King in Splendour

by George Shipway

‘I’ll send to King Catreus,’ I rasped, ‘and have him deport the bastard!’

  Clytemnaistra intently plied her needle. ‘You may bully other rulers, my lord, but you can’t intimidate Catreus. Crete isn’t subject to Mycenae.’

  ‘The King of Crete is my maternal grandfather. I’ll claim a blood obligation.’

  ‘So? Since Atreus slew your mother the tie is possibly looser. No, my lord--Aegisthus in Crete is safely beyond your vengeance.’ She bit off the thread and laid her work down. ‘There, that’s done. So bad for the eyes to sew by lamplight.’

  I plucked the cloth from her hands and hurled it on the floor. ‘You’re treacherous as a snake! I’ll keep a close watch on your doings in future!’

  ‘Don’t you already?’ she said contemptuously. ‘I’m perfectly aware that red-haired slut is planted in my household as a spy. She deserves relief from her labours--I frequently thrash her raw!’

  ‘One day,’ I said through my teeth, ‘I shall repay your deceit in full, in measures pressed down and brimming over.’

  ‘Your threats are seldom empty, my lord.’ The green eyes blazed like fiery gems. ‘Therefore I shall be very, very careful.’

  I flung from the room and stamped furiously to bed. So violent was my anger that all Merope’s clever caresses failed to arouse a response.

  * * *

  The Host marched at sunrise. My spies in Argos had reported Aegialeus’ warriors quartered in Argos’ citadel; but the information was two days old, the enemy now could be anywhere. Behind a screen of scouts I stationed Diomedes’ war-band to take the initial brunt: the expedition, after all, was made on his behalf. I left a gap between the Argive column and Mycenae’s leading troops. Ajax’s squadron trundled at the tail in front of a baggage train pared to the bone.

  Clouds canopied the sky and threatened rain Ox teams ploughed the stubble on lonely manor fields, husbandmen stripped olive trees, pruned vines or threshed the corn, dropped knives and flails to marvel at the great Host rolling past. Talthybius gentled a mettlesome pair; I stroked my spear-shaft and brooded the likelihood of leaguer. If Aegialeus realized Mycenae’s warriors reinforced Diomedes’ men a siege, for him, was the only sensible strategy--an unpleasant operation in weather presaging winter.

  The road ran over the Argive plain. Stony scrub-draped hillocks humped like giant wormcasts on a pattern of pasture and arable fields, small fortified manors and peasants’ huts. A quarter-day’s walk from Argos the hills closed in and extended twin spurs in a ridge athwart the road.

  A charioteer from Diomedes arrived in a plume of dust and excitedly reported the enemy on the ridge.

  I scarcely believed my ears or credited my luck. For Aegialeus to abandon Argos--a fortress rivalling Mycenae--and offer open battle was a boon from The Lady Herself. Faulty intelligence was probably the reason; he believed himself opposed by Diomedes’ men alone, and had no inkling Mycenae marched in support. I halted the Host before it debouched from a forest of oak and ash, and touched Talthybius’ shoulder. He galloped me forward to examine the gift bestowed.

  Four bowshots short of the ridge Diomedes’ war-band deployed in line. Archers were scattered in front and exchanged ineffective shafts with their counterparts thrown forward from the spurs. Diomedes cantered to meet me behind his rear rank spearmen.

  He said dejectedly, ‘I can’t advance my armour. Nature has fortified Aegialeus against a chariot charge.’

  After scanning the position I concurred. Great boulders and waist-high thorn scrub mottled the slopes of the ridge and formed an effective barrier to wheels. Argives lined the crest, a thick array of spears five hundred paces long, flanks resting on the spur-scarps. I saw no horses among the ranks; our opponents gave battle dismounted.

  A herald strode from the ridge, leaves garlanded his spear. He came within hailing distance and bawled, ‘King Aegialeus of Argos sends defiance. He bids the usurper Diomedes depart from his kingdom for ever. To the lords who falsely support him he offers a merciful pardon providing they swear loyalty to Adrastus’ noble son and rightful king.’

  Diomedes cupped his hands. ‘Is Aegialeus in your ranks, or does he skulk behind Argos’ walls?’

  ‘King Aegialeus leads his Host.’

  ‘Say this to him. By sundown I, Diomedes, crowned ruler of the realm, shall sit on Argos’ throne, and Aegialeus’ traitorous carcase will be carrion for dogs!’

  The herald waved his spear, turned and rejoined his comrades. Diomedes fumed. ‘Blasted insolence! Rightful king, indeed! I’ll have the scoundrel’s head!’

  ‘A worthy sentiment,’ I drawled, ‘but first we’ve got to catch him.’

  I considered the situation and confessed myself perplexed. Aegialeus’ dispositions were tactically admirable, forbidding penetration by chariots, compelling an uphill dismounted onset, and impossible to outflank because from either wing of the ridge the spurs reared up so steeply a goat must have watched his step; for weightily armoured footmen the slopes were insurmountable. The nature of the ground reduced numerical advantage: on a limited front we must meet them man to man and fight a bitter, dingdong battle, the outcome possibly doubtful.

  Thoughtfully I surveyed the terrain, turned and contemplated the open ground which stretched to the forest concealing Mycenae’s Host. Nothing declared to the enemy that a powerful Host was near. Raking my mind I remembered, before we entered the trees, a trackway to Midea branching leftwards from the road. A rise in the ground concealed the track from my view and also from the ridge crest that Aegialeus held.

  Twenty years earlier I had accompanied Atreus along this track on a reconnaissance for the famous night assault that took Midea. I recalled a fork in the track halfway to Midea, and a prong that curved to Argos behind the spurs.

  Frowning at the horses’ ears I concocted a battle plan, combed it mentally for errors, adjusted details and said, ‘Diomedes, you’ll dismount your Heroes, advance against the enemy and fight a holding battle. You’ll engage the foe’s attention and cause him to believe we’ve committed all our forces. The assault will cover Ajax while he marches round a flank and deploys in the Argives’ rear. Don’t press home the attack: we want Aegialeus stuck on the squadron’s spears, not fleeing to safety in Argos. You’ll have a long, tough battle, for Ajax will take time to cover his route.’

  ‘My Heroes wear chariot armour,’ Diomedes protested, ‘and aren’t accustomed to fight on foot.’

  ‘An excellent time to learn!’ I snapped. ‘Can’t they walk four hundred paces? Get going, man!’

  I galloped to the forest, found Ajax and demonstrated, spear-point tracing lines in dust, the path he had to follow. When I was sure he understood I continued, ‘The dust of your passage could billow above the intervening heights and betray you, so move at a walk till you enter the hills. Then make all possible speed. When you reach their rear you may find the farther side of the ridge impassable for wheels. If so, raise a concerted shout to tell us you’ve arrived, demonstrate in force and I’ll attack the front with all our strength.’

  The joy of imminent battle flushed Ajax’s sun-tanned features; he led the squadron eagerly from the forest. After ordering three Mycenaean war-bands to hold themselves in readiness, under cover of the trees, to support Diomedes’ attack I cantered towards the ridge. Diomedes’ Heroes lumbered up the slope, spearmen bunched behind their lords in incoherent ranks which boulders, bushes and broken ground dislocated further. (Argos, I noted sadly, did not impose the battle drills Mycenae favoured.) The Argives on the crest kept a similar formation: retinues grouped irregularly round Heroes in the van: an array compelling spaces between the heavily armoured nobles. I reckoned their strength around eight hundred spears which, if Odysseus calculated rightly, left a scant two hundred to garrison Argos.

  The ranks collided unevenly and slowly along their lengths, Hero meeting Hero in individual combats, spearmen fighting spearmen to hold the ring for their masters. (Spearmen are averse to damaging one another unless their opposite numbers attack
the lords they follow--a convention which sometimes results in a bunch of passive spectators stolidly watching Heroes fight it out.) An antiquated battle, the kind that Zeus fought. Metal rang on metal, a hubbub of shouts and war-cries jangled the air. Mortal wounds were hard to inflict since all the contending Heroes were sheathed in bronze from chin to knees, wore bronze or boars’-tusk helmets and carried body-long oxhide shields. Men fought against exhaustion as much as enemy spears.

  From a distance I observed the battle’s fluctuations, the churning and whirling, alternate advance and retreat. Diomedes’ men on the left gave ground, and the enemy began to envelop his flanks. I sent a messenger to summon Gelanor’s war-band at the double, reinforced the threatened wing and beat the Argives back.

  Casualties trickled rearwards: limping spearmen nursing wounds, retainers supporting Heroes, dead men dragged by the heels and left to lie. Spearmen, naturally, quit the fight directly their lords were felled--one of the fallible habits belonging to old-fashioned warfare--and gaps appeared in the ranks which the Argives began to exploit.

  I brought Polyctor’s war-band forward to plug the breaches.

  A bleary haze in the cloud pall signified noon. I began to worry. Ajax, though a peerless fighter and leader of men, was not over-bright off the battlefield. Had he taken the wrong track and gone astray? I eyed the tell-tale halo in the sky, tapped fingers on the chariot rail, listened for the warning yell denoting the squadron’s advent.

  By unspoken consent the opposing ranks, fought to a standstill, drew apart and leaned gasping on their shields and mopped away blood and sweat. The clashing and shouting ceased, the cries of wounded warriors moaned like a falling wind. No triumphant bellow from Mycenae’s chariot squadron. Despondently I concluded Ajax had lost his way, was wandering like a shepherdless sheep to Midea or Asine. I could bring up reserves to finish the battle, but the Argives would escape annihilation--the entire aim of my plan--if chariots failed to block their retreat.

  Time the affair ended. A partial victory was better than none.

  Messengers scurried to the oak groves. Mycenae’s troops in battle order, war-band following war-band, tramped forward to the spurs. A terrifying sight for a tired foe; long columns of spears in compact ranks, armour gleaming, plumes like flames, the pounding of three thousand feet that veiled the Host in dust.

  I dismounted, hefted spear and fronted shield, placed myself in the van with bodyguard Heroes close at my shoulders. (Chariot fighting is risky enough; fighting on foot is downright dangerous. I might be wounded, even killed--and all that dimwit Ajax’s fault!) The contest flared anew. Aegialeus’ warriors saw doom approaching and strove desperately to break Diomedes’ weary war-band before the avalanche fell.

  High discordant war-cries brayed faintly beyond the ridge. The Argives collapsed like cornstalks sheared by sickles. One moment the crest was a bristle of spears, the next a panic-struck mob. They split in scurrying meteors, pelted for the chariots parked in rear, scrambled up the hillsides, cowered behind boulders. Thankfully I stood aside and waved my war-bands on. (Undignified for a king to chase a broken, fleeing rabble.) They passed through Diomedes’ men, exhausted beyond pursuit, charged over the crest and down the further slope, overtook fugitives and speared as they ran. Ajax’s chariots hovered like wolves to sever the rout.

  I climbed a crag and watched the carnage. Some escaped to the hills and were lost among gullies and trees. A chariot or two, superbly horsed and driven, weaved like jinking hares between the squadron’s swarming vehicles and bolted into the distance. I observed their flight approvingly; they would carry word to Argos and encourage the city’s surrender.

  When it was over I walked down the slope and joined an exultant Diomedes. He had lost his helmet, recovered his breath, and sucked a gash on the hand. ‘We’ll push on to Argos,’ I said, ‘and strike while the bronze is molten.’

  Diomedes scanned the warriors, his and mine, busily stripping corpses freckling the battleground. Heroes argued over suits of bloodstained armour, bickered for possession of captured horses and rounded up enemy spearmen. (Agriculture suffers a perennial shortage of slaves.)

  ‘First I must bury the dead. They were Argives, however disloyal, whom once I ruled; and should not be left for vultures and beasts of prey.’

  Such niceties, in my view, are superfluous in war--but it’s hard to oppose established Heroic values. ‘All right. Collect the bodies quickly and mount a guard. Later we’ll send parties to inter them.’

  Though spearmen were spared the Heroes, distinguishable by armour, had been usually killed on sight. A handful was taken alive by avaricious warriors seeking ransom. Gelanor of Asine prodded one towards us: a spent and stumbling captive, helmetless, gorget and breastplate lost, blood from a sword cut clotting his beard.

  ‘Found him under a chariot shamming dead,’ Gelanor announced. ‘Started to strip his armour and recognized the face. Aegialeus son of Adrastus, unless I’m greatly mistaken.’ Diomedes gripped the prisoner’s hair and glared at the blood-streaked countenance. ‘Aegialeus it is, by The Lady! Renegade pig! On your knees, you traitor! Grovel and beg forgiveness from your king!’

  Aegialeus tottered; Gelanor heaved him erect. ‘I’ll not humble myself ... to you, Diomedes,’ he whispered painfully. ‘I fought for a crown ... mine by right... and failed. Now ... slay me.’

  ‘Before you die,’ Diomedes spat, ‘you’ll tell me the names of the elders who betrayed me. I’ll mete to those dotards in Argos the fate they deserve. Speak out, man--which Councillors fostered the plot?’

  ‘Fostered? No Councillor ... I alone ... falsely encouraged by … ,’ Aegialeus slowly turned his head and stared me in the eyes. I saw the venom in his look. ‘A henchman of ... of this … ,’ Swiftly I balanced my spear and lunged with all my strength. The point smashed through his breastbone, protruded a hands-breadth beyond the spine. Aegialeus screamed like a wounded rat, scrabbled the shaft and fell on his back. He writhed and squirmed, the spearshaft thrashed in arcs. A terrible convulsion racked him from head to heels, blood gouted from his mouth and he moved no more.

  ‘Damn you, Agamemnon,’ Diomedes grumbled. ‘It was my right to kill the rogue. Why did--’

  ‘We’ve wasted enough time,’ I said brusquely. ‘Aegialeus couldn’t tell you anything you don’t already know or can’t easily find out. Come on, Diomedes. Rally your war-band and lead the march to Argos.’

  He went, still grousing, to find his leaders. A bodyguard Hero stood on Aegialeus’ body, tugged the spear free, scrubbed the barb with a tuft of grass and gave it into my hand.

  A king needs quick reactions. It had been a narrow squeak.

  * * *

  A rumble of thunder heralded the rain that had threatened all day. A torrent fell like whip-thongs, spouted a myriad fountains on parched brown soil and curtained Argos’ citadel towering on its mount. A shivering deputation waited at the foot: Councillors and nobles who fell on their knees and begged the king’s forgiveness. Diomedes thrust them aside and climbed a winding track to the gate. The doors were open, unguarded. He and his war-band entered and marched to the palace. I directed Mycenae’s men to occupy watch towers, to sentinel walls and gates; and followed the man I had restored to his throne.

  Confusion like an overturned hive fermented in the palace. Guilty Councillors, warned of defeat, had fled into the rain; their relatives and retinues hid from Diomedes’ wrath. I overtook him in the Great Court and advised a lenient policy. In the Battle of the Spurs he had slaughtered half the city’s fighting strength. To execute more was like cutting off your toes to spite your foot. Diomedes grasped the point, and announced an amnesty. (A memorable scene: the battle-worn king, square-jawed, stocky, fair haired, announcing terms from the throne to a silent throng in the Hall while torchlight shone on his dented, rain-streaked armour.) That done, and the city’s populace reassured, he hastened along the corridors to confront Adrastus.

  The old man, near to death, lay senseless on his bed. According
to his sorrowing attendants Adrastus suffered a stroke when told his son was dead. Diomedes sadly regarded the shrunken skeletal features, the sparse white beard and toothless gaping mouth of the king who had led the Seven to defeat and death at Thebes. He gently touched the ice-cold brow, turned and went from the room.

  I evicted Argive householders and quartered my Host in their dwellings. I staged, in fact, a temporary takeover of Diomedes’ city to impress on him the debt he owed and my grip upon his realm. In the morning he strolled the ramparts and grimly surveyed his people camping in streets and courts or huddled under shelters on the slopes of Argos’ mount; and frowningly inspected Mycenaean warriors stationed on the battlements.

  He said, ‘After this upheaval the city is in turmoil I’ll have order restored in a day or two. Meanwhile my troops can take over guard from yours.’

  ‘Certainly, Diomedes,’ I said benignly. ‘The sooner I march home the better--the men have been under arms for nearly seven moons. You can manage, of course, with your war-band? Forty Heroes and four hundred spears, isn’t it, after accounting battle casualties?--plus the rebels who stayed and were pardoned.’

  Diomedes’ scowl deepened. ‘I’ll have to demonstrate in force at my tributary cities. Ostensibly they stayed loyal, but... And Argos has to be garrisoned. No--twenty-score odd are not enough.’ He fiddled with the pin that fastened his cloak, and added grudgingly, ‘Until I’ve had time to restore the kingdom’s administration and reconstitute my Host I’d take it as a favour, Agamemnon, if you’d leave six hundred spears or so in Argos.’

  I feigned reluctance. ‘The men are anxious to see their farms and families again. I’m not sure I can demand ...’

  ‘Send the families to Argos. With winter almost upon us there’s not much work on the land. I’ll reward your warriors generously and return them long before spring.’

  I yielded gracefully, visited my Wardens and asked for volunteers. A scratch force was assembled, mostly younger sons whose holdings were either small or non-existent, who viewed with equanimity the prospect of wintering in a comfortable citadel. I picked half a dozen older Heroes experienced in the Councils of their cities, and told them to offer Diomedes sage advice in rebuilding Argos’ shaken government.