by Laura Gill
We novices did not watch the copper-tin smelting process or the final working and polishing of a cast blade, because time that day was short, but we returned on another day to watch Khalkeus and his three assistants pour the molten alloy into the molds. I could have stayed there all day, for the environs of the forge were different than anything I had encountered in the palace; much of Mycenae’s metalworking was done outside the citadel. Had it been allowed, I would have liked to try my hand at smelting and casting, as well as assembling a chariot, and taking a shift standing sentry above the Lion Gate. No one seemed to understand how hungry I was to learn new things, to be challenged outside the schoolroom, to take another step toward manhood.
Philaretos also took us to visit a smith named Thestor, who showed us how greaves were molded from layers of laminated linen. He gave us reed brushes and let us apply a coating of flaxseed glue between layers; it was sticky and hard to spread evenly. Philaretos let us watch Thestor’s assistants piercing and stitching rows of halved boar tusks onto a leather backing which would then be molded over a bronze framework and lined inside with felt to make a helmet. “The tusks of twenty boars are required,” Thestor explained, “to make one such helmet.”
A boar tusk helmet was so costly that only a high-ranking nobleman or a king could afford it. “A man becomes a giant, a hero, when he wears one of these.” Philaretos grunted. “But this isn’t just for show. When they’re assembled properly, by a master craftsman, these tusks are tougher than bronze.” As he rapped a knuckle against a tusk, I wondered who the helmet was destined for. “The strength of these tusks’ll absorb the shock of a heavy blow. Maybe leave you with a splitting headache, but at least you’ll still have your skull.”
Then he removed from a peg an embossed leather helmet such as the sentries wore and passed it around for us to touch and try on. “Now, this is what most men wear on the battlefield, if they’re lucky enough to have any protection at all. The common rank and file have to scavenge among the corpses, and take what they can find.” The helmet’s cheekguards were dented; it had been returned to the workshop for repairs. The tattered felt lining smelled rank with old sweat from whoever had worn it. Trying it on and finding it too large for my head emphasized the disheartening fact that I still had much growing to do.
Philaretos brought us back to Thestor’s workshop a week later to learn about shields. Thestor explained why waisted shields had their distinctive feminine curve and concave structure. “It’s a secret the gods gave men. Pinching in the sides gives the shield greater strength, but its goddess shape also allows a man to carry the Mistress of Battles into the fray with him.”
When it came time to learn hands-on about combat, Philaretos did not supply us with bronze blades, helmets, or the tall shields we had seen in the workshops, only wooden swords and bucklers; we had to earn our weapons. Three days a week after our morning exercises, he led us out to the drilling ground outside the walls. This was my very first time in the open country. Leaving the citadel was a glorious experience. It was freedom. I could glance back and see Mycenae as others saw it: a walled, multi-storied citadel hunched on a low hill, nestled between the twin peaks we called the Potniai, the Two Ladies, after the patron goddesses of Argolis.
Atreus had constructed the outdoor area decades ago to train his followers. It was a stretch of flat, sandy ground a full stade long, designed for running, chariot-racing, spear-throwing and archery. A free-standing wall and bastion schooled us in the difficulties of attacking a citadel. We divided into teams, attackers and defenders, and took the red or blue ribbons Philaretos gave us.
Climbing a wall with bare hands and feet was hard enough, but we did it with our wooden bucklers strapped across our backs and wooden swords slung at our sides, while deflecting the sandbags the defenders hurled at us from above. An attacker could fall twice before he was declared dead and out. Those who made it over had to contend with other defenders, those stationed on the ground between the wall and the victory flag. Those were always the biggest, meanest boys on the team, the most eager to knock down and beat the invaders.
Philaretos was never happier than when shouting at us; the entire time, his voice carried across the field, probably all the way back to the citadel. “Get moving, you layabouts! Phausias, back on that wall! I don’t care that you’re limping. Erymas, faster! Sandbags are nothing. Your enemies will hurl arrows and stones at you. They’ll dump shit on your heads. This is easy!”
No, it was not. I was starting to understand why it was taking Father so long to take Troy, whose walls were said to be an impenetrable hundred feet high, and whose allies and defenders outnumbered the Hellene contingents five to one. Like me, many of the boys had fathers and other kinsmen overseas, so we always had questions. Philaretos regularly talked to us about the campaign, about the grueling realities of camp life and siege warfare. Nothing sounded like the bard’s stories. “More men die,” he said, “from wounds and disease than in battle, and that’s the truth of it. You’re more likely to be covered in vomit and shit than in glory.”
That could not possibly be all there was. “Then where does the glory come from?” Ipheus asked.
Philaretos’s eyes bulged. “Fool boy! From sacking towns, and seizing treasure and women, as Achilles does. From having a bard sing about your exploits, until all the bards sing about you. That’s how your fame grows.” He snorted contemptuously. “But the only fame you’re likely to win, boy, is a reputation for being a bumbling idiot.”
Ipheus’s face burned red, but he had gotten accustomed to the shouting and insults, and held back his baby tears.
Philaretos never lied to us about the war, never claimed that it would be over soon as others did, or that our fathers and uncles and brothers would survive to come home. War was what it was.
He could yell at me all he wanted, and he often did. It did not matter as long as there were swords and shields and the company of other boys. I became sun-browned and tough. I learned to anticipate discomfort, and even relish it. Kilissa did not like the changes in me, because I would no longer let her coddle me with mittens and lullabies, and, yes, sometimes I consciously imitated the men in the lower citadel and scratched myself and used profanity around her, but that was what men did.
That was exactly what I told Timon when he chided me, but I was not expecting his answer. He crossed his scrawny arms over his breast, gazed down at me, and said, “Orestes—” He only ever used my name when it was very, very important or when he particularly disapproved of something I had done. “Coarse manners and foul language are for small men, men lacking in character. The High King does not speak or behave in such a manner, and he certainly will not tolerate it from his son.”
Ultimately, my coarse behavior did not cease because my pedagogue chastised me, or even because Father would have disapproved. After all, it was not as though Agamemnon was there to take notice of what I did or said. It was Timon’s rejoinder about small men lacking character that caused me to reconsider. When I grew up, I would become a powerful and respected High King like my father. Men would hang upon my words and deeds. I would become a hero for the bards to sing about, except that they never sang about heroes with bad manners. Whoever heard of Perseus scratching himself while waiting to kill Medusa? Or Theseus swearing at King Minos? And heroes all had noble blood. That meant I could no longer behave like a commoner and a boor. I had to do well at my lessons and set an example for the other boys to follow.
I found, however, that being a hero was not an easy thing for a seven-year-old to do. There were no monsters to slay, no princesses to rescue, and no quests to undertake. All the great deeds left to do in the world were being done elsewhere, something which frustrated me and made me very sad.
Chapter Eight
I expected to sit in the gallery with the court ladies, and watch the proceedings from above, but Timon informed me otherwise. “Your mother has decreed that you will enter the megaron like a young prince, through the great double doors, an
d take your place beside her in the seat of honor.”
I struggled to quiet my nerves as Kilissa dressed me in my finest clothes, but it was no use. Father had sent his highest-ranking herald to court with a message for Mother. Had he gotten my letter? Would there be a message for me, too? There must be for Mother to have invited me.
Timon coached me on the conduct expected of a prince in the megaron while the nurse combed out my damp hair. “Now, make sure you sit up straight. Do not fret. Say nothing unless you are addressed, and then keep your answers short and to the point. Remember to be courteous at all times.” Thank the gods he did not mention my recent—and now abandoned—affectation of swearing.
Kilissa fastened a scarlet ribbon stitched with gold roundels around my head, stepped back to assess her efforts, and pronounced me fit for the megaron. Timon led me downstairs, letting me walk ahead through the crowded great court, past the armored sentries guarding the doors and the high-ranking petitioners milling about in the vestibule.
Attending court was a rare treat. The megaron was the most splendid building on the citadel mount. Four columns supported the great central hearth. The walls were awash with bright frescoes, and the floor around the hearth was stuccoed and painted with octopi and dolphins. Flanking the alabaster throne were frescoes of reposing griffons symbolizing the patron goddesses Hera and Athena; their presence meant that the Two Ladies were watching over us.
Mother embodied those goddesses. It was a sacrilegious thought, but true. Clytaemnestra’s magnificence as queen always left me awestruck. Carefully painted and jeweled, she sat tall upon the king’s alabaster throne, her face chalk-white below a golden diadem radiating three-inch spokes. Like Queen Hera, she wore the sun upon her brow. Crescent moons swung from her earlobes.
“Orestes,” she said, indicating the ivory chair beside her with a sweeping gesture. Her skin smelled like irises. “Come sit beside us.”
I now occupied the second-best seat in the megaron. Anyone paying their respects to Mother had to acknowledge me, too. Timon assumed his place against the wall among the scribes.
A steward announced the royal herald. Talthybius was a tall, rangy man carrying a herald’s staff in one hand, while in the other he held a papyrus scroll. The weak daylight filtering in through the clerestory windows highlighted old scars on his arms, cheek, and forehead.
Talthybius bent the knee before my mother. “Gracious Queen Clytaemnestra, I come bearing news and greetings from Agamemnon the High King.” He had a smooth voice like buttery new leather, spiced with an Arcadian accent.
Mother’s multiple bracelets jangled along her wrist as she waved him to his feet. “Speak.”
Talthybius stood. “I bear this letter with explicit instructions that you are to open and read it at once.” He extended the scroll.
“Does our lord husband not trust us to read his words at our leisure?” Mother asked harshly.
“Apologies, my queen, but the High King grows concerned that you have not answered his previous messages.” Talthybius kept his arm outstretched, while I found it strange that no one stepped forward to relieve him of his burden.
“Dear Lord Talthybius, you must be mistaken. We do not recall any past letters or demands.” Mother’s sickly-sweet tone set my teeth on edge. Aegisthus, seated on a bench among his companions and other high-ranking nobles, pursed his lips to try to suppress his laughter. A snicker escaped, drawing Talthybius’s attention. The herald glared once at him, before turning back to my mother.
At last, Mother signaled to a lady-in-waiting to fetch the scroll. She loosened the seal with a hennaed fingernail, unrolled the papyrus across her lap, but gave the contents only a perfunctory glance. Then, to my utter amazement, she stood and stepped down from the dais, trailing a cloud of perfume, and went to the hearth. I sat up straighter. Was she really going to...? But Father had sent her that letter, and he was the High King, the most powerful man in the world.
Expensive papyrus ignited over the flames, blackened and curled in the heat. Glowing cinders spun in the air. A collective murmur passed through the megaron. Aegisthus looked triumphant. Talthybius was stone-faced, but I knew his mind was working, committing everything to memory. Father would be furious when he heard what Mother had done.
Obviously Mother was not concerned with his opinion or any recriminations. Allowing the last shreds of papyrus to drop smoldering into the hearth, she announced, all mock-innocence, “We see no message.” I wilted with shame, as if her defiance tainted me by association.
Talthybius stared at her. “The High King will not be pleased with your response, my lady,” he said sternly.
“Then inform him that we are not pleased with him,” she retorted. “He knows well the reason.”
“My queen, your lord husband urges you to comport yourself with greater dignity, and send this parasite away.” Talthybius dismissed Aegisthus as he would an insect, with a disdainful flick of his fingers.
“Agamemnon would have us offend Zeus Xenios by evicting a guest?” Uttering a harsh laugh, Mother brushed past the herald to resume her place on the dais. Aegisthus wore a smug look. “For shame!”
“Gracious lady—”
Mother cut him short. “You have said quite enough on the subject, Herald. Now, we understand that you have a message for Prince Orestes. Well, let us hear it.”
Talthybius’s black glower melted into a beaming smile, and he bent the knee before me—something which no one had ever done. “Prince Orestes, you are a shining light in your royal sire’s house, his utmost joy and delight—”
“Do not flatter or lie to our son as you did our daughter,” Mother warned. Her interruption rankled. Why did she have to ruin the happiness of this moment by alluding to Iphigenia?
Talthybius ignored her. “Your father, noble High King Agamemnon, received your message. To read such words in his own son’s hand gladdened his heart.” Then he had gotten the letter! My throat went dry. “He sends his greetings and love.” Aegisthus rolled his eyes. “And these gifts.”
An attendant stepped forward with a round bronze shield and a dagger sheathed in embossed red leather. Talthybius presented the dagger first. “Prince Orestes, the High King your father claimed this from among the spoils of the sacking of Tenedos. He wishes you to have it.”
I would have stepped down to accept it straightaway, except that etiquette demanded Mother’s permission. After a tense moment during which I was not at all certain she would allow me to have the gift, she urged me forward with a curt nod.
The dagger was splendid, of gleaming bronze inlaid with gold and electrum spirals. Silver studs fastened the ivory handle to the blade; my visits to the forge had taught me to appreciate the dagger’s construction.
Next, Talthybius presented the shield, which had been rubbed to a mirror polish and decorated with an elaborate boss depicting a blazing sun. I had to stand to accept and try the leather strap on my arm; it was far heavier than the wicker and hide shields in Thestor’s workshop.
Polite applause attended the gift-giving. I caught Timon’s raised eyebrows and short nod, a subtle reminder to remember my manners. However, I had to wait until the clamor subsided before expressing my gratitude. “Lord Talthybius,” I said. “Please give my thanks to my father the High King. Tell him that I pray every day for his victory at Troy and swift homecoming.”
“I shall, Prince Orestes.” Talthybius beamed. “And he shall proclaim throughout Anatolia and the Islands, and among his many allies what a magnificent son and heir he has sired.”
“What, are there no loving and magnanimous words for Princess Chrysothemis or Princess Elektra?” Mother interjected with yet another acid observation. “Has mighty Agamemnon sent nothing for his daughters, or do his daughters mean nothing to him?”
Talthybius’s cheek twitched. “The High King sends his love, gracious queen,” he answered smoothly. It must have taken a great deal of effort for him to hide his irritation. I know I resented the allusion to Iphigenia. Wh
y did Mother have to keep twanging the subject like a broken lyre? “But he knows such delicate young princesses as his beloved daughters would not care to receive such warlike gifts from him.”
Tell that to Elektra. Although neither my sisters nor Hermione had been invited to the megaron, they knew all about the royal herald’s visit. Upstairs in the women’s sitting room, Elektra swooped like a hawk upon me, pestering me with questions, and snatching the shield from Timon to hang on her arm. “It isn’t fair,” she complained. “Father didn’t send me anything.”
“Then tell him you want a helmet and sword the next time you write,” I retorted. “He won’t send anything else.”
Hurling down the shield, she made an obscene gesture and stormed from the room. When her feelings were hurt, Elektra did not cry like a typical girl, but lashed out like a boy. Father’s failure to write had become such a sore point for her that it was fortunate she had not broken my nose.
But those gifts were mine, and mine alone. She and Chrysothemis had memories. All I had was a dagger and shield, and a herald’s message. Could anyone blame me for wanting to hoard them?
Yes, they could. Hermione waited for Elektra to leave the room before scolding me. “That wasn’t a very nice thing to say.”
“Is it my fault that Father didn’t send her anything?” I crossed my arms, refusing to acknowledge the shame pricking at me. Elektra could not help wanting news, anything she could get.
Not surprisingly, Timon sided with my cousin. “You might have told her that the king sent his love.”
“Did he?” Chrysothemis showed no interest in or jealousy over my gifts. She liked jewels and dresses, women’s handiwork and gossip. It was enough for her that Father remembered her.