Warrior in Bronze

by George Shipway

  His countenance glowed scarlet, tears started in his eyes, he slapped a horse’s neck to hide his emotion. (Later on, at Troy, Talthybius drove me to battle.)

  I had to move quickly. It seemed to me essential that news of the Battle of Megara should not be known in Mycenae - carried, perhaps, from Corinth by a runner across the hills - before my messenger to Atreus was well on his way. After that the outcome lay in The Lady’s lap. I guessed Thyestes would act directly he heard the battle’s result. He had brought from Tiryns twenty or so retainers: Heroes, Companions and spearmen. Against these stood the citadel’s slender guard: sick or elderly lords and young Companions. Thyestes’ men would obey his commands; whom would the palace people support when they heard of Eurystheus’ death? Unwise to assume they would back the Marshal. Even if they did so I doubted victory in a fight between Thyestes’ stalwart Heroes and a leash of youths and dotards.

  The focus of loyalty centred on Aerope; as the Marshal’s wife and Mycenae’s paramount lady she might command obedience from men on either side. Long enough, maybe, to confuse the issue and hold the fort till Atreus returned.

  Four days to wait, I reckoned. I must see my mother at once and convince her of the role she had to play.

  Tersely I briefed Menelaus. He looked perplexed - my brother was never quick in grasping a new idea - and, so tired we could hardly put a foot in front of the other, ascended the road to the palace. Dust and wind and weariness had stung my eyes to tears, daybreak’s crimson streamers danced across the sky like banners whipped in a gale. A palace sentinel’s spear-shaft barred the gate; then recognition dawned and spear and jaw both dropped. We crossed the Court and shuffled along dim corridors, climbed stairs to Aerope’s apartments. A fat old dozing maidservant squatted against a door-jamb. She floundered to her feet, backed against the door and stammered, ‘No, my lord, no! I pray you, do not enter....’

  My mood allowed no sympathy for conscientious slaves. Thrusting the crone aside I tapped on the doors and pushed them open.

  The room was all but dark, heavy woollen hangings covered a window opening on a balustraded balcony. Furniture loomed like rocks in a gloomy sea. I paused to accustom my eyes, and looked towards the bed: a foursquare ebony frame inlaid with gold and ivory, covered by purple rugs and snow-white fleeces.

  Something heaved and plunged on the bed. Strangled animal grunts and a piercing feminine squeal.

  I ran to the window, sent a table flying and wrenched the curtains apart. Grey dawnlight flooded the room. Hand on sword-hilt, blade half drawn, I faced the bed.

  Thyestes sprawled atop of Aerope, both stark as their mothers bore them.

  He pulled himself free, rolled to the bedside and stood, prick rampantly erect, a look like nightfall on his face. Aerope lay on her back, thighs obscenely spread, eyes wide in a terrified stare.

  I felt angry, sick and fearful. Menelaus stopped on the threshold, breathing gustily through his nose, a horrified snarl on his lips. For ten heartbeats the tableau froze, and no one moved.

  Thyestes searched for a weapon in one quick glance, saw none, and stealthily as a prowling cat padded towards the window. He crouched like a wrestler, arms wide and fingers clawed. Muscles rippled his hairy frame and sweat-drops beaded the skin. I waited paralysed, more afraid than ever in my life. He came so close I could smell his body, and spoke in a rasping whisper.

  ‘This is death, Agamemnon.’

  Menelaus streaked from the shadows, flashed sword from sheath and rested the point on Thyestes’ spine. ‘Stand still, my lord!’

  Thyestes lowered his arms, turned slowly about. ‘So. The second fosterling cub of Atreus’ brood. Confronting an unarmed man, and therefore brave as lions. Why are you here? Has warfare frightened you back to your den?’

  Menelaus prodded his navel. He said tightly, ‘Shall I kill him, Agamemnon?’

  Aerope screamed. ‘For The Lady’s sake, for the womb that bore you ... I beseech ... do not...’

  My blade came out. I crossed to my mother, wrenched back her head by the hair and laid the edge on her slender neck. Veins laced the skin like faint blue threads. ‘You whoring bitch!’ I choked. ‘You above all deserve to die. Betraying the Marshal --’

  ‘If you harm Aerope,’ said Thyestes in even tones, ‘I will slay you in turn with my naked hands.’

  I believed him. He would kill us whatever the cost. I rammed my mother’s head on the pillow, stood behind Thyestes and let him feel my sword. (A sword-point pricking his belly and another on his backbone would make a normal man believe his end had come. Not the smallest quiver betrayed any fear.) I tried to think. A bloody massacre in Aerope’s room would not help Atreus’ cause, for Thyestes’ crime would never be known with all the protagonists dead. His infamy must be blazoned abroad, his punishment come from the Marshal’s hands.

  We had to leave the adulterers alive. Talthybius by then was away on the Argos road, having told the guard commander his intended destination - a mandatory precaution lest travellers failed to return. Thyestes must assume we had sent a message to Atreus and would try to intercept it. The squire needed time to drive beyond his reach.

  For as long as we could manage Thyestes must be penned.

  You may think I made a stupid, muddled decision. With hindsight you could be right: my brother and I should have taken the risk and killed the couple at once, thus saving much grief in the future. Remember I was tired, my brain fuddled by fatigue - and still sufficiently youthful to flinch from desperate measures.

  However much you hated her, would you despatch your mother?

  I said, ‘Menelaus, stand guard on the door. Let nobody enter. I’ll call when I want you back.’

  Menelaus scowled, viciously prodded his point in Thyestes’ stomach and left the room. Alone with the enemy I considered ways and means. I had to keep the lion at bay, prevent a leap for my throat. I jabbed his spine and said, ‘Lie on the bed.’

  Thyestes walked unhurriedly to the bed and lay beside Aerope. I backed beyond his reach, felt for a stool and changed my mind. A man was a fool to be sitting when a wild beast waited to spring. I cradled sword on forearm, and listened to the thumping of my heart.

  Sunrise slanted yellow shafts on the bedroom’s wall, silhouetted the balustrade’s convoluted pillars. The citadel wakened; feet clattered in the Great Court, voices rumbled, a bucket jangled on paving. A day guard relieved the night watch; commanders shouted orders; a steward scolded laggard slaves. Footsteps in the corridor, muffled inquiries and my brother’s gruff replies. Dogs barking persistently from the direction of Zeus’ Tomb; a distant crunch of wagon wheels, the drover cursing his beasts.

  Inside the room it was dim and cool and quiet. I kept my eyes on Thyestes, and felt the lids begin to drop. Fiercely I gripped the sword-hilt and forced myself awake.

  He looked at me slyly. The pair of naked bodies - his deep brown, hers white as the rumpled fleeces - lay side by side on the coverlets. His hand crept to Aerope’s belly, wandered to her hip, caressed the tuft of hair between her thighs. My mother went rigid, and gasped. His fingers probed more deeply, worked busily in the cleft, his weapon climbed revoltingly erect. Aerope closed her eyes and clutched her breast, breathed deeply in jerky spasms, spread her legs. Thyestes held my eyes, and leered.

  I gulped the bile that clogged my throat. Sword aloft I strode to the bed, detected a sudden stillness and the tensing of his muscles – and stopped in time to elude the lunge. Slowly I withdrew, and rested blade on forearm. Not a flicker of expression betrayed the failure of his gambit. His fingers went on delving. Aerope moaned.

  My body ached with tiredness, every sinew cried for rest. Despite the spectacle performed before my eyes sleep enveloped my mind like a soft and soothing cloak. I stamped my feet, rapped blade on ribs, studied familiar furniture: ebony chairs and marble tables, a silver sewing basket running on castors, crystal jars and phials littering a chest, ivory combs and brazen mirrors, an earthenware pitcher for drinking water embellished with black a
nd red octopi, a lionskin rug by the bed. Flies buzzed monotonously and settled on my face. I let them rove; the irritation helped in keeping me awake.

  Thyestes watched me intently, his eyes like splintered ice. Even when he ejaculated his gaze never wavered a fraction.

  Time crawled past. The sun climbed high in the sky, the pillar-patterned square of light retreated from the wall and spread a golden carpet on the bedroom’s marble paving. Near noon, I thought exhaustedly, and time to move.

  I called Menelaus.

  He came in at a run, sword outstretched, checked at the sight on the bed and muttered imprecations. I beckoned him close and whispered in his ear, ‘Harness a chariot, the fastest team you can find. Bring it to the palace gate. Be quick, Menelaus!’

  He strode out. I backed to the door, shot the bolt by its leather thong: a means to discourage intruders with my brother no longer on guard. Thyestes rolled on his side, propped chin on hand and spoke for the first time since my long ordeal began.

  ‘You can’t keep us here forever. What do you hope to accomplish, piglet?’

  I levered shoulders from the door - far too restful, I nearly slept standing - and said, ‘Your death, Thyestes, your death. Not today, not tomorrow - but one day I will kill you slowly, slow as the vigil I spent in this room.’

  Thyestes laughed, and made to rise from the bed. I advanced a pace and pointed the sword. He laughed again, rolled on his back and closed his eyes. Aerope lay still as a log and gazed blankly at the spiralled whorls that decorated the ceiling.

  The door rattled, Menelaus shouted. I whipped the bolt free and leapt into the corridor without a backward glance. ‘Run, brother!’ We sprinted along passages, brushed past wondering Heroes, ladies and gaping servants, hurtled across the Court and jumped in the waiting chariot. ‘Argos,’ I snapped, ‘and use your whip!’ The vehicle rattled dangerously down narrow swerving streets, stormed through the citadel gate and out on the Argos road.

  Menelaus settled the horses to a steady rhythmical gallop. He said, ‘The Lady knows what you’re at, Agamemnon -- but if I don’t sleep soon you’ll be driven by a waking corpse!’

  ***

  A chamberlain conducted us to the Hall where King Adrastus relaxed on the throne and chatted to Tydeus, his Leader of the Host, and a little group of Heroes. Announcement of our names chopped talk like a falling axe. I saluted the king and said, ‘Sire, I pray an interview in private.’

  Adrastus’ nutcracker features advertised astonishment. ‘Agamemnon! Menelaus! I thought you gone with your Host to scupper those troublesome Heraclids! Is the war decided? Sit beside me, have some wine and tell me all the wonderful deeds your Heroes performed!’

  An old-fashioned man with old-fashioned ways, heroics dear to his heart, ceremony in his blood, averse to haste. Numbly I resigned myself to guest-and-host politeness, conventional exchanges and formal conversation. You do not hustle kings. Tydeus, luckily, was a more perceptive man beneath his forbidding appearance. He said, ‘These fellows are out on their feet, sire. Best hear what they have to say before they collapse completely!’

  ‘In private, my lord,’ I begged.

  Adrastus clicked his tongue. ‘Most unmannerly. Can’t we finish our wine? Young men nowadays are always in such a hurry. Very well.’ He waved a hand; his Heroes unwillingly withdrew, leaving only Tydeus. ‘Courtesy yields to your wishes, my lord. What is your news?’

  I had come to Argos on Atreus’ behalf to find him help and fighting men. I must use every possible plea, even reveal the horrible episode in Aerope’s bedroom - a private family affair I would rather have left unsaid. It had to be told. Adrastus, notorious for his archaic views and adherence to outworn codes of Heroic behaviour, could conceivably be swayed my way by Thyestes’ treacherous adultery. (After Helen and Paris eloped I used the same incentive to rouse Achaea’s Heroes.) No ruler likes to interfere in foreign dynastic quarrels, but Aerope’s evil seduction might inflame his chivalrous instincts and spur him on to punish the guilty man.

  Or so I hoped. I had yet to learn the covetousness of kings.

  In short strain-blurred sentences I told the entire story, beginning at our defeat and Eurystheus’ death. Adrastus tut-tutted and waggled his hands. When I described my discovery in Aerope’s room his face went stiff and he listened in stony silence. I swore that Thyestes would seize the citadel, usurp the throne and oppose the Marshal’s entry.

  Tydeus said, ‘What are Thyestes’ forces?”

  ‘A score of spears he brought from Tiryns. Roughly a hundred men if the guards in Mycenae support him.’

  ‘How many men has Atreus taken to Pylos?’

  ‘His household Heroes, and fifty spears.’

  ‘Fifty spears won’t take Mycenae,’ Adrastus said. ‘Thyestes, I fancy, holds the whip. Why appeal to me, Agamemnon?’

  ‘To beg a favour on Atreus’ behalf. The Marshal will arrive here in four days’ time. Sire, I ask you to reinforce him with a warband from your Host.’

  ‘H’m. Why should I? A purely Pelopid dispute. I’m not sure it’s politic for Argos to meddle. These family quarrels --! Besides, your Host has been defeated and there’s nothing to stop the Heraclids crossing the Isthmus. Hyllus may be tempted to invade the Argolid - and I’ll want my warriors here, not gallivanting to Mycenae. Very difficult.’

  ‘The Heraclids,’ I pleaded, ‘suffered casualties in the battle, and are probably licking their wounds.’

  ‘Supposition, Agamemnon - a dangerous base for action. I’ll have to think it over. No immediate hurry.’

  ‘Sire,’ I said desperately, ‘there is urgent need for haste. Apart from Thyestes’ garrison, survivors from Megara’s battle will be dribbling back to Mycenae. Defeated men don’t look for further fighting. They’ll probably resign themselves, accept the situation and bow to Thyestes’ rule.’

  Tydeus spoke long and earnestly in Adrastus’ ear. A cunning expression puckered the king’s lined features. He nodded sagely and said, ‘Agamemnon, I am inclined to grant your request. Thyestes’ crime deserves most condign punishment. A gentleman, so-called, who dishonours his brother’s wife --! Revolting behaviour!’ A flush tinged shrivelled cheeks. ‘You request a warband - when Atreus arrives he can have my entire Host. I’ll order it to be mustered and ready.’ Adrastus cleared his throat. ‘There’s one condition.’

  “Which is, sire?’

  ‘Argos henceforth holds in tribute Midea and Asine.’

  I rocked on my feet. Menelaus wedged an arm behind my back and whispered hoarsely, ‘Tell the old fool to jump in the sea!’

  I said wearily, ‘How can I give such an undertaking, sire? I am not king of Mycenae!’

  ‘You speak for Atreus who, if I support him, will soon be king. If I support him, Agamemnon. Otherwise ... not. Thyestes wins the throne.’

  My brain refused to function. I closed my eyes. Menelaus said, ‘If my brother agrees to your condition how can we guarantee the Marshal will approve?’

  ‘You’ll both accept my hospitality in Argos,’ Adrastus said kindly, ‘until Thyestes is sent packing and a compact written by Scribes bears Atreus’ seal and mine. Hostages, my dear Menelaus. Somehow I don’t think Atreus will sacrifice his grandsons. Dammit, what am I saying? I mean his sons, of course!’

  I met Adrastus’ gaze. He smiled benevolently, his eyes were hard as stones. I said dully, ‘You leave no choice. I promise that Atreus King of Mycenae will grant Argos the tributes of Midea and Asine.’

  “Well said!’ Adrastus exclaimed. He clapped his hands. ‘Bring cups and flagons! Let’s celebrate the compact!’

  My legs gave way. Despite Menelaus’ supporting arm I sank slowly to the floor, and pulled him down as well. We sagged there shoulder to shoulder like a pair of broken dolls. Tydeus laughed out loud.

  ‘It’s not wine they need, but sleep, Ho, Diomedes! Fetch litters, and take these gentlemen to bed.

  ***

  We slept like carcases till next day’s noon, and woke in a palace bedroom
superbly furnished. Squires attended our wants, conducted us to a bath where attractive female slaves sluiced away sweat and grime and oiled and anointed our bodies. Ravenously we devoured roast venison and pork, baked octopus and cockles, beans and lentils, cheese and figs and pears. Bloated like bladders we fell on the beds and slept again. In the evening cool I sauntered out to take the air in the Court; an affable palace Hero, armoured, sworded and shielded, appeared from a passage and strolled beside me.

  ‘I regret,’ he said, ‘you may not pass the gates. Otherwise the citadel is yours to go where you will.’

  Our confinement was not unpleasant. We dined in the Hall and talked with Argos’ Heroes, all agog to hear the details of Mycenae’s rout at Megara: the Scavengers’ performance caused several valiant warriors to worriedly scratch their heads. Adrastus was all benevolence; his Leader of the Host heard courteously my theories on tactical reforms. I met again his son Diomedes and fascinated him by demonstrating the battle with pebbles and twigs on the portico floor. He concurred in all my criticisms - a most percipient youth.

  An insect soured the honey: a nagging anxiety about Atreus’ reaction to the undertaking promised in his name.

  On the fourth day’s forenoon the Marshal, outstripping his scouts, rocketed through the gates and reined outside the palace. Floured by dust and rank with sweat he clanked into the Hall and saluted the king on his throne. Adrastus mouthed the polite banalities court conventions demanded, ignored Atreus’ testy impatience and beckoned me forward.

  ‘Your - ah - son, my lord Marshal, will tell you all you should know.’

  Atreus’ eyebrows climbed in surprise; he swung on me and said, ‘Agamemnon! Why are you in Argos?’ His face beneath the grime was set in hard harsh lines, blue eyes fierce and cold as a wintry sky. He gripped my arm and led me from the group around the throne, pushed me on a bench and said, ‘Now. Your messenger told me Eurystheus is dead. Thyestes holds Mycenae. That’s all I know. Details, please - and fast!’