes has shed. Orchomenos once rivalled Thebes in power, her engineers drained Copais, her farmers converted marshes into fertile arable land. Dangerous to surrender Boeotia’s rule to such enterprising people.’

  ‘I see your point.’ Diomedes whipped the horses, galloped a serpentine course between sapling elms and oaks. ‘A handy pair, flexible as any in my stables. Fit for a king to drive--perhaps they belonged to Creon.’

  Gripping the guard rail to keep my balance I said critically, ‘That offside quad needs a touch of the whip--he’s dropping behind the yoke. Well, Diomedes, what do you say?’

  Within a dozen strides he pulled the team to a walk. ‘Wish I had the Companion who schooled this pair--I suppose the fellow’s dead. You’ll march on Orchomenos, presumably?’ I nodded. ‘On the conditions agreed I’m with you--though I’ll have a tussle persuading my Heroes. They want to go home and enjoy the riches they’ve won!’

  We drove soberly to camp. War-bands loaded wagons for the long march to the Isthmus. I summoned Mycenae’s captains--Ajax and the Wardens of fourteen tributary cities from Dyme south to Asine--and infor
med them that Mycenae’s Host and Diomedes’ war-bands would be marching to Orchomenos, a long day’s journey north. I received none of the opposition

  Diomedes had expected from his Heroes. After four years’ ruthless ruling, after victory upon victory, no Hero from Mycenae’s realms dared question my decisions. (As none had dared gainsay Atreus when he held the sceptre.)

  I ordered Alcmaeon of Midea--the oldest of my Wardens, a suave and tactful gentleman--to lead an embassy immediately to Orchomenos’ lord, Ascephalus, and convince him that submission to Mycenae would save his city from sharing the fate of Thebes. I felt confident Ascephalus would see sense. He had lost the strong contingent he had sent to reinforce Creon--men whose remains now fouled the Asopos valley. His surviving war-bands could not match mine. Moreover the kings of Thebes since Laius’ time had laid Orchomenos under tribute; for Ascephalus it was simply a question of changing masters.

  I called Odysseus to the tent, a huge opulent pavilion that once had sheltered Creon, and seated him in a cushioned chair elaborately engraved. Eurymedon brought a silver flagon of mellow Cytheran wine, brimmed golden cups and caught my eye and went.

  I said, ‘How well do you know Aegialeus, old Adrastus’ son?’ Odysseus examined the pavilion’s gaudy ceiling. ‘Not well. A sulky, unforthcoming man. Seems to nurse a permanent grievance.’

  ‘Exactly. He has always resented his father’s choosing Diomedes to succeed him when he abdicated. Aegialeus is, after all, the eldest son and natural heir. He therefore hates Diomedes, cherishes a grudge, and is supported by the more conservative nobles--old men steeped in tradition who hate the break in succession. Odysseus, I’m not taking you to Orchomenos. You’ll return with the Argive war-bands. This is what I want you to do.’ I unfolded my scheme. Odysseus heard me out in silence, sipped his wine and said, ‘I thought Diomedes was your friend.’

  ‘Friendship has nothing to do with power politics.’

  ‘Politics? Arrant treachery, I’d call it! And I don’t understand your object.’

  ‘Diomedes,’ I said patiently, ‘will lose nothing in the end--or very little. I’ll restore him to the throne.’

  Understanding dawned on Odysseus’ weatherworn features. Repugnance and admiration contended for possession. Admiration won. (I judged my friend correctly: an intriguer to the backbone. The more involved the plot the greater his enthusiasm.) He said, ‘I once called you unscrupulous. By The Lady, I underestimated your gift for double-dealing! Of all the devious and disreputable schemes …’ Overcome by emotion he buried nose in goblet.

  ‘I’ll be occupied in Boeotia most of the summer, so don’t hurry the affair. Bring it to fruition, if you can, at harvest time.’

  ‘You’re asking a lot, but I’ll do my best.’ A cunning glint lit the sharp black eyes that shot me a sidelong glance. ‘What may I expect for discharging so difficult a task?’

  ‘Half my share of the Theban booty.’

  Odysseus whistled soundlessly. ‘Strop my bleeding guts! I’d descend to the Shades and beard Ouranos for that!’

  I flinched. No sensible being should mention dread Ouranos.

  * * *

  Tegean, Argive and Elian war-bands escorting booty-swollen baggage trains departed for the Isthmus. Alcmaeon returned from Orchomenos with Ascephalus’ submission. On a midsummer dawn Mycenae’s Host and Diomedes’ war-band started for the north.

  Orchomenos was visible from afar, a sizable city clinging to a hill spur overlooking the Copaic plain. I approached in battle array--Boeotians have a treacherous reputation. The spectacle--bowmen leading, chariots in rumbling ranks, spearmen massed on the flanks--sent the city’s welcoming deputation running back for safety within the walls. Heralds sorted out the misunderstanding; Lord Ascephalus and his Councillors greeted me on the slopes below the town.

  He was a tall, lean, languid fellow about my age, foppish in appearance and beautifully mannered. Hot irons had crimped his overlong hair, his beard was trimmed to a point and glossily oiled, the upper lip clean shaven. Gold and silver wire stitched intricate designs on a sky-blue cloak, golden tassels swung from his deerskin kilt. The eyes were grey and shrewd, and heavily lidded; twin trenches delved his cheeks from nostrils down to jawbone. I summed him up as a man who wore with weary resignation a threadbare mantle of authority. Not surprising, I mused: he and his predecessors through three generations had scarcely sneezed without Thebes’ permission.

  Ascephalus had marked out an encampment for my troops, stacked grain and hay for the horses, assembled slaves to offload wagons. Leaving stewards to supervise details he conducted me to a palace furnished and decorated in a surprisingly civilized style. (People south of the Isthmus are inclined to regard northerners as barely emerged from caves.)

  It had been a hard day’s march, and I wallowed pleasurably in perfumed water. The women’s ministrations were strangely clumsy: they had but the vaguest ideas of ordinary bathing routine; and attempted to oil my body before I was properly dried. I spoke roughly--it is considered unmannerly to strike another man’s slaves--and the girl whose fingers awkwardly massaged my shoulders murmured, ‘Forgive us, my lord--this is not our job.’

  I shrugged and let it go. You learn to accept eccentricities in these outland places.

  Ascephalus provided a truly sumptuous banquet in the Hall. Torches spluttered in cressets and oil lamps flickered on tables. The light plucked a glowing radiance from brightly painted murals of trees and flowers, birds and fishes, and gleamed on the Heroes’ sun-browned bodies. I seated myself, uninvited, on a silver-studded throne: a token for Orchomenos’ Heroes that their overlord had changed. Ascephalus watched this little performance with an air of tired acceptance; and led to me by the hand a lady elaborately robed.

  ‘May I present my wife Merope?’

  A small, slight creature, her face a delicate oval, mischievous red-lipped mouth, tip-tilted nose and eyes so darkly blue they were almost black. A seven-flounced robe of purple linen descended to her feet, a transparent bodice cradled her breasts and scarlet-painted nipples. Hair the shade of autumn beech was bound by golden fillets and coiled on top of her head.

  She smiled demurely, sent me a devastating glance beneath her lashes and murmured conventional politenesses. I stammered a response, and met Diomedes’ amused look from his seat on her farther side. I scowled, tasted the wine a squire poured, and addressed remarks to my host.

  I have never been a tremendous womanizer. Even during my youth, when blood ran hot and cried for release, I seldom slaked my ardour more than once or twice a day. (Dionysus, they say, was reduced to gibbering lunacy if he failed to scabbard his weapon in less than a dozen sheaths between one sunrise and the next--but you can’t believe Dionysiac yarns.) Advancing age subdues desire; nowadays I am quite content to miss an occasional day, and feel no ill effects. Campaigning, of course, is different: the stresses of marching and fighting, the strains of command and decision absorb one’s surplus energies. Carnality, in the field, remains quiescent.

  For a very good reason I have always confined my routine fornication to concubine-slaves. Which is no great handicap, for the quality of a concubine’s life, either tolerable or miserable, depends upon her sexual expertise, and so they try damned hard. I do not include in this category those well-born women captured in war whose male relations have died in a city’s sack. They are rare, expensive, usually retained by their captors as housekeepers or superior nursemaids, and seldom appear for sale on the open market.

  I believe that affairs with ladies of lineage are snares that lead to trouble. Jealous husbands and angry fathers are not conducive to peaceful politics; more disasters originate from injudicious adulteries than any other cause. Among innumerable examples you have only to consider Thyestes and my mother Pelopia, Theseus and Helen or, later, Paris and Helen to realize that bedding high-born ladies, except in wedlock, is best avoided.

  So I cannot really explain why the vision of Merope should shatter a lifetime’s principles like crystal hit b
y a hammer. Sitting on that ornate throne in an overheated Hall I felt lascivious surges rampaging in my loins. Studiously I avoided her eyes, pronged food I scarcely tasted into my mouth--excellent pork, tenderly broiled in savoury herbs--swallowed cup upon cup of Chian wine, chattered to Ascephalus and studied the crowded room. Mycenaean and Argive Wardens occupied the seats of honour along the walls, my more important Heroes held the central circle of tables, palace nobles ringed the hearth fire--the least comfortable places during summer’s heat. (In winter the order was reversed.)

  Merope was the only noblewoman in the Hall: Boeotians, apparently, forbade ladies attending at dinner. Hardly extraordinary--in Pylos a similar rule applied. More unusual were the squires who served Orchomenos’ Heroes, a bevy of lissome, willowy boys wearing short leather kilts that scarcely concealed their parts. One leaned over my shoulder to fill Ascephalus’ cup. I sniffed warm flesh and perfumed oil, flinched from a painted cheek too near my own, saw Ascephalus’ hand slip briefly beneath his kilt.

  Illumination dawned on wits rather fuddled by wine. Orchomenos, long under Thebes’ dominion, was impregnated with the Theban vice, the palace a nest of buggers. Easy to understand why the bath girls were so ham-handed: gentlemen of the palace preferred to be massaged by boys. Ascephalus, aware that sodomy in Mycenae was a criminal offence, the penalty impalement, had hastily substituted women to bathe our manly Heroes. (Even in Mycenae, regrettably, we have some notorious perverts; but you have to be found in the act to suffer the pointed stake. Sodomites are cunning, and are very seldom caught.)

  I turned to Merope and said abruptly, ‘Have you children, my lady?’

  ‘Indeed, sire. Three sons and a daughter.’

  A foolish question. Any landholding Hero, however perverted--and particularly the Lord of a city--breeds sons to secure his family’s succession. The languid lord of Orchomenos had interrupted his boyish pleasures to beget enough males to guard against wastage. Maybe he was two-handed, like many of his kind, and enjoyed both sexes impartially.