I clapped his shoulder. ‘Come on, Gelon. Let’s face our unhappy Council.’
* * *
I rested shoulders on the throne-back and surveyed my Councillors: elderly Heroes to whom experience in war and statecraft had supposedly taught wisdom. Supposedly. In agricultural matters it is hard to fault a Hero: he can plough a furrow sword-edge straight, sickle corn from sun-up to dark, judge shrewdly the worth of a horse or heifer. Valiant warriors, expert charioteers, skilled in the use of sword and spear--but diplomacy and politics lie beyond their ken. Which, by the nature of Mycenae’s governance, is scarcely surprising: only Heroes of royal blood wield political power, the king being all-supreme and making all the decisions. He may, if so inclined, hear his Councillors’ advice, and accept it or reject it as he chooses. There’s no appeal from his edicts.
The responsibility I had fought and double-crossed and killed for rested now on my shoulders. An intimidating prospect. In all the onerous posts I had hitherto held Atreus’ firm advice guided my steps. Sometimes I’d consulted Menelaus--a man of slender intellect but a fund of common sense. Atreus was dead, Menelaus gone: of the twenty men in the Throne Room I counted no close friends save only Gelon--whose sole concerns were financial. Probably, looking back, this solitariness served me well. A king must not rely on a subject’s counsel lest men begin to question his authority.
High commanders are always lonely men.
‘Gentlemen,’ I announced, ‘we are gathered to consider methods of preventing repetition of last night’s damaging raid. We must take the following steps: provide a warning system, add space within the citadel to shelter our people if trouble impends, build walls that are escalade-proof. What,’ I added in a discouraging voice, ‘are your opinions?’
A snowy-haired gaffer climbed creakily erect. ‘With respect, sire, you propose alleviations rather than remedies. We should mobilize the Host and make war on these barbarians. Exterminate the brutes.’
I said, ‘Have you travelled in Arcadia, Pherechus?’
The old man said stiffly, ‘Once, many years ago, I hunted cattle raiders far as Paos.’
‘Leading a band of spearmen, doubtless. How many chariots had you?’
‘Only one--my own.’
‘Why, my lord? Seven Heroes, I recollect, inhabit your Hall.’
Pherechus grasped the point, grunted and sat down. ‘Arcadia,’ I reminded them gently, ‘is no country for heavy armour. Anything else?’
Another dotard muttered, ‘Goatmen never attacked towns in King Eurystheus’ time.’
‘I lived in King Eurystheus’ time, and fought in his Heraclid War.’ My tone was purposely brittle. ‘In those days few Iron Men reinforced the Goatmen. The real enemy now are Dorians, no longer the skin-clad, stone-armed savages you and your ancestors hunted.’
A brawny middle-aged Hero rose to his feet. ‘You mentioned a warning system, sire. Can you explain?’
Welcoming the note of acceptance I replied, ‘A ring of watch-towers girdling Mycenae on every approach, on prominent hills, in dangerous valleys. Each a tiny citadel manned permanently night and day. They’ll fire beacons to give warning in the dark, sound trumpets by day.’
‘You’ll need at least a score,’ Pherechus grumbled, shaking a hoary head.
‘At least,’ I assented. ‘We’ve plenty of idle slaves to build them since Thyestes cancelled the shipbuilding schedules.’
A weather-bronzed Hero, younger than any man there, said urgently, ‘Sire, I beg you not to decrease our shipyard workforce. Indeed, I recommend the opposite. We’re barely replacing the galleys we lose.’ Periphetes, Master of the Ships, whose treacherous father Copreus I slew in this very Throne Room. A tough, dependable man, a masterly hand at sea war.
‘So. Is the naval war with Troy going badly? We’ll discuss the business later. Rest assured, Periphetes, I shall strike a proper balance between demands on land and sea. Let’s return to the point. Our townsfolk must find a haven if the Goatmen strike again. I intend to pull down the wall on the citadel’s western side from northwest postern to Chaos Ravine, extend the circuit widely and build a higher wall.’
‘You propose a massive construction, sire.’
‘Indeed. Moreover the walls from end to end will be thickly plastered outside to give a slippery surface. I think you’ll agree, after last night’s experience, that climbable walls are a farce.’
‘And a damned dangerous one,’ Pherechus interjected.
‘Master builders throng Mycenae,’ Periphetes said, ‘but can you produce the labour?’
I turned to the grey-gowned figure waiting impassively at my shoulder. ‘Gelon?’
‘Without stripping the shipyards,’ the Curator stated, ‘I believe we can raise enough slaves. Two thousand in Mycenae, a thousand in the quarries, a thousand more from Tiryns. Corinth can muster--’
A commotion beyond the doorway snapped his sentence. Voices clacked in argument. A flustered chamberlain opened the doors, bowed to the throne and said, ‘An artisan seeks audience, sire, a spokesman for the people with urgent word for the Council.’
‘Who is it?’
‘One Thersites, a bronzesmith.’
I pulled my lip. Unheard-of for a commoner to interrupt the Council. Nevertheless they had lost property and lives, were frightened and distressed. Discontented tradesmen could be a confounded nuisance; sensible perhaps to allow the man an audience.
‘Admit him.’
An unprepossessing individual stumbled into the Throne Room, short, bandy-legged and lame, shoulders so rounded he looked like a hunchback. A balding egg-shaped pate sprouted a few short hairs; the face below was remarkably ugly: a flattened nose, protuberant eyes and broken yellow teeth. He wore a dirty smoke-grimed tunic and leaned on a knobbled ash stave.
I said, ‘You have our ear, Thersites. Present your petition.’
‘No grumbles meself, me lord,’ he said fawningly. ‘Wouldn’t dream of troubling you on me own behalf. It’s them tradesmen in the town, they’re getting restless like. Asked me to come and talk to you.’
‘Get on with it, man!’
‘It’s like this, me lord. They wants protection. Threatens to quit if you don’t look after them proper.'
I said, ‘The Council debates exactly that question.’
Awkwardly he shuffled his feet. ‘Don’t get me wrong, me lord. I speaks only what’s put in me mouth. Talking ain’t enough, they says. The workers want to see something being done.’ Thersites swung a hand at the rows of astounded Councillors. ‘All ruddy well for you, they says--forgive me, my lord, them ain’t my words--skulking in the citadel behind stout walls. Why didn’t you come out and fight the sods?’
An habitual trouble maker: I recognized the type. I’d met his kind before during my stint in Tiryns as Master of the Ships. Among skilled workmen you invariably find agitators inciting demands for higher wages, shorter hours, better quarters--any excuse to foment unrest. Foolhardy men, as a rule, who seldom win support and are apt to meet a quick, unpleasant death. We didn’t, in Mycenae, suffer presumption from commoners.
The context now was different. Thersites, in his view, voiced justifiable grievances. I had better tread warily. Kings relied on craftsmen to manufacture weaponry--armour, helmets, chariots, swords--to equip their Hosts; and to produce commodities--pottery, perfumes, jewellery, textiles, dyes--they bartered in markets at home and abroad. You punished recalcitrant Heroes by confiscating estates; your grip on freemen artisans was far less tight. Unless you forcibly prevented them--an unprofitable exercise--they could remove themselves and their valuable skills whenever they pleased.
I bridled my temper. ‘Warfare, Thersites, lies beyond your provenance. I’m taking steps--’
‘We wants to hear ’em. Fifty honest workers the Goatmen killed.’ He saw the look on my face, and cringed. ‘I only repeats what they tells me to say--you mustn’t hold me answerable, me lord.’ Thersites gulped, and mumbled words he had obviously learned by rote. ‘Unless they see
definite efforts made to keep the Goatmen away many craftsmen will leave Mycenae before a moon is out.’
‘Where can they go?’ I inquired silkily.
‘Why, to Crete or Thebes or Athens--any place them bastards don’t infest. I doesn’t see how you can stop ’em.’
The bodyguard Hero behind the throne stooped and murmured in my ear, ‘Shall I remove the fellow, sire?’
I shook my head. After summarising for Thersites’ benefit the proposals put to the Council, I added, ‘Therefore we’ll have ample warning of attack, and room enough in the citadel to shelter all the workmen.’
‘You’d better get a move on, then, that’s all I say.’ Insolence tinged his tone. ‘I’ll tell the lads. Don’t promise I can hold ’em, mind--but I’ll do me best.’
‘You have permission to go, Thersites.’
He limped from the chamber. The Councillors drew deep breaths, and looked at me inquiringly. They saw an impertinent commoner castigate his king and escape unscathed. I doubt a single Councillor appreciated the reasons compelling tolerance. My credit in their eyes indubitably foundered.
Periphetes said sternly, ‘If you permit, sire, I’ll have the rascal strangled. He’ll be dead before sundown--a damned good riddance!’
Such dunderheads some Heroes were! I said sharply, ‘No. Quite pointless. Another demagogue will take his place, maybe a hotter firebrand. Plenty more where he came from. We can’t afford a walk-out from the factories.’
Faces showed a glimmer of understanding. I added briskly, ‘I’ll order a levy of slaves, consult engineers and builders, start work as soon as possible. That’s all.’
I pointed my sceptre downwards.
The Council is ended.’
* * *
Atreus, towards the end of his reign, used diplomacy and bribes in efforts to induce King Priam of Troy to re-open the Hellespont’s passage. Priam remained unmoved; Thyestes, when he usurped the throne, tried compulsion. Periphetes sailed a battle squadron and endeavoured to force the narrows; Trojan ships in superior numbers flashed from harbours near Scamander’s mouth and Sank over half his galleys.
The defeat discouraged Thyestes from further head-on collisions in Trojan waters. He introduced instead a strategy of attrition. Periphetes stationed flotillas off coasts where Trojan merchantmen traded. Mycenaean war galleys hovered near the ports of Troy’s chief overseas markets--Lesbos and Lycia, Samos, Miletos and Rhodes--and destroyed every ship they could find. A double-pronged weapon, Thyestes believed: he would strangle Troy’s trade and pare her naval strength. His ultimate object was a second thrust at the Hellespont when Mycenae’s ships had whittled down the Trojan vessels at sea.
Neither Thyestes nor Atreus before him contemplated forcing the issue by landing a Host on Trojan shores: an operation, they asserted, both militarily unsound and logistically impossible.
The long sea war dragged on. Our squadrons patrolled the coastlands, sank or captured galleys, suffered casualties themselves from storm and shipwreck. With so many vessels engaged on blockade our overseas trade decayed. Thyestes, a profligate ruler who squandered his riches on feasting and favourites, refused to authorize naval construction to redeem losses and strengthen the fleet. When eventually I killed him the war had ground to a stalemate; and Priam showed no signs of rescinding his Hellespont edict.
I interviewed Periphetes in the Hall where, over several cups of Cytheran wine, he mournfully recapitulated these disturbing truths. Thyestes--meaning no slur on your House, sire--was an incompetent ass. He instituted a strategy based on false premises. An embargo on overseas trade will never bring Troy to her knees. The city is a land power, her fleet a mere accessory, chiefly a force for repelling piratical raids. And we,’ he concluded glumly, ‘have all but stamped the pirates out; so the Trojans, on that score, don’t have to worry.’
‘In harassing her merchantmen, don’t we damage Troy’s economy?’
‘Not much. Overseas she’s practically immune. Troy’s vital trading tentacles reach inland to markets in Mysia, Thrace and Phrygia. She even trades with the Hittites, so I’m told.’
I toyed with my goblet. ‘A naval blockade will never achieve our object. So, in order to force the Hellespont we must break the Trojan fleet. Have your encounters at sea reduced their numbers appreciably?’
‘I reckon we’ve accounted for thirty or forty galleys.’ Periphetes grimaced. ‘Priam can quickly restore the losses. A pointless exercise, really. Anyway his numbers are less than half our strength.’
‘Then why,’ I asked in surprise, ‘can’t we smash a way through the Hellespont?’
‘You haven’t seen the narrows.’ Periphetes drained his wine, held the goblet to a squire’s tilted flagon. ‘A tight rock-bordered strait where just so many galleys can line up oar to oar. Superior numbers don’t count very much. Geography, sire, levels the odds.’
‘Then surely, ship against ship, Mycenaeans can beat Trojans? We are. after all, a paramount power at sea.’
‘The Trojans, unfortunately, can call on formidable allies. Current and wind. Ships entering the straits from the south meet a four-knot current, often so strong they can’t make way and have to anchor. Added to that a forcible headwind blowing nine months of the year, so you can’t hoist sail.’
Periphetes sprang to his feet, prowled back and forth like a restless hound. ‘The enemy, of course, have both current and wind at their sterns. They hurtle down on your struggling ships and the rams go in before you have time to manoeuvre. That, sire, is how we lost the sea fight three years back.’
Thoughtfully I stroked my beard. ‘Mycenae can’t throttle Trojan trade, our fleet can’t force the Hellespont. Meanwhile Troy severs our most important trade route and brings famine ever nearer. The problem seems insoluble.’
‘An impasse, sire.’ The Master of the Ships smiled ruefully. ‘Unless, by some miracle, you can land a Host on the Troad and capture Troy.’
I laughed. ‘When I suggested that very idea to Atreus he wondered aloud how his Marshal could be such a military idiot. He was right. The concept is out of the question.’
‘Totally impossible,’ Periphetes agreed.
* * *
During the days that followed I put my plans in hand. We possessed a clever engineer, one Apisaon, a Cretan claiming descent from Daedalus who designed King Minos’ palace at Knossos which Acrisius of Argos sacked two centuries ago--this according to Gelon, a fount of historical lore. With Apisaon in my chariot I drove around the environs and selected tactical sites for the ring of watchtowers. Each would be built as a circular keep, walls two spear-lengths high, the entrance reached by a ladder halfway up. One larger tower already existed on a hilltop east of the citadel, an edifice raised in Election’s reign to keep watch on the Argive Plain in those troubled far-off times when Argos fought Mycenae. Friendly Diomedes now held the Argive throne; and the tower was too remotely placed to spot Goatmen haunting the nearer gullies and slopes. I evacuated the garrison, thus saving twenty men.
Advancing the line of the citadel’s western defences turned out to be a tricky business. Stumbling about the rocky glacis I traced a long parabola; slaves piled stones in heaps to mark the course. The circuit curved halfway down the hill-slope that climbed to the citadel, and bisected Zeus’ tomb. A pity, I mused, but there it was; our founding father, a realist above all, would have declared defences took priority over graves.
Apisaon saw no constructional snags in the line I proposed, but the master builders murmured among themselves and wagged disapproving heads. I inquired brusquely what they thought wrong. They admitted the plan, from a builder’s viewpoint, to be perfectly feasible. I did not understand their reluctance, and cut the discussion short.
The existing gate on the north was a paltry affair for a citadel’s main entrance. Moreover it lay on the farthest side from the town: a long way for people to run in case of emergency. I decided to convert the north gate into a sally-port, and site the main gate where new and old walls met at
the citadel’s northwest corner. With my dagger I sketched in the dust for Apisaon’s benefit a tower rearing on either flank, each projecting high stone walls to channel attackers in a narrow passage.
Slave gangs assembled, work began. Builders pegged rawhide strips to mark the line: four-wheeled wagons trundled from the quarries, axles groaned under huge stone blocks. Masons dressed the crags as they came, chipping and sawing and flaking. Labourers dug foundations, delved deep in the ground, blunted spades and mattocks on stony soil. From daybreak to dark the workmen’s shouts and tapping and hammering of brazen tools resounded over the hills. A master builder brightly suggested dismantling the inner wall and re-using the blocks, so saving labour and time. I let the futility pass. A tradesman can’t be expected to understand the folly of exposing a yawning gap, for however short a time, along four hundred paces of a citadel’s defences.
I interviewed petitioners, dispensed summary justice, adjudicated petty disputes concerning ownership of wells, field boundaries, strayed cattle, bickers over customs duties. Eurystheus and Atreus had held audiences in the Hall; I broke with tradition and, whenever the weather allowed, met suppliants in the Great Court. I found in the height of summer (my throne set coolly in shade) the scorching sunlight confined between the palace’s house walls created an oven-like heat which discouraged frivolous appeals.
One day my chamberlain admitted a sizeable deputation: leading craftsmen, heads of the various guilds. I told the spokesman to state his plea.
‘Sire, we beg your august reappraisal of the course you have directed for the citadel’s new wall. The line--’
‘The citadel’s fortifications,’ I interrupted tersely, ‘are no concern of tradesmen.’
The man, a master-goldsmith of grave and dignified bearing, bowed submissively. ‘We wouldn’t presume to meddle with warlike matters. Our concern lies elsewhere. Sire, your wall will destroy Zeus’ sacred tomb.’
‘The tomb will undoubtedly suffer. I was not aware it was sacred. My ancestor, however distinguished, is not a god.’
The goldsmith said earnestly, ‘The common people, sire, have worshipped him for years. To raze his tomb will give them great offence.’ His bearded companions nodded emphatic agreement.
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