Warriors in Bronze

by George Shipway

  'Very well.' Gelon compressed his lips. 'I warn you, my lord, we shall have to live frugally through the summer.' Intrigued by my first acquaintance with scribal skills, and remembering Atreus' injunction, I craned over Gelon's figuring although, like anyone not a Scribe, I had no slightest know­ledge of writing and considered the art to be something ap­proaching magic. Scratching and squiggling busily, tongue be­tween teeth, Gelon assured me the calculations were simple: he applied to Rhipe in miniature a system which prevailed throughout the realm. 'Every person below noble rank re­ceives a fixed allocation of barley, wheat and oil based on the kingdom's total resources divided by the population count. Achaea, densely peopled, can't grow the food she needs; hence corn is shipped from Sicily and Crete.'

  'I had no idea,' I said in wonder. 'Surely, on a country-wide scale, a most complicated business?'

  'It is. That's what Scribes are for. Without us the economy would collapse.'

  Gelon uttered a simple truth. Scribes are ubiquitous; a coterie exists in every city and town. They control administration and regulate the economy; every ruler depends on a senior Scribe's advice - I remembered King Eurystheus' Curator at Mycenae. Their power resides in knowledge of writing, a jealously guarded monopoly whose mysteries outsiders are never al­lowed to learn. (Not that Heroes nurse any desire to master an art so horridly cabbalistic.)

  It is commonly averred that the Scribes' origins are Cretan, although in appearance and characteristics they are very un­like that good-looking, easy-going race. The distinguishing mark of a Scribe, besides the long grey robe he always wears, is a hooked nose dominating swarthy features. They forbid mar­riage outside the sect, and worship a private god whose name, so far as I can pronounce the throat-stopping syllables - Gelon told me this - is something like Jahwah. Which worries nobody: all sorts of obscure divinities are honoured in rustic Achaea. In urban neighbourhoods the Daughters, not sur­prisingly, severely discourage unorthodox cults: on The Lady's pre-eminence depend their own estates, granted by kings for Her worship. They also fight a tendency, mostly in the cities, to elevate as deities our ancestors: those mighty Heroes of olden time, founders of royal Houses, Zeus and Poseidon.

  But I digress - a tedious vice belonging to ageing men.

  Within a couple of days Diores and Gelon between them organized the running of Rhipe out-of-doors and in. I was given a hundred sheep and banished to grazing grounds a morning's march from the manor: my realm for seven moons, a spread­ing river valley ramparted by hills. My companions, besides the sheep, were two spearmen and a surly-tempered dog: the spearmen a condition that Atreus commanded; he had told Diores I was not to be left unguarded while shepherding the flocks. We repaired dilapidated folds and huts which com­manded grazing areas, rebuilt walls and roofed the huts with tamarisk fronds on olive-wood rafters.

  So began an idyll I gratefully remember, a happy, carefree interlude never to be repeated. I saw to the year's first mating, ensured the rams shirked none of their work and favoured all the ewes. Spring drifted into summer, hot sunlight faded the flowers - hyacinth and crocus, violet and lily - and sucked aromatic scents from herbs and grasses. I discarded my woollen tunic, wore deerskin boots and knee-high leggings to guard against the thorn scrub of Rhipe's rocky hillsides. A short spear and dagger completed my equipment - everyone, slaves ex­cepted, always has a dagger at the belt: an all-purpose imple­ment for shaving, hair-cutting, carving food and whittling during idle afternoons.

  At every dawn and sunset I inspected and counted my charges, collected stragglers and rolled silly fat ewes to their feet. Otherwise I basked in the sun or drowsed under shady trees. The hillsides' grassy slopes, dotted by white fleeces, fell from forested heights to a willow-tasseled stream meandering through the valley: a fragrant sun-drenched kingdom I re­garded as my own. Occasionally I bade the dog - an obedient creature despite his snarls - to retrieve a wandering wether. I cut flutes from streamside reeds and piped melodious tunes that tinkled in the still clear air like raindrops falling on water. I rolled dice with my guardian spearmen, breakfasted on wheat- cakes spread with honey, dined on cheese and barley-bread and figs washed down by rough red wine. At night, cloak-wrapped against the dew, I lay on a couch of grass beneath a sky black- purple and counted the glittering stars. Doubtless it rained from time to time, but my memory pictures days that were ever bright and golden.

  Every seventh day Diores paid us visits and brought baggage- laden slaves to replenish our supplies. He examined every sheep, prodded pregnant ewes and ran fingers through their fleeces. Early in the summer I was warned to prepare for shear­ing, and spent laborious days washing struggling sheep in the stream. Then Diores arrived with a shearing team and ox-carts to carry the wool. 'We'll have a good crop,' he said content­edly, sitting beneath a willow and watching the knives at work. 'In high summer you'll be lambing; send word to the manor before it starts and I'll send you men to help.' He paused, and frowned at the forests that canopied the hills. You've seen nobody in the woods?'

  'Nobody,' I said, surprised. 'Why? Whom would you ex­pect?' Diores beckoned a spearman and led him aside. Intrigued by his question I strained my ears to hear what he said.

  'You scout the forests, Echion, as I instructed?'

  'Regularly, my lord, and find not a soul. They were there last winter: you can tell by the bitten-down saplings.'

  'Um. They shouldn't be down from the mountains for many moons yet. Keep a sharp watch, Echion, when the leaves begin to wither.'

  'I will, my lord.'

  When Diores and his workmen went I questioned Echion, who shrugged and muttered something about boar attacking the flock. I thought the fellow stupid: I had walked every pace of the grazing grounds and found neither droppings nor slots which mark the passage of boar.

  For reasons of health I journeyed periodically to Rhipe, leaving the flock for the day in the spearmen's charge. Clymene greeted me ecstatically, and speedily administered the medicine I sought. Afterwards, lax and satiated, we strolled around the manor. Diores had transformed the place, thatching roofs, plastering walls, restoring gaps in the ramparts and generally tidying up. Workmen had entirely refurnished the house, providing chairs and tables, cooking pots and gaily pat­terned hangings. Gelon weighed the wool crop and calculated, quill in hand, the proportion due for tribute and set it aside in store rooms; weavers worked at looms to convert the rest into cloth. Clymene informed me proudly she had taken command of the household, ordered the slaves and kitchen staff and kept Diores happy.

  'Your solicitude stops at his stomach, I hope?'

  'How could you say such a thing ? I am yours, Agamemnon, body and heart and soul. Besides,' she pouted, 'Diores is be­sotted with a fat Euboian slut. How he abides the girl is beyond my comprehension. She waddles like a pregnant cow and washes once in a moon.'

  During these hasty visits Clymene cooked me a midday meal: a haunch of mutton grilled on the spit (we never had meat while herding), gravy and savoury herbs and spices - cumin, fennel and mint - which Clymene gathered at day­break. Then I gave her a farewell tumble in the little cubicle Diores granted - a singular privilege; but Clymene, though a slave, belonged to me, and her blood was noble - and departed on the long tramp back to the flock.

  A midsummer sun blazed high in the sky; the stream dwindled and the grass turned yellow and brittle. I folded the sheep in different valleys to alternate the grazing, and idled away the burning days in the shade of parch-leaved trees. When the summer lambing started I despatched a spearman for help and for days was frantically busy. We did well, losing only twelve ewes and twenty lambs; Diores was pleased. With the size of the flock near doubled I had to shift ground more often, and hoped the end-summer rainstorms would freshen the grass.

  Clouds like pale transparent shreds drifted across the sky, gathered above the peaks, slid lower and misted the hills. Light­ning crackled and thunder rumbled; the deluge fell like spear- shafts.

  'Autumn advances her banners,' said Echion the spearman
while we sheltered beneath a crag. 'We shan't stay here much longer.'

  Diores, on his next visit, agreed. He kicked a clump of grass and said, 'There's little goodness left in the grazing here. Start mating the ewes for winter lambing, and then we'll bring you down to the manor pastures.' Again he scowled at the hilltops, where rain-mist shrouded the trees. 'Maybe sooner. Here, I've brought you this : wear it wherever you go.' He handed me a sword in an oxhide sheath attached to a leather baldric. I protested in astonishment. 'Why? A sword will clutter my movements and' - I patted my kilt belt - 'I always carry a dagger.'

  'Do as I say - and keep it sharp.' Diores turned to the spear­man. 'Anything, Echion?'

  'Nothing, my lord.'

  'Good. Tell your dog to round that wether, Agamemnon: if he falls into a gully he'll surely break a leg.'

  Diores waved farewell and strode away.

  ***

  I mated the ewes, and wore a cloak while I worked; the days were growing shorter and the wind had a bite like knives. Winter's onset turned my charges restless; they wandered far in search of richer herbage. Dawn and evening counts revealed sheep gone astray which had to be retrieved with much scrambling and searching. One morning, dog at heel and Echion in tow, I followed a missing ram along a steeply slanting gully which cleft the hill from forest-line to valley. Clamber­ing up the rocks was wearing work; I paused to regain my breath.

  Echion eyed the thick-set trees which crept down the slope a spear-cast distant. 'Give the ram best, my lord. He'll return of his own accord.'

  The dog sniffed the scree ahead, and whined. 'Look - he says it's close in front. We'll search in the fringe of the forest.'

  We resumed a scrambling climb, the dog panting eagerly in the lead. I reached for a jutting rock to steady my balance, heard a sound like the whup of a whip and Echion's choking cry. I turned quickly, slipped and fell. The spearman writhed on his back; an arrow transfixed his shoulder.

  Hairy creatures closed on me and bayed; my nostrils flinched from a frightful stench. Wild animals, I thought in panic, and tugged at my sword. Hands twisted the hilt from my hold, flung my body over and ground my face on the rocks. I was dragged by the legs uphill; jagged stones scored gashes on face and ribs.

  The agonizing haul seemed endless; my head struck rocks which knocked me dizzy; I crashed like a log from ledge to ledge and the air was slammed from my lungs. I saw nothing but the ground scraping painfully past my face, heard only the animal grunts of those who held me fast.

  Foliage closed overhead and screened the cloud-smeared sun­light. My captors flung me against an oak tree's bole. Blearily I wiped away the blood that stung my eyes. I lay in a glade on level ground, a giant step which nature had carved in the hill­side, and at last saw the enemy clearly. Men in the guise of beasts, clad every one in goatskins. Thirty or forty in all. Matted filthy hair and tangled beards, bare furry legs and cal­loused feet. Their stink was almost palpable, a solid essence of goat.

  They gathered round me, babbling. A spear point pricked my chest. Weakly I thrust it aside. One of the creatures stooped and shouted in my face; I flinched from a blast of rancid breath. He spouted a torrent of speech; dazedly I strove to understand. A word here and there was familiar, the rest in­comprehensible as the bray of the goats they herded. I tried to vanquish terror, and swallowed the bile in my throat.

  They ripped away my kilt and left me naked. Somebody grabbed my genitals and wrenched; I squirmed and yelped in agony; the brutes guffawed. A body thumped beside me, an arrow shaft protruded from the shoulder. Echion, conscious and in pain, eyes bulging and affrighted in a face like a bloody mask. A savage trod on his chest, grabbed the shaft in both his hands and pulled. The barb came free attached to a gobbet of flesh. Echion shrieked and fainted.

  One of the creatures dragged by the tail the carcase of my wretched dog, squatted on the ground and quickly skinned it. He used, I noticed dully, a knife of stone ground sharp at the edges. All their weapons were stone, daggers and spearheads and arrows. He cast the pelt aside and hacked the corpse in pieces, tore out liver and guts and handed chunks to his fellows. Greedily they devoured the raw flesh, tearing with their teeth and champing, blood smearing greasy beards. The dog, though large, could not feed all; the men deprived gesticu­lated angrily and growled like hungry wolves. The man who had questioned me before - or so I assumed; so hairy-featured were they all you could not tell them apart - vigorously prodded his spear on my breastbone and yelled unintelligible words. Numbly I shook my head. He reversed the spear and slammed the haft across my skull. The treetops reeled in a crazy dance and the day went dark.

  Sense and feeling filtered back; I forced my eyelids apart. The stinking brutes had withdrawn some paces distant; a trio squatting on the ground rubbed sticks to make a fire, others filled up waterskins from a trickle that ran through the glade. I saw clean-shaven faces, blinked away the mist that hazed my sight and realized they were women, filthy uncouth harridans clothed in goatskins like the men. A multitude of goats browsed scanty herbage between the trees and stood erect with forefeet against trunks to strip the lower branches. There was also a tribe of rangy, half-starved dogs, yellow-eyed and feroci­ous. Neither they nor the goats strayed beyond the tree-line to open ground below - whether by chance or training I never discovered.

  A man leaning on an ash stave watched my return to con­sciousness. It is hard to describe him. Withered, stringy, emaci­ated, bent beneath the weight of countless years. Long dirty- white hair fringed a smooth bald pate. A wispy beard, the upper lip shaven, the nose a wedge of gristle, sunken violet eyes in caverns beneath white brows. In contrast to the stig­mata of age the skin of his forehead and cheeks was smooth, unwrinkled, pale as polished bone. He wore a linen tunic once dyed green, now sun-bleached, torn and stained; his arms were sinew-corded stalks, dead ivy clasping twigs. And yet - which is why I find it difficult to depict him properly - an aura hung about him of dominance and dread.

  He spoke sharply to a spearman standing at his shoulder, a man different from the Goatmen as he himself - stocky and blond, hair and beard trimmed short, rocky weather-tanned features and eyes like burnt black wood. His only garb was a leather apron; a fold pulled through his crotch was gathered in front and buckled to the belt like a codpiece of times gone by. A bracelet of lead-coloured metal decorated a wrist; he grasped a heavy spear. Stepping smartly forward he wound fingers in my hair and jerked. The pain brought tears to my eyes and cleared the fog from my brain.

  The old man said, 'You come from Rhipe. Who are you?’A gentleman's voice, the timbre deep and clear, the voice of a man in lusty middle age, the accent indefinable. All the in­flexions of Achaea and lands across the sea overlaid his tones, as though our tongue was one of many he could command at will.

  He kicked my leg. 'Answer, lad! I have ways of finding the truth.'

  I had realized directly I saw them that these were the dreaded Goatmen, the scourge of all Achaea and the bane of civilized men. To me, hitherto secluded in impregnable My­cenae, they were nothing more than a legend, a fairytale nursemaids told to frighten children. I knew little of their history, and never troubled to learn. But now, like an icy douche, I recalled something Atreus had once said: 'Better to cut your throat than be taken alive by the Goatmen.'

  Should I tell this decrepit old cripple my name and rank and lineage? He was clearly the Goatmen's leader, despite his age and frailty. Perhaps if I did he would shrink from the reper­cussions - a warband after his head. Or maybe the spilling of royal blood would simply add spice to his sport. No - whoever he was, deny him the relish of knowing the prize he held.

  I gathered a little spittle from a mouth as dry as a kiln, and spat. A smile infinitely evil curved the grey cracked lips.

  'Turn over.'

  Was this to be the death-blow? He carried no weapon; his spearman lolled negligently on the shaft. Painfully I obeyed, and rolled on my face. The tip of the stave touched my shoulder.

  'As I thought. The mark of Pelops.
'

  I wear on my right shoulder an ivory-coloured birthmark: a heritage borne by every male descended from Pelops of Elis. (And a wonderful story the bards have concocted to account for that!) Even under the stress of pain and fear I wondered how this freak, a companion of outcast Goatman, should be familiar with the fables of Achaea's noble Houses. I turned on my back, and croaked from an arid gullet, 'Very well. I am Agamemnon son of Atreus. Who the blazes are you?’

  'Dionysus.'

  He uttered the word proudly, like a title borne by kings. Remembrance stirred: some half-forgotten tale which con­nected the name with Thebes. (The source of everything vexa­tious, Atreus had said.) A legend of olden days when Electryon still ruled. Surely this crazy creature, ancient though he was, could not be that Dionysus ?

  With insolence wefting the words I said, 'The name means nothing to me.'

  'No?' He sighed. 'You youngsters have no memory for fame. And impertinence, my lad, does not become your situation. In these two hands' - he held out skinny claws - 'I hold your life.'

  Echion stirred and groaned. Dionysus' hooded eyes rested on him briefly. 'I regret to say that one of you has to be sacrificed. The choice, Agamemnon, is yours.'