‘Only some pretty rough types,’ said Polydeuces. ‘Put ashore at Bebrycos on the outward passage. The chieftain, one Amycus, fancied himself as a boxer.’
‘Challenged any of our crew to fight him,’ said Castor. ‘Wouldn’t let us water otherwise.’
‘Great heavy fellow, muscular and hairy, like a boulder covered with seaweed.’
‘Wore brazen-studded boxing gloves.’
‘We had to have water, so I took him on,’ said Polydeuces. ‘Sparred carefully at first, avoiding his bull-like rushes.’
‘Then gave him a bloody mouth.’
‘And flattened his nose - a straight-left punch - and pounded hooks and jabs to the head.’
‘Had Amycus sagging.’
‘He grabbed my left fist,’ Polydeuces said, ‘and swung with his right. I went with the tug and right-hooked in his ear.’
‘Followed by an uppercut to the chin.’
‘Broke his jaw.’
‘Knocked him clean out.’
‘We got our water,’ Polydeuces ended.
The Twins kept me entertained throughout my stay. I also met their sisters on various social occasions, though ladies on the whole stayed more secluded than was customary in Mycenaean palaces. The elder, Clytemnaistra, was singularly beautiful in a sultry, regal way: full red lips, high cheekbones, black shining hair, green slanting eyes and truly magnificent breasts thrusting above her bodice. Fiery passions undoubtedly smouldered beneath a statuesque and somewhat forbidding appearance.
I thought her most alluring, a citadel inviting assault. So, finding her seated beside me watching games and races the king arranged in my honour, I exerted myself to be pleasant. My railleries rebounded from a polite, restrained formality; not once did I raise a smile. Intrigued and a little put out - I know from experience that women don’t find me repugnant - I persisted and grew more daring, offering remarks that bordered on salacity. (But you cannot go too far with noble ladies, at least not in public, and certainly not royal daughters.) Her lips twitched, and a veiled amusement flickered in her eyes.
‘Your advances are quite outrageous, my lord,’ she murmured, ‘and hardly to be welcomed by a woman already betrothed.’
The shadow of a smile assuaged the sting. I hastily assured her I intended no offence and swore her shattering beauty had led my tongue astray. Disappointed, I changed to safer topics. But Tyndareus had been listening, and under pretence of inspecting a winning chariot team led me from the pavilion.
‘A peculiar girl,’ he observed. ‘Never quite know what she’s thinking. I see you find her attractive.’ Gloomily he ran a hand along a horse’s withers. ‘Unfortunate. She’s promised in wedlock to Broteas of Pisa who visited Sparta a while ago. A distant kinsman of yours, I believe, descended from Pelops. A weak and worthless fellow, but Clytemnaistra fell in love, and he with her. She pestered me into giving consent. I believed it a mistake at the time, and now I’m sure.’
‘I’ve never heard of the man,’ I said, ‘Pisa’s an obscure city. Surely an unworthy marriage for Sparta’s royal House?’
‘Definitely so - but you don’t know Clytemnaistra. She’s got a will like granite.’ He sent me a speculative look. ‘You are ... interested?’
‘Your daughter attracts me more strongly than any woman I’ve known - save one. None the less she’s promised to Broteas and you can’t break your word ... can you?’
Tyndareus looked at me sideways. ‘I suppose not. Broteas has already paid me the bride price. So, however tempting the prospect of a union between our Houses the arrangement has to stand. Most annoying.’
After inviting me to drive the winning team and try its paces he said no more on the subject. Thereafter Clytemnaistra avoided my company, and I was forced to admire her from afar.
Neither then nor later did I love Clytemnaistra in the accepted sense of the word. She was not the kind of woman to arouse such simple emotions. My desire, I believe, rose from pique at her stand-off manner, plain undiluted lust (the sight of her breasts invariably stiffened my weapon) and the advantages of a dynastic marriage joining Sparta and Mycenae - the last certainly being predominant. I made inquiries about this Broteas, Lord of Pisa, tributary to King Augeas of Elis; and failed to understand why Tyndareus wasted his elder daughter on a Hero so inconsequential.
I did not, at the time, appreciate Clytemnaistra’s formidable character.
Running about the palace far more freely than the older women was the king’s other daughter Helen, an enchanting ten-year-old. Hair like golden sunshine shot with the tinge of autumnal beech, blue long-lashed eyes (and how she could use them!), a heart-shaped face and roses-and-cream complexion. Faultless features: a small straight nose, soft curved lips that you longed to kiss and cheeks deliciously dimpled. (I speak of her as a youngling: she is even more beautiful now; and has added to her armoury the arts of entrancing men.) Tyndareus adored Helen, everybody spoilt her; even Clytemnaistra shed her regal reserve when Helen demanded attention, and frolicked in childish games like a playful kitten.
On reflection, these were the only occasions when I heard Clytemnaistra laugh aloud.
I met Tyndareus’ consort Leda only once, at a formal audience in the Hall when our embassy first arrived, and afterwards saw her occasionally when she took the air in the palace courts or walked abroad with her ladies. She was skeletal and grey, years older than her husband, an animated wisp so fragile you might suppose a puff of wind would blow her away. Her eyes, a washed-out blue, were ever lost and vague, fixed seemingly on a point remote in space and time; her voice, on the rare occasions she spoke, a thin and reedy fluting. She had a passion for animals and birds, abhorred any form of cruelty - in Sparta a drover looked over his shoulder before laying whip on ox -and during her wanderings about the city had collected in the palace a menagerie of creatures alleged to have been maltreated. Prominent in the collection was an enormous swan, a cob, which followed the queen wherever she went, indoors or out. A bad-tempered, vicious bird which, hissing and flapping powerful wings, attacked unprovoked any strangers who went near its mistress. Even on ceremonial occasions Leda kept the brute beside her throne, fortunately secured by a golden collar and chain.
(I heard scandalous stories whispered later about the relationship between Leda and her swan: impossible calumnies probably spread by victims whom the bird had pecked and buffeted.)
Pleasant though my social diversions were, however amusing or entertaining the people I met, I kept in mind the serious purpose bringing me to Sparta. In casual conversations during banquets, games or hunting I broached to King Tyndareus the question of alliance. I trod carefully: from a purely Spartan viewpoint Mycenae gained the advantages, Sparta few or none. Her neighbouring kingdoms posed no threat - though Tyndareus, like Atreus, expressed a doubt concerning Nestor’s intentions - and quarrels that raged in lands to the north were distant enough to leave her immune. Sparta therefore pursued a policy of armed neutrality and discovered no useful benefits in allying herself to others.
I emphasized the Theban menace, and Thebes’ hold on the Orchomenos cornlands, a monopoly now consolidated by Adrastus’ defeat. Sparta, overpopulated like other realms, suffered perennial shortages of wheat - a scarcity stressed by the savage famine not so long before. We were driving to a lion hunt when I raised the point; Tyndareus sprang his horses and said, ‘All Adrastus’ fault. He should have mobilized a proper Host. You can’t take Thebes with two men and a boy.’
‘The trouble was,’ I hinted, ‘Argos has no regular allies to call on, no cities outside the realm to help in time of need.’
‘Including, if I may say so, Mycenae. Atreus kept well clear.’
‘Atreus, sire, as you surely know, was committed to another war. Otherwise,’ I lied, ‘he would certainly have joined Adrastus’ Host and destroyed the power which prevents Orchomenos supplying your granaries.’
‘H’m.’ Tyndareus fisted the reins left-handed and cracked his whip. ‘Are you proposing an offensive allianc
e for a future joint campaign against Thebes? If so, Agamemnon, you’re wasting your breath.’
‘Certainly not. King Atreus’ strategy is purely defensive. He fears, with reason, a Theban war on Mycenae. Were we conquered, sire, Argos could be overrun in the following year. Then it’s your turn. Against separate disunited kingdoms Creon might be victorious; against Sparta, Mycenae and Argos together he has no chance at all.’
Tyndareus steered carefully between gnarled olive trees that overhung the track. ‘Has Argos agreed a confederacy?’
‘Not yet. Her losses in the war have disorganized the government; Adrastus seems incapable of ruling. Diomedes is restoring order and will undoubtedly see the advantages of a Mycenaean-Argive union. More so if Sparta joins.’
‘I’m not afraid of Thebes. Creon would bitterly regret marching into Laconia. But...’ Tyndareus thoughtfully scratched the butt of his whip on his jaw. ‘If he attempts an invasion, and is thoroughly defeated, we could follow up and liberate Orchomenos. I admit we’ve felt a pinch since the corn supply dried up. A pinch,’ the king said pointedly, ‘Mycenae hasn’t suffered since she tapped the Krymeian cornlands.’
‘We are fortunate,’ I murmured, glumly anticipating the favour-for-favour Tyndareus was after.
‘If I consent to a defensive alliance with Mycenae will you in return agree to ship wheat annually to Sparta?’
These huckstering kings! I said, ‘At market prices, presumably? You could hardly expect the cargoes to be delivered as tribute!’
Tyndareus grinned. ‘At cost price, shall we say? Our Scribes will calculate details. Provided you agree in principle I’ll discuss the proposal in Council.’
I gripped the rail while the chariot bucked on a boulder, and considered the proposition. A trade pact really required Atreus’ approval: I had no authority to barter Mycenaean corn. On the other hand the concession achieved my object. I had very little idea of the deal’s financial aspects, whether we could afford it, the minimum price to be set. Gelon accompanied my train : I would as usual seek his counsel.
‘If you allow, sire, I shall talk to my advisers and give you an answer later.’
‘Very wise. Never commit yourself before considering the economic implications - which means consulting Scribes. Heroes can’t grasp such tricky problems. Where would we be without our grey-robed rascals?’ Tyndareus reined in a grassy gully where hounds and huntsmen waited. ‘Here we are. I promise you a snorting chase - Castor says a man-eating lion roams these hills!’
***
I put the case to Gelon, and instructed him to calculate the maximum imports of Krymeian corn we could divert yearly to Sparta without harming our own economy, and a price in hides and bronze which would cover costs. Then he was to settle details with Tyndareus’ Curator. Gelon’s experience at Tiryns, where he accounted every grain that entered the country, well qualified him to decide a question affecting the balance of Mycenae’s trade. Because he had cooperated closely with Atreus’ Curator, Gelon also understood the kingdom’s overall finances. (As, probably, did Scribes of every degree: so closely knit was the sect that information flowed among them like water soaking a sponge.)
After a couple of days he begged my attendance in one of those stark basement rooms where palace Scribes conduct business: tiny windows shedding a meagre light on whitewashed walls, shelves in tiers holding drinking cups and pots and jars by the hundred, oak coffers containing inventories inscribed on small clay tablets, a rough wooden table and stools. Gelon bowed me to a seat and studied a papyrus sheet.
‘A satisfactory contract, my lord, involving no net loss. We’ll have to reduce slightly our exports of grain to Elis, but the price the Spartan Curator agreed allows a small return which balances the deficiency. If you approve I shall inscribe the conditions on a tablet for permanent record.’
For form’s sake I queried a detail or two, particularly the shipping arrangements, being reluctant to use our galleys in a barely profitable trade. Gelon, however, had secured consent for the cargoes to be carried in Spartan hulls. He never missed a trick.
Curiously I conned the spiky squiggles traced on the papyrus he held. ‘A wondrous skill. How you can reduce the sounds of words to signs on clay or paper passes my comprehension.’
‘Hardly miraculous, my lord. Calligraphy is an ancient art, practised in many lands. Zeus’ people originally brought writing from Egypt to Crete.’
‘Extraordinary! So you use Egyptian characters?’
Gelon repressed a sigh. ‘No, my lord. The Egyptian Scribes lived a hundred years in Crete, and during that time modified their script to accord with the Cretan language - a form of writing which superseded the original Cretan script. When Thera exploded Zeus’ Heroes in Knossos spoke a dialect compounding both tongues.’
‘So this is a mixture, Egyptian and Cretan?’
Gelon shot me a look which comprehensively expressed a savant’s pity for a dunce. ‘On the contrary, my lord, these signs express the language you are speaking now. For when Zeus’ followers emigrated to Achaea they assimilated the native speech, and his Scribes again adapted the writing. That language’ - he tapped the sheet - ‘is what I have written here. Pure Achaean, now universal.’
‘Except, presumably, in Crete,’ I said, pleased to discover a flaw.
‘When Acrisius conquered Knossos,’ said Gelon patiently, ‘he imposed Achaean speech and mode of writing on Cretan Scribes. Therefore they embrace every country from Crete to the Thessalian borders. No Scribes live in Thessaly or beyond, so’ - a contemptuous shrug - ‘those realms lack enlightenment. They keep accounts, I’m told, by scratching notches on sticks.’
‘Most interesting.’ I stood and patted Gelon’s shoulder. ‘You’ve managed the Spartan contract very efficiently. I shall tell Tyndareus Mycenae accepts his terms, and conclude the forma! alliance King Atreus desires. Draw the documents accordingly.’
The Spartan Council raised no objections - Councillors seldom oppose a king’s apparent will. A feast in the palace Hall celebrated the compact. I took ceremonious farewell of Tyndareus and his family: a vague stare from Leda, Clytemnaistra’s unfathomable look, Helen’s laughing gaiety, the Twins’ pressing insistence that I stay for a promising hunt. (‘A boar as big as a horse.’ ‘Tushes two feet long.’) Tyndareus took my hand. “We’ve made a state alliance, Agamemnon, and both of us, I think, have made a friend. If ever you need help call instantly on me. I shall not fail you.’
Such asseverations being the polite currency of leave-taking I replied in kind. I could not then foresee that the worth of Tyndareus’ promise was soon to be assayed.
Three moons since leaving Mycenae I took the homeward road, rejoicing in my mission’s success, no forebodings clouding my mind. Unhappily The Lady had not transferred to me the prophetic gift She bestowed on dead Amphiaraus.
(The visit had a curious sequel. After my departure Tyndareus pondered long and deeply; and concluded the Theban peril demanded, not only a Mycenaean alliance, but a confederation of every city which Thebes’ ambitions endangered. Over the years he sent emissaries to various rulers, among them Crete, Locris, Salamis and Athens - the last, indirectly, had vexatious consequences for me - and suggested pacts for mutual protection. He invited lords to Sparta and, so it is said, ratified their oaths by sacrificing horses - a binding and expensive kind of vow. Whatever the truth may be, Tyndareus formed a loose confederation which afterwards gave me a foundation for uniting Achaean kingdoms in the year-long land war we fought against Troy.)
***
Priam was showing the first signs of that intransigence which led eventually to Troy’s destruction, as Atreus described on my return. ‘Laomedon’s murder,’ he said, ‘made Priam very angry -and no wonder. On the grounds that Hercules once served King Eurystheus Priam pretends he had Mycenaean backing, and that I provided ships for the raid. Rubbish, of course - Hercules sailed from Thessaly. Priam’s using the excuse to hinder our Euxine trade.’
‘He always opposed Laomedo
n’s granting the passage. What’s he done?’
‘Forbidden his people to hire us wagons and oxen for overland transhipment. Extremely awkward. Galleys are having to force the straits in the teeth of winds and currents. At certain times of the year they can’t get through at all. And Troy has doubled the Customs duties.’
I whistled. ‘That old skinflint Priam! He’ll make a tidy packet.’
‘I’ve sent an embassy to protest, and await results. We can afford extra duties. Colchis’ gold has made Mycenae very rich indeed - but you can’t eat the blasted stuff. Any restrictions on corn imports from Krymeia are far more serious.’
‘All this due to Hercules,’ I said between my teeth. ‘I’d like to find the sod and kill him!’
Atreus shook his head. ‘You’re too late. He’s dead - The Lady be praised. Struck by lightning and burned to death. High time. He must have been over seventy - a wicked old man.’
(A pest happily removed, but the world is far from hearing the last of Hercules. An inveterate braggart all his life who told exaggerated tales about his doings, an expert self-propagandist, Hercules’ career has become a quarry whence bardic epics are hewn. Legends multiply faster as years go by, and find acceptance among credulous Heroes. Some of the stories are so tediously extravagant that I forbid Heraclean songs to be sung in my Hall.)
Atreus, as he promised, appointed me Marshal and gave me quarters in the palace befitting my rank. Hereditary holdings accompanied the post: he relinquished fertile pastures, farms and vineyards into my hands. In territory, wealth and authority I now ranked second to the king. My duties embraced the command and organization of Mycenae’s entire Host: the same kind of task, on a larger scale, I had done while Warden of Tiryns.
My primary object being to form a powerful chariot squadron capable of fast and flexible manoeuvres I mustered from Mycenae, Tiryns and our tributary cities over two hundred chariots and drilled them on the Field of War in tight close-order formations. At the back of my mind a certainty hovered that sooner or later we had to meet the Theban Scavengers. Only close, controlled manoeuvre could defeat their reckless charge. I had no presentiment the squadron would one day face and slaughter Hector’s gallant Heroes.
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