Warrior in Bronze

by George Shipway

  ‘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 Eurystheus 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 Argo 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 - urm -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 anymore: 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, Tydcus, 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!’

  Diomedes looked at my eyes, and said no more.

  Thyestes hardly shared in the general merriment. His manner distrait, the sunken sea-green eyes wary as a wolf’s, he answered shortly Atreus’ cheerful banter. His mind seemed elsewhere, brooding secret problems. Often I caught him shooting puzzled glance at the Marshal. Atreus refused to respect his brother’s reserve, and persistently and boisterously engaged him in conversation. Finally he clapped Thyestes’ shoulder.

  ‘What ails you, man? I’ve rid you of an irksome pest! Aren’t you glad to see me?’

  Thyestes answered tonelessly, ‘Of course. I’m only sorry you have to go so soon. You leave at dawn?’

  ‘At dawn. An easy march to Mycenae, then a longish haul to Corinth the following day. We’ll have to guard our villains carefully when the road goes through the mountains.’ He sent the Warden of Tiryns a friendly smile. ‘Those passes can be dangerous.’

  Thyestes, face inscrutable, traced with a fingertip the graving on his goblet: a winged and hawk-beaked griffin. ‘So? You have a sufficient force to discourage intruders. Neither Goatmen nor cattle raiders ever attack strong warbands.’

  ‘True. But,’ said Atreus genially, ‘you’ll hardly believe the things some idiots try. A lone bandit jumped our vanguard on the Argos road. Killed him at once, of course. Fellow must have been mad!’

  Thyestes raised the goblet, drank deeply and set it down. ‘Undoubtedly.’ He scrubbed the back of a hand across his mouth. ‘With your pardon, I must go. I have business to attend: arrangements for the transport accompanying you to Corinth.’

  Atreus watched him stride from the Hall. The smile had left his lips, his features hardened in ruthless lines and his eyes were cold and cruel.

  ***

  The column left at sunrise. The pace was hampered by baggage carts and mules and the wives, concubines, relatives and slaves belonging to the Heraclids - a rabble that outnumbered the prisoners themselves. Thyestes had suggested selling the lot; they would fetch good prices in Nauplia’s slave market. Atreus, remembering Eurystheus’ strictures, reluctantly dissented. He confiscated their chariots, hounds and horses - a mediocre assortment - and divided them among the senior Heroes.

  We reached Mycenae in late afternoon and corralled our captives in the citadel for the night. After a weary march through mountains the following day - each Heraclid escorted by a vigilant spearman - we passed by Corinth and halted near to nightfall on a cliff-hung road that traverses the Isthmus. Atreus herded the Heraclids to the front. ‘From here you’re on your own,’ he told Hyllus and Iolaus. ‘Keep walking - and don’t come back!’

  Hyllus’ angry eyes glittered in the dark. ‘Don’t imagine, my lord, that you’ve seen the last of the Heraclids. We will return!’

  Atreus made a contemptuous noise, turned and remounted his chariot. ‘To Corinth, Agamemnon, fast as you can make it in the dark.’ I whipped the tired horses and drove very carefully indeed: the road was carved in a cliff side, and a precipice fell like a wall to
shoreline crags.

  Atreus roused himself from silent meditation. ‘Hyllus is probably right. Depends on what support they can find in Megara and Athens. And Thebes is always ready to stir up irouble. I foresee a fight in the future.’

  The Marshal shook his shoulders. ‘Ah, well, that will be another day. Remind me, Agamemnon, to sacrifice a white barley-fed bull to The Lady as soon as we’re safe in Mycenae!’

  Chapter 3

  Atreus strode from the Throne Room and met me in the Great Court. He said curtly, ‘Come on, Agamemnon, I’m going to have a bath. It might wash away ill-humour.’ I followed him to the palace’s single bathroom. Slaves removed his cloak and boots and kilt; he stepped into a polished marble bath: a stone of unusual colour, pink and streaked with red. Two buxom female slaves sluiced him with steaming water; he sat in the bath and vigorously plied a sponge. I stood against a wall - he had not invited me to sit - and listened while the Marshal, in terse and angry sentences, enlarged upon a crisis.

  ‘Those damned Thebans are strangling our corn supplies from Lake Copais, and the Council is flapping like old wet hens.’

  He squeezed water on his hair; a woman scrubbed his back. In days gone by, the Marshal explained between wallowing and splashing, the people of Orchomenos drained Lake Copais, a sunken stretch of land which streams flooded every winter to create a shallow lake. By a system of dykes and embankments and underground drainage channels - a major engineering feat - the Orchomenians reclaimed the area and secured for themselves a large and fertile tract that grew abundant crops of wheat and barley and rye: the most extensive granary in Achaea.