by Mary Renault
They came armed to the teeth, and they had good cause. These Attic lords had never known a common law. Some were conquering Hellene stock like ours, chariot-folk from the north; you could tell those far off, because the other drivers gave them the road. But there were Shore Folk too, who had held some strong valley or mountain roost and patched a peace with the victors; pirates from headland holds with a few fields inland, who still kept up their trade; and men of my and my father’s making, who had helped us in the Pallantid War and been given a carving from its spoils.
All these, if put to it, would own me as High King, so far at least that they would follow me to war, and not harbor my enemies. A few paid a rent of cattle or wine or slaves to the Royal House or its gods. But they ruled their own lands by the custom of their forefathers, and looked to get no meddling. Since their neighbors’ customs differed, and the stock, as like as not, had been at blood-feud for generations, these shields on the road were not for show.
I looked down at the great scarps of the Rock, the never-fallen stronghold. It was this, this only, had made a High King of my grandfather, of my father, and of me. But for the Rock, I should be like any one of those down there, leading a little band of spears, master of a few vines and olives, and of some cattle if I could keep my neighbors off at night. That and no more.
I went into the house, and looked at the Goddess of the Citadel in her new shrine. She had belonged upon the Rock time out of mind; but in my grandfather Pandion’s day, when the brothers divided up the kingdom, Pallas had seized her and taken her to his hold at Sounion. When I stormed the castle in my father’s war, I had brought her back again. I had shown her respect; during the sack I had looked after her priestesses as if they were my sisters, and kept her treasure sacred; but she had been at Sounion a good while, and to make sure of her we still had her lashed to her column with ropes of bull-hide, in case it came into her head to fly back there and leave us. She was very old. The wood of her face and of her round bare breasts was black as pitch with age and oiling. Her arms stretched stiffly forward; a gold snake was twisted round her spear-arm, and the shield in her left hand was real. She had always been armed; when I brought her back I had given her a new helmet, to make her love me. Under her shrine is the cavern of the House Snake, forbidden to men; but she herself is their friend. She likes shrewd war-leaders and princes good in battle, and strong houses that have stood in honor from ancient days. The priestess said that the House Snake gave good omens still; so it seemed her lodging pleased her. Lest we should omit any title she set store by, we called her in the votive hymns Pallas Athene.
Night came. The guests of the house were fed and bedded. But I owed my father some duty before the earth was closed on him for good. Most of the night I watched with the guard about his barrow, and saw the wake-fire tended, and poured drink-offerings to the gods below. The fire leaped high; it shone down the long stone-lined cutting into the mound, showing the painted doorposts of the burial vault, the new bronze hasps of the open doors, and the Erechthid snake upon the lintel. But it did not pierce the dark beyond; sometimes when my back was turned I could feel him standing in the shadows beyond the doorway to watch his rites, as they show dead men in the funeral pictures.
A half-moon rose late, to shine about the grove of tombs, the poplars and the cypresses like guardian spears, the ancient grave-mounds with their steles of lions and boars and chariot-fights, the poles of their moldering trophies leaning earthward.
The fire’s core crumbled; a drift of gold sparks flew up, and thin blue flames. The night grew cold; it was the ebb tide of living men. Faint through the dew the ghosts came creeping, to warm themselves at the flames and sip the offerings. At such times, when the fresh blood gives them strength, they can speak to men. I turned to the doorway in the deep of the mound; the firelight caught the great bronze door-ring, but all within was still.
“What would he say?” I thought. “What is it like there, in the fields of Hades where sun does not rise or set, nor seasons alter? Nor do men change; for where change is life is, and these, who are only shadows of lives past, must keep forever the shape of their earthly selves, whatever they made of them when they walked in daylight. Need the gods judge us further? Surely that is sentence enough, to live with ourselves, and to remember. Oh, Zeus, Apollo, not without glory let me go down into the land of twilight! And when I am there, let me hear my name spoken in the world of men. Death does not master us, while the bard sings and the child remembers.”
I took a turn round the mound, and rebuked two guards who were drinking behind a tree. My father should not say I had scrambled his rites, once I had got the kingdom. I had the fire built up again, and poured oil upon it, thinking, “Some day I shall he here, while my son does all this for me.”
At last the dawn-star rose. I called for a torch and climbed the long ramps to the Citadel, then up again through the dark echoing house, and flung myself down in my clothes to sleep. I must be up at sunrise, to start the Games in the early cool.
They passed off well. There were one or two disputes, as there were bound to be in Attica; but my judgments got the voices of the lookers-on, and the losers for shame accepted them. The prizes were handsome enough to satisfy everyone. I gave the best of all for the chariot-race, to honor Poseidon of the Horses. First prize was a Hellene war-stallion, trained to the chariot. The second was a woman. She was the youngest of my father’s handmaids, a blue-eyed bitch who had done her best to climb in my bed while he was still alive. Knowing what I knew of her, she was glad to get away to some man she could fool more easily, and be stared at by a hundred warriors on the way. She got herself up like a queen, and I won much praise for my liberality. The third prize was a sheep and a tripod.
My father had had his dues; now they closed the great bronze-bound doors and filled in the trench that led to them. His shade would have crossed the River now, to join the troops of the dead. Soon grass would clothe the barrow and goats would graze there. The young men trooped back from the river-meadow to bathe and dress, their voices lifted freely; the elders, who had not warmed their blood with contests and still felt the chill of death, clustered together. But soon there came from them too a cheerful buzz like that of grasshoppers in a fine autumn, when the frost seems far away.
I went to dress for the feast. It was a warm evening; the royal robes felt thick and smelled stale. I thought of Crete, where only old men and low ones cover up their bodies, and a prince goes nearly as naked as a god. Not to seem too foreign, I put on Hellene short-drawers of scarlet leather, and a thick belt studded with lapis; above it, only the royal necklace, and rings for the upper arm. So I was half king and half bull-leaper, and the outside matched the man within. It made me surer of myself.
The young men were all eyes. Since I was first a wrestler, I had clipped short the hair across my brows, so as not to be grabbed by the forelock; they had taken that up (the cut is still called a Theseus) and I saw this would be next. But my mind was on the guests, to see who was missing. It was time to count my enemies. I found that all the great lords were there but one; and he the strongest. He was a man I had heard much of. It was a heavy matter.
Next morning I called them all to the council chamber. For the first time I sat upon Erechtheus’ throne. Along the painted walls, on benches draped with fine patterned rugs, sat the lords of Attica. I tried to forget that many of them had sons older than I, and came to business quickly. Minos was dead; also his heir, the Minotauros; Crete was in turmoil with a score of masters, which is to say with none. This news will run like fire through the Achaean kingdoms. If we want to be lords of the Isles, and not some new Minos’ vassals, we must put to sea.”
Crete is a land of gold; it was not hard to get a hearing. One man stood up and said it was a great land to conquer, we should need allies in such a war. This was sense and I had an answer. But there was a stir at the outer door; a ripple ran along the guests, half fear, half expectation. A few changed secret smiles, like men who wait for a s
how.
There was a sound outside of a troop piling its arms. A man came in. It was he who had failed the feast; he had come, late, to the council.
His excuse was cool, mere insolence; I heard it in silence, while I studied him. I had never seen him till now. He came down seldom from his castle on Kithairon, where he preyed on the travellers of the Theban road. I had pictured him black-browed; but he was round, smooth and smiling.
I said, “You were missed, Prokrustes. But you come from rough country, and I daresay the ways were foul.”
He smiled. I told him the business shortly. My father had let him be for twenty years, sooner than risk a war with him. Every man here knew it. Since he came in not an eye was on me, and, I guessed, hardly an ear. It was plain they feared him more than me, and it chilled my heart.
While I was still talking, I heard a yelp from near his seat; my dog Aktis limped out, holding up a forepaw, and lay down by me trembling. I had seen nothing done. As I stroked the beast’s ears, the man smiled sleekly. And I thought of a sudden, “By Zeus! He is trying to frighten me.”
All these fawning faces had cast a damp upon me. Now I was as warm as a man can need. I have seldom been so angry and sat still in a chair. But I kept it within, and waited.
This man and that had spoken, when he rose and took the speaker’s staff. You could tell he had been reared in a princely house. “I vote for war,” he said. “Men who will risk no battles will never leave to their sons a household rich in gold and home-born slaves.” He bowed about him as if this time-worn speech had been his own. No one dared smile. For myself, I was past joking.
“And so,” he said, “before we talk of ships and men, we ought to follow custom and choose a war-leader, seeing the King is under age.”
There was a hush full of hidden whispers. Not a man spoke up for me. A little while before, it would have weighed upon my soul. But that had lightened, as the spark does in the updraft of the fire.
“We have heard you, Prokrustes,” I said. “And now hear me. I am leading the ships to Crete, and these lords who sail with me will not be losers. For I know the Labyrinth, as well as you do the passes of Kithairon, you carrion jackal with your den of stinking bones.”
His smile had stiffened. He had really thought I would not defy him, in my own hall. He had come to smile at my shame. I wondered what my father could have swallowed from him, to bring things to this.
“You missed our feast,” I said. “A man who is host to many travellers should have hearth-friends everywhere. I hear your guest-room bed is such a masterpiece that no man will leave it, unless he is carried away. I must come and see it. Don’t put yourself out for me. You have given it up too long to strangers. When I visit you, by the head of Poseidon you shall lie on it yourself.”
He stood a moment staring, from face to face. But the Attic lords sat eased, as if their itch had been scratched for them. Suddenly someone gave a shrill laugh; then all joined in loudly, as men do who have been at stretch. The sound rose to the rafters.
He swelled like a snake full of poison, waiting to spit. His mouth opened; but I had had enough of him. “You came under my roof,” I said. “Get out and you can go alive. If you are here when I have told my ten fingers over, I will throw you off the Rock.”
He gave me one last hangman’s smile, and went. And none too soon. There were old javelins on the wall behind me, and I had feared I would forget myself.
So I had that war on my hands, before the great one. But it paid me well. The chiefs had long hated themselves for putting up with him; if I had given ground, they would have shifted off their hate to me.
As it was, most of them followed me. He knew I would be coming, but not so soon; he had not even burned the cover about his cliffside hold, when we stormed the walls. What we found in his guest-room would do no one good to hear, nor me to remember. We saw his famous bed, and in the prison guests who had lain on it, waiting their next turn. Some clasped our feet and prayed for a quick sword-thrust. Indeed it was the best thing left for them, so we bound their eyes if they still had any, and set them free. The rest, who could get about, begged another gift from us. They wanted their host, to return his kindness. We had got him bound, and by then I was feeling sick; so I left them together and closed the doors. After some hours he died, and they asked me if I would like to see the body; but I had heard enough as it was, and told them to drop it down the gorge. His sons had been thrown off the walls already. It was a stock to be rooted out.
So died Prokrustes, the last of the mountain bandits, the greatest and the worst. I had known, before he opened his mouth in council, that he would be a bad man to have with me in Crete, and a worse to leave behind in Attica. He was in my way, and had let me see it; it was foolish of him to make me angry as well. But he was a slave to his pleasures, such as they were; he did not know me, nor consider how much I had to gain by putting him down. As it was, he came like the vulture who brings a lucky omen. My barons were all behind me now, and ready to follow me overseas.
III
WHILE MY FLEET WAS getting ready news began to come in that Crete had a new Minos. I knew his name, Deukalion, and, from what I had heard, guessed him for a man of straw, put up by those lords whose strongholds had withstood the risings. But he came of the royal kin, and his army, scrambled up from masterless spearmen of fallen houses, had seized back the Labyrinth from the rebel serfs. Something like this had been sure to happen; but it meant there was no time to lose.
For all that, I did not go at it like a charging bull. I knew Cretans, and made my plans remembering their subtlety. What I had forgotten was their insolence. They sent me an envoy.
He came into my hall, his lovelocks sleeking his bare shoulders, his willow waist gold-belted. Before him black pages carried gifts of courtesy: a gold necklace with crystal pendants, painted vases of sweet oils, a rare rosebush in flower streaked with blood and amber. Nothing was said, this time, about a tribute of boys and girls from Attica.
As we went through the courtesies, I thought, “Have I seen you before, little peacock? Well, you will have seen me. You have smoothed your mouth with oil since you yelled at me from the ringside.” He met my eye unblinking, proclaimed his master, and asked for my allegiance. I did not laugh. To deal with Cretans like Hellene chiefs would be taking a boar-spear after foxes. They had made me live a year among them, when I should have been learning kingcraft. Instead I had learned the bull-dance, and their minds.
I asked where was Minos’ body (which they would not find) and the royal seal, which I had brought away myself though I did not say so. All I needed was a little time. I said, “Your ship is at Piraeus?” knowing he would have seen nothing there; to hide my plans I was mustering my ships at Troizen, across the gulf.
He answered smoothly, but with some eagerness below: “No, my lord, at Marathon. I beached out of the city, because I have another gift from my master still aboard, something more worthy of your fame. It would not do in the streets; it might scare the people. King Theseus, since the bull-dancers are scattered and the dance is over, my master has sent you as a gift of honor Podargos, King Bull of the sacred herd sprung from the Sun. He is yours; do as you think fit with him.”
“Podargos!” I could not keep my face from lighting. Every bull-dancer in the Labyrinth had known Big Snowy, that great white portent among the piebald herds of Crete. He had been the bull of the Dolphins, and as tricky as he was beautiful; the Dolphins were a short-lived team. He would give good sport, charge straight forward, was a fine bull for the leap; but when he killed, all we trained watchers would argue how he did it and not agree. If our team had had him, I doubt if I could have got them all safe home. But I had always had an itch to tackle him myself; and even now I quickened at his name.
I came back from my dream, to find the Cretan smiling. “A kingly gift,” I said. “But for a god, not a man. Such bulls are sacred; Apollo would be angry if I put him in my herd.”
“He would be troublesome,” said the Cretan
, looking put out, “to carry again to Knossos.” I nearly laughed out loud. I could believe it. I would have liked to ask how they had got him here; but I was not a bull-boy any more.
“There is no need,” I said. “The Sun Herd is Apollo’s. We will give him back to the god.” In any case I could not take such a gift from a man I meant to make war on. This way would save my honor, though it would go to my heart to do it. At least I would mate him first with some of my cows. He was the last of the Bull Court; he would hand on a spark of that strange year’s life. The roar of the ring under the Cretan sun; it lingers long in the ear.
The Cretan bowed himself off. I sat remembering, then shook myself and took up my daily business. Later, I saw a runner come in from westward. I could see Amyntor, the captain of my Guard, tearing, himself, up the ramps like a man possessed. He was the best of the lads who had been with me in Crete; a little young for his place, but then so was I. He scratched at my door; then fell inside, and panted out as if we were still in the Bull Court, “Theseus! Theseus! Podargos has got loose!”
“Get your breath,” I said. “He will have to be caught, then.”
“He is running wild. Those Cretan ninnies let him go, and he is running amok in Marathon. Three men killed outright; four more and a woman dying. And a young child.”
“Old Snowy?” I said. “But he never was a rogue. He never charged before the Dolphins had played him.”
“He has had the sea-trip. And been played too for that matter, by the men of Marathon trying to catch him. Three horses he has had besides the people; and the mules and dogs, no one has counted.”