Warrior in Bronze

by George Shipway

Chattering and laughing, the Goatmen ringed the fires and speared collops on the spits. A sickening stench of grilling flesh assailed the air. Dionysus regarded the scene benignly, like a father indulging playful children. The spearman shifted his feet, and hawked and spat.

  ‘There they have remained. Achaeans seized the productive plains and fertile valleys; the Dispossessed were penned in desolate hills. Only goats can pluck a living from barren soil, so Goatmen they became, and wandered the slopes in search of grazing, moving on when all the grass was eaten.’

  A Goatman left the fires, knelt before Dionysus and bowed brow to ground in obeisance. He tendered in both hands a chunk of smoking meat. I lowered my head and spewed between my knees. The old man smiled, showing blackened, rotted stumps, and waved the offering away.

  ‘My food is cheese and honey,’ he said when the man had gone. ‘My drink spring water and goat’s milk.’ He picked a flea from his beard and cracked it between his nails. ‘I swilled much wine in my youth, but you can’t grow vines on mountains, and nomads cannot stay to see them fruit. Instead they make hydromel from wild honey, and get inordinately drunk. An immensely potent brew, but no substitute for wine ten years in jar.’ Dionysus heaved a regretful sigh. ‘Ah, me! Wine and the juice of the poppy - how easily I have mastered men with the aid of nature’s gifts!’

  I brushed leaves across my puddle of vomit, and croaked, ‘You and your crew are ordure befouling the earth! Kill me now, for The Lady’s sake! I cannot bear--’

  ‘The Lady? In the hills I have taken Her place. She will not help you here, Agamemnon. Only I can save you, and I think . . .’ He murmured to the spearman, creaked to his feet and limped into the dark.

  A rain-wind gusted the trees, rattled branches and spattered drops which hissed in the dying fires. The Goatmen finished their horrible feast, crouched near the embers and talked in guttural voices. One of them seized a woman, rolled her out of the circle and openly humped her. The audience grunted applause; several followed the pair’s example. Buttocks heaved and rammed around the fires. Dogs skulked past carrying blood-smeared bones. A party at the end of the glade broke branches from trees and built a lean-to shelter. When the work was done they trooped into the shadows and reappeared with Dionysus and led him to the shelter like reverential acolytes conducting a priest to the altar. He lifted his arms in blessing, crooned an unintelligible dirge, dropped on hands and knees and crawled inside.

  The fires died and darkness deepened. My captors slept where they had dined; snores mingled with the soughing of the wind. No watch was set; presumably the dogs provided an adequate protection. Only my loinclothed guardian stayed alert, sitting on his haunches close beside me, spearpoint slanted a hands-breadth from my throat. The cold of an autumn night chilled my naked body; dried blood caked the scrapes and cuts of my trawl across the hillside; thirst was a growing torment - but the thought of food was enough to make me retch. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep; ghastly pictures raced behind my eyelids. Nightmare jerked me awake and I gasped aloud.

  A spearpoint touched my neck. ‘Quiet!’ the sentry hissed.

  I lay back trembling and oozing sweat. A form crept from the darkness and crouched beside me., bearded lips approached my ear. I smelt rank body-stink and fetid breath. ‘I have resolved,’ Dionysus, murmured, ‘that a son of Mycenae’s Marshal is a prize too hot to hold. If you disappear Atreus will hunt us down with every man in the Host. Regretfully I return you to your friends. My spearman will guide you from the forest. Go quietly!’

  I clambered to my feet, swayed and almost fell. The spearman held my shoulder and roughly hauled me erect. Dionysus gripped my arm; nails like talons dug into my flesh.

  ‘Useless to search for us here; we shall be gone by dawn.’ He cackled under his breath. ‘Tell Atreus Dionysus lives!’

  We crept from the encampment, threaded recumbent goats half-seen in the dark, passed dogs which lifted heads and growled in their throats but forbore to bay alarm - perhaps they were trained to signal intrusion: departures could go unhindered. The descent began: a journey I prefer to forget. Repeatedly i stumbled, slid on screes, bumped invisible rocks and trees, collapsed in numbed exhaustion. The spearman, mouthing curses, tugged me up and thrust me on.

  Dawn breathed behind the hills when we left the forest’s valance. Shadowy scrub-speckled slopes slanted away to the valleys. I searched for landmarks to guide me home, and recognized none. The man had brought me from the forest into unfamiliar territory; and I lacked the strength to hunt around for a path that led to Rhipe. The spearman silently pointed and turned to retrace his steps.

  ‘Lead me farther,’ I begged, ‘until I can find my way.’

  He hesitated, turned and pushed me on. We entered a narrow cleft, rock-walled and bordered by bushes. A shout, and sliding feet, stones clattering, and a rush of bodies. My guardian lifted his spear too late, men trampled him into the rocks. A shield rammed my chest and knocked me flat; the bearer clutched my throat and peered into my face. The choking fingers loosened.

  ‘Agamemnon!’ Diores breathed. ‘Thanks to The Lady! We’ve found you!’

  ***

  ‘Dionysus?’ Atreus said. ‘Impossible! You must have been dreaming!’

  ‘Then,’ I said huffily, ‘it was a nightmare which I pray will never recur.’

  The Marshal spread his hands to the hearth-fire’s blaze, and doubtfully shook his head. I lay on a pallet in Rhipe’s Hall. Bandages swathed my chest and shoulders; healing balms soothed scratches on my face. Clymene sat on a stool alongside, stroked my hair and fed me honeyed bread. I swallowed a morsel and said, ‘Why are you here, my lord?’

  ‘Why?’ Atreus murmured absently. ‘Oh, Diores sent a message. Your second herdsman tracked your trail to the forest’s edge, wisely went no farther and returned to the manor. Diores armed every freeman he had, despatched a runner to Mycenae and searched the hills all night. I left at noon with a hundred men and arrived the evening after you were found.’

  ‘I hope you won’t blame Diores.’

  ‘No. He did everything I ordered. It was that fellow’s fault -what’s his name, Echion? I’d have had his head for letting you enter the woods. Your fault too - you should have known better. Damned lucky to be alive: very few men survive an encounter with the Goatmen.’

  ‘Horrible people!’ I shuddered. ‘Dionysus told me --’

  ‘Dionysus, my arse!’ Atreus snapped. ‘The bastard’s been dead for years. Your chum assumed the name to bolster his importance.’

  ‘Who is Dionysus?’

  ‘He is - was - a bleeding menace. Theban in origin, needless to say, son of Cadmus’ daughter. He took to drink and drugs, dropped out from society and wandered half the world. Wherever he went he attracted degenerates of similar bent who gathered in sects and indulged in disgusting orgies. Stayed for years in Naxos; to this day the island is unsafe for decent people. Tried to settle in Thrace, and was kicked out smartly. Then he returned to Thebes and introduced his revolting rites to the younger palace set, most of whom responded with alacrity. Thebans would, of course. King Pentheus tried to stop it; a pack of drugged and drunken women tore him in pieces. Even the Thebans thought it too much, and Dionysus had to leave. Reappeared in Argos where, I’m sorry to say, he perverted some of the women who built him altars high in the hills and worshiped him as a god. His secret was the art of distilling mind-maddening drugs, brewing wine of astonishing strength, a handsome face, a seductive personality and a most enormous prick. Could pleasure twenty women between one sunset and the next.’ Atreus chuckled. ‘A fortunate man - if it’s true. The sect, I believe, still lingers secretly in Argos. Eventually the Argives got rid of him, and the last anyone heard he was snatched by Tyrrhenian pirates and sold as a slave in Asia. Damned good riddance!’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘Years and years. His mother was Semele, sister of Cadmus’ successor. Let me see.’ Atreus counted on his fingers. ‘If your dotard claims to be Dionysus he must be all of nin
ety years old. Hardly likely, d’you think?’

  ‘The man seemed old as the hills he trod.’

  ‘Pigs’ wings! Anyway, whoever he is he and his gang are gone: I sent a warband to scour the place. Far more important is this.’ Atreus lifted a spear. ‘The weapon your escort carried. Look at the barb.’

  I fingered the grey metal, the needle-keen point, and nicked my hand on an edge ground fine as a hair. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Iron,’ said Atreus morosely. ‘The man also had this.’ He dropped on the bed a bracelet which I recognized as the one my sentinel had worn. ‘Iron. A precious metal.’ The Marshal touched a ring on his second finger. “We use it for jewellery, the few who can afford it. How the blazes does a Goatman buy enough to make a weapon?’

  ‘He wasn’t a Goatman. Quite a different stamp, different colouring, more civilized. What happened to him?’

  ‘Dead,’ Atreus said discontentedly. ‘He was badly hurt in the scuffle, and Diores brought him back. I took one look at his spearhead and put him to the question. Fellow muttered something about Doris, called himself a Dorian. Quite willing to talk, but the inquisitors were much too rough, and he died. I’ve hanged the fools responsible - imagine using red-hot tongs on a man who’s barely alive! - but that won’t help in tracing his connections.’

  The scrapes and gashes stung beneath the bandages, my body ached all over. Clymene’s soothing fingers stroked my brow; I felt my eyelids drooping. The Marshal, I considered vaguely, made an unwarranted fuss. Through mists of encroaching drowsiness I listened to him talking as he strode about the room. He had heard rumours of the Dorians: a mysterious race which over the years had filtered into Achaea from unknown lands beyond the Euxine Sea. Though hustled out by the inhabitants of every realm they entered, a clan was permitted to settle in the neighbourhood of Doris on a bleak infertile tract the Locrians didn’t want. A harmless people, small in numbers, outwardly inoffensive, not given to marauding and lifting their neighbours’ cattle. Why was a Dorian wandering with Goatmen? Where did he find enough iron to use it as we use bronze? There was iron in Euboia, a little, rare as gold: the Euboians guarded it closely. Had they found a secret source elsewhere?

  Atreus’ monologue and Clymene’s gentle caress almost lulled me to sleep. I forced my eyelids apart and said, ‘What does it matter, my lord? The Dorians probably barter iron for cattle and corn - which they must badly need if Doris is so barren. Otherwise --’

  The Marshal stopped his pacing and stood beside my bed. ‘Your wits are fuddled, lad! Wake up! Don’t you see? Any people who possess enough iron to forge it into swords and spears can cut through bronze-armed soldiers as sickles mow down grass. Iron will slice the best wrought bronze as though it were mouldy cheese. Give me a thousand iron men and I promise to conquer the world!’

  ‘You’ve found one - and he’s dead.’

  Atreus glowered. ‘We found him with the Goatmen. If they and iron-armed Dorians combine we shall really be in trouble. I’ll send emissaries to Elis and Arcadia and across the Corinth Gulf to find out what’s going on.’ His voice softened, a hand stroked my hair. ‘You’re tired, Agamemnon, not recovered from your hurts. Sleep now, and restore your strength. I had intended you should stay at Rhipe another year, but ... In a day or two you’ll return with me to Mycenae, where you can start again where you left off - learning a Companion’s work and driving battle chariots.’

  ***

  Atreus left ten spearmen at Rhipe to help Diores guard his stock; and grumbled expansively. ‘A steady attrition of manpower: over the past two years I’ve had to leave detachments at other outlying farms which suffered attacks from Goatmen. The men I lose are husbandmen and soldiers both, so Mycenae’s tillage declines and her defences shrivel. The Goatmen have been a pest for years; they’re quickly becoming a danger!’

  I bade Diores a sorrowful farewell, and clasped Gelon’s hand. Atreus remarked my friendship with the Scribe, and said approvingly, ‘A first-class accountant, Diores says, and an excellent organizer. I’ll soon have him back at Mycenae to teach you administration, auditing stores and trading returns, excise duties and profit and loss - a damned complicated business which I’ve never quite mastered myself.’

  I found Mycenae outwardly unchanged; within the palace there were minor alterations. Atreus and my mother now occupied an extensive suite overlooking the Great Court, the rooms so splendidly furnished they surpassed the royal apartments.

  Shortly after I left for the outlands the Marshal had married Aerope. Weddings in Achaea are sedate and simple affairs, the ceremony common to every rank of society. Atreus provided a banquet in the hall for King Eurystheus and his Council while Aerope, heavily veiled, waited with her ladies in a corner. With the final collop swallowed and beaker of wine gulped down the bride removed her veil, a Daughter cut a lock of her hair and dedicated it to The Lady. Atreus bowed to Eurystheus on his throne, faced the assembled nobles and took my mother’s wrist. ‘I declare this woman my fond and willing wife.’ The king said, ‘It is approved,’ and that was that.

  Plisthenes - my father and Aerope’s living spouse - might never have existed. The marriage cancelled him out. Even had he been present and hammering at the doors the union would still have been valid.

  The king approved.

  I believe Egypt and Phoenicia have permanent laws which govern people’s conduct and relations. But except for the scales of murder fines no prescriptive laws exist anywhere in Achaea: the kings and the lords of citadels make day-to-day directives affecting their subjects’ welfare; they alone decide disputes and punish malefactors. Councils may advise, if asked. Eurystheus occasionally allowed the Councillors’ arguments to influence his judgments; Atreus, later, never. From these decisions there is no appeal; the king’s word is the law.

  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 than 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; At
reus 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.