KING IN SPLENDOUR
George Shipway
Copyright © 1979 George Shipway First published in Great Britain 1979
Peter Davies Limited, London
ISBN 0432147586
For Vivi, with love
Chronological Note
Scholars still dispute the chronology of the Greek Heroic Age; hence it would be a rash scribbler who ventured on definite dates. However, a distinguished archaeologist who recently excavated Troy estimated the city’s destruction by the Achaeans at c.1270 B.C., by which time their leader Agamemnon may have been in his early forties. I have therefore placed his lifetime in the years 1312-1270 B.C. The Greek legends from Homer onwards, on which my tale is based, and in particular the detailed genealogies they contain, do not in general contradict this time-scale.
Maps
Achaea
The Troad
Genealogy of the Heroes
Chapter 1
A wind snored in from the sea, rampaged over the Argive plain and clawed Mycenae’s hewn-rock walls. Clouds like frayed black cloaks scurried across the sky and draped a darkening shroud on the dying day. The gale tore thatch from houses, stripped autumn’s lingering leaves from oak and beech and ash and swirled the remnants heavenwards in tattered spinning fragments. Belated peasants hurried from the fields, leaning against the blast like swimmers breasting rapids.
It was going to be a filthy night.
Surrounded by a cluster of noblemen--senior Councillors and important Heroes--I lounged on the marble throne in Mycenae’s palace Hall. Dinner was over; serving men and women bustled about the room and cleared away the litter. Groups of Heroes and Companions remained at the tables, talking, arguing, drinking; a bard beside the hearth plucked his seven-stringed lyre and intoned a monotonous ballad extolling Jason’s Argonauts. (Having seen Jason’s going and return I listened, wryly amused, to the singer’s garbled inventions). Wind snarled beneath closed bronze-sheathed doors, whistled through rifts at the jambs and rippled the flames of torches on the walls. Wavering tides of light and shadow chased across life-sized murals--lions and stags and galloping chariots--sent currents of tawny colour flooding the floor-tiles’ reds and blues, flickered on a gaudily-patterned ceiling. The hearthfire, whipped by downward gusts from lanced clerestory windows, sent billowing wreaths of pale grey smoke drifting around the Hall.
I coughed, drank from a two-handled golden cup and said to the man at my side, ‘Have you no idea, Diores, where the Goat-men went after sacking Rhipe?’
‘None, sire. Luckily for me, I was away when they attacked, inspecting a herd of cattle on an outlying pasture. I heard the tumult from afar, and hurried towards the manor. Already the buildings were burning. I didn’t wait for more, and started for Mycenae at a run.’ Diores combed fingers through wiry greying hair; the dust and sweat of a day-long flight caked arms and legs and a weather-worn face. ‘They swarmed upon the place like wasps on rotting grapes. This was not a wandering band down from the mountains at winter’s onset, like the one that captured you in days gone by. Remember, Agamemnon?’
I nodded, ignoring the slip. Heroes, unless of royal blood, do not address their kings by name. But Diores was a friend from long ago, my boyhood tutor who expounded the arts of handling weapons and of gentlemanly conduct. My grandfather Atreus, to further my education in husbandry and estate management--essential knowledge for Heroes, all of whom live by farming--had granted Diores a holding at Rhipe, a sequestered valley one day’s march from Mycenae, and placed me in his charge. There, though an unfortunate series of circumstances, I had fallen into the Goatmen’s hands and, improbably, escaped.*
* See: Warrior in Bronze.
Very few men survive a close encounter with the Goatmen, those survivors of the inhabitants whom our ancestors from Crete slaughtered, enslaved and dispossessed when Zeus and his warriors descended upon Achaea three centuries ago. Driven from fertile plains to existence in the mountains they led a stark, nomadic life dependent on the goat, the only creature which can pluck a living from barren rocky soil. Goatmen are savages, their memories long and bitter; they cherish an implacable hatred for Zeus’ descendants, the people who today hold the kingdoms of Achaea.
I beckoned a squire to refill Diores’ goblet. ‘In the morning I’ll mobilize a warband--a strong one, if your estimate of numbers is anywhere near correct--lead it into the hills and try to hunt them down. A slender chance: Goatmen are damned elusive and won’t face organized troops. Whether we find them or not rather depends on the Dorians’ strength in the pack. Did you see any?’
‘I was too far away, sire.’
‘H’m.’ I listened abstractedly to the bard acclaiming the deeds in distant Colchis of a Hero who, as I knew for a fact, had never set foot on Jason’s Argo. The Dorians, sometimes called the Iron Men because they wielded weapons forged from a metal rare as gold, were originally a nameless roving tribe hailing from lands to the north of Thessaly. They had trickled down to Doris, settled awhile and then, discouraged by the hardships of scratching a living from a most infertile region, began crossing the Corinthian Gulf into Arcadia, where they found allies among the Goatmen. We soon discovered Dorians stiffening the Goatmen raids, a few at first, then more as time went by.
‘They have long ceased to be merely a nuisance,’ Diores said, following my thoughts, ‘and are become a dangerous menace. Goatmen and Dorians in concert have harassed citadels both in Mycenae’s realms--remember Lasion, sire?--in Elis and King Nestor’s kingdom.’
‘They attacked small forts,’ I grunted, ‘and never got in. But you’re right, Diores: sooner or later they’ll have to be stopped. I have plans in mind for that. Meanwhile I’ll give orders for collecting a war-band at dawn.’
* * *
Sitting on the throne, while wind boomed round the houses and rattled the window shutters, I issued my instructions and detailed arms and equipment. Diores repeated my orders, not without fault. Suppressing vexation I rehearsed him once again--and sighed for Menelaus far away in Sparta. While my brother was not exactly bright, and sometimes appallingly slow on the uptake, his share in the devastating campaign the Twins had fought against Athens afforded him experience in war; and I regarded him as eminently teachable. Under my guidance he would have made an excellent Marshal. A vain wish: King Tyndareus of Sparta, pending Menelaus’ marriage to his lovely daughter Helen, had appointed him his Leader of the Host.
I spoke with an elderly Councillor, postponed a Council meeting arranged for the morrow, finished my wine and walked to the door. All the nobles in the Hall stood and bowed respectfully. Because the monarch of Mycenae was guarded night and day my Companion, spear in hand, stalked a pace behind me. Talthybius had been my friend for years, serving me as squire first and afterwards Companion. A long and lean and wiry man. Skin the colour of autumn beech stretched tight on the bones of a face a Dorian sword-cut scarred on the jaw, slitted roving eyes and a trap-lipped mouth--the sort of mask that a love for horses sets on the human countenance. More than a simple chariot driver, he ran the palace stables--forty thoroughbred stallions--supervised the studs on my estates, directed the buying of breeding stock and was responsible, in all, for near four hundred horses.
Stewards opened brazen doors, the wind tore in and thrashed my cloak. I crossed the portico, unusually empty of cots and attendants--gentlemen of the household slept on so dirty a night in sheltered spots indoors. Tall, three-storeyed buildings shielded the Great Court’s three long sides, yet the gale’s force sent me staggering. I headed for a doorway which led to royal apartments on the topmost floor. Talthybius felt for the latch. I checked and turned on my heel, surveyed the rampaging heavens, listened to the howling of the wind.
Not long ago, I remembered un
easily, on a night such as this, that accursed monster Thyestes had stolen into the citadel, evaded guards and sentinels, butchered his brother Atreus and slain his daughter Pelopia, Atreus’ unhappy queen. He abducted the boy Aegisthus whom he incestuously begat on Pelopia and escaped unseen by the watch. Ancient history, I reflected, and all dead save Aegisthus. (Thyestes’ skeleton mouldered in a tiny walled-up chamber somewhere beneath my feet.) Why, then, this odd discomfort, a premonition of peril? Nobody threatened Mycenae; no one, so far as I knew, wanted my head. Diores’ Goatmen crossed my mind; I shrugged the thought away. Goatmen could be lethal if you met them in the hills, and dangerous to isolated farmsteads such as Rhipe. To conceive of them threatening a citadel like Mycenae was idiotic. I smoothed my wind-ruffled hair, pinched my beard to a point and tried to quell misgivings.
The memory of that terrible night in Pelopia’s blood-spattered chamber refused to depart. Thyestes had crept past sentinels who sheltered in nooks and crannies from a furiously raging Storm. I had punished the culprits--but that was years ago, and much had happened since. Had they forgotten the lesson? Were they alert on a nasty, gale-riven night?
No harm in going to see.
‘Close the door, Talthybius,’ I shouted in his ear. ‘We’re going the rounds.’
The sentry on the flight of steps that fell from the Great Court challenged us loudly. We climbed to the rampart walk, and met the tempest’s unfettered force. Reeling like drunken revellers, clutching one another for support, Talthybius and I traversed the walls to the north-west postern, checking lookouts as we went. From the main gate I continued along the eastern walls to a tower overlooking a dizzying drop sheer to the Chaos Ravine. A sinister chasm: from a rampart topping the crest malefactors are hurled to their deaths; in the sunless depths parents leave unwanted daughters, murderers inconvenient corpses; slaves use the slopes as latrines. The Chaos stream, a trickle in summer, floods in winter rains; unspeakable things appear on the foam of the spates. I paused in the lee of a tower and stared across the storm-lashed vale which embraced Mycenae’s township: a straggling huddle of villages housing artisans and craftsmen--goldsmiths, bronzesmiths, weavers and potters--and a seething rabble of peasants, factory hands and slaves. The night was black as ebony; I saw nothing except some distant lights flickering in windows, and the sable loom of the hill beyond the valley.
The gale smashed into my face and tore the breath from my lungs. I touched Talthybius’ shoulder. ‘Enough,’ I bawled. ‘Lead back to the palace.’
Talthybius forced the door shut, dropped the latch. I waited for a moment in a haven of blessed serenity and listened to the buffeting of the storm. We mounted to the topmost floor, feet clumping marble steps. Talthybius stopped at cedarwood portals; I went inside my room, a large stone-floored chamber, walls washed blue, the furnishing befitting a king. My squire, Eurymedon, drew cloak from my shoulders; body slaves, kneeling, unlaced deerskin boots. I shed tunic and kilt, sat naked in a chair and wearily rubbed a face which felt as if the skin had recently been flayed.
Eurymedon proffered wine; I cradled the crystal cup in my hands and knew again that feeling of vague disquiet, a sense of imminent calamity. Utter nonsense, I told myself: your Councillors are reliable men, your Heroes loyal--a treacherous palace noble was likely as snow in summer. (Soon after taking the throne I executed or banished any doubtful characters.) Moreover, spies were planted in all the principal households, whose mission was to warn me of unrest. There hadn’t been a whisper.
Trouble from neighbouring kingdoms? Could they, I wondered, have any hand in the Dorian nuisance?
What about Elis? Old Augeas was dead, his eldest son Phyleus held the sceptre; and Phyleus had helped Thyestes to evict me from Mycenae. Assuredly no amity there--but the breadth of rugged Arcadia lay between our kingdoms, and the Elian Host was far from a match for mine. (I hadn’t forgotten Phyleus, and nurtured plans to topple him from power.)
Thebes? Inveterately hostile--and much too far away for sudden surprise attacks. In all these realms I controlled an intelligence network, a web of agents and couriers that Atreus had woven. Word would have come long since of any unfriendly intent.
I imagined dangers where none existed. Another draught of wine--I tendered the cup to Eurymedon’s flagon--and afterwards a frolic with one of my concubines. Nothing like copulation to disperse unwelcome fantasies.
I sipped the vintage Samian and considered. No--not a slave girl from my stud: their repertoire was tediously familiar. Some day I must sell the lot and replace them from the Nauplia market; Rhodes, so rumour said, bred amazingly agile wenches.
I owned a wife. Duty called; time to assert my marital rights.
Eurymedon slipped a linen tunic over my head. I gestured Talthybius to stay where he was, and padded along the corridor to Clytemnaistra’s quarters.
* * *
Silver dolphins and seagulls cavorted on the polished ebony framework of her bed. She lay supine on the fleeces, a purple woollen coverlet drawn to her throat. Shining hair, unbound, flowed in a night-dark pool on the bolster’s foamy linen. Green long-lashed eyes in a face like ancient ivory, black eyebrows sloping upwards at the corners, matching her cheekbones’ slant, red sensual lips and an obstinate chin. Three of her ladies--palace Heroes’ kindred--sat on footstools round the bed; my entrance chopped their prattle like an axe.
I jerked my head at the women, who gathered up skeins and spindles and fled. Clytemnaistra said, ‘An unexpected visit, my lord.’
‘But not unwelcome, I trust.’
She sighed. ‘The hour is late.’
‘My apologies. I’ve been inspecting the guards.’
‘So zealous, my lord. Meanwhile, I am all but asleep.’
‘On the contrary, you look very wakeful--and ravishingly beautiful.’
Clytemnaistra drew the blanket closer around her neck. ‘The storm has frayed my nerves. I could not ... serve you as you would wish.’
‘You never do, my lady. I live in hopes.’
I lifted the hem of my tunic. She said hastily, ‘Won’t you first visit our daughter? She’s awake in the next room--I heard her crying a moment ago.’
‘Any excuse for delay,’ I answered grimly. ‘Very well.’
I lifted a lamp and went through an archway into the adjoining chamber. (The room where Atreus died, hacked literally in pieces.) A two-year-old child kicked restlessly in a cot. The lamplight showed thin, sallow features, blank staring eyes, a slack mouth. Iphigeneia. The fruit neither of my loins nor Clytemnaistra’s womb. A cuckoo in my nest, fathered by Theseus of Athens on Spartan Helen, secretly adopted by my wife to save her sister’s honour, foisted upon me as lawful issue of our marriage.
A concubine’s indiscretion had revealed to me the truth. For reasons of high policy--disclosure of the facts must shatter the Spartan alliance, prohibit my brother’s marriage to wilful, beautiful Helen--I kept my mouth shut, strangled the blabbing slave girl and afterwards pretended ignorance. Clytemnaistra believed her deception successful; she wasn’t aware I knew.
Two secrets cleft like chasms my relations with Clytemnaistra. This was one. The other--well, I hoped the crime would never come to light.
I held the lamp nearer the child’s face. An unattractive brat. Directly I learned her parentage I had decided that, by one means or another, she must eventually be eliminated. No proper opportunity had hitherto appeared. It would come.
I returned to the bedchamber. Clytemnaistra said languidly, ‘Do you think our daughter is looking well?’
‘In excellent health,’ I answered blandly. ‘Now, my lady, let us see how well you look.’
I pulled the tunic over my head, stepped to the bedside and stripped the coverlet. She grabbed the blanket, dropped her hands, lay naked under my eyes. A voluptuous body, long slim legs, round thighs and splendid breasts. Surely a furnace nursing fires to scorch an ardent lover. I knew better. Reality failed the promise: lancing my sultry queen was like stirring cold thick porridge. Neverth
eless the sight of her nudity straightened and stiffened my spear. I thrust her legs apart and knelt between her thighs.
‘Be careful, Agamemnon. I am again pregnant.’
I hesitated, propped on my elbows. ‘Are you certain?’
‘So Machaon assured me. Four months gone, he said.’
I trusted my palace physician, a son of Aesculapius who founded the medical school at Epidauros; a fellow far more skilful than the numerous quacks and butchers who masquerade as healers. I trusted Clytemnaistra not a dagger blade’s width, and resolved to confirm the diagnosis in the morning. Like as not she was trying another pretext.
‘Only four months? No harm, then. Open up, my lady.’
I plunged remorselessly downwards, and rode the mare like one of those fabled centaurs.
* * *
I fought for my life at the top of a scaling ladder. The citadel walls of Thebes, monstrously high, reared on either hand like an endless grey stone scarp. Spearpoints flashed and darted, hostile faces mouthed defiance, the clamour of battle hammered my ears. Long forked poles hurled the ladder away; frantically I grabbed the rungs. The fall began, a horrifying drop to infinity on razor-fanged crags below.
I woke in panic, sweat prickled my body. The stormwind’s surging voice swamped the noises of my dream. A guttering lamp spat transient reflections from furniture and walls. My arm brushed Clytemnaistra’s smooth warm skin. She stirred in her sleep and muttered. I stared wide-eyed into the gloom, gradually recovering from the terror of a periodic nightmare, and listened to the drumming of my heart.
A strange noise threaded the skirling of the wind, a high-pitched screech like stampeding swine. I shook my head to clear from my brain the fragments of my dream. Distant shouting, barely audible. The muffled bray of a trumpet, three sharp ascending notes. Footsteps thumping the corridor, a spear butt beating the door. Taithybius’ urgent call.
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