I clenched my teeth and charged into the Hall.
Backed against the farther wall and ringed by hostile shields the survivors of Agasthenes’ faction fought in a final stand. Their adversaries, Phyleus’ men, swung round to meet our onset. After a token slash at somebody’s neck I thrust away from the struggle, leaned panting against a doorpost and watched Gelanor’s warriors finish the job--a messy, crowded combat that ended within moments. When the stamping and clanging and crying died down, and Heroes knelt beside bodies and stripped off brazen armour (always, after a battle, the first bit of loot that is sought) and Agasthenes’ few remaining supporters crowded around their saviour I levered weary shoulders from the doorpost. Threading broken furniture that littered the blood-greased floor I crossed to Agasthenes and said, ‘Have you found Phyleus?'
He pointed to a body sprawled supine on the flags. Grey pulp oozed from a head that a blade had cleft to the eyes. There he is,’ he crowed. ‘There’s my accursed brother who slew our father Augeas!’
‘So,’ I observed, ‘that seems to be that. Come, Agasthenes.’ I took his arm and led him to the throne. ‘Be seated, my lord. Elis’ crown and sceptre now belong to you, the kingdom henceforth rests within your hands.’
I left him to enjoy his warriors’ acclaim, and went on dragging feet to get the citadel secured.
* * *
Phyleus’ supporters yielded when they heard that he was dead. Their fate not mine to decide, I left them to Agasthenes. His brother’s death had satisfied the podgy fellow’s vindictiveness; and he recognized that leniency would win his opponents’ loyalty. He pardoned, cajoled and jested; scowling faces lightened, reluctant smiles split bearded lips; Agasthenes’ plausible charm changed enemies to friends. It was difficult to dislike the rubicund King of Elis. After the city settled down to everyday existence he formally donned the crown. I attended the ceremony held in the Hall, but tactfully forbade the presence of Mycenaean Heroes: neither the king nor his nobles would favour a reminder that he owed his throne to my Host.
Seven years after its inception I had consummated Atreus’ plan to subjugate the Corinthian shore. I ought to have felt elated; instead my temper was foul. Aegisthus had vanished. An Elian Hero said that even before my Host was sighted Aegisthus and a squire had galloped in his chariot from the citadel. ‘In which direction?’ I demanded angrily. ‘Heading south,’ the Hero replied.
I choked down rage and considered possibilities. Aegisthus would scarcely remain in Elis, a haven my presence transmuted into a snare. He might continue south into Nestor’s kingdom, or strike east across the mountains of Arcadia. I found a grain of comfort in remembering that, unless he went to ground among the Goatmen, his sanctuary could not for long be hidden. It is difficult in Achaea to conceal the presence of a man, particularly a nobleman, notorious for being begotten by Thyestes on his daughter.
I stayed in Elis a moon, partly to inform the world that Mycenae had accomplished Agasthenes’ restoration and brooked no interference; and partly to exploit Corinthia’s conquest. My object was to block immigration across the Corinth Gulf. I therefore summoned to Elis the Wardens of all the cities from Sicyon to Dyme and gave detailed, thorough instructions for patrols along the coast. Orders went to Periphetes, Master of the Ships, for dispatching to Helice a flotilla of five penteconters, our lighter fifty-oared galleys. From Helice they would regularly sweep the waters of the Gulf and intercept--I hoped--the ships that ferried Dorians across.
(These measures, combined with others I shall relate, have temporarily subdued the Dorian/Goatmen menace. Had their build-up in Arcadia continued at the speed which rendered them so confident that they launched a raid on Mycenae, the kings of Achaea would never have dared to bring their Hosts to Troy.)
I dispatched emissaries to Nestor, King of Pylos, requesting passage through his realm to pay a friendly visit. Retaining only Mycenae’s palace Heroes and their retinues--a bodyguard three hundred strong--I sent my war-bands marching home and, after a banquet which surpassed in gourmandizing any I have eaten, bade Agasthenes farewell and started on a five-day march to Pylos.
I had never seen Nestor’s realm nor met the ruler. Certain schemes matured in my mind; and I wished to get on terms with a king whose power in Achaea verged on mine. I also thought it politic to end the frontier warfare Elis and Pylos waged; now Corinthia was conquered I wanted no more quarrels among kingdoms south of the Isthmus. Moreover Pylos sailed a powerful fleet, second in strength and enterprise only to Mycenae’s. According to Gelon and Periphetes a rivalry developed between Nestor’s and Mycenae’s galleys in opening foreign markets; I thought it best to reconcile our interests.
On the second day’s march we forded the Alpheus river, ostensibly the boundary dividing Agasthenes’ realm and Pylos, a frontier land and battleground for years. We passed burnt, deserted farmsteads, fields untilled, heavily guarded flocks and herds grazing close to small rock forts--the tenuous holdings of solitary Heroes who had reverted to the precarious life of centuries long past when Zeus’ near descendants were settling the land. The passage of my retinue sowed panic: warriors manned the forts, cattle were hastily corralled.
I lingered at Olympia, a remote, enchanted valley cradled in wooded hillsides beside Alpheus. The Hero Ion, one of Zeus’ followers from Crete, founded here a shrine to The Lady whose sacred aura protects it from raiders’ ravages. There is nothing at Olympia except the shrine itself--an altar beneath an oak tree and a timber palisade--and the dwellings of the Daughters: thatched huts on the river bank. The Daughters were young and beautiful--characteristics uncommon in this shrewish, middle-aged sect--and I learned that noble families both from Agasthenes’ and Nestor’s realms traditionally sent their loveliest children to serve the shrine. They are said to have acquired mystical healing powers. During the fight in Elis’ Hall Odysseus received a cut on the leg which refused to mend. He submitted to the Daughters’ remedies; his wound dried up in a day. The bevy of beauty quite overwhelmed Ajax, who feigned a stomach disorder to attract their ministrations. I had to remind him sternly The Lady’s Daughters were inviolable.
I discovered peace at Olympia, a tranquillity in body and mind unknown since I was young, since those halcyon days spent shepherding at Rhipe. The burden and stress of ruling a kingdom, ambitions, cares, desires all went like marsh-mist under the sun. I roamed the woods, bathed in Alpheus, lay on the banks and dreamed, picnicked on goat cheese and barley bread in grassy, secluded glades and, lulled by choirs of nightingales, drifted into sleep. Odysseus, observing my lethargy, said caustically the place had cast a spell.
Possibly he was right. A magical happiness reigns in Olympia.
* * *
Pylos’ palace and town cluster on an inland hill within long eyeshot of the sea. Nearly forty years earlier Hercules surprised and stormed old Pylos, a citadel on a rocky mount beside the sea, killed all the royal family except King Neleus and Nestor and enslaved a number of noble ladies. (Clymene, my only love, was one of Hercules’ prisoners.) After this disaster Neleus moved his dwelling place to a hilltop where his summer palace stood, and began rebuilding a city on new foundations.
Neleus died, his son and successor Nestor continued the building. The aspect that struck me most when I entered Pylos was absence of any citadel and no defensive walls. Even Sparta, likewise unwalled, built a citadel nearby.
Nestor received me ceremoniously and, when I had bathed and eaten, conducted me on a tour of his ultra-modern palace. He was getting on in years, tall and spare in body; a mesh of dried-up rivulets furrowed the bony desert of his face, hair and beard were bleaching into white. Patently proud of his creation he led me from the Hall--a room, I noted pleasurably, equal in breadth to Mycenae’s but only half the length--through a maze of corridors, chambers and store rooms to Neleus’ old summer palace, now refurbished as a dining-room for state occasions. Everything was new, smelling of plaster and paint, frescoes vividly bright, gorgeous patterns blazing on floors and ceilings.
Returning to the Hall he seated me in a beechwood chair and ordered wine. I politely expressed both pleasure and wonder at his palace’s appointments, and added, ‘I notice you’ve constructed no defences. Is this wise?’
Nestor cracked bony knuckles--a habit I came to know well. ‘Walls never saved old Pylos from that damnable rascal Hercules.’ He had a high, fluting voice that quavered a little with age. ‘Our fleet protects us from seaborne enemies, and a stroke of luck has pushed our frontiers farther away from the city.’
‘A stroke of luck?’
‘Remember that cattle raid when the Twins and Lynceus of Messene quarrelled over the spoils, and all three died in the fight?’
‘Clearly. I lived in Sparta at the time.’
‘Because Lynceus had no heir Messene’s Heroes disputed succession. I marched my Host in smartly and occupied the citadel before they knew what had hit them. I now rule all Messenia, Achaea’s most fertile and prosperous land.’
‘Your borders, then, adjoin Arcadia. Don’t you suffer from the Dorians and Goatmen?’
‘They haven’t come so far south. I’ll give them a bloody nose if ever they show their faces.’
I swallowed wine--full-bodied and sweet, pressed from Messenian grapes--and broached an aim of my visit. ‘You still face an hereditary enemy: Elis in the north.’
Nestor snorted. ‘Damned Elians! An infernal rabble of rustlers!’ He settled himself comfortably in the throne, a faraway expression bleared watery blue eyes. ‘They’ve always given us trouble. I remember as a lad leading a raid into Elis ...’ My attention wandered. Nestor rambled on, reminiscing fondly over battles long ago. I finished my wine, examined the ceiling’s colourful whorls and stars and wondered how to bring him back to the point.
‘A stirring fight,’ he concluded. ‘Nowadays you never see the like. We had mighty champions then’--sadly shaking his head--‘no mortals now on earth could possibly match them.’
‘Great days,’ I assented. ‘I suppose you know there’s been a change of rule in Elis?’
‘Of course. You killed Phyleus and clamped his brother on the throne.’
‘Agasthenes is a peaceable man. He’s prepared to check his border raiders if you in return curb yours.’
Nestor cracked his knuckles. ‘They’re a rough, tough bunch up there and, to tell the truth, I don’t have much control. Cattle-thieving has become a habit--’
‘Which I’d be grateful if you changed.’ I allowed my voice to harden, and said pointedly, ‘Elis in effect has become a client kingdom of Mycenae’s. I might be forced to take sides in any Elian quarrels.’
Nestor looked at me thoughtfully. ‘I see. That would indeed be a pity. In fact,’ he said confidentially, ‘I’m becoming rather tired of the endless fighting in the north. Blasted unproductive: the land is constantly ravaged, and impoverished lords pay practically no tribute. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Agasthenes will be grateful; and I guarantee he’ll close his side of the border.’
During boar hunts, while watching parades and games, at banquets in the palace’s old buildings Nestor and I discussed everything from politics to commerce, from naval strategy to chariot tactics. (Nestor had no conception of the flexible manoeuvres I’d developed in Mycenae.) A didactic old fellow, prone to lecture, given to larding his conversation with tedious reminiscences. Yet from his talk and my own observations while quartering the countryside I recognized the prosperity and potency of Pylos: a kingdom second only to Mycenae. A valuable man to have as an ally; but Nestor shied away from formal commitments.
‘We’re virtually self-sufficient,’ he declared, ‘and I don’t want to get entangled in anyone else’s disputes.’ He slipped me a sideways look. ‘I hear you’re making ready for another crack at Thebes.’
The Shades take Diomedes and those wagging Argive tongues! ‘A possibility,’ I said guardedly. ‘Nothing is yet decided.’
‘A perilous adventure. Why are you doing it?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? The kingdoms in Achaea verge on famine. We want to tap Orchomenos’ granaries.’
‘As I thought. In Pylos we’re beginning to run short, and I’ve had to introduce rationing.’ He applauded a discus cast--we were watching athletic contests on a plateau below the town--and continued, ‘I’m not going to offer my war-bands because Orchomenos, if you get it, is only half a solution. I recently sent an expert there--a Scribe who accounts our grain reserves.’
Nestor explained. From the fertile tract which once was Lake Copais, Thebes supplied wheat and barley, at a price, to kingdoms north of the Isthmus--Phocis, Aitolia, Thessaly and others. These people then were adequately fed. Yet even from Orchomenos Thebes produced no surplus which might, if so she willed, relieve our own deficiencies.
‘Suppose you seize Orchomenos,’ the king concluded, ‘divert the produce and allocate shares. In kingdoms south of the Isthmus the threat of famine recedes, but everyone will suffer a perennial lack of grain. We can’t go on like this.’
I said glumly, ‘I haven’t checked the output from Copais, and assumed it enough to meet everyone’s needs. Nevertheless I intend to wrest Orchomenos from Thebes and afterwards control the corn exported.’
‘I wish you luck.’ Nestor eyed a racing chariot skidding round a turn mark. ‘My son Antilochus: young idiot will certainly break a wheel if he doesn’t slow down at the turns.’ He went on abruptly, ‘There’s only one lasting solution.’
‘Which is?’
‘Take Troy, re-open the Hellespont, sail convoys again to Krymeia.’
I scrutinized wonderingly the shrivelled old face intent on the hurtling chariots. ‘You have voiced a conception that has lately entered my mind, a notion I’ve dismissed as blatantly fantastic. Take Troy? A seaborne expedition?’
‘Precisely. A venture which will demand the combined forces of every Achaean city and all available ships. Also a vast amount of planning and preparation. If the business is thoroughly organized I might consider sending a Pylian fleet and Host.’
Antilochus chanced his arm once too often: an axle cracked like firewood, his chariot ploughed the ground. ‘Serves the imbecile right,’ Nestor observed complacently.
I barely heard him. My mind raced fast as the pelting chariots, a welter of ideas contended for attention.
I said dreamily, ‘The proposition, Nestor, will be given serious thought.’
In that moment, on a dusty plain below Pylos’ straggling palace, was born the epic endeavour that ended in Troy’s destruction.
* * *
The huge inlet that harboured Pylos’ ships slashed the coastline a short chariot ride from the city. A long narrow island, Sphacteria, forms a natural breakwater protecting the port. A sandbar crosses the head of the bay from shore to shore; I went there to bathe one hot summer morning. After swimming for a while I left Odysseus and my bodyguard Hero and strolled along the soft cream-coloured sand. On nearing a rocky knoll where the ruins of old Pylos slumbered like a sepulchre of blackened, broken stones I rounded a tamarisk bush and stumbled over a figure sleeping on the sand. He jumped to his feet, affrighted, and groped uselessly for a dagger.
‘Nothing to fear, my lad.’ I spread my hands and laughed. ‘We’re both naked as newly shorn sheep. Who are you, and whence do you come?’
The boy--around fourteen years old, at a guess--paused and said uncertainly, ‘My name is Carmanor. I live in a village near Pylos.’
He was the handsomest individual I have seen. Hair yellow as sickle-ripe wheat, a broad forehead, long-lashed violet eyes, short straight nose, a sensitive mouth symmetrical as a pair of Cretan bows joined tip to tip. Smooth gold skin on a slender-hipped body which promised strength and agility.
I stretched full length on the sand. ‘Sit down, Carmanor. A lovely day for swimming, don’t you think?’ I pointed across the bay. ‘Tell me: what name do they give that headland opposite Sphacteria’s tip?’
We talked trivialities: the identity of galleys making harbour under sail
, a scuttling crab, the name of a purple flower sprouting on the beach. His voice was low and musical; his mode of speech betrayed a gentleman by birth. Lying on his back beside me, hands clasped behind his head, he quickly shed constraint and chattered happily away. A charming lad. I was sorry when Odysseus rounded the tamarisk clump, stopped and eyed me severely.
‘You vanished into air, and we were growing anxious,’ he explained.
‘You find me safe enough.’ I rose and walked to the water’s edge, paddled the sand from my legs. When I turned round Carmanor had sprung to his feet. His face was a mask of fear, terror shone in his eyes. He muttered incoherently, snatched up kilt and sandals and sprinted along the sand bar.
I watched the running figure diminish in the distance. ‘What in The Lady’s Name afflicts the boy? Did you frighten him, Odysseus?’
‘Not I.’ A sudden realization lighted the Ithacan’s features. ‘Has the fellow told you his name?’
‘Carmanor, from an outlying village.’
‘Ah. I noticed behind his shoulder,’ Odysseus said soberly, ‘a small birthmark.’
Drugged, I suppose, with sun and air I lagged in grasping his meaning. ‘Birthmark?’
‘An ivory-coloured stain small as an infant’s palm. A blemish you also carry. He must have seen it when you showed your back.’ Enlightenment came in a flood. ‘The mark of Pelops!’
Almost every male descended from Pelops of Elis carries his sinister heritage: an ivory birthmark behind the right shoulder. (Bards have invented a lurid tale of cannibalism and murder to account for this phenomenon. None dares intone the ballad in any Hall I visit.)
‘Quite so.’ Odysseus’ toe traced a furrow in the sand. ‘Few of his blood are left, Agamemnon. I fancy you’ve been talking with Aegisthus.’
I ran to the crest of a dune and stared into the mirage that shimmered over the beach. The boy had vanished. I said grimly, ‘Back to the palace. Nestor must surely know he’s here, and we’ll hunt the bastard down!’
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