I paid my respects to my mother, who looked beautiful as ever. She informed me she had abandoned her hunting and chariot driving as inconsistent with the dignity of Mycenae's paramount lady - and the sun was browning her face. (Ladies, particularly palace ladies, take pride in preserving a pale complexion; lesser females have to brave the sun in performing their daily tasks; so you judge a woman's status by the colour of her skin.) She chattered trivialities, solicitously examined my half healed scars and recommended a salve she had got from the palace physician - a son of Aesculapius, the quack who ran a medical school at Epidauros. She listened brightly to my adventures and lost interest when a beefy, handsome Hero entered the apartment with a message from her husband. Aerope fluttered her lashes; the Hero dithered adoringly.
I sidled out. My mother could never resist a man, and it did her no good in the end.
I resumed my chariot driving under the tutelage of Atreus' Companion Phylacus, a dour, taciturn man but a first-rate hand with horses. I had often driven travelling chariots, heavy, lumbering vehicles. Battle chariots are different as hawks from herons, the carriage builder's art brought near perfection, strength and lightness delicately balanced. Drawn by two fleet horses - some experts added a trace horse, which Phylacus thought dangerous - the body is very light: oxhide or wicker- work covers a bentwood frame; you stand on a floor of plaited oxhide strips. A stout leather thong runs from a figwood guardrail to the yoke end of a single pole and supports the weight. Four-spoked bronze-tyred wheels are naved on a beechwood axle centred beneath the body.
Battle chariots are gaudy vehicles, painted blue and yellow and crimson, frames gilded and inlaid with ivory and decorated by silver plaques. Ivory medallions sometimes adorn the reins - stupid and risky, Phylacus growled, shaking a grouchy head.
A Companion has to master more than driving. I learned the art of selecting horses by make and shape, the blood-lines, breaking and training, grooming, feeding and stable routine - every aspect of horsemanship. I spent more time in stables then racketing round the Field of War behind two pulling Kolaxians, and soon acquired the distinctive smell which hovers around Companions. Aerope, when I visited her, ostentatiously nosed a phial of scented oil; Atreus sniffed and laughed. A fine healthy reek, Agamemnon. No matter - Phylacus allows you'll make an exceptional driver: you have the gift of hands. And so you should, with your pedigree - Pelops gained his kingdom by winning a chariot race!'
My instruction continued throughout the stormy winter months; neither cold nor rain nor sleet deterred a hardy, waterproof Phylacus. With the coming of spring he put me through the aspiring Companion's test: a narrow serpentine course marked by fragile earthenware jars which culminated in a low mud bank and the Field's twin watercourses raging in spate. I took it all at a searing gallop, broke two jars and finished triumphant, chariot and horses intact.
'You'll do’ Phylacus said. 'Not bad at all, after only five moons' training. Some take as many years to pass the test. Don't think,' he continued grimly, 'you know it all. There's a lot to learn yet, which only battle can teach you.'
I was eager to be appointed Companion to some Hero, preferably at Tiryns or Corinth - I longed to see new faces and taste a fresh environment; Mycenae had cloistered me too long. Atreus, when I broached the matter, shook his head. 'You're an important person, Agamemnon, and likely to become more so as time goes by. Unfitting you should serve a petty lord. No - I shall make you one of my Companions. What greater honour' - a wide grin - 'than to drive the Marshal of Mycenae into battle? Sooner than you think, perhaps. You never know with that Hercules mob in Tiryns. They behave worse when their leader's away - drowned by now, I hope - than they did when he was Warden.'
Atreus explained. Thyestes had sent him bitter complaints about the conduct of Hercules' followers. Since all were landless men they subsisted on Tiryns' resources and drained the citadel's store rooms. Thyestes quoted a list of offences: they entered the palace precincts unbidden, demanded the choicest meat and oldest wine, became uproariously drunk and invaded the ladies' apartments - one ruffian had been killed by an outraged husband, and a full-scale riot barely averted. They looted merchants' shops, raped the peasants' women and stole their sheep and cattle. Finally, a few days since, a gang commanded by Hyllus raided a herd of horses on one of the Argos estates. King Adrastus of Argos threatened reprisals. Thyestes humbly apologized and sent to Mycenae for help.
'It seems fantastic,' Atreus commented, 'that a scant two hundred rascals can stir up so much trouble. Of course they're tough and ruthless, desperadoes to a man, every one recruited by Hercules himself for just those nasty qualities. A mistake to treat them lightly - but they have to be removed.'
When the Council discussed Thyestes' tirade Atreus recommended a punitive expedition be sent immediately to Tiryns, there to join the garrison in exterminating the Heraclids - as Hercules' kin and followers were generally called. King Eurys- theus demurred. He felt the bonds of service and the obligations he owed Hercules forbade killing his relations while the man himself was away on the Arga venture: an act of shocking treachery the whole world would condemn. Moreover, he continued, descending to practicalities, Hercules sprang like himself from the ancient House of Perseus, and through his father Amphityron had powerful kinsmen in Thebes. A massacre might lead easily to war. The king allowed that the Heraclids be banished from the realm; any severer measures were politically unwise. Atreus argued that to leave the brood alive merely postponed a crisis: it left the Heraclids free to gather allies at leisure and descend upon the kingdom when they judged the time propitious.
Eurystheus, however, would not be moved.
Over the next few days Atreus perfected his plans. Surprise was the key; he therefore shunned a levy of arms which would disturb the entire countryside, make Hercules' followers wonder and put them on their guard. He decided on a warband formed from the palace Heroes and those who owned estates around Mycenae. To provide an invincible force - odds of three to one, he judged, should prove decisive - he sent to Argos requesting similar action. Adrastus, smarting under Hyllus' outrage, willingly agreed. On an appointed day the warbands would meet at Argos, swoop together on Tiryns, seize and disarm the Heraclids and escort them to the Isthmus north of Corinth. Thyestes was informed and told to warn his Heroes, providing he could do so without alarming the enemy.
Menelaus had arrived with Thyestes' deputation. Since last we met my brother had gained both weight and height - even so I topped him by half a head. At sixteen years he was already full-grown, chested like a wine jar, broad and brawny. I kissed his cheeks and pulled his auburn hair and asked him how he did in rocky Tiryns.
'Well enough. I'm no longer Thyestes' squire, The Lady be praised. I passed the tests a moon ago, and one of the palace Heroes took me as a Companion.'
'I also. I drive for Atreus.'
'Lucky man. When shall we win our greaves? Any hope of a fight, do you think, when we sling the Heraclids out?'
I hunched my shoulders. 'Doubtful. The Marshal aims to take them by surprise.' I hesitated, and said carefully, 'Do you see anything of Plisthenes ? How has he taken our mother's - um - re-marriage?'
A sentinel paced behind us, slanted spear on shoulder. (We were standing on the rampart walk above the northern postern, overlooking an ancient oak tree which sprouted from Zeus' tomb. A peasant deposited an offering on the surrounding circle of tall stone slabs.) When the sentry passed beyond earshot Menelaus said, 'You can't really tell: he shows no outward signs of knowing it's happened. Maybe he doesn't. He lives in Thyestes' apartments; the pair are thick as thieves. And, to Thyestes' credit, Plisthenes has become much more ... sane. He dines frequently in the Hall, and seems perfectly aware of all that's going on.'
'Atreus kept him secluded in Mycenae. Perhaps mixing in society restores the balance of his mind.'
'Perhaps. It doesn't matter any more: the Marshal has got what he wanted. And yet ...' Menelaus tickled an embryonic beard. 'Plisthenes gives me
the shudders. So harmless, almost pathetic - but you feel there's something sinister about him.'
'He's our father, Menelaus.'
'Yes. I still find it hard to believe.' Menelaus slapped the stone that bonded the rampart's crest. 'A gloomy conversation, Agamemnon, and we won't be long together. I leave for Argos tomorrow with the embassy to King Adrastus. Let's go to the stables and admire your stud. They say Atreus' teams are the envy of all Achaea!'
I linked an arm with my brother's, and we sauntered to the palace.
* * *
Ten days later Atreus led a warband from the portals of Mycenae. Proud, excited and a little apprehensive I restrained the frisky stallions which pulled the Marshal's chariot. (A frowning, sulky Phylacus drove his second car in the rear.) Atreus in full panoply of war-plumed boar's tusk helmet, thrice- skirted brazen armour, a ten-foot spear and treble-hide waisted shield - quizzically eyed my handling of the reins. I wore a Companion's mail of the time - the convention of sparing Companions in battle was rapidly wearing thin - a metal skullcap, bronze-studded leather corselet and a short stabbing sword. The company numbered a bare four hundred: thirty-odd Heroes in chariots, each with his personal spearmen, and a handful of Cretan bowmen. Scouts on shaggy-coated ponies trotted in the van. We took neither baggage carts, pack mules nor donkeys; a minimum of slaves to wait upon the nobles shambled at the tail. This was a quick in-and-out expedition, Atreus declared; and for the journey to the Isthmus we would find supplies in Tiryns.
I still remember the thrill of my first approach to war: the column swathed in dust, a smell of thyme and horses' sweat, the sun-shot glint of spears, gleaming brazen armour, helmet plumes like rippling flames, the crunch of wheels on the ill- paved road King Sthenelus had fashioned over fifty years before. ('Time we re-laid these roads,' the Marshal remarked as the chariot lurched on the flags, 'and you could have avoided that hole with a scrap more care!') He smilingly regarded my unconcealed enthusiasm and damped my aggressive hopes. 'No greaves for you today, my lad - we're simply rounding up a mob of scoundrelly bandits!'
We reached Argos before noon. King Adrastus greeted Atreus at the gates; a warband half our strength mustered in the citadel's streets to avoid attracting attention. The king, a wizened man whose jutting beaky nose curved to a chin like a warship's ram, had passed beyond the age of leading whirlwind raids. He presented his Leader of the Host, Tydeus, a black- bearded black-browed warrior very short in stature and nearly broad as he was long. An immigrant from Calydon, he had won Adrastus' favour and married his daughter.
Tydeus presented a fourteen-year-old stripling clad in Companion's armour. 'My son Diomedes,' he said. 'He keeps pestering for adventure, and I judged this little foray a gentle introduction for a youngster green in war.'
I liked Diomedes on sight. Short, square and stocky, with the promise of strength and agility in wide-framed shoulders and supple hips. Corn-coloured hair, a snub-nosed, square-jawed face and honest brown eyes. An engaging directness in speech and manner concealed, as I learned in after years, a mind as keen as a newly honed blade. He walked to my chariot, grasped the rail and examined the restless horses.
'As lovely a pair as ever I've seen.' His voice was husky, the tones abruptly changing, obviously recently broken: a contrast to the resonant bellow which later made his war-cry famous. 'Venetic blood - they must be a handful to drive! You are ..
'Agamemnon son of ... Atreus.'
'Ah, yes.' For a moment Diomedes' eyes held mine; the glance warned me he knew all about my parentage. Which was hardly surprising: family trees and lineage are among the subjects most discussed by men of noble blood. 'We heard rumours of your trouble with the Goatmen. You —'
His father and Atreus ended a low-voiced colloquy. 'Diomedes, you ride with the Marshal's Companion Phylacus. Get mounted!'
'Oh, dear.' Diomedes sighed heavily. 'The old boy coddles me like a new-born lamb. Atreus' reserve chariot, I suppose? Nurse- maided in the second rank, as I expected. Well, maybe one day ...' Smilingly ,he climbed to the empty place beside Phylacus and engaged that dour character in sprightly conversation. Atreus mounted, lifted his spear. Scouts trotted ahead; the column clattered and crunched the stony road to Tiryns.
Flat and open countryside extended on either hand until, some hundred bowshots short of the point where the citadel's ramparts climb into view, scrub-stippled hills closed in on the road to make a narrow, twisting path just wide enough for four men marching abreast. I handled the horses gingerly: drainage ditches bordered the track and stunted olive and tamarisk bushes leaned from the banks and brushed our shoulders. At a bend that was tight as a fully-crooked elbow a drooping clump of myrtle overhung the way.
A white-clad figure leaped from the leaves, a spearhead flashed in the sun.
A Companion is taught, when a footman attacks from a flank, to swing instantly towards him to shorten the length of his lunge. Instinctively I obeyed the tenets instilled in months of training, and hauled savagely on the reins.
The turn, though slow - the horses moved at a walk - was enough to deflect the aim. The point scored the Marshal's lifted shield, glissaded past his helmet. Quick as a falling thunderbolt Atreus lunged his spear. I heard a high-pitched scream that died in a bubbling wail.
I reined the horses sliding on their hocks. Atreus tugged his spear out, jumped from the car and lifted it high and plunged it down.
A single shriek, and sounds like an animal crying.
Shaking at the knees, I controlled my frightened horses. Atreus straddled a squirming form that scrabbled hands on stony earth and jerked in the throes of dying. The body arched and crumpled. Atreus leaned on his bloodied spear, both hands clasping the haft, and watched his attacker die. His head was bowed; he stayed curiously still and silent.
Phylacus' chariot rounded the bend. He halted, flung reins to Diomedes and pelted sword in hand to help his lord. I craned to see the body, half hidden by myrtle boughs, and glimpsed a white contorted face, glazed eyes fixed and staring.
Plisthenes.
The chariot's leather-thonged floor rocked beneath my feet like the deck of a storm-tossed ship. I clutched the rail. The horses stamped and sidled; numbly I felt the bits.
Atreus roused himself. 'Quick, Phylacus! Take his arms, help me drag him under the bushes.' A snap in his voice like breaking sticks. 'We must hide this unfortunate corpse lest the men imagine omens and refuse to travel further.' Together they bundled the body into a cleft between rocks which oleanders shaded. Phylacus scuffled earth across a scarlet puddle. Atreus plucked a handful of leaves and scrubbed his spearhead clean, brushed his hands together and remounted.
'Drive on!'
I flicked the reins, wheels grated on grit. Atreus stared straight ahead, and spoke between lips that were set and stiff.
'You saw who he was?'
I nodded dumbly.
'I have killed my son. The Lady will demand requital. I must sacrifice....' The sinewy hand that held the rail clenched till the knuckles whitened. 'He could not have hatched this ambuscade alone. Someone pricked him on. Not difficult to guess. ...'
The road debouched from the pass; Tiryns' greystone towers reared on the horizon. I glanced back. A vulture circled lazily over the slopes where Plisthenes lay.
He was my father. I searched in my heart for sorrow, and
found no emotion at all.
* * *
We met little opposition from the Heraclids. Ostensibly to celebrate Hercules' birthday Thyestes entertained them with a feast in the palace Hall. By mid-afternoon, when our warbands arrived, they were mostly screeching drunk. Atreus halted the chariots at the ramp that climbed to the gate, dismounted all the Heroes and led them at a run through forecourt and palace courtyard. They burst into the Hall and surrounded the stupefied Heraclids. Spearmen followed fast, blocked the doors and lined the painted walls.
Men do not go armed to palace banquets, so there was virtually no resistance. Iolaus, dagger on high, tried to
rush Tydeus; the Argive commander butted his shield and bruised the attacker's ribs. Hiccupping and winded, he vomited his meal. Hyllus, owlishly dignified, protested incoherently; Atreus told him amiably to save his breath. The captives were herded into Tiryns' echoing galleries where, with exits closed and guarded, they huddled cramped and crowded in the dark.
From crannies in the citadel and town spearmen rounded up a handful of lesser followers who had not attended the banquet. Some bore weapons and tried to resist; slaves buried them outside the lower citadel. By evening all were accounted for in one way or another; and the Heroes of Argos, Mycenae and Tiryns gathered in the Hall to recover from their exertions and swallow food and wine. The occasion developed into a celebratory revel; lamps and torches were lighted and the feasting went on till late at night.
Diomedes, the only witness to Plisthenes' killing besides Phylacus and myself, was not of course aware of his identity and tried to elicit a reason for the corpse's hurried disposal. 'Unlucky omens my foot!' he declared. 'Who cares when a brigand dies?' I was more than a little sozzled for the first time in my life - that agonized squealing sang in my ears like a threnody heard in dreams - and answered roughly. 'Do you question the Marshal's wisdom? You saw a robber get his deserts - that's all. So keep your mouth shut!'
Warriors in Bronze Page 6
