Warrior in Bronze

by George Shipway

  The reverses the Seven suffered against Thebes set me to considering more effective methods of storming a citadel. I still woke screaming from nightmares where I died on top of a ladder. Never again : there had to be some better way. I put the poser to Gelon. He deprecatingly disclaimed all knowledge of warlike arts, protested that accounting my estates occupied every waking moment - and swiftly produced a sketch. A stout wooden tower, he explained, tall enough to top the enemy battlements, which you moved to the walls on wheels. Protected by the tower’s timbers, stormers mounted inside and leaped from the roof to the ramparts.

  Sorrowfully I pointed out that every citadel crowned a mound or hill, usually precipitous and rocky - and you could not push heavy towers up steep slopes. Gelon tore the drawing across and confessed himself defeated.

  (He must have pondered the problem for the next twelve years. When, confronted by the difficulty of an escalade at Troy, I was nearly reduced to trying those disastrous ladders, he devised a war-winning siegework which, for some queer reason, men called the Wooden Horse.)

  I adopted Atreus’ methods in ordering column of route and eliminated useless mouths from the baggage train - superfluous slaves and concubines whom certain lords deemed essential on campaign as weapons and armour. Nor did I neglect the spearmen and archers, insisting they drill as regularly as the charioteers they supported. By the time of the second Theban campaign - known as the Followers’ War - I reckon Mycenae fielded the most efficient and formidable Host that ever marched to battle in Achaea.

  Which was splendid; but because I became absorbed in these fascinating military matters for nearly two years the Marshal’s duties blinded me to the sinister undercurrents stirring in Mycenae.

  ***

  Pursuing his expansionist policy Atreus led the Host next year to reduce Aegira on the Corinthian Gulf: a quick, easy and unexciting campaign. After a token resistance Aegira surrendered, agreed tribute and escaped a sack. It was still early summer, the corn not ripe for harvest, so I tried persuading Atreus to extend the operations and also capture Aigiai, only a day’s march distant along the coast.

  The king refused, and bade me prepare for the return march to Mycenae. This was so unlike Atreus - an energetic, thrusting commander - that I dared to remonstrate. He quelled me with a look; and ordered Heroes, sentinels and Scribes from the room - an antechamber in Aegira’s squalid palace.

  ‘Sit down, Agamemnon.’ A short, uneventful siege could not have graved the trenches in Atreus’ face, nor infused the weariness in his voice. I noticed with a shock more white than grey in his hair. ‘You wonder why we forgo an easy chance. The truth is this: I dare not stay overlong from home. The palace is a festering sore of sedition.’

  ‘Sedition? Why have I not --’

  ‘You’ve been heavily engrossed in your duties. Never has Mycenae known a more assiduous Marshal.’ A tired irony edged his voice. ‘For all our sakes you’d better turn your mind to politics. There’s a palace revolution brewing.’

  ‘Who,’ I rapped, ‘is fostering rebellion?’

  ‘Surely you can guess? My beloved brother Thyestes, of course.’

  ‘Thyestes? Impossible! He’s in Elis.’

  Atreus pulled a woollen cloak closer around his shoulders. Although the summer warmth dressed everyone in kilts he seemed to feel an imaginary chill. ‘My intelligence sources in Elis are dependable. Old Augeas’ days are numbered. Thyestes has suborned influential Elian Heroes. Augeas’ son Phyleus is poised to march from Dyme. Their plans are laid and ready. A sudden uprising, Augeas killed, Phyleus crowned in his place. The whole affair could finish in a day.’

  ‘And, in return for Thyestes’ help, Phyleus will lead his Host to besiege Mycenae?’

  ‘Precisely. I’ve mentioned this before,’ Atreus said exhaustedly, ‘and also told you Thyestes hasn’t a hope unless Mycenaean collaborators betray the citadel. My brother has found his accomplices : Copreus - the principal instigator - and several others I know of. Probably a number more I don’t.’

  ‘Why not accuse them, sire,’ I said, ‘and cut their throats?’

  ‘No proof except informers’ whispers. In ordinary circumstances,’ said Atreus strongly, ‘I wouldn’t need proof to hack off their heads. But they all have powerful connections and I don’t want to stir the hive. A man may survive a sting or two: a swarm will prick him to death.’

  ‘You intend to wait on Thyestes’ initiative, and do nothing beforehand?’

  ‘Just that. I believe I can contain my palace plotters. They’ll make no move till Thyestes and Phyleus march. Then I’ll chop them quick, mobilize the Host and appeal to the Heroes’ loyalty to repel a foreign foe. Everybody dislikes Elians, and it ought to answer.’

  Atreus stood, and poked a forefinger in my chest. ‘Keep this under your helmet, Agamemnon - tell no one but Menelaus. Remember: if Thyestes pulls me down your inheritance falls too - you’ll never hold the sceptre. We must not give my brother’s Mycenaean friends an inkling we’re up to their wiles; then a single blow can swat them like flies on carrion. Go now and issue marching orders. Aigiai and the rest will wait till I’ve killed Thyestes.’

  The Host trailed back to Mycenae and dispersed. Atreus’ warning buzzed in my head: I was constantly alert for breaths of sedition wafting about the palace, and sniffed the air for treachery like a questing hound. I often sought Copreus’ company, engaged him in talk and listened for the smallest hint of treason. All to no purpose. A handsome, grey-haired fellow, well-mannered, bland and polite, he seemed interested in nothing but horses, hounds and vintage wine. I casually mentioned Thyestes and elicited no more than a disapproving sniff and an opinion that his behaviour disgraced the blood of Pelops.

  It was difficult to conceive so languid and polished a gentleman taking the slightest interest in power politics.

  The embassy’s return from Troy checked my search for evidence - which was probably as well: I feel, on looking back, my approaches were too transparent to deceive the artful Copreus. King Priam’s answer, though wrapped in diplomatic language, was stark as a slap in the face. He rejected Atreus’ denial of connivance in Hercules’ raid, and quoted as evidence a certain Oicles, one of Hercules’ followers captured by Laomedon’s escort who confessed before he died that he came from Lerna. (‘These stupid foreigners!’ Atreus grunted. ‘Oicles was an Argive - Priam doesn’t know the difference.’) Therefore, the Trojan king declared, he would stop providing wagons for overland transport and revoke permission for Mycenaean ships to harbour within the Hellespont.

  ‘So,’ said Atreus grimly, ‘our galleys have to struggle through the straits. For most of the sailing season that’s a well-nigh impossible feat. Priam imposes a stranglehold which quarters the Euxine trade.’

  ‘His ultimatum,’ I said, ‘falls little short of a declaration of war.’

  Menelaus, as Master of the Ships, had accompanied the ambassadors from Nauplia. He said gravely, ‘Troy already wages a limited war. Trojan vessels harry our galleys while navigating the Hellespont. They dart from harbours near Scamander’s mouth and crowd our ships towards the reef-ridden western shore. A triaconter lately went aground and sank.’

  Atreus sucked in his breath. ‘Priam obviously intends to close the straits altogether!’

  Menelaus said, ‘I’ve ordered Periphetes to provide naval escorts, which stretches our resources and can’t be a lasting remedy. Troy holds the whip hand; in home waters she will always outnumber our ships.’

  ‘Withdraw your warships, Menelaus.’ Atreus’ face was dark as a winter storm. They merely invite an engagement we shall lose. And that means open war. How can we fight Troy? If we mobilize the entire fleet, sail to Ilion’s shores and win a naval battle is Mycenae better off? We couldn’t sink every Trojan ship: Priam would launch more; half a dozen determined galleys can always close the Hellespont.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I ventured, ‘a seaborne expedition might land and capture Troy.’

  Contemptuous astonishment creased Atreus
’ furrowed countenance. ‘And you’re my Marshal, The Lady save us - my foremost military expert! Are you insane? Disembark the Host on a hostile coast five days’ sail from home to fight its way ashore and then encounter Troy and her allied Hosts: Thracians, Carians, Phrygians and the rest? You’d need warriors and ships from every Achaean city - and probably lose the lot! Either you’re drunk, Agamemnon, or touched by the sun!’

  ‘A foolish notion,’ I agreed submissively.

  ‘It is. All we can do is send our ships to get through how they can. Tell your master mariners, Menelaus, to avoid aggressive tactics. Rather than fight they must run : we can’t afford a war. The situation may change: Priam’s an old man and Hector may hold different views. You met him, Agamemnon?’

  ‘Indeed, sire. I believe he disapproves his father’s policy.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. I shall offer The Lady a milk-white bull for Priam’s death.’

  Not The Lady but dread Ouranos postponed a Trojan showdown. Shortly after this depressing conference a galley flying from the Hellespont under oars and sail brought news of a shattering earthquake which demolished Priam’s city. Walls and towers, houses and palace tottered into dust; many people perished. Rebuilding, a gigantic task, engaged the resources of the entire population. Trojans lacked time or desire for maritime affrays; for over a year our merchantmen voyaged unmolested. Menelaus shipped wagons and oxen to the straits and again transhipped cargoes. Galleys quietly reoccupied the inner harbour; gold and corn flowed southwards from Colchis and Krymeia.

  A breathing space for Mycenae. King Atreus’ time was shorter.

  ***

  Every detail of that hideous day is scorched upon my memory.

  Clouds mounted from the west and snuffed a watery winter sun. Thunder muttered distantly, rolled nearer like giant chariots charging across the heavens, crashed and shouted overhead. Blue-white tongues of lightning split the sky. A windstorm sped on the thunder’s heels, a gale whipped trees like grass wisps, rain in teeming lances spouted fountains from the earth.

  Gentlemen fled indoors from husbandry or hunting: the Hall at dinner was thronged. Rapid little rivulets scoured the Great Court’s patterned flagstones, rain battered into the portico and drove sentinels cowering for shelter within colonnades and vestibules. Despite the closed bronze doors wind gusted round the Hall, sent torches flaring like banners and swept tides of light and shadow from wall to wall. Voices clacked like a muffled chorus to the thunder’s muted bellowing.

  Wrapped in thought and a purple cloak Atreus pecked at his food, glowered at the hearth fire’s wind-brushed flames and seldom spoke. I talked sporadically to Menelaus, who had come from Tiryns to discuss his Hellespont strategy. He seemed uneasy, perhaps affected by the storm - nobody enjoys Ouranos’ manifestations - tugged an auburn beard and scolded his squire Asphalion for failing to keep his goblet filled. My brother by inclination is a moderate drinker; seeing the fourth cup flood his gullet I said lightly, ‘Drowning sorrows? Has Melite spurned your advances?’ (Menelaus notoriously pursued - with strictly dishonourable intentions - the attractive widow of a Tiryns Hero killed in a Goatmen skirmish.)

  ‘Damned bitch. No. I feel on edge, tense, nervy. Can’t think why. Disaster broods in the air.’

  I inspected with concern the most unimaginative man I know. ‘Probably indigestion, or overmuch wine. Any particular reason?’

  ‘Yes.’ He smacked his empty goblet on the table; Asphalion hastily tilted a flagon. ‘I’m worried about those traitors. I feel we’re perched on a volcano that will blow us to perdition.’

  ‘So?’ Pensively I ran a finger round the rim of my cup. Similar forebodings often nagged my mind. I disapproved of Atreus’ decision to leave conspirators at large: postponing an inevitable crisis was strangely unlike him. Likewise he had wobbled over Priam’s ultimatum. Privately I considered Atreus was losing his grip: an opinion I would never have uttered aloud. Perhaps the strain of ruling and his sixty stressful years combined to erode resolution.

  ‘Don’t fret yourself. Atreus will crush them like grapes when the time is ripe.’

  Menelaus snorted, and started on his fifth cup. I looked round the rowdy Hall, identified the men who conspired against the king. Copreus, elegantly dressed in a silver-threaded tunic, gold earrings shaped like bees dangling from his ears, gold and amber necklace at his throat, urbanely stroking the thigh of a simpering squire. If one could catch him in the act, I thought viciously, his schemes would end on a stake impaled in his crotch. I marked some others Atreus had named, swigging wine and gulping food, sun-browned hearty Heroes, replicas of dozens in the Hall, of hundreds more in cities across the land. Were these the type to execute plots designed to topple kings?

  On the face of it unlikely; but Atreus’ agents - I employ the same spies now - seldom garnered rumours.

  The king drained his goblet, touched my sleeve and said in an undertone, ‘Come later to my apartment, Agamemnon, you and Menelaus. I have news of grave developments in Elis.’ He stood. A chamberlain shouted above the clamour. Voices stilled, the company rose, Atreus stalked to the brazen doors. Thunder crashed as the doors swung open, lightning washed the Hall in lurid light.

  When I looked again he had gone.

  Gentlemen lolled in chairs, sent squires scurrying for wine. A bard on a stool by the hearth twanged his lyre and intoned the tale of Perseus and Andromeda. (Perseus saved her from drowning when she swam beyond her depth; the song, in typical bardic style, dragged a man-killing octopus into the story.) I listened abstractedly, disliking the pre-Orpheus tune, abandoned attempts to rouse Menelaus from his vinous gloom and exchanged banter with nearby Heroes mellowed by wine. The clamour of voices swelled and drowned the music.

  Copreus raised a crystal cup to the light of a torch, admired the ruby glow. He caught my eye on him, smiled and waved a hand. Perhaps, I pondered hopefully, the news from Elis might spark a fire to burn him out of existence.

  ‘Come, Menelaus. Let’s find the king.’

  My brother lurched to his feet; hand on elbow I guided his steps through crowded tables and boisterous men to the doors. We walked along darkening corridors - the pall of clouds turned day into night - and mounted marble steps to the upper floor. I shivered; winter’s chill pierced tunics like knives after the fuggy warmth of the Hall. Passages and stairways were quiet and deserted; thunder rolled more loudly in the stillness. Menelaus tripped and I hauled him up. ‘Drunk too much,’ he mumbled.

  We turned a corner to the wing which held Atreus’ apartments. An armoured Hero leaned on his spear beside the cedarwood doors - gentlemen provided the king’s guards. I raised my hand to the latch. The Hero said, ‘The king is not in his rooms.’

  ‘Hasn’t he returned from the Hall?’

  ‘I’ve been on duty since noon, and the king has never been near.’

  ‘Damn.’ I scratched my head. ‘Where could he be? Gone to the stables, perhaps.’

  ‘Not in this downpour,’ Menelaus mumbled. ‘Be soaked to the skin before ... hie, sorry ... he’d gone a step.’

  ‘He may be in the queen’s apartments. Steady, Menelaus - hold my arm.’

  Dim corridors lit by lightning flashes led to the doors of Pelopia’s quarters - the rooms where, years before, we had witnessed our mother’s adultery. A bundle like a sack of clothes huddled beside the door post. I tapped on the panels and called. Menelaus, stooping, touched the bundle.

  ‘Agamemnon!’

  Bulging eyeballs and gaping mouth, a glistening stain on the marble tiles. A female slave by her garb, one of the queen’s attendants. I flung my weight on the doors.

  A single oil lamp lighted the bedroom. The flame flared in a wind that soughed through open windows. Pelopia lay on the bed, a lambswool coverlet drawn to her throat. Hair like a flowing black shadow, chalk-white face and dark glazed eyes. She remained so still I believed she was dead. Menelaus, shocked stone sober, rushed to the bedside and shouted, ‘The king! Where is the king?’

  A sigh fa
int as a butterfly’s breathing trembled Pelopia’s lips, her eyelids fluttered. The pupils rolled and fixed on a point behind us. I turned and ran through an archway. A tremendous thunderclap split the heavens, successive flashes drenched the room with light. I saw what I saw, and choked, and stumbled back to the bedroom, Lifting the lamp on high I returned and stood in the arch. Menelaus peered fearfully over my shoulder.

  Chairs and tables were scattered and overturned, phials and vases broken. Blood puddled the floor and splashed the walls, necked furniture and soaked the woven druggets. A rent and red-stained purple cloak dragged half across a body on the flags, a knee drawn up, arms wide.

  Whoever had done it had wielded his sword like a butcher cleaving a carcase. Atreus was unrecognizable. Slashes cut his face apart, spilt oozing brains from the skull, sliced open his throat to the spine, hacked ribs in bloody splinters, slit belly from crotch to breastbone and tumbled the entrails out. A tang of blood and bowels clotted the air.

  Menelaus gurgled, bent double and spewed. I shuffled to the bedroom. With a shaking hand I placed the lamp on a table, dripped oil on polished ebony. My knees gave way and I fell on the edge of the bed.

  I croaked, ‘Who ... did it?’

  Pelopia’s lips quivered. Her eyes stayed fixed on the painted whorls and chevrons adorning the ceiling. With an effort that shook the slender form hidden beneath the fleece she whispered, ‘Thyestes.’

  I rubbed smarting eyeballs. ‘You are sure? How could he pass the citadel gates? The room is dark, you could be mistaken.’

  In a movement barely perceptible she rolled her head from side to side. ‘It was ... Thyestes.’

  Menelaus staggered to the bed, wiped hand across mouth and rasped, ‘Wake up, my lady! The king is dead, your husband murdered. Tell us what you know!’