King in Splendour

by George Shipway

  (The ploy succeeded. So useful were their precepts that before the year was out two had wormed their way to the Council and, under my secret instructions, influenced decisions to accord with Mycenae’s interests.)

  Despite a wintry hailstorm that flayed the warriors’ faces I rode to Mycenae well content. Argos in all but name had become a dependent kingdom subject to my will. Excepting only Arcadia I controlled directly or indirectly the realms of Achaea from Locris to Sparta’s borders, from Elis in the west to Troezen in the east.

  Zeus himself had never wielded power so great as mine.

  Chapter 6

  Like an archer who draws the bowstring to his nipple and aligns the point of his barb on the enemy’s throat I held as my target from this time on a seaborne assault on Troy.

  I spent days closeted with Gelon discussing supplies and shipping in the light of experience gained from the Sicyon-Creusis crossing. Periphetes shared these talks, and agreed that for a voyage across open seas the galleys should be more lightly laden. More ships for a given force, or fewer men.

  While winter’s gales and rainstorms slashed the land I toured the royal demesnes, stayed in various manors, walked rain-sodden fields, inspected the pruning of olives and vines. Though Heroes of every degree work with their hands on the land the labours and cares of kingship had long forbidden the practical farm work I knew so well in my youth. It was a far cry from my shepherding days at Rhipe; I had not held crook in hand or driven mattock in soil for many years.

  Merope’s presence inevitably caused a collision. I was careful not to flaunt my lovely Boeotian, seldom accompanied her abroad and forbade her attendance at meals in the Hall--restrictions that irked Merope not at all: provided she regularly shared my bed she was happy as a puppy with a bone. None the less in a citadel’s tight community scandal flows more swiftly than snow-fed torrents in spring. So, during a state banquet in honour of our founder Perseus I was not altogether surprised when Clytemnaistra flung a challenge in my teeth.

  She said negligently, ‘I’m told your concubines begin to complain they lack occupation.’

  I interrupted an interesting dialogue with Periphetes about stalling horses in triaconters. ‘Slaves have no complaints--and you shouldn’t listen to gossip.’

  ‘Remarkably persistent gossip. The story goes you stagger from bed in the morning weak as a newborn calf, your manhood sapped by a--’

  ‘That’s enough! Why grumble? You’ve never displayed a yearning for my embraces.’

  ‘Never. Yet surely it is unbecoming for a king to parade his adultery? Particularly when the partner is a hostage in his care.’

  ‘She’s not a hostage--her son is. Are you jealous, my lady?’ Clytemnaistra bared her teeth. ‘Jealousy supposes love--an emotion we fail to share. No, my lord. I simply resent the affront inflicted on me by your lecherous attachment to a foreign Boeotian trollop.’

  I laughed. ‘Merope’s lineage matches yours, her ancestry traced to Cadmus and thence to Poseidon. In fact you share her blood; your mother Leda was Cadmus’ great-niece.’

  ‘I have never been proud of the Theban taint.’ Clytemnaistra tasted her wine; from the expression on her face the vintage must have gone sour. ‘I am Queen of Mycenae, my lord, and demand you put an end to my public humiliation. Send the woman home.’

  ‘I will not.’ I brushed away a squire’s proffered flagon and said stonily, ‘You whine about indignity and scandal. Have you never considered the slights I’ve suffered for years? Constantly you’ve refused me your bed, pleading this or that excuse--do you think the tale isn’t told in every Achaean cowshed?’ Anger choked my voice. ‘You allowed Pelopia’s obscenely-begotten son to shelter behind your skirts and sleep in your room like a minion--a man everyone knows I’ve sworn to kill!’

  ‘Lower your voice, my lord. Will you advertise your ignominy to the world?’

  I ignored the thrust. Curious eyes might easily read the hostility on our faces; but the hubbub was such that none could hear what we said. ‘I have found a woman who comforts my mind, slakes my desires and gives me the affection you have always denied. So Merope remains in Mycenae as long as she wishes, and you, my lady, will swallow your jealous bile!’

  ‘I am not by nature a tolerant being, my lord.’ An unfathomable look from slanting green eyes. ‘You’d be wise not to try me too far.’

  ‘A threat? Your barbs are blunt. I’ve survived more dangerous threats than any you can spit.’ I flung a hand at the crowded Hall, a pageant of colour and light. ‘Yet here I am, Mycenae’s king and Achaea’s paramount lord. You may sting with words, Clytemnaistra, but your venom is harmless as morning dew.’

  The importunate squire again tilted his flagon over my cup. I accepted the draught; and resumed a technical discussion with my Master of the Ships.

  * * *

  When autumn-sown wheat pierced the earth like bright green spears a herald arrived from Sparta bearing momentous news. King Tyndareus had abdicated in favour of my brother Menelaus, and invited to the crowning all Achaea’s rulers south of the Isthmus.

  This would be a state occasion panoplied in splendour. I mustered an impressive bodyguard--fifty burly Heroes and three hundred spearmen superbly equipped--packed sceptre and crown and magnificent robes, loaded wagons with costly gifts, brought pedigree bulls for sacrifice and thoroughbred horses as presents. The train travelled south to Laconia--Heroes, Companions, squires, attendants, grooms and slaves--like a bellicose Host on the march.

  At Argos we joined Diomedes--his retinue, I noted smugly, less spectacular than mine--and reached Sparta four days later. The city sprawls on an open plain; her whitewashed palace buildings, nudged by the township’s houses, boast no defences except her warriors’ brawn. Natural barriers--mountains and sea--guard Laconia from invasion: Sparta, immune for decades, has let her ancient fortifications crumble into rubble.

  Menelaus had spared no expense: a hutted encampment aproned the town and housed each guest-king’s followers down to the lowliest slave. Affectionately I scanned his square, rugged face, greyness webbing the auburn hair, the powerful bull-shoulders and bulky, muscular body. (Physically Menelaus is stronger than I, half a head shorter and one year younger. In character we are different as brothers can possibly be: he is scrupulous, straight, slow-witted; I am not.)

  Tyndareus, crowned and royally robed, received his guests from a greenstone throne in the Hall. In manner and appearance the king had aged considerably since I saw him last after visiting Nestor: faded blue eyes in shadowed pits, leaden skin and sunken cheeks, memory and intelligence all but lost--a caricature of the vigorous ruler who years ago had saved me from Thyestes. Understandable that Laconia wanted a younger hand on the sceptre. I grasped a bony hand and murmured conventional phrases and sorrowfully turned away. Menelaus seated me in the portico, brought wine and confirmed my impressions.

  Tyndareus went rapidly downhill after Leda died, yet refused absolutely to surrender the crown. Whenever the suggestion was made he flared in a rage reminiscent of earlier years.’

  ‘What changed his mind?’

  ‘Helen intervened.’ A moonstruck expression buttered my brother’s face. ‘I swear she could charm a she-bear from her cubs. Helen urged her father, for his own and Laconia’s good, to keep his promise and give me the crown. To everyone’s surprise Tyndareus agreed.’

  ‘Well done. Is Helen well?’

  ‘In excellent health. She is,’ Menelaus drivelled, ‘more beautiful than ever. You know we have a daughter, a sweet child called Hermione?’

  I nodded. (The girl then was a year old. I have not mentioned her before: a daughter’s birth is hardly a matter of note.) ‘As Laconia’s king, Menelaus, you’d best breed sons in a hurry. When is the coronation?’

  ‘After the guests arrive. Nestor is coming from Pylos, Agasthenes from Elis. Also Agapenor King of Arcadia.’

  ‘King?’ I said derisively. ‘Agapenor rules from Tegea a tiny, turbulent realm and a bunch of intractable Heroes, and
shivers whenever a Dorian shows his face!’

  ‘True--but he protects our northern border, and it’s politic to invite him. I can promise you,’ Menelaus continued enthusiastically, ‘the most splendid celebrations after I’m crowned: banquets, races, games--and Amyclai and Selinos will fight a spectacular battle!’ (As I have related earlier, because Laconia lacks external enemies they fight ritualistic battles among themselves, city against city, to absorb their Heroes’ energies.)

  The dilatory kings reached Sparta. In a vivid setting of pomp and splendour Tyndareus yielded the throne he had held for twenty-five years. Golden-crowned and sceptred, magnificently robed, Menelaus received his subjects’ roaring acclamation. The Daughters ceremoniously burned a lock of his hair and invoked The Lady’s blessing on his reign.

  Menelaus son of Plisthenes son of Atreus son of Pelops ruled Sparta and Laconia.

  I shall not describe the subsequent festivities: a round of banquets, hunts and spectacles which endured for nearly a moon: all gentlemen of consequence have frequently seen the like. I was more concerned with broaching my plans about Troy, and had no delusions the kings would swallow them gladly. As a preliminary step I angled for Nestor’s backing while we watched from a convenient hillock two Laconian cities fighting a formal battle. During a pause in the contest--umpires call a halt whenever a Hero is killed--I drew him aside and said, ‘Do you remember, at Pylos, suggesting that re-opening the Hellespont was the only sure solution to Achaea’s shortage of food?’ Nestor’s bony features crinkled in a smile. ‘Certainly I do. But the situation’s eased. Since you wrested Copais from Thebes you’re freely exporting corn. Already our ships carry grain from Nauplia to Pylos.’

  ‘A partial relief. Copais’ yield, as you said yourself, falls short of Achaea’s needs. Orchomenos is taken, no one now need starve--but nobody gets enough. Have you lifted rationing in Messenia?’

  ‘No.’ The clever old eyes surveyed me blandly. ‘Have you?’

  I grinned. ‘In Mycenae--yes. We broke the Theban hold and deserve any benefits going. But everyone else feels the strain.’

  Nestor said, ‘Troy holds the key. Till the Hellespont is unlocked and corn flows again from Krymeia we’ll never be free from famine. Which I’ve told you before.’

  ‘You also said you’d consider supporting a properly organized expedition. Does that still hold good?’

  ‘Provided I approve the arrangements. I’ll not lead Host and fleet to a half-baked, bull-headed landing.’ The king eyed me appraisingly. ‘You’ve resolved on a Trojan war?’

  ‘If I can get support from every Achaean kingdom, as you yourself insisted. I’m aiming at a Host ten thousand strong.’ (An arbitrary assessment made from Gelon’s calculations. He could accurately estimate the military capabilities of kingdoms south of the Isthmus; for northern and western realms I made inspired guesses.)

  Nestor pursed pale, wrinkled lips. Ten thousand? And ships to transport them? You’ll have a job! When do you propose enlisting the kings’ consent?’

  ‘I’m starting here, in Sparta. Menelaus is calling a conference.’ I added seriously, ‘I need your approval, Nestor. You lead a powerful Host, a formidable navy. Your backing will influence apathetic rulers. May I depend on it?’

  ‘You may--on the condition I’ve mentioned.’ He wrapped cloak tightly round a lean bent frame. ‘For The Lady’s sake let’s leave this blasted hillock--the wind is cutting more sharply than a Dorian’s iron sword!’

  * * *

  A roofed, colonnaded passage unites Sparta’s Hall and Throne Room: a chamber ten paces wide and thirteen long. A frieze near the ceiling of plants and birds in shades of green and yellow decorated blue-painted walls. Stone benches project from the two long sides; a wooden throne on a marble dais faces fluted cedarwood pillars supporting bronze-sheathed doors. Menelaus sat on the throne; the kings of Mycenae, Pylos, Argos, Arcadia and Elis occupied benches on either side. We wore informal dress: plain tunics, kilts and cloaks. Menelaus alone donned a golden coronet to symbolize authority.

  He said in formal tones, ‘Agamemnon King of Mycenae has matters of great moment to set before us. He assures me they’re highly secret and should not be mentioned beyond this room.’ He shed ceremony and sent me a friendly grin. ‘Continue, Agamemnon.’

  I rose to my feet and stated baldly, ‘With your help, my lords, and the help of kings who rule beyond the Isthmus, I propose a seaborne invasion to conquer Troy and the Troad.’

  The silence was almost palpable. Then Menelaus and Diomedes started to speak together. Agasthenes’ eyes bulged frog-like from the sockets. Agapenor of Arcadia spluttered incoherently. Nestor smiled and cracked his knuckles.

  I rehearsed the arguments in detail, enlarging on the factors stated earlier to Nestor. Achaea would never know freedom from want nor lasting security so long as the Trojan embargo on Krymeian corn continued. Colchis’ gold, moreover, a source of wealth and prosperity, Troy also denied to our treasuries.

  ‘A Mycenaean monopoly,’ Diomedes rapped. ‘You distributed the benefits like largesse thrown to beggars!’

  ‘When the Hellespont opens again,’ I said, ‘the gold route shall be free for every kingdom’s ships. This I swear.’

  Diomedes grunted disbelievingly. I pretended not to hear, and switched to the military aspects. Troy’s naval might was a trifle compared to ours; yet a combination of winds, currents and narrow waters prevented the Hellespont’s passage against paltry opposition. Repeatedly we had tried, and as often failed. One solution remained: a landing on the Troad and a ground assault on Troy. For which, I estimated, we would need to disembark ten thousand fighting men together with the followers and craftsmen who keep forces in the field.

  ‘Where,’ Menelaus inquired politely, ‘will you find so colossal a Host, unprecedented in warfare’s annals?’

  ‘From your kingdoms, my lords, and the realms of every ruler!’ I struck fist in palm. ‘Our very existence is threatened! This campaign will decide Achaean supremacy once for all.’

  ‘As to that, the Hittites and Egyptians might hold other opinions,’ Diomedes observed.

  ‘We lie beyond their orbits; our interests never clash. Troy, and Troy alone, is the enemy we must crush.’

  Objections flew more swiftly than swallows hunting flies. How would he find the ships? asked Agapenor; he ruled a landlocked realm and sailed not a single galley. Wouldn’t we be outnumbered? Menelaus asked; Troy and her allies together disposed formidable forces. How long a war did I visualize? Agasthenes wanted to know; sowing and harvest could not be neglected, land untilled spelt famine. Nestor said nothing, stroking his beard, eyes flicking from face to face.

  I answered the challenges in turn. I promised Agapenor galleys from Mycenae’s fleets. While Troy’s military resources were undetermined, I told Menelaus, it was doubtful she and her allies matched the total Achaean strength. Finally, I answered Agasthenes, I conceived a year-long war, one springtime to the next; if we had not won by then we were beaten.

  Loud argumentative voices rebounded from the Throne Room’s walls like breakers beating a rocky shore. How many men should be left to garrison our cities and keep agriculture alive? Was I sure the northern realms--Thessaly, Aitolia, Euboia and such--would join the expedition? Could I guarantee Hittite neutrality--Troy’s redoubtable eastern neighbours?

  Nestor brought the discussion to earth. He said tersely, ‘Agamemnon, you’ve forgotten the Dorians.’

  I said irritably, ‘We can hardly hope to enlist--’

  ‘No!’ He slapped his knees decisively. ‘None of us here will strip his kingdom’s fighting men while Dorians harry his lands. Before gallivanting to Troy we’ve got to defeat them first--or at least so maul the Iron Men they’ll be licking their wounds for the year we’re away.’

  I sank on a marble bench and cupped head in hands. My secret fear was realized: the Dorian menace cowed these irresolute kings. The entire project, my one supreme ambition, was collapsing round my ears like earthquake-st
ricken walls.

  Nestor said, ‘I support Agamemnon’s scheme--we have to eliminate Troy. I give him Pylos’ Host and all her ships.’ (Hopefully I raised my head.) ‘But not this year. We’ll cripple the Dorians before we go.’

  Nestor unfolded his plan. He mooted a four-pronged attack on Arcadia to be mounted simultaneously from Mycenae, Argos, Pylos and Elis, using light-armed Heroes fighting on foot. The proposal won everyone’s approval, for it countered a threat nearer home and postponed for a while the perils of war overseas. High time, Diomedes swore, we combined to defeat the Dorians.

  I drew a deep breath, and argued no more. Better half a loaf ... The Trojan War was delayed, not irrevocably abandoned. The conference discussed details, called for wine to moisten talk-parched gullets. I sauntered from the Throne Room, crossed the Great Court. Nestor’s bony fingers touched my wrist.

  ‘I’ve retarded your plans, Agamemnon, because I believe you’re moving too fast. You have to engage allies, which will take a year and more. Some of our rustic kinglets in Achaea’s remoter corners have barely heard of Troy, and don’t connect their famines with the Hellespont’s blockade. They’ll need a deal of convincing. Nor can we sail to Troy leaving enemies at our backs. Meanwhile I suggest you make a last effort to negotiate with Priam.’

  ‘He’s unlikely to strike any bargains. Mycenae has been fighting Troy for eight whole years.’

  ‘An indecisive sea war. A peaceful settlement might, just might, win what we want. If you think the enmity that severs Troy and Mycenae forbids diplomatic contacts why not send a Spartan deputation?’

  The wise old eyes intently watched my face. I said, ‘I respect your counsel, Nestor. Although I think the effort wasted I’ll try to persuade Menelaus. Whoever goes will be talking direct to Priam. Kings must deal with kings: Menelaus will have to lead the embassy himself.’