‘Very likely, but,’ said Nestor solemnly, ‘dissensions can be dangerous among Heroes far from home.’
* * *
Our daily patrolling continued. Frequently I sent columns near Troy in hopes of luring defenders out, and as often failed. The summer advanced, sun blistered the unseasoned timber walling the warriors’ huts, dust storms raked the plain and coated every surface in ochre gritty powder. Though thanks to Gelon’s regular convoys the men did not lack food they wanted occupation. I organized races and games to keep idle hands from mischief, sent seaborne raids to Thrace, sent Argive war-bands probing south towards Dardania--but all expedients failed to keep ten thousand men consistently employed.
Warriors became discontented, Heroes started questioning my strategy, leaders concocted suggestions that were recipes for disaster. Quarrels grew more frequent, and often led to brawls and unnecessary deaths.
The plague at first was hardly noticed, for only dogs were afflicted. Despite Gelon’s restrictions Heroes had brought from Aulis a number of favourite hounds: these, and innumerable curs which scavenged the camp were tormented by convulsions that ended in painful death. Nobody except the boar-hounds’ masters worried overmuch, and ridding the camp of pariah dogs was greeted as a blessing. Then slaves who tended and fed the hounds began to be affected, a misfortune almost unnoticed--a well bred hunting hound costs more than the average slave. The bodies were hastily buried and as speedily forgotten.
On a sultry, breathless morning Agapenor of Arcadia burst into my hut. ‘The dog-sickness killed five of my spearmen last night! More are gravely ill and likely to die!’
The plague stormed thence like a forest fire, spared no one high or low, felled Heroes, Companions, spearmen, slaves haphazard, leaped from war-band to war-band across the camp and struck randomly like arrows shot in showers from the sky. The symptoms followed a foregone path: splitting headaches, vomiting, fearful pains in the bowels, a burning fever, convulsions ending in death. Frightened men tending dying friends brewed purges made from laurel, soothing draughts of galingale and honey, calamint infused in heated wine--remedies useless as water. The death rate soared. Only the bravest warriors stayed beside the sick, who were generally abandoned to lonely, agonized deaths. Before ten days had passed entire huts and tents held nothing but rotting corpses.
Physicians of a sort accompanied the Hosts, exercising their arts on horses and men impartially. Mycenae’s doctor, Machaon son of Asclepius who founded the medical school at Epidauros, possessed profounder talents and specialized in surgery. Yet the pestilence had him bewildered, ignorant of both its cause and cure. Machaon traipsed the camp, lifted the flaps of festering tents, pinched shrivelled skin between finger and thumb, rolled eyelids back from staring eyes, examined black-tongued mouths.
‘A deadly plague,’ he stated. ‘I saw the like--a minor outbreak--in Troezen round the time of the Followers’ War. First we must remove the dead.’
A simple behest that was hard to accomplish. Over five hundred carcases lay rotting in the huts; a stench of putrefaction stung your nostrils. Burial, Machaon said, took too long; burning was easier and quicker. I ordered the bodies to be carried to pyres built on the shore--and faced incipient mutiny. None could be persuaded to touch the decaying corpses. Finally warriors brandishing staves drove shrinking slaves to the task. Mournful processions wound to the beaches. Oily black smoke swirled skywards; a sickening reek of burning flesh assailed the air.
Men continued to die. Machaon and his brother physicians scurried around like ants, tried cure after cure without result. The pyres increased in number, and flickered day and night. Machaon perplexedly tugged his beard and sought inspiration from heaven.
‘Why,’ he demanded suddenly, ‘have we not been told of a single case in the war-bands on Thorn Hill?’
The hill, as I have related, lay a good two thousand paces from the camp. Before the pestilence started Menelaus’ Spartans had taken over outpost duties and remained there ever since.
‘I don’t know why,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and see.’
We drove together across the plain--brown sun-scorched grass and hard dry soil transformed the flower-specked tapestry that blazoned the ground in spring. A sentry barred the track two hundred paces short of the tents and picketed horses that crowded behind the rise.
‘No nearer, my lords!’
‘What the blazes do you mean? Don’t you recognize me?’
‘Of course, sire. But King Menelaus has forbidden approach to anyone from the camp.’
I swallowed irritation--the spearman was only obeying orders. ‘I wish to speak with the king.’
Machaon murmured, ‘I think I recognize King Menelaus’ purpose.’
My brother sauntered along the path, stopped at a healthy distance and called, ‘Sorry, Agamemnon. You must stay where you are. I can’t allow contagion in my Host.’
‘Have you any cases of plague?’
‘None.’
‘Then, dammit, I want to inspect your position and discover the reason. Let me pass.’
‘Not on your life. Nobody from your plague-pit comes to Thorn Hill. Even ration parties must dump their loads well short.’
After acrimonious argument Menelaus relented. We dismounted in the horse lines and quartered the close-set tents, Machaon sniffing and probing like a deer-hound on the scent. We climbed the hill--most of the tearing thorn scrub had been hacked away for fuel--and walked it end to end, the surgeon conning the ground as he went. Menelaus, fervidly anxious to end our wanderings, forbade any man to come near. (He himself kept a rigorous five-pace gap.) Machaon seemed indisposed to linger, and said he had seen all he wanted. I gave Menelaus a distant farewell, remounted and drove back to camp.
‘Well,’ I said as we neared the ditch, ‘have you found what causes the disease?’
‘I believe so, sire,’ Machaon answered gravely, ‘and also the cure.’
‘Which is?’
‘Relentless insistence on hygiene. Our warriors foul the camp: everywhere you trip over cooking refuse--entrails, discarded bones and such--garbage of every kind, ordure human and animal. Men defecate where they will: few bother to empty their bowels outside the ditch or beside the sea. The rivers are nearer--Scamander and Simoeis--so they poison the water we drink. We’ve grown accustomed to living in a midden, and scarcely notice the putrefying sights and smells.’
I guided the horses across a packed-earth causeway. ‘So it always is on campaign, Machaon. Are the Spartans any different?’
‘They’re a cleanly people by nature, sire. They’ve dug latrines and rubbish pits behind Thorn Hill; and nowhere did I find a vestige of filth. If a man only wants to urinate he has to visit a latrine. We must follow Sparta’s example and likewise cleanse the camp, and afterwards impose stern penalties on dirt.’
I drove to my hut--an edifice considerably enlarged since early days, bedrooms, store rooms and kitchen surrounding a central Hall: a timber palace in miniature--and summoned the kings to conference. After succinctly describing conditions on Thorn Hill, contrasting them with those prevailing in camp, and stating Machaon’s conclusions I commanded a thorough purging. Every scrap of refuse would be collected and burned forthwith; every war-band would instantly dig latrines and rubbish pits. Anyone fouling the camp--whatever his rank--incurred a summary flogging.
Naturally I met opposition. Heroes saw nothing unusual in living like pigs on campaign. (Nor, to be honest, had I until Machaon opened my eyes.) Achilles, sulking in his tent, refused to attend the meeting; Patroclus, his deputy, protested the measures excessive. There was no proof, he grumbled, that dirt engendered the plague; Myrmidons had fought many wars without these superfluous precautions and seldom suffered disease. I replied grimly he was lucky; that henceforth I would pay particular attention to the state of his war-bands’ encampment.
The camp thereafter bubbled for days, the sands were blackened by fires. (A considerable undertaking, in truth, for the sprawl by Scamander’s mouth spre
ad wider by far than Mycenae’s and Argos’ and Pylos’ cities combined.) Heroes busily carted dung as they did on their homeland farms; spearmen and slaves laboured elbow to elbow delving pits and trenches. The policy had no immediate effect. The pestilence raged unabated, the men died every day, their pyres curdling the pillars of smoke that spiralled above the sea.
At this time Ajax was stricken. I feared him lost, told Machaon to stay at his bedside and threatened dire penalties if he failed to save his life. I do not know what remedies he used; but after the convulsive stage Ajax, instead of dying, relapsed into a coma. He lay for a day and night unconscious, then slowly recovered his senses. Machaon fed him gruel and nursed him back to health, though fever and pain had wasted his mighty frame.
Physically Ajax fast recovered, and restored his strength by running and boxing and wrestling. The disease left deeper mental scars. Ajax had been a gay and cheerful extrovert, an impetuous man of action averse to overmuch thought. After this recovery he fought valiantly as ever and gloried in every battle; between times he was prone to spells of melancholy brooding, stared dully into space and was deaf to conversation. Petty irritations engendered fits of rage totally unlike his previous sunny demeanour. Worried by these oddities I consulted Machaon, who shook his head and opined that a being who journeyed so near death had crossed the Shades’ dark portals and saw things there that evermore warped his reason.
The death rate slowly diminished; and a day dawned late in summer when nobody lay sick, no smoke coils shrouded the beaches. Since the night when Agapenor’s spearmen died the plague had killed almost a thousand warriors--I don’t count slaves and followers. Morale had sunk to frightening depths; and all the time I feared the Trojans might give battle. If they had attacked while the pestilence was raging I believe the bulk of my forces would have fled to the ships and sailed for home: a course, in fact, an Aitolian kinglet mooted. I told the craven to shut his mouth and confined him to his quarters under guard. Yet others shared his views, though none but he dared voice them.
It was a damned close thing; near as a sliver the plague saved Troy.
(I’m told Achilles’ Homeridaian bard commemorates these sombre days in preposterous verses which allege The Lady scourged us as a punishment for my thieving Briseis from his master. Moreover, he imputed the Aitolian’s suggestion to me, chanting that my courage failed and I proposed to abandon the war. One day I shall cut that perjuring poet’s throat!)
* * *
Scouts reported war-bands in hills to the east of Troy; and encampments speckled the forested slopes. The enemy grew bolder, loosed sallies in strength to rebuff patrols which ventured near the plateau; an Argive flying column attempting to raid the township escaped by the skin of its teeth. Diomedes reported warriors re-occupying the town; a prisoner his column took was identified as Thracian. Priam’s confederates belatedly answered his call--although, on consideration, I conceded he’d done well. It had taken me two years to fetch my allies to the start line; Priam mustered his in a quarter the time.
The enemy’s aggression increased as days went by and the first chill winds of autumn feathered Troy’s dusty plain. Patrols met counter-patrols, and suffered losses. The enemy probed Thorn Hill where Mycenae’s men under Ajax relieved Menelaus’ Spartans. (Foundering under my duties as Achaea’s high commander I had appointed Ajax Marshal of Mycenae and incorporated his Salaminian war-band in my Host.) Ajax easily repelled the earlier thrusts which he reckoned to be strong reconnaissances. Later assaults were more determined, and Ajax confessed he began to be hard pressed. I sent Elians to reinforce him, accompanied the war-bands and surveyed the situation from the hilltop.
Scudding wisps of woolly cloud dragged shadows like threadbare cloaks across the plain. Spears glinted on Troy’s ramparts, flickered on the plateau and shot a myriad sparks from the township’s close-packed houses. Columns of foot and chariots converged from the hills on the citadel, wheels and hooves and marching feet raised dust in gauzy tatters. I screwed my eyes at the Scaean Gate, a tower-hung speck in the distance. The portals opened, men poured out, descended the road from the plateau and formed in lines at the foot. From citadel, town and tree-girt hills warriors emerged in separate armoured streams.
‘I believe,’ said Ajax, awed, ‘at last they’re going to fight!’
‘They are,’ I snapped, ‘and we’re not half ready! Where’s my bloody chariot?’
Talthybius flogged his stallions; I sped to the camp like a galloping storm. Trumpets blared Alarm, Companions harnessed horses, Heroes strapped on armour, spearmen clustered excitedly, the camp resembled a cauldron brought to the boil. A passive stillness reigned among the Myrmidons’ tents alone; cooking fires spiralled smoke, grooms peaceably wisped horses, squires polished armour. Heroes played at dice and pretended not to notice the activity around them. Achilles stayed invisible; Patroclus came to my chariot, his scarred and battered features wearing a shamefaced look.
He said, ‘We are forbidden to march, as you know. However, you have my word we will guard the camp.’ I smiled and clasped his hand.
Before the sun had travelled a handsbreadth down the sky I led the Hosts of Achaea out to battle the might of Troy.
Chapter 9
As it happened there was no great need for haste. The Trojans had not advanced from the foot of the citadel’s plateau--a circumstance I applauded, since our hurried departure from camp left no time for giving operation orders.
After observing the enemy unready as ourselves I halted the Hosts and called leaders together. I anchored the left on Thorn Hill, which Ajax held with Mycenae’s dismounted Host. Thence on a front two thousand paces long I interspersed the weaker Hosts between Nestor’s Pylians and Diomedes’ Argives. Menelaus guarded the right, his wing on Scamander’s banks. Idomeneus’ Cretans and a miscellaneous riff-raff of Phocians and the like were stationed in reserve behind Thorn Hill. Teucer, Ajax’s kinsman, commanded all our archers, and strung them across the front.
While war-bands moved to position I scrutinized the enemy. They had advanced from the plateau’s foot and stood in serried masses in no recognizable order. Trojan tactical ideas, I gratefully concluded, were backward as the rudest Locrian kinglet’s. They held a reserve in rear: a solid block of chariots, no spearmen in support--an unusual disposition, begging for trouble.
I drove along the ranks and encouraged the war-bands. (Speeches before battle are a tiresome chore expected from high commanders.) Nestor, when I reached him, wanted to know why we waited, when we were going to attack. Stupid old idiot, I thought: experience and age should have taught him better. I did not intend to quit prematurely a naturally strong position. The Hosts were carefully stationed so the flanks could not be turned--Thorn Hill blocking the left, Scamander barring the right. I meant to draw the enemy on my spears, allow their advance to disarrange further whatever dishevelled formations they held, charge when they came within bowshot and utterly destroy them.
Such was my simple strategy. The Lady brooded different plans.
I dismounted on Thorn Hill, a convenient hump for observing the course of the fighting. Ajax was his normal happy self, gloating over the prospect of a bloody, hard-fought battle. His face fell when I told him Mycenae would not attack. ‘You hold my pivot of manoeuvre,’ I explained. ‘When the Trojans give ground our line will swing on the hill like a wheel-spoke fixed on the axle, cut the enemy’s line of retreat and bustle them left to Simoeis.’
He scratched his cheek and scanned the ground and puzzled out the plan. At last he understood, and smiled. ‘A battle of annihilation, sire!’
‘Exactly.’
Clouds like dark grey sails slid over the sky. Wind gusts lifted dancing whorls of dust. Time crawled slow as the tortoises that feed on the weeds of Simoeis. A bleary sun said noonday. Diomedes galloped up and hailed me on the hilltop.
‘Are we to wait for ever, Agamemnon? Let us take the battle to the enemy!’
‘Patience, Diomedes,’ I called. ‘You’ll have yo
ur fill of fighting before the day is out!’
Afterwards Agapenor, then Nestor’s son and even fat Agasthenes drove to my lookout post and urged we take the offensive. Smilingly, in turn, I refused these asinine Heroes--and privately thanked The Lady the fools were not in command.
In mid-afternoon I saw movement in the faraway enemy Host, a shifting and a slithering like a python stirring from sleep. Trumpet calls hummed faintly on the wind. Like water spilled from a bucket the Trojan forces crept across the plain. Hector, losing patience, behaved in the way I wanted.
The unsupported chariots I had marked as Troy’s reserve stayed motionless as the trees that dotted the plain.
Lounging Heroes mounted, tightened helmet straps and en-armed shields. Companions gathered reins and poised their whips. I had determined to keep clear of the fighting--what use is a high commander when he’s scrapping like a spearman?--yet my throat went dry and my heart thumped fast: familiar symptoms presaging battle.
In drifting veils of tawny dust the Trojan Host drew nearer. Though hard to estimate numbers, I reckoned we faced ten thousand men. Teucer’s bowmen drew and loosed, strung and loosed again, arrows flashed in cloud-dimmed light. When the archers loped for shelter in our ranks Ajax muttered, ‘Ruddy cowards! Brave only with the bow!’ (A perennial gibe against bowmen, who dislike close-quarter fighting.) The Trojans left a few men fallen, and marched inexorably on.
An attack in the old-fashioned style: swathes of chariots, widely spaced, and retinues of spearmen tramping beside the wheels. They advanced in no set lines, thus men and cars in the front masked those behind.
Carrion for our spears.
I glanced confidently along our double rows of chariots stretching hub to hub to the gleam of Scamander’s waters; and tried not to notice the huddled blobs--Elians, Arcadians and such--lumped in the midst of those orderly ranks.
King in Splendour Page 29
