King in Splendour

by George Shipway

  Our destination thence was Tenedos, a voyage that passed through waters I expected Troy to dispute. At sun-up, therefore, I led all Mycenae’s galleys from Lesbos on a reconnaissance in force, beached unopposed at Tenedos by evening--after rowing hard all day in the teeth of a brisk north-easter--and sent a vessel to Lesbos to bid the fleets set forth the following day. Accompanied by guards I explored the little island--you can walk the shoreline’s circuit between the rising and the setting of the sun--and found an inoffensive people friendlily disposed though Trojan by descent: small farmers and herdsmen who scratched a meagre living from stony infertile soil. Tenedos’ lord--an affable fellow, clean shaven in an old-fashioned style that once prevailed in Troy--brought gifts for my dinner: fine fat sheep, young swine, freshly caught fish and wine in jars. I intended to spend some time on Tenedos, our base for descent on the Troad; and a hostile population would not assist provisioning. Already the horses’ fodder was running low.

  Hulls serried the horizon, oarbanks flashed in the sun, ships beached realm by realm on Tenedos’ western shores. I stationed guides on the beaches to sort the inevitable muddles: a morning’s voyage was enough to disarray the squadrons. Standing on the foreshore I saw Diomedes’ Argive keels trenching the sand to the south, Menelaus’ Spartan galleys coming to land on the north. Jutting tree-clad promontories concealed the remainder from view as soon as they turned inshore. Hardly a reason for worry: all they had to do was beach and disembark, find water, collect firewood and cook. So I was tranquilly chewing a mouthful of pork when a distraught chieftain pelted from the woods and babbled that his people were being slaughtered.

  Hurriedly gathering a half-armed guard--Heroes had stripped to the kilt at the oars, and nobody wears full armour at sea--I followed the lord of Tenedos through copses of oak and pine, past whitewashed mud-brick hamlets to a valley reaching inwards from the sea. Climbing a slope enclosing the vale, panting from exertion, I heard shouting and shrieks and clashing weapons and then beheld in horror a raging spoliation on the valley-plain below.

  The Myrmidons had left their ships and instantly run amuck. The scene was spread like a rug beneath my feet. Warriors hunted villagers through coppices and bushes, pursued them into gullies, chased along the slopes and slew the helpless peasants like boarhounds loosed on kittens. A settlement was being gutted, byres and grass-thatched homesteads belched crackling flames and smoke. Ruffians rounded cattle and drove them whooping shorewards. Screaming women were flung on the ground, stripped to the skin and raped. Silhouetted on a crag that crowned the farther crest Achilles complacently surveyed destruction running riot.

  I arranged my little escort in close-set double ranks and descended into the valley at a run. We plunged through the milling rabble, banged shields in shouting faces, brushed aside the pillagers and headed for Achilles. (I found a savage satisfaction in spiking through his navel a blood-crazed yelling Myrmidon who dared to lift his spear.) Achilles saw us coming, and climbed from the rock. I leaned on a clotted spear and gasped, ‘Recall your men, you maniac! What the blazes are you doing?’ Achilles said loftily, ‘Teaching these Trojans a lesson. They tried to oppose our landing.’

  ‘Impossible! They’re peaceful farmers, and the chieftain here has said--’

  ‘Somebody rolled a boulder from the cliffs and broke a spearman’s leg. Sufficient cause for punishment--you can’t play tricks with Myrmidons!’

  ‘A boulder ...’ I fought to control my anger. ‘Probably fell of its own accord. Achilles, call your fellows off! They’ve done enough damage as it is!’

  ‘Damage? I thought we’d crossed the seas to kill Trojans where we find them. Are you becoming white-livered, Agamemnon?’

  My temper slipped the leash. ‘Control your bloody murderers!’ I blared. ‘Return them to the beaches or, by The Lady’s Sacred Hands, I’ll loose Mycenae’s Host and kill your thrice-damned Myrmidons and burn your ships where they lie!’

  My forthright brother Menelaus says my fury, uncontrolled, is a flame that leaps and scorches, a blast that shakes the bravest in their shoes. Achilles blenched, and retreated a step. ‘You make a great pother from little,’ he mumbled. ‘Very well. If you will have it so ...’

  Reluctantly the Myrmidons stopped plundering and killing, plucked grass tufts and cleaned spearheads, shouldered a scanty booty and, obeying Achilles’ gestures, retreated to the beaches. The village blazed like a pyre, bodies mottled the valley, men and women harshly hurt stumbled and crawled to shelter. Smoulderingly I regarded the scene of devastation, and turned to give what comfort I could to Tenedos’ unfortunate lord.

  He had gone. I saw him no more, nor any of the island’s people. After Achilles’ ‘lesson’ they withdrew to the hills inland and avoided every contact with Achaeans. During our sojourn on Tenedos everyone kept to the beaches, for none who wandered far in the woods was seen again, living or dead.

  * * *

  I assembled all the leaders on the foreshore where Mycenae’s ships were beached. Fifty rulers great and small, from Nestor King of Pylos to Medon of Methone who commanded seven galleys squatted on the pebbles and listened to my discourse.

  Because the War Council had long ago decided a landing in face of the Trojan Host invited disaster we contrived a stratagem. A long bay called Besichai dented the mainland coast across the strait from Tenedos and offered a hazardous anchorage exposed to gales. I intended to stage diversions at this roadstead while the main force beached at Scamander’s mouth a half day’s sailing north.

  I chose as decoys a hundred and sixty galleys from the realms around Phthia: mediocre warriors, as I judged, whose value in a landing that the enemy might oppose was likely to be slight. They were ordered to cruise round the bay, pretend to reconnoitre, feint at the beaches and generally simulate preparations for a descent on the coast in force. On no account, I emphasized, were they actually to land. (I cared not a whit for their worthless skins but, if prisoners were taken, the ruse could be betrayed.) I was prepared to repeat the performance day after day until the Trojans, convinced we meant to land there, concentrated their forces above the bay. Meanwhile not a ship would approach our genuine target beaches near Scamander.

  Thus far the Heroes listened in silence, knees supporting elbows, knuckles propping chins. Ascephalus of Orchomenos lifted a languid hand. ‘Assuming the ploy successful, how much grace will the main force have after it disembarks?’

  ‘A Trojan runner must carry the news from Scamander to Besichai. Their Host will then march north over rugged country. I reckon, if we land at dawn, the sun will be high overhead before we’re attacked in strength.’

  ‘A narrow margin,’ said Agapenor of Arcadia.

  ‘Narrow indeed, but enough.’

  ‘When do you intend to launch the landing at Scamander?’ Ascephalus drawled.

  ‘Have I not made myself clear? When Priam’s warriors are ranked in force above Besichai Bay. Who can say how speedily the Trojans will react? Maybe four days, possibly five. They know the whole Achaean fleet is harboured under Tenedos, they see us probing Besichai and can’t ignore the threat.’

  In fact it took four days. The diversionary ships were launched at dawn, rowed round Tenedos, cruised up and down the bay, approached within a spear-cast of the beaches. The results exceeded my hopes. Trojan war-bands gathered on the shore, their numbers increasing day by day. Meanwhile, following the usages of war, I sent an embassy to Priam, landing from a galley up the coast. They were told to demand free passage of the Hellespont, remission of tolls and customs duties and--as an afterthought--Helen’s restoration to her husband. I did not expect the envoys to reappear--emissaries in wartime are apt to vanish untraced--was surprised when they returned and unsurprised by Priam’s rude refusal.

  On the third day I took a triaconter and rowed in the wake of the diversionary fleet. Trojans clustered on dunes and cliffs that fringed the bay’s long curving shore, sunlight sparked from serried spears, glinted on armour and horses’ trappings. I bade the galley�
�s master cruise closer to the beach, came within random arrow-shot and heard defiant bellowings, trumpetings and war-cries. Sudden impetuous surges brought men to the water’s edge; throwing spears, arrows and slingstones whipped fountains from the sea. Four thousand men, I reckoned, the whole of Priam’s garrison troops if you didn’t include his allies.

  While the triaconter backed to a safer distance--an arrow had skewered an oarsman’s arm--one of our galleys dashed to the shore and grounded hard on the sand. (Whether inactivity irked the commander beyond endurance, or whether the King of Mycenae’s presence inspired a rash bravado I cannot tell.) Spears aloft the crew jumped out, and were instantly swamped by a charge. A messy little battle erupted on the beach and lasted for the time a man might draw ten breaths. Howling Trojan warriors finished off the wounded, stripped armour from the slain.

  For the benefit of posterity I record the reckless leader’s name--the first of many thousand Heroes dead in the Trojan War: Protesilaus son of Iphiclus, from Phylace.

  This reconnaissance persuaded me that Priam had swallowed the bait and was confident we intended to come ashore at Besichai. I took a triaconter unobtrusively up the coast, studied the shoreline as we rowed, rounded the jut at the Hellespont’s mouth and viewed from afar the rush-speared dunes where Scamander entered the sea. Apart from coastguards manning watch towers and a beard of dust from a chariot far inland I saw not a sign of war-bands north of Besichai.

  At Tenedos that evening I called a Council of War and spoke the words that planted Achaean feet on the realm of Troy.

  The diversionary fleet will weigh at dawn, go to Besichai Bay as usual and vigorously engage the enemy’s attention. The remainder will launch at moonset tonight, row in the dark to the Hellespont and reach Scamander at daybreak. You’ll beach in order of sailing, leave horses aboard and form a fighting line to cover the landing. When the beach-head is established Companions and followers will disembark the horses, land and assemble chariots, harness up and lead them to their owners. By midday you’ll be ready to give battle.

  ‘Mycenae’s fleet will row in the lead. Achilles’ Myrmidons follow in fifty Phthian galleys. Diomedes’ fleet in the third wave, close behind Achilles ...’

  I completed the order of sailing, and added, ‘Nestor, you’re the rearguard, but don’t lay course for the beaches. Instead you’ll lie off the Hellespont’s mouth, holding your place with oars--currents and winds are strong there--and screen the channel to Abydos. When all the Hosts have landed I’ll tell you to come ashore.’

  I asked for questions. Heroes considered gravely, and shook their heads. Achilles jumped to his feet and demanded to lead the assault. Myrmidons, he boasted, went foremost into battle: a second place would tarnish reputations.

  I said coldly, ‘It’s true you struck Achaea’s first blow--on defenceless, peaceful peasants. Until your temper is tested in considerably hotter fires you’ll follow where I lead.’

  Heroes murmured agreement. Nobody approved the Myrmidons’ wanton massacre.

  * * *

  A streak like dingy copper rimmed the eastern sky; galleys glided quietly north over waters dark as night. The loom of the cape to starboard was a curtain hung on the dawn. Steersmen hauled on sweeps, the lines of triaconters wheeled like flighting geese. The whisper of an onshore breeze stroked ripples on the sea.

  I walked to the prow, propped hand on seahorse figurehead and scanned a shoreline grey in the daybreak gloaming. Waves lapped yellow sand, brittle pointed grasses spattered the dunes, spectral tree-shapes lurked inland. The sheen of a hidden sun daubed bars of gold and silver on the surface of an estuary.

  The steersman spoke low-voiced. Oarbanks lifted and hovered. Droplets dripped from blades like crystal beads and glittered in the first clear rays of daylight. The triaconter’s keel grated softly on shingle; on either beam a hundred hulls touched ground. With Talthybius’ help I scrambled over the bows, stepped from the ram into sodden sand and plodded to the dunes.

  Heroes and spearmen leaped overside, sprayed through the shallows and ran to reach the trees beyond the dunes. Horse transports dropped their battened ramps. Companions led the animals ashore. Followers landed dismembered chariots, pintled wheels to axles, strapped hide and wickerwork frames, secured poles and yokes. The landing beach was busy as a market.

  Sunrise opened a golden fan on the mountains girdling Troy. I stared out to sea, and clenched my teeth. The second wave, Achilles’ ships, floated as though anchored five arrow-shots from land. Orders shouted from galley to galley rang faint on the still dawn air. Oarbanks dropped and struck. Incredulously I watched the Myrmidons back water, crab stern-first into the advancing line that Diomedes led. His galleys frenziedly changed course and jinked between Achilles’ retreating ships. Oarblades clashed and splintered, oaths and maledictions volleyed from afar. The Argive ships drew clear, and beached in ragged array on the right of Mycenae’s galleys.

  Ships now swarmed on the sea like waterfowl flocking a lake, wave upon wave approaching the coast, oarbanks lifting and dipping. They swerved around the Myrmidons’ stationary flotilla and grounded between the mouths of Scamander and Simoeis. Warriors jumped overboard and raced inland.

  I tramped across grass-speared hummocks, past feathery willow and tamarisk clumps to hard flat ground beyond. The forces of Achaea were strung from river to river in gap-toothed ranks two thousand paces long. Troops hastened from the shore and filled the open spaces. I ordered Ajax to advance a screen of scouts and posted wisps of bowmen well ahead.

  Menelaus vociferously directed Spartans into station. Wiping a streaming face he said, ‘Hurry the laggards, brother. Time grows short’--a glance at the sun--‘and the Myrmidons and Cretans still haven’t shown from the beaches!’

  I said tersely, ‘You won’t see Achilles awhile. Idomeneus is disembarking. Have the enemy appeared?’

  Menelaus pointed his spear to the hummocky plain in front. Scrub and bushes and trees danced in a shimmering heat haze, humps and hollows wavered like wind-ruffled water. ‘Out there. Only a few so far.’

  Beyond our straggling line of scouts enemy spearmen clustered in groups, and a score or so of chariots cantered to and fro. About fifteen hundred, I judged, probably coastguards and shore patrols and the residue of Troy’s garrison. The shoulders of the mountains concealed the city that fifty kings had crossed the seas to win, invisible but attainable--for I knew our Hosts could reach the walls in the time a man might cook and eat his dinner.

  The overwhelming success of our diversionary tactics had uncovered Troy for the taking, while behind my back six thousand Achaeans were poised above the beaches.

  I strode rapidly back to the battle line, hurriedly gathered the Council of War--except Nestor, still stationed athwart the Hellespont--and said, The way lies open! We can brush aside the enemy who face us--no more than a slender outpost line--and batter into the citadel! Prepare to advance, my lords!’

  A shuffling sort of silence greeted my pronouncement. Diomedes said, ‘Steady, Agamemnon. That’s not the plan we agreed. Our strategy is to build a fortified base and then--and only then--take the offensive.’

  Ajax, surprisingly for so notorious a fire-eater, said, ‘Foolish to give battle on ground we haven’t seen. Surely Scamander bars the way and has, I’m told, but a single ford--does anyone know where it is?’

  ‘The river banks are marshy,’ Menelaus warned, ‘and the swamps could swallow chariots.’

  Odysseus said, ‘Do we leave the ships defenceless while we march across the plain?’

  I said forcibly, ‘We’ll post strong guards on the beaches, enough to keep the Trojan skirmishers at bay.’

  ‘Splitting our forces,’ Diomedes observed sourly. ‘Inviting defeat in detail.’

  Odysseus twirled the point of a coarse black beard. ‘The enemy's main body is marching from Besichai, and may fall upon our backs and cut us off from the shore.’

  ‘And a third of our strength is still afloat,’ Menelaus objected. ‘Wait til
l we’re united--then we’ll see.’

  My spear butt hammered the sand. ‘Idiots, fools, lethargic clods!’ I raved. ‘For The Lady’s sake let us take the gift She dangles in our faces! Admittedly we agreed to fortify a camp--but plans are not immutable! Wake yourselves up, my friends--we can end the war in an afternoon!’

  Eye met eye, the kings pursed lips and shook their obstinate heads. ‘No, Agamemnon,’ Menelaus said definitely. ‘Opinion goes against you. We’ll follow the original plans.’

  That was that. Bitterly I scanned the idling lines of troops: a hammer my hidebound allies plucked from my hand. Although I held supreme command over all Achaea’s Hosts I could not overrule the leaders’ collective wills--an obstacle that hindered me thereafter.

  To this moment I’m convinced we could have taken Troy on the campaign’s opening day.

  * * *

  Chariots began arriving from the beaches; Companions shouted names; Heroes thankfully mounted. Talthybius brought my car and I cantered the length of the ranks. The Cretans arrived in station as I drove, but the line was thin, attenuated, a deal of the force still wanting--the deception fleet roved Besichai Bay and Nestor watched the straits. As for Achilles--!

  I sent orders to launch two galleys: one to summon the ships from Besichai, the other to call in Nestor.

  The morning wore on. Spearmen squatted in ranks; Heroes dismounted, propped rumps on wheels. (Sitting is nigh impossible in triple-skirted armour.) A rising wind lifted whorls of dust; Trojans flitted dimly in the haze. (Wind and dust we came to know well in those weary moons on the plains of Troy, and heartily cursed them both through teeth that ground on grit.) Scouts came padding rearward, reported hostile columns marching along the coast.