King in Splendour

by George Shipway

  ‘Sire! Wake up! Wake up! The trumpets sound Alarm!’

  I bounded from the bed, felt for the bolt thong, flung the door wide and stumbled into the passage. The Companion’s face looked strained beneath his helmet.

  ‘What is it. Talthybius?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sire. By the sound of it an enemy runs loose.’

  No one questions an Alarm. I ran to my room and shouted for Eurymedon. The palace came alive, doors banged and voices called. My squire, gummy-eyed, came lamp in hand from the cubicle where he slept.

  ‘Arm me, Eurymedon, quick!’

  Arming is never quick. You have back-and breast-plates, shoulder guards and gorget, triple brazen skirts, and twenty leather straps to lace the lot together. Forgetting in his haste to give me an under-tunic, Eurymedon fitted the cuirass to my body, started fastening the straps. A strident shouting swelled from far away, rivalling the beating of the wind. Trumpets whooped again, fervent and compelling. I tore the bronze from the squire’s hand.

  ‘Leave it, boy! There isn’t time! Give me helmet, spear and shield!’

  Eurymedon rammed a boars’-tusk casque on my head, put a spear in my hand. I thrust an arm through the grips of a waisted shield. Barefooted and naked as the warriors who fought in Zeus’ wars I pelted down the stairs, barged through terrified women, slaves and half-armed Heroes running to answer the call--a milling, vociferous mob.

  Across the Great Court, down the steps, along a street to the north gate’s towers, unconscious of the pebbles that stabbed my feet. A dark shape running alongside, sword glinting in his hand. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Talthybius, sire.’

  ‘Find the guard commander, tell him to report.’ I gained the ramparts, leaned elbows on rough dry stone, screwed my eyes and tried to probe the darkness hiding the valley.

  The town was under attack.

  Flaring torches like pinpoint comets, brief glimpses of running men, shapes darting between the houses, shrieks and screams and mad confusion. A softer radiance glowed in the night, flames haloed houses, raced before the wind and licked the thatch of nearby roofs, exploded in splendour, volleyed sparks.

  Talthybius brought the Hero of the guard, a worried warrior gasping from exertion. (He had run the ramparts’ circuit, posting all his spearmen.) ‘Who are the enemy?’ I demanded.

  ‘Can’t tell yet, sire. They just ... appeared. No warning, no sound.’

  ‘Fire all the torches you can find, plant them along the ramparts. We must have light if they come at the walls.’

  Heroes in varied accoutrements and a sprinkling of spearmen poured from dwellings in the citadel, hastened to their stations on the wall, every man to his alarm post: the drill was often rehearsed. There was a certain amount of jostling and disorder: never had we practised night alarms. Nobody fought at night--except Atreus, once, when he took Midea--a practice unacceptable to conventional military thinking. Then who in The Lady’s name was this incendiary horde which sprang like raging demons from the dark?

  Torches began sputtering on the ramparts, trailed streamers like torn banners in the wind. The fires in the valley clawed from house to house: thatch and wood-framed buildings fuelled an inferno. Night retreated; the pyre diffused a radiance from citadel walls to the nearer hills, a patchwork quilt of dancing shadow and light.

  Figures straggled from the valley and headed for the gate. Torchlight showed the van of the crowd when they came within spearcast: our own people, terror-crazed and crying, scrambling for sanctuary in the citadel. Peasants, workmen, women, merchants, children dragged by the hair. Desperate ash-smudged faces, terrified mouths agape, arms stretched out to reach our bronze-bound gates.

  The enemy hunted close behind.

  ‘Damn my guts!’ said Talthybius, awed. ‘Goatmen!’

  Ravagers clad in goatskins, brandishing stone-barbed spears and daggers chipped from stone, pursued the wretched runaways. They overhauled stragglers, surrounded and savaged the victims like a hound-pack mauling deer. In the brief respite the leading fugitives managed to reach the gateway, and hammered on oaken beams.

  Some idiot opened the gate.

  The refugees burst in, jammed between the gateposts, fought and fell in heaps and blocked the entrance. Men climbed sprawling bodies, trampling their friends. The Goatmen whooped and ran for the gap. Spearmen of the guard strove to close the doors. I skidded from the ramparts, ran spear aloft to the gate. A furious hand-to-hand struggle exploded across a heaving pile of bodies.

  Heroes stood in line, a wall of shields and lunging spears battered by skinclad beasts. I fronted shield and thrust, withdrew, changed target, thrust again--the practised drills of spearplay Diores had instilled. Hands gripped the ashwood shaft and wrenched it in my grasp. You knew the drill, you gave with the pull and lanced through belly or bladder, banged shield on the body to free your bronze, recovered and lunged at the next. Throughout the tempestuous turmoil my nostrils flinched from a nauseous stench of goat.

  We beat them back from the gate, hauled aside our people, living and dead, who blocked the passage, pushed the doors shut and socketed bars. I climbed quickly to the rampart. The villages burned like torches, houses collapsed in salvoes of sparks, storm-fanned flames streamed high in the sky and lighted the scene like noonday. I felt the heat on my sweat-runnelled body, winced when cinders settled and stung.

  Goatmen repulsed at the gate scattered along the foot of the wall, scrabbled for crevices between huge stone blocks and started a twenty-foot climb. I sent men running to gather defenders. Agile as rats, and far more vicious, our foes found foot-and hand-holds and mounted to the top. Heroes and spearmen met tousled heads bobbing above the parapet, plunged spears in yelling mouths, slashed blades on hairy skulls. A climber slipped between fighting groups and gained the rampart walk Firelight painted a shaven face, helmet, targe and gleaming sword.

  No Goatman, this.

  He glissaded my lunge with a sweep of his targe, whirled sword in a lateral swipe and sliced the plume from my helmet, recovered like a lightning flash, swung downwards at my head. I warded automatically, stepped right and lifted shield. The sword cleft the triple-hide thickness like threadbare linen, sliced to the handgrip, scraped my wrist. A twist of the shield wrenched the hilt from his hand. I shortened spear and lanced his ribs. Retrieving the fallen sword I examined the strange grey metal.

  ‘Iron,’ I muttered. ‘So you’re a Dorian. Taste your own medicine, friend.’

  The body writhed at my feet, flailing the spearshaft stuck in his chest. I lifted the blade, aimed carefully and struck. His head jumped clean from the shoulders, blood gouted in a torrent. I left my spear in the Dorian and turned to the roaring ramparts.

  A score or so of the enemy had won a footing on the rampart walk beneath the postern tower, and a strenuous little tussle erupted on the walk. I quickly collected forty men and plunged into the mellay.

  We killed the Goatmen and all but three of the Dorians. Supported by Heroes on either side, shielded from cheekbones to toes, I engaged the trio in turn. My captured sword withstood the Dorians’ cuts; grimly I savoured surprise in their eyes when the metal failed to snap. As swordsmen equally weaponed they proved no match for a Hero. I piked one in the mouth, carved another from shoulder to breastbone, plunged blade hilt-deep in the third man’s guts. We heaved the bodies over the wall, and counted six of our warriors dead.

  A highly disorganized battle, but all along the wail we repelled the escaladers. Dead and wounded foemen hurtled to the ground. Winded Heroes leaned on spears, welcoming respite. I climbed the tower and drew deep fire-rank breaths. Goatmen streamed from the walls, scattered in the shadows, disappeared. The town burned fitfully, flames capered like squirming snakes over glowing piles of ashes. A dying wind flurried the smoke pall, plucked whirling coils from the edges. A sheen like tarnished copper banded the eastern sky.

  Carrying a cup of watered wine Talthybius clumped up the ladder. ‘Found a jar in the guard house,’ he explained. ‘Fighting
Goatmen is thirsty work.’ He scrutinized the fleeing specks mounting tree-clad hills. ‘The assault is over. Will you pursue them, sire?'

  ‘No,’ I tilted the cup, gulped the wine. ‘We’ve held the citadel, lost the town. Never since Perseus’ reign has an enemy stormed Mycenae--and now it’s been done by Goatmen. Pursue? Heroes won’t catch Goatmen roving the hills.’

  ‘They found us unready. Fighting at night--!’ Talthybius sounded vexed.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered tiredly. ‘Most irregular. Someone should tell the buggers how damned unsporting they are. Meanwhile there’s a lot to do: bury the dead, rescue wounded. And,’ I added, scowling at the stone-built cliff that sheered beneath our feet, ‘repair Mycenae’s defences. What use is a wall if people can climb it? Come along, Talthybius--let’s start work.’

  * * *

  In daylight I counted the cost. Mycenae’s town--which, as I have said, consists of adjoining villages peopled according to crafts and trades--smouldered in blackened mounds. Only the bronzesmiths’ quarter, separated by a gully, stayed intact. The fires had hindered looting, and darkness prevented the marauders from lifting cattle and sheep--the prize above all that Goatmen seek. Charred bodies lay in the wreckage, corpses speckled the valley’s slopes. As day advanced survivors crept from the hillsides where they had fled; a majority, I realized thankfully, had escaped with their lives if nothing else. Enemy littered the base of the citadel wall; a half-dozen wounded I clapped under guard for interrogation later. From counting the bodies, and from observations of those who fought on the ramparts, I estimated a quarter of the attackers had been Dorians.

  When first I encountered Goatmen twenty years before the proportion was one in fifty. Goatmen alone were merely a nuisance; we hunted the creatures for sport. Now the Iron Men among them imperilled every kingdom in Achaea.

  Though confident the enemy had withdrawn to mountain fastnesses--after sacking a settlement they always retreated swiftly--I sent patrols scouring the countryside to search the nearer forests and hills. Then, anxious to allay Clytemnaistra’s fears I hastened into the palace. She was dozing, and was displeased at being disturbed.

  ‘I’m trying to get some sleep after an extraordinarily noisy night,’ she grumbled. ‘What on earth went on?’

  She might be pretending a composure she did not truly feel. Or the nonchalance could be genuine. You seldom knew the workings of Clytemnaistra’s tortuous mind. I said, ‘Goatmen burned the town and attacked the citadel. We’ve trounced them and they’ve gone.’

  ‘Naturally. Who can prevail against the might of Agamemnon?’ She glanced at my smoke-grimed body, and snuggled into the blankets. ‘Are you starting a modish fashion, my lord, fighting your battles naked? And now will you leave me to sleep in peace?’

  Accompanied by Talthybius and Eurymedon I strolled to the palace bathroom. Wallowing in steamy water I reflected on the disaster that had struck unwarned from the night. Talthybius, squatting on a limestone bench, watched my morose expression.

  ‘I believe, sire, we gave them a bloody nose; their casualties greater than ours.'

  ‘What do dead Goatmen matter?’ I snapped. ‘We’ve lost valuable craftsmen: goldsmiths, vintners, armourers and the like.’

  ‘All can be replaced. Artisans breed large families; the guilds are tightly knit; sons follow fathers in every trade.’

  ‘The assault won’t encourage anyone to set up shop in Mycenae,’ I said sourly. ‘Unless we can protect them our tradesmen will leave in droves.’

  Eurymedon saw the scrape on my wrist where the Dorian’s sword had bitten, and clicked his tongue. ‘A nasty gash, sire. I’ll fetch linen and salves and bind it up.’

  I examined the tiny scrape. ‘Very well. Off you go.’ (Only the foolish ignore abrasions, however slight: more die from neglected wounds than perish outright on battlefields.) I lay-prone on an ebony slab; a pretty Siphnian slave girl massaged my back. ‘A citadel, large or small,’ I continued, ‘will never fall to Goatmen who are normally random raiders, stealing cattle and fleeing. They’ve grown bolder over the years since the first few Dorians showed and have started harrying communities, and hurting our economy by discouraging from settlement the men who create our wealth. A systematic policy beyond the conception of Goatmen. Somebody else is behind it.’

  I rested my brow on my forearms and brooded. Talthybius sucked his teeth and admired the Siphnian’s breasts. Were the Dorians, our Goatmen’s alien allies, instigating a planned campaign? A people little different from Achaeans, rendered dangerous solely by owning iron. Where did they find the metal? My intelligence network north of the Isthmus reported Iron Men coming from Doris in a steady trickle which sank like water in sand in the Arcadian mountain wilderness. The spies could not discover the sources of iron: a secret the Dorians guarded closely. If the mines were found we could stem the supply. Meanwhile a growing peril threatened not only Mycenae but all the kingdoms bordering Arcadia.

  The slave girl whispered in my ear; I turned over and examined sightlessly the ceiling’s garish patterns: chevrons, stars and roundels in intricate designs. Skilful fingers kneaded my chest, stroked muscles on belly and thighs. Were Dorians really the root of the trouble? I mused: comparatively few in numbers, a poverty-stricken folk--originally nomadic herdsmen--made redoubtable by weaponry alone? Unlikely, when you weighed the question coldly. They needed galleys to cross the Gulf: could Dorians, a landbound race, build ships and find crews to man them? Or did they hire boats from fishermen along the Phocian coast? Both methods were expensive: how did impoverished exiles find bronze and cattle, hides and oil, to pay either shipwrights or mariners? They would scarcely barter the precious iron. Someone had the means to encourage and finance their operations.

  Almost certainly Thebes.

  Thebes dominated Boeotia, held Phocis and Locris in tribute, overawed Aitolia. (Athens, reduced to beggary in the Spartan war, no longer counted.) She hated every kingdom south of the Isthmus; and after defeating the coalition of the Seven against Thebes King Creon notoriously cherished intentions to extend his sway beyond the Corinthian Gulf.

  I considered it highly probable that Creon encouraged Dorians and Goatmen to wage guerrilla warfare against the realms he meant, one day, to conquer.

  Eurymedon anointed the skinned raw patch on my wrist, wound a linen bandage and neatly tied the knot. A well-mannered lad who anticipated my needs, kept my armour burnished and knew my taste in wines. He and Talthybius served me devotedly during my Spartan exile when, a landless, destitute Hero, I apparently had nothing to offer a follower keeping his faith.

  Already Thebes imposed economic sanctions on the realms regarded as hostile. She controlled the extensive cornlands that Orchomenos created by draining Lake Copais--a vast, abundant granary--and for years had prohibited exports south of the Gulf. All Achaean kingdoms, Pylos alone excepted, depended in greater or less degree on grain imported from Egypt, Krymeia or Orchomenos. Plague in Egypt and Hittite wars reduced Egyptian shipments; Troy, in closing the Hellespont, barred Krymeian supplies. Consequently, despite strict rationing, corn reserves in citadel granaries dwindled year by year. Famine was not far off.

  These uncomfortable thoughts dispelled my somnolent lethargy. Regretfully I slid from the slab, donned woollen tunic and deerskin kilt, and bade Talthybius tell the Curator to call Councillors to the Throne Room.

  * * *

  I had a word with Gelon before addressing the Council. Like every Curator in every city he came from the sect of Scribes, that close-knit fellowship which followed Zeus from Crete three centuries ago. Because the Scribes alone possess the art of writing they account for expenditure and income, control treasuries, advise on fiscal affairs. A wise ruler seldom embarks on any enterprise, be it war or trade or politics, without previously consulting his Curator. Gelon had served me loyally for years, kept my accounts as Warden of Tiryns, Master of the Ships and finally as Marshal--he became in time a close and trusted friend. Directly I seized Mycenae’s throne I appointed hi
m Curator: the pinnacle of Scribal ambitions.

  Together we strolled the Great Court’s patterned flagstones. I scrutinized affectionately his hook-nosed, swarthy features, black hair flecked at the temples (his age exceeded mine by a couple of years; we were growing old together) and the long grey robe all Scribes affect. I said, ‘After that unfortunate raid I have to reassure the Council. The measures I have in mind may strain Mycenae’s resources. Can you give me a quick run-down on the state of our finances?’

  ‘Certainly, sire.’ Gelon stroked a short trim beard. ‘First, the credit side. You have store rooms abrim with jars of oil, bronze ingots, ivory, copper and silver, hides and fine ceramics--valuable enough to ransom a hundred kings. Your herds of cattle and horses, sheep and droves of swine throng Mycenae’s pastures; the vineyards thrive. Your wealth is unsurpassed by any Achaean ruler.’

  The king theoretically owns every stitch of ground and all the animals the land supports. In practice he parcels out estates to his nobles, who provide in return the troops that form his Host. A ruler’s actual wealth flows from his own estates--far more extensive than any Hero's--from annual tributes subject cities pay, from customs duties and the fruits of overseas trade. The scale of the king’s resources dictate his power and influence. Hence no one takes any notice of Menestheus, King of Athens; everybody listens when Mycenae or Sparta speaks. ‘Very satisfactory,’ I murmured. ‘And what are the debits?’

  ‘Our granaries, despite rationing, are near starvation level. Gold reserves are dwindling since Priam closed the Hellespont and ended the Colchis convoys. The treasury in Atreus’ time contained two hundred sacks of gold dust. Now,’ the Scribe concluded sadly, ‘fifty-odd remain.’

  ‘In effect,’ I ruminated, ‘two obstacles bar our pathways to prosperity. Thebes’ stranglehold on wheat, and a Trojan grip on the Hellespont damming both wheat and gold. I think, given time, I can deal with Thebes--I’ve certain ideas about that. Troy is a different bunch of grapes, and I don’t see a way to pluck it.’