Warrior in Bronze

by George Shipway

  Pelopia seemed not to hear. Like one who is suddenly pierced by pain her features crumpled. She closed her eyes and breathed, ‘He has taken ... his son.’

  I looked at Menelaus, saw my thoughts reflected in his face. The terrible shock had addled Pelopia’s senses. I said, ‘Your son, my lady. Where did --’

  ‘Thyestes’ son ... and mine.’

  Menelaus took the lamp and went to a cot in a corner. He examined the blankets and linen trailing on the floor.

  ‘No blood here. No Aegisthus either. The boy has certainly gone.’

  Thunder rumbled distantly. The storm receded inland over the mountains, lightning glared less fiercely through the window. The lamp wick guttered and spat.

  Pelopia whispered, ‘Hear me. I speak ... truth.’ She spoke so quietly, in shallow gasping breaths, I bent my head to her lips. ‘My father ... drunk ... in Sicyon. Aegisthus is ... Thyestes’ son. This I ... swear.’

  Horror and fear had so blunted my wits I do not think I realized the abomination she confessed. I stuttered, ‘You are overwrought, my lady. Perhaps later --’

  ‘I am ... dying.’ Slowly, with infinite effort, she pushed away the fleece. Naked breasts, a dagger below, her hand on the hilt. A sluggish tendril welled from the wound and crimsoned the bedsheet.

  Pelopia’s eyelids drooped. ‘The pain ... I cannot bear ... draw out the blade ...’

  Menelaus’ eyes met mine across the bed. He nodded once, his countenance grim as death. I unclasped her fingers, gripped the haft and jerked. Pelopia shrieked, her body arched, blood gushed out in a torrent.

  We stood beside the bed and watched the Queen of Mycenae die. Her passing was hard and tormented.

  ***

  In faltering sentences broken by long pauses and the diminishing hiss of rain outside the window we decided what had to be done. Menelaus fetched the sentinel Hero, posted him outside Pelopia’s room, told him to forbid everyone from entering. I returned to the Hall, now almost deserted, and sent stewards to bring all the Councillors they could find to a meeting in the Throne Room.

  There I announced, wasting no words, that somebody unknown had murdered the king and queen and abducted her son. In the stunned silence that followed I glanced furtively at Copreus. He looked astounded as the rest, ashy pale and shaken; unless he was a superb dissembler the news had hit him hard. Perhaps Thyestes’ confederates had not expected regicide, perhaps the killing was premature and caught the traitors unprepared. Either factor might give me time, time to sort the faithless from the loyal, to discover the men who would rally behind me as Atreus’ successor.

  I had to move fast; events were scudding to a climax.

  I did not disclose the murderer’s identity. Menelaus agreed with me that any uncertainty we could sow in the conspirators’ minds would help confuse their plans. Nor did I mention Thyestes’ incestuous rape, the misbegotten consequence, saving such revelations for the critical moment when the Elian Host drew near Mycenae. Then by publishing his crimes I might turn the waverers against him. You must realize I was doubtful how far the rot had spread, which Heroes I could count on, how many collaborators the spies had failed to find.

  Menelaus sent parties in pursuit along the roads - whence trackways crossed Arcadia to Elis. Nightfall checked the search; at dawn the hunters baulked at rain-sheared landslides blocking roads and streams the storm had bloated to impassable raging spates. They found no trace of the quarry.

  Nor did an investigation among guards on gates and palace disclose how an intruder managed to penetrate a closely guarded citadel. The time of day and the tempest had helped Thyestes: gates were not closed till sundown, and sentries seeking shelter abandoned their beats. A spearman gave a vague description of a man slipping in at the height of the storm, a pedlar by his dress, apparently one of many who passed daily in and out, unremarked and seldom challenged. None had seen him enter the palace; none had noticed a man and a ten-year-old boy slinking from Mycenae.

  In my capacity as Marshal I decapitated three spearmen, deprived of his greaves and banished the Hero commanding the gate guard. By then it was past midnight, the palace a humming hive, shocked individuals flitting about the corridors, gathering in corners, lingering in the Hall. I ordered slaves to Pelopia’s room to cleanse the carnage, wash and prepare for burial the royal corpses. A flustered chamberlain importuned me about the rites for royal funerals; he could recall no precedents in his lifetime because, he mewed, the Heraclids had interred King Eurystheus’ headless body near Sciron’s Rocks. Wearily I told him to invent a suitable ceremony and shoved him away. (He consulted the Daughters and an aged Hero who had seen as a child King Sthenelus buried.)

  I asked Menelaus to sleep in my room; we kept weapons at our bedsides. Talthybius guarded the door, taking the watch in turns with my brother’s Companion Etoneus. I reckoned in this crisis his household noblemen and mine were the only men we could faithfully depend on : a couple of dozen in all.

  Slaves disrobed me and massaged legs that felt they had marched the length of the land. Menelaus lay prostrate on his bed and cradled a throbbing head - the aftermath of drinking and disaster. I said, ‘Tomorrow I’ll post pickets on the Arcadian border crossings to bring word of Thyestes’ approach. It will give us a whole day’s warning. How do you measure our chances?’

  ‘Slim. Although Atreus proclaimed you his heir in Council, Thyestes, as his brother, can claim equal rights of succession. He’s also older than you.’

  ‘Can the Council accept a known adulterer banished from the realm?’

  ‘Atreus invited him back, you remember, and cooked his son. Thyestes won a lot of sympathy from that Tantalus affair.’

  ‘When I disclose he begat a child on a daughter who married his brother, the manner of Tantalus’ end will pale to insignificance!’

  ‘Maybe.’ Menelaus pulled the blankets to his chin. ‘It really depends on the number of Councillors Copreus has subverted. You’ve lost Atreus’ protection, and I’m afraid you’re not too popular among the Heroes - particularly the older men who have seen you grow in wealth and power at their expense. You’ll have to be very persuasive when you offer yourself as king.’ He yawned hugely. ‘Blister my balls, I’m tired! Sleep well, Agamemnon.’

  ***

  Four days later we buried the monarchs of Mycenae.

  Embalmers had done their best with the king’s mutilated corpse, drawing out brains and entrails, stitching flesh. A mask of beaten gold fashioned in some resemblance to Atreus’ living features covered a face beyond their skill to repair. They had arrayed him in a gold-tasselled purple cloak, gemmed and gold-embroidered, sword and dagger by his side; a golden diadem crowned his head. A green silver-threaded garment clothed Pelopia’s body from neck to ankles, her face exposed, skin like alabaster daubed scarlet on lips and cheekbones. Heroes carried the bodies on biers across the Great Court, down steps to the palace gate, and laid them reverently side by side on a four-wheeled wagon harnessed to grey Kolaxian stallions, the king’s most treasured horses.

  Atreus in state regalia started his final journey.

  Daughters clad in loose white robes preceded the wagon. A watery sunlight burnished unbound tresses. Among them stumbled a naked man and woman, shivering with fear and cold, wrists shackled in golden chains, heads garlanded with laurel. Royal Companions guided the horses through the citadel gates where an armoured guard saluted, spears aloft. I and Menelaus flanked the wheels. A lengthy cortege followed: Heroes in full mailed panoply, blue and yellow horsehair plumes nodding on tusked and brazen helmets; Companions in studded corselets, squires wearing sleeveless woollen tunics. A group of noble ladies in flounced and resplendent dresses wailed and beat bare breasts. Slaves at the column’s tail herded a mingled collection of cattle and sheep, pigs and goats - all picked as the finest specimens the royal herds contained. Behind them a huntsman led on leashes Atreus’ favourite boarhounds. Silent, grieving citizens thronged the roadsides: whatever Atreus’ faults his reign had afforded them peace
and prosperity.

  A vast dome of beaten earth, plastered and painted white, pinnacled the hill where the king had made his tomb. The cortege curved round the foot of a spur, entered the mouth of a narrow cutting walled by square stone blocks and hedged by spearmen ranked, elbow to elbow. As the procession penetrated the heart of the hill the walls rose higher on either side. The shadows deepened. Serried ranks of slaves silhouetted the crests of the cutting; behind them sloped banks of soil. There was a smell of dank raw earth, and a shuddering chill. Tall stone columns flanked a tremendous doorway. Great bronze doors, gilt-studded, swung wide as the Daughters approached.

  Chanting incantations, they passed inside. The wagon halted. Heroes lifted the bodies shoulder high across a threshold sheathed in bronze. Slaves holding spluttering torches ringed the sepulchre’s circular floor. The walls leaned inwards like the interior of an enormous beehive, hewn grey stones in course upon course climbing to the peak of a dome lost forty feet above in utter darkness. Torchlight glittered on a thousand gold rosettes which decorated the stones, the brilliance diminishing tier by tier and vanishing completely in the gloom of the upper courses. A golden carpet sparkled in the centre of the floor; here the bearers lowered Atreus’ bier. They carried Pelopia into a side chamber walled by alabaster tiles.

  Heroes, Companions and ladies thronged the tomb, gazed their last on Atreus’ golden mask. Slaves unloaded a cart, brought vessels of food, flagons of wine, jars of oil and unguents, swords, daggers, spears, a waisted shield, bow and arrow-filled quiver and laid them in decent order around the bier. The Daughters’ dolorous keening echoed hollowly in the vault. While they sang a hymn of lamentation I stepped to the bier and saluted, back of the hand to forehead, stooped and kissed the mask. I stared at the remains of a mighty king, a magnificent man, and knew a loneliness so desolate the tears ran down my cheeks. A lifelong friend and counsellor was gone, a father I feared and honoured - and realized now I loved. Without his caustic precepts to sustain my resolution the way ahead loomed dangerous and drear.

  I took a sword from the pile, set a foot on the blade and bent it, releasing the weapon’s soul to battle for its lord in the vulnerable period before the flesh dissolved and his phantom fled to the dark.

  Slaves conducted the beasts to a space at the body’s feet. A wrinkled white-haired Daughter slew them one by one, cutting their throats with a sharp stone knife. Terrified by the scent of blood the animals bleated and bellowed, plunged against the tethers, tripped the slaves who held them. An indecorous proceeding, I decided, deftly dodging a heifer’s flailing hooves.

  The Daughters ceased their chanting, went through the brazen doors and ringed the naked couple who drooped beyond the threshold: Atreus’ favourite concubine and a trusted slave. Bidden by a gesture they knelt at the beldam’s feet; she plunged her knife in turn in the bases of their skulls. When the convulsions ended the bodies were folded heads between knees and propped against the pillars flanking the doors.

  Unyoked from the funeral wagon the stallions fidgeted nervously, frightened by the victims’ bellowings and a pervading stench of blood. Killing horses was beyond a woman’s strength: a Companion swung an axe and severed spines behind the poll. Slaves dragged the carcases to face one another muzzle to muzzle outside the threshold. A huntsman cut the boarhounds’ throats and placed them beside the horses.

  The mourners filed from the vault, trod carefully round the slaughtered beasts and passed along the canyon between lines of still-faced spearmen. The huge bronze doors clanged shut. Slaves on the tops of the cliffs began shovelling down earth. When the cutting was filled and the entrance concealed only the hilltop’s white clay dome would mark a royal sepulchre.

  King Atreus and his unhappy queen rested in darkness for ever.

  ***

  A mud-splashed messenger stopped me as I entered the citadel gate, and reported outriders of an Elian Host crossing the border hills. Their spears could be gleaming in sight of our walls before the next day’s noon. The great crisis of my life reared like a racing breaker and carried my fate on the crest.

  I gave orders to summon the Councillors, told Talthybius to bring me word when they were ready in the Throne Room and went to the palace to shed my armour. In my apartments a squire unbuckled Menelaus’ mail. He listened, frowning, while I told him what impended.

  ‘You’d have done better to assemble all the Heroes. Any enemies you have are in the Council; we’ll find our friends among the younger men.’

  ‘Traditionally the heir to the throne states his claim in Council.’

  ‘Atreus didn’t do it that way. He declared himself king and be damned to the lot.’

  ‘Atreus, if you recollect, had an Argive Host at his back. I have you and our household nobles. Nor,’ I added sadly, ‘am I Atreus.’

  Talthybius ran into the room. He looked tense and alarmed. ‘Why so flurried?’ I asked. ‘Are the Councillors assembled?’

  ‘They are gathered in the Throne Room.’ He paused. ‘Is it customary, my lord, for men to come armed to Council?’

  Menelaus froze in the act of shrugging into his tunic. ‘Armed? What do you mean?’

  ‘I have seen them. Certain gentlemen - Copreus, and others wear swords beneath their cloaks.’

  My brother said dourly, ‘There’s your answer, Agamemnon. Are you going to meet them? I doubt they’ll give you a funeral so magnificent as Atreus’!’

  An icy rage possessed me, shook my body from head to toe. I said between my teeth, ‘Re-arm me, Eurymedon, quick!’ Concealing surprise the squire clapped greaves on my legs and knotted the silver wires, slipped on breast- and back-plates and fastened straps. Menelaus pulled his tunic off.

  ‘I suppose,’ he said lugubriously, ‘you intend to fight the entire Council? As good a way as any of committing suicide. Here, Asphalion, give me back those greaves.’

  I said harshly, ‘No need for you to concern yourself. Find a chariot, go while you can, fly to Argos.’

  ‘Not far enough,’ Menelaus grunted. ‘Argos hasn’t recovered yet, can’t possibly resist Mycenae and Elis combined.’ He settled cuirass about his chest, fitted brazen skirts round hips. Asphalion’s fingers flitted over the buckles. ‘Sparta’s the nearest haven - provided we get out alive.’

  ‘Shall I arm myself, my lord?’ asked his Companion Etoneus.

  ‘And I?’ Talthybius said.

  ‘Neither,’ Menelaus snapped. ‘When we’ve left for the Throne Room you’ll sprint to the stables, yoke our speediest horses in three smooth-running chariots and bring them fast to the palace gates.’

  Eurymedon lowered a helmet on my head. I tied the chin-strap and said, ‘You’re optimistic, brother! We’re going to be killed - but I mean to finish Copreus and every traitor my blade can find before I die. No one shall say a descendant of Pelops fled like a cur from his heritage!’

  ‘A most edifying sentiment.’ Menelaus strapped on sword, slipped arms through grips of a waisted shield. ‘None the less I intend to survive, after doing what damage I can. Those bastards are due for a nasty surprise - we’re armoured, they are not. Ready, Agamemnon?’

  I hefted my spear. ‘I am ready.’

  ‘Right.’ Menelaus glared at the quartet of Companions and squires. ‘Don’t stand there looking like dejected donkeys! Harness those chariots! Run!’

  Accoutred for battle, spears in hand, we clanked along the corridors, descended steps, passed through the Hall where a handful of idling gentlemen watched us in surprise, and crossed the Great Court. At the Throne Room’s pillared portico a sentry clashed to attention. Voices murmured through open doors. We marched in shoulder to shoulder.

  The ringing of mail turned every head, cut talk like a Cretan axe. We thrust roughly through the crowd, shields battering men aside. I stopped at the throne and turned and looked them over. Thirty noble Heroes, supposedly the bravest, most sapient and experienced, king’s counsellors and friends, the bedrock of Mycenae. Copreus and his cronies clustered in a group, cloaks wr
apped close, hands hidden.

  Menelaus bent his head to my ear. ‘Spotted the enemy? You take Copreus, I’ll have the one on his left. Deal with the rest as they come.’

  I said, ‘My lords, I am King Atreus’ eldest son and acknowledged heir, therefore I proclaim myself successor to his throne. I await your acclamation.’

  A taut silence. An old bald-headed Councillor quavered, ‘Of course, of course. Always been understood. Atreus told us years ago. No question --’

  A Hero at the back lifted a hand and shouted, ‘I salute you, Agamemnon!’

  ‘And I!’

  ‘And I!’

  All younger Heroes, I noted. Copreus shuffled closer. He said, ‘You must know, my lord, another kinsman of Atreus opposes your entitlement. We have a right to hear the merits of his claim.’

  ‘Name him.’

  Copreus pretended surprise. ‘Why, Thyestes, the dead king’s brother, who travels from Elis to state his rights in Council.’ He took a pace nearer the throne, his friends stepped forward behind him. Menelaus whispered, ‘Strike when he comes within spear-reach.’

  ‘Why,’ I blared, ‘does Thyestes bring Elis’ Host to back his claim? Is he afraid his infamy has already reached your ears?’ I slammed spear butt hard on the floor. ‘Listen well, my lords. This is the manner of man whom some of you want as king.’

  In short, searing sentences I repeated Pelopia’s dying confession : Thyestes’ murder of Atreus, his daughter’s rape, his fathering of Aegisthus. Horrified murmurings rustled the audience. Even Copreus looked taken aback, possibly aware how Atreus died but ignorant of the incest.

  ‘Does such unspeakable vileness,’ I shouted, ‘commend in your eyes the monster who seeks Mycenae’s crown?’

  ‘No!’ bellowed the three young men who previously acclaimed me. ‘A disgusting story,’ muttered the aged Councillor.