Warrior in Bronze

by George Shipway

  Aerope rode in the wagon, her seat a bale of hay. She dressed in the height of fashion. Naked rose-tipped breasts thrust from a short-sleeved bodice of transparent azure linen scalloped by silver threads. A girdle of solid gold suspended a quilted apron studded with gems and striped by golden sequins. Seven separate flounces of a gaudy embroidered skirt flowed gracefully to her feet. Carefully waved hair clung to her skull like an ebony cap, a tress in a bandeau across the top. Carmine stars adorned her cheekbones, the mouth a scarlet wound in a face the colour of chalk. She clasped her hands in her lap; wide dark eyes stared trance-like straight ahead. She had never looked more beautiful.

  Menelaus led Tiryns’ contingent to follow at the tail, driving tight-lipped through the chattering mob from Argos, riff-raff rapidly swelled by trash that spewed from the town and harbour.

  I waited at the place of execution, and gazed across the sea.

  The day was sultry, breathless; from horizon to horizon clouds blanketed the heavens. Thunder muttered remotely, flashes sheared the skyline. A grey and oily sea breathed out sluggish surges which broke in splatters of foam at the foot of the cliff. Gulls spiralled across the surface like snowflakes flurried by wind.

  Just below a watch-tower perched on the summit an ancient landslide had sliced a rocky platform broad enough to hold two hundred men. I stepped to the edge. The cliff fell sheer for fifty feet, bulged on a rampart of rocks, dropped like a plumbline to wave-washed crags which the height made small as pebbles. Tufts of grass and withered bushes mottled the face of the fall. At the brink of the ledge lay a red-striped woollen rug.

  This was the place I had chosen for ending my mother’s life.

  I left Talthybius and my spearmen escort, climbed to the watch-tower and viewed the procession approaching the precipice’s landward face. From the shoreline a path crept upwards, stony, steep and tortuous, impassable for wheels. The column halted, riders dismounted. The executioners guided Aerope to an open litter borne on the necks of four strong slaves.

  The procession crawled up the zigzag track.

  I stumbled from the watch-tower and waited on the ledge. The cloud-pall floated lower, tendrils of mist stroked the crest of the ridge. The air was oppressive, hot in my lungs. Lightning gashed like a sword, thunder rumbled and crashed. Far away on a leaden sea, moth-like in the gloom, a galley ran for shelter in the harbour.

  Spearmen rounded the ridge-top’s scarp, marched to the platform, halted. Heroes and Companions tramped behind. The litter appeared, and swayed to the red-striped drugget. A Thracian murmured commands, the bearers lowered their burden. Aerope stayed on the rough wood seat, blank-eyed, lost in a dream.

  Atreus strode forward, folded his arms and stood at her back. He wore Mycenae’s royal regalia: golden crown, purple gold-hemmed cloak, gold-and-ivory sceptre slanted on his shoulder. His face was a mask of stone, blue eyes sunk in the pockets, the brilliance somehow faded. Greyness powdered his hair like rime. He had aged ten years in the moons since last I saw him.

  Noblemen and spearmen thronged the platform. The rabble scattered and climbed the slope, chattering and yapping, and found convenient viewpoints. I felt a touch on my arm. Menelaus. His auburn beard framed ravaged features pale beneath the sunburn.

  The executioners, not unkindly, raised Aerope from the litter and supported her between them. She swayed a little, and shuddered, red lips parted and quivered. For an instant our glances crossed. I looked away.

  There was terror in her eyes, and that I could not bear.

  The executioners led Aerope to the brink. Atreus, close behind, followed step by step. She bent her head and looked at the sea two hundred feet below. She lifted her gaze to the sky, and closed her eyes. Thunder rolled in a roaring crescendo, a searing flash of lightning split the clouds.

  The mob on the crest was quiet and tense and still.

  The executioners shifted their hold. Each put a hand on my mother’s shoulder, the other spread on her back. They looked at Atreus, questioning. He said something I could not hear. The men dropped their hands, and left her free.

  Atreus levelled his sceptre, rested the golden eagle between Aerope’s shoulders and lunged with all his might.

  She uttered a strangled cry, forlorn as a night-rail’s call. The body hurtled out and down, curved in the air and smashed on the bulge of rocks. It bounced and plummeted down, broken and limp as a rag, and plunged to the sea. A transient fountain spouted, small as a raindrop’s splash.

  The gulls circled and squawked and swooped on Aerope’s grave.

  Chapter 5

  The Heraclid War had delayed the expedition to Colchis. I assembled ships and crews and collected trading goods in warehouses near the wharf. We still needed Troy’s permission for transhipment at the Hellespont and use of the overland route. Atreus decided I should head an embassy to King Laomedon, and provided royal gifts - gold and bronze and scented oil - to smooth negotiations.

  I took three triaconters. With a following wind and tranquil sea we beached at dusk successively in Andros, Chios and Lesbos, and on the fourth day lowered sails at the Trojan shore. Lookouts had reported our approach; a warband barred the beach. Rowers paddled my ship to the shallows; I jumped overside and waded ashore alone. A youthful, handsome commander introduced himself as Hector son of Priam, son of Laomedon.

  ‘Who are you, my lord?’ he asked. ‘From what country have you sailed across the highways of the sea? Is yours a trading venture, or are you pirates roving on chance?’

  ‘I salute you, Hector son of Priam,’ I answered formally. ‘My name is Agamemnon, son of Atreus of Mycenae. I come in peace to seek a boon from Laomedon King of Troy.’

  The punctilious greetings over, Hector accorded permission to beach the ships and disembark my followers. His warband stayed alert, shields fronted, spears on guard. They outnumbered us two to one: a wise precaution on a coastline frequently raided. (A pity it failed disastrously when Hercules made his landfall.) I introduced my Heroes, detailed a guard on the ships and mounted in Hector’s chariot. We drove across a windy plain and saw Laomedon’s mighty ramparts towering in the distance.

  In fact the walls he built on the ridge were not as straight and steep as those at Mycenae or Tiryns; nevertheless their aspect was forbidding. Guard towers pillared the battlements above each of Troy’s four gates, the tallest the Tower of Ilion beside the Scaean Gate.

  We forded the Simoeis river, and Hector delicately probed the reason for my mission. His peculiar dialect was difficult to follow: Trojan pronunciation grates on Achaean ears. I made myself agreeable; apart from being a very pleasant fellow Hector, as Priam’s eldest son, would succeed in time to Laomedon’s throne, so his favour was worth pursuing. I came in truth as a suppliant from a lesser king to a greater, because Troy then governed dominions more extensive than Mycenae’s. As the bulwark of a prosperous kingdom her power was felt in Thrace, along the Euxine coast, and south to the Lydian borders.

  We drove through a sprinkle of houses - as in Achaean cities most of the population dwelt outside the walls - and dismounted at the Scaean Gate. The houses within the citadel crowd more closely than Mycenae’s, the streets narrower and steeper, impassable for vehicles. At Laomedon’s palace Hector summoned squires who escorted me to a bath. Clean and smelling of perfumed oil and clothed in fresh white linen I was conducted to an audience in the Hall.

  The reception of an embassy is a formal state occasion. Again I presented my half-dozen Heroes, and spread at Laomedon’s feet the gifts we had brought. The king, though full of years, hair and beard foam-white, was apple-cheeked and hearty, lean and straight as a spear. After the usual courteous cross-talk he wasted no more time and directly inquired the reasons which had brought me across the seas.

  I answered him as straightly: Laomedon was not a man to tolerate prolixity.

  He heard me out and said, ‘Let me summarize. Mycenae wants to open a seaway to Colchis through the Hellespont, which is under my control. Therefore you seek two concessions
: permission to station permanently four ships within the straits, and my warrant for overland wagon trains to tranship goods on the outward voyage and gold on the return. Am I correct?’

  ‘You are, sire.’

  ‘We levy duties, of course, on merchandise crossing our territories. I assume you have no objection?’

  ‘None, sire - provided the charges you put on are not unduly heavy.’

  A grey-haired man at Laomedon’s side stooped and spoke in his ear. The king frowned. A whispered argument followed. I waited patiently, studied the nobles, Scribes and servants crowding the Hall - smaller than Mycenae’s - a frieze of painted horses galloping on the walls, ladies gossiping in a corner, a huge Molossian boar-hound asleep beside the hearth. Laomedon gestured the greybeard to silence, sucked in his lips and said, ‘My son Priam dislikes your proposals, my lord. He objects to the idea of Mycenae monopolizing trade to Colchis; he sees menace in the squadron harboured permanently in the straits. What have you to say?’

  I glanced at Priam. Watery blue eyes, mouth turned down at the corners, an obstinate expression. A weakling trying to assert his authority as heir to Laomedon’s throne. I bridled irritation, and spoke in conciliatory tones.

  ‘Four ships are hardly a threat to Troy’s command of the Hellespont. I am ready, if you insist, to reduce the number by half. We pioneer a trade route traversed only once before, difficult and possibly dangerous, and feel entitled to reap the rewards. We do not mind if others follow our wakes - monopoly is far from our intention. All trade is beneficial, sire. We in Mycenae send you goods - weapons, pottery, oil - in return for your horses and hides. The gold from Colchis will profit us both by expanding that trade, and some will reach your treasury in payment for your exports. Mycenae takes the risks - you can only gain. Surely, on these grounds, the concessions we seek are not extravagant?’

  The king rubbed his cheekbones with finger and thumb. ‘You make a good case, my lord. I shall state your views to the Council and give my decision later.’

  He pointed the sceptre downwards to signal the audience ended. ‘Hector, have you shown our visitor the stables? I’ll wager, Agamemnon, you haven’t seen such thoroughbreds in Mycenae!’

  There, for a time, I had to leave it. As I have remarked before, you do not hustle kings.

  I remained at Troy for eleven days, was entertained at banquets, visited noblemen’s houses and hunted frequently with Hector. We shot galloping deer from chariots and speared boar on foot in the hills. The more I saw of Hector the more I liked him; of all the men I have known Diomedes alone was his peer. He seemed the epitome of all that Heroes ought to be and seldom are: chivalrous, valiant, honourable and strong. Like all Trojans an exceptional driver, horseman, and horsemaster he was also a brilliant shot - I saw him, near Scamander’s marshes, bring down a duck on the wing - and a match for any warrior with sword or spear. He revealed during our conversations a sparkling intelligence and shrewd judgment of the political scene both in the lands of the Hittites, which closely affected Troy, and in Achaea, which at the time did not.

  A man born to be king, the greatest Troy had known, overshadowing even Laomedon. A tragedy he died as he did.

  His father Priam, in contrast, was cantankerous, suspicious and spiteful. I knew from Hector’s hints that Priam argued passionately against the concessions I sought and even suggested the Hellespont be closed to Achaean ships. Mulish, irascible, stupid, he chafed beneath the harrow of frustration: as Laomedon’s eldest son and heir he saw time and advancing age shortening the length of the reins of power a long-lived father held. Meanwhile, as an anodyne for discontent, he interfered in affairs of state and begat nearly fifty children: nineteen by his lady Hecuba and thirty-odd from concubines. The legitimate brood and bastards lived together in the palace - or so Hector said. I marvelled at the tolerance of Trojan wives.

  Laomedon, despite his years, impressed me as equal to Atreus in all the arts of kingship. He spoke seldom, shortly and to the point; and brooked no opposition. His joy and recreation was to drive across Scamander’s plain and inspect the herds of horses which, exported far and wide, were a fount of Trojan wealth - an innocent hobby eventually causing his death. In foreign politics - again, Hector told me this - he handled his strong and menacing neighbours like a skilled Companion managing an ill-matched team.

  A clever, prudent, far-seeing king. If Hercules had spared him there d have been no Trojan War.

  Though I met several of Hecuba’s offspring I did not encounter Paris - twelve years old at the time - who was away on Mount Ida herding his father’s sheep. Hector’s grimace when his name cropped up demonstrated a slight aversion for Priam’s favourite son.

  At last Laomedon summoned me to the Throne Room and, while Priam glowered in the background, announced he was pleased to grant Mycenaean ships free passage through the Hellespont, a harbour within the straits and transhipment overland, all goods both ways being subject to customs duties. He limited the inner harbourage to three ships - a concession, I felt, to Priam - and left the Scribes to haggle over details. (Because Scribes alone can properly conduct these mercantile transactions I had brought Gelon, who in long confabulation with Laomedon’s Curator fixed reasonable duties: a twentieth of each cargo’s value forfeited in kind, and hiring charges for wagon teams.) We removed to the Hall and sealed the bargain in wine. Successive cups, like links in a lengthening chain, bound the king, myself, his Heroes and mine in a frivolous carouse which continued half the night. Priam sulkily sipped heavily watered wine, his emaciated, pale-skinned face a disapproving death’s-head.

  King Laomedon gave us a ceremonial send-off; all his Heroes - Priam excepted - drove to the beach to bid farewell. I saluted him hand to forehead and promised King Atreus’ everlasting amity: a promise, as it happened, never broken. I clasped Hector’s hand, and invited him to visit me in Tiryns.

  I never saw Laomedon again; Hector, when next we met, did his level best to kill me.

  At Tiryns I organized a six-ship Colchis convoy. While I was embarking crews and cargo Amphiaraus, lately Lord of Midea and exiled thence to Argos, arrived and offered his services. Because he was a nobleman of presence and personality and experienced in commanding men I gave him general charge of the expedition - for which, in his role as a seer, he promised success.

  Thenceforth, for several years, ships sailed every spring and beached at Troy. Only the Colchis galleys bore the honourable title Argo; only the men who went to Colchis could properly call themselves ‘Argonauts’ - though several, naming no names, swaggered around as such who had been no farther than Troy.

  ***

  The king said, ‘Thyestes has gone from Elis to Sicyon, and so puts himself within my reach. I will go secretly to Sicyon and take him.’

  He, Menelaus and I conferred on a balcony of the royal apartments. Bidden to Atreus’ room directly I arrived I was immediately told my presence must not be advertised. Atreus, grim as death, tersely explained his purpose.

  ‘At Elis I could not touch him; nothing short of war would wrench him from King Augeas. Thesprotus rules at Sicyon, the petty lord of an autonomous city which one day I will take. He’s unlikely to fight Mycenae’s king on behalf of a house-guest.’

  Menelaus said, ‘Are you taking a warband, or do you muster the Host?’

  ‘Neither,’ Atreus said. ‘Haven’t you any sense? You can’t hide warriors marching the roads; directly Thyestes hears they’re coming he’ll leave like a scalded cat. No - we’ll go there quickly, secretly, raising no alarms.’

  ‘We?’ I inquired.

  ‘Just the three of us, journeying unescorted as ordinary travellers, our baggage on a mule. This is a family affair, an account to be settled in blood, and we are the men to do it.’

  I tried to visualize the King of Mycenae plodding the tracks and leading a mule; and admitted sadly to myself that Menelaus’ judgement of Atreus’ sanity was turning out exact. His mind was fixed intractably on vengeance for Aerope; anything else, from politics
to war, seemed to him comparatively unimportant. How could the king vanish suddenly into the blue? Who would conduct affairs while he was away?

  Atreus watched my face and read my thoughts. ‘I have told Copreus and the Curator to take charge - their heads are the price of silence. We shall not be gone for long: Sicyon is only a two-day walk. You’ll need a cloak and a sword apiece; provisions will be loaded on the mule. We leave tonight by the north-west postern.’

  I said baldly, ‘Will you kill him when you find him?’

  Atreus bared his teeth. ‘What is death to Thyestes! An occupational hazard belonging to every Hero, a chance we face each day. I’ll kill him in the end - but before he dies he shall drink to the dregs the cup that I have drained.’

  I averted my eyes from the naked savagery contorting Atreus’ face.

  Heroes are chariot men; none walks if he can help it. I did not enjoy the journey. To avoid encountering travellers Atreus shunned the road and followed mountainous trackways. We camped for the night in a valley, where it rained. The mule, a bloody-minded brute like all his tribe, objected to being re-burdened in a grey and watery dawn. Atreus, morosely taciturn, wrapped in desolate thought, said hardly a word in the two whole days. Menelaus cursed monotonously and nursed a blistered foot. I tugged the mule’s halter, and was heartily glad when Sicyon’s walls climbed from evening mist.

  We announced ourselves to the gate guard as noblemen from Corinth - no use pretending otherwise; despite the humble garb Atreus’ arrogant bearing proclaimed his royal blood - and asked for Lord Thesprotus. Thankfully I abandoned the mule to wander where he liked. We crossed a smelly, ill-drained Court, passed a portico where slaves spread blankets and fleeces on cots, and entered the smoky, torch-lit Hall. Heroes and their women drank and roistered noisily; servants cleared the litter of a meal. My hand was on the sword beneath my cloak; Atreus, tense as a bowstring, peered around the room.