WARRIOR IN BRONZE
George Shipway
Copyright © 1977 George Shipway
Chronological Note
Scholars still dispute the chronology of the Greek Heroic Age; hence it would be a rash scribbler who ventured on definite dates. However, a distinguished archaeologist who recently excavated Troy estimated the city’s destruction by the Achaeans at c. 1270 BC, by which time their leader Agamemnon may have been in his early forties. I have therefore placed his lifetime in the years 1312-1270 BC. The Greek legends from Homer onwards, on which my tale is based, and in particular the detailed genealogies they contain, do not in general contradict this time-scale.
Maps
Chapter 1
The palace’s summer bedrooms gave on to a balustraded balcony shaded by a sloping terrace roof which overlooked the town. The balustrade’s veined marble pillars supported an alabaster parapet soft enough to be cut by the small toy daggers we wore at our belts. The rail therefore was scratched and notched throughout its length; and all our nursemaids’ scolding failed to stop an enchanting game. Nobody who mattered ever noticed; the bedrooms were always deserted during the day; except for servants we had the balcony to ourselves from dawn till dusk.
This was our playground; here my earliest memories begin.
From our eyrie the palace walls fell down like sheer white cliffs. The road which climbed the hilltop from the Northern Gate - not the Gate of the Lions, of course, which was only a postern then - curved between tiers of flat-topped houses and ended at a flight of steep stone steps leading to the Great Court’s entrance directly below. On the citadel’s guardian wall sentries looking small as flies paced the rampart walk. Broken, stony ground sloped from the base of the wall to a shallow valley thronged with houses painted yellow and red, white and blue and green like jewels spilled from a lady’s casket.
From the balcony’s height the buildings looked tiny as those small baked-clay cottages which slaves gave my sister to house her dolls. It seemed possible to lob a stone on to the farthest roofs - an illusion, as it proved. Our most strenuous throws just cleared the road beneath; although Menelaus, taking a run which bruised his chest on the parapet, once hit the guardhouse roof at the top of the steps. Unluckily a sentinel observed the whole performance; and a stern message from our mother forbade a repetition. So I never had a chance to beat my brother’s record, an improbable feat in any event, for Menelaus was always stronger than I.
Cultivated land surrounded the villages; olives and vines terraced the hillsides; sheep grazed wiry grass which bordered the forests of oak and cypress. In the crystalline sunlight of spring and early autumn you could sometimes catch a glimpse of the sea near Nauplia, a shining blade on the horizon’s farthest rim. The whole mightiness of Mycenae, we thought in childish ignorance, was spread like a gaudy tapestry before our eyes.
We were very young then - Menelaus seven, myself a year older - and could not conceive of the vast foundations supporting our family’s dominion.
The patterned floors of the summer bedrooms extended to the balcony and offered a smooth surface for games we played with ivory discs: the patterns made convenient aiming marks and goals. The object was to throw or slide your counters within the chosen goal and knock your opponent’s out. Our throws were erratic; we lost many counters which bounced between the balustrade pillars and dropped the height of eight tall men to the road below.
The disaster which struck one bright spring day had nothing to do with accident. We had tired of the game, and were leaning side by side over the balustrade, chins just topping the parapet, trying to distinguish the warriors’ evolutions on the Field of War in the distance. A chariot crunched slowly up the road from the gate, the occupants, judging from their armour, a Hero and his Companion returned early from parade The Hero dismounted, spoke briefly to his driver and began to climb the steps. He came directly below our interested faces. I juggled in my hand an ivory disc - a finger’s-breadth thick, a palm’s-width across.
The temptation was overpowering. I reached out and dropped it.
The counter struck his helmet; ivory clicked on the boar’s-tusk crest and spun away in the dust. The man jumped, lifted hand to helmet, raised his face and stared at the heads which peered at him from far above. In horror I recognized my target, and recoiled from the railing.
‘Thyestes!’
‘You fool!’ Menelaus whispered.
Neither of us dared look out again. We heard the chariot’s bronze-tyred wheels descending the path, and the guard commander’s voice calling a salute. Then silence. We stared dumbly into each other’s eyes and awaited the doom which must fall on our heads surely as leaf-fall follows harvest. In a futile attempt to hide the evidence I feverishly told our attendant slaves to gather the counters littering the floor and conceal them under a bed.
Menelaus said in a strained voice, ‘He’s a long time, Agamemnon. Do you think he didn’t see us?’
‘No. Nothing escapes Thyestes.’
We were deadly afraid of Thyestes. Everyone was. I cannot think of him, even now, without a shudder of loathing.
Footsteps clumped the wooden stairway. We backed from the bedroom in panic like a pair of frightened mice, shuffled to the balcony and pressed our spines against the balustrade. Two formidable figures crossed the floor. One, as we expected, was Thyestes; the second his brother Atreus, Marshal of Mycenae.
A gold-studded belt, drawn tightly at the waist, secured a short leather kilt and emphasized Atreus’ slim hips and powerful wide shoulders. Muscles rippled like lazy snakes beneath a skin burned oaken brown by the suns of forty summers. He was immensely tall, the biggest man I have known, taller than myself when I reached my prime. His face was sharply cut and lean, flat-cheeked and eagle nosed; yellow hair unflecked by grey curled behind his ears and caressed a beard trimmed short to a tilted point, the upper lip clean shaven in a fashion then prevailing. His mouth was thin and mobile, curving easily to a smile and as easily to a cruel knife-edged gash; deep furrows joined the corners to his nostrils. Before all else you noticed his eyes, a blazing blue beneath shaggy brows the sun had bleached near white.
He dismissed the servants, and rocked silently on his heels. I glanced once at his face, and looked quickly away, and examined miserably the deerskin boots which encased his legs to the knee. They were laced with silver wire; golden-corded tassels dangled from the tops. He carried a chariot whip, the long oxhide thong looped between finger and thumb, and idly tapped the butt against his thigh.
The tapping ceased. ‘A stone struck Lord Thyestes. Which of you threw it?’
I flicked a glance at Menelaus, who was staring, fascinated, at the whip. ‘Not a stone, father. A counter we use for our games. It... slipped.’
‘From whose hand?’
I licked my lips, and swallowed. Thyestes stirred impatiently. ‘What does it matter? Impertinent little rats! Flog them both, brother, and have done with it!’
The growling voice recalled the man, though I did not dare look at him. He had discarded helmet and cuirass and wore an armour undershirt: a sleeveless woollen garment descending to the kilt. A handspan shorter than Atreus, his bull-necked head crouched on his shoulders like a brooding bird of prey. Heavy, thickset shoulders, and muscles cording arms and legs like hawsers intertwined. Thyestes moved clumsily, lacking his brother’s sinuous grace but - as many a foeman found to his cost - he was quick on his feet as a cat. A bushy brown beard framed features harsh as wind-eroded rock. Only the eyes were sentient, deeply sunken, pale green like the offshore sea. When he was angry the pupils darkened, turned stone-grey flecked with white, twin ice-pools frozen hard.
He was angry now. My knees quivered; I was glad of the sun-warmed parapet which supported my sh
oulder-blades.
Atreus repeated, ‘From whose hand?’
‘I can’t remember,’ I muttered. ‘It was mischance. We never intended ...’
Menelaus pushed himself from the balustrade and stood shakily upright, hands clenched tight at his sides. ‘I dropped the disc, father,’ he said in a tiny voice.
I raised my head to see Atreus’ response. He might not have heard. His gaze was fixed on me; the long searching look a man gives a horse whose quality he doubts. I saw contempt in his eyes and, strangely, a flash of admiration. You could say I was overly young to read the thoughts of a man four times my age. True - but this percipience, an ability to probe men’s minds and motives is a gift The Lady bestowed on me at birth. Without it I could not, today, be where I am.
‘Insolent little swine!’ Thyestes snapped.
Atreus roused himself. ‘You aimed deliberately, Menelaus?’
My brother bowed his head. Atreus coiled his whip-thong round the handle, tightly ridging the shaft, and said briskly, ‘Right. You shall be taught to respect your elders. Turn round. Fold your arms on the balustrade, and don’t move!’
Menelaus obeyed. He sank brow on forearms, his hands gripped the parapet’s edge. Atreus moved behind him, raised the whip and slashed it down. A weal scarred the boy’s thin back. The second cut slammed a finger’s width from the first, the third and fourth criss-crossed it. Red droplets beaded the skin. Menelaus squirmed a little, and bit his wrist.
Atreus ended the thrashing, unwound thong from shaft and dropped the lash distastefully. It trailed a scarlet smear on the painted plaster. Menelaus sank to his knees, scraping his forehead on the balustrade pillars. He had not uttered a sound, but now he moaned very softly. Thyestes stepped forward and lifted a foot. Atreus moved sharply to block the brutal kick.
‘Enough, brother! The child has learned his lesson.’ He added sternly, ‘He is of our blood. Would you treat him like a slave?’
Thyestes scowled. Atreus gestured him to the stairway. As they went he said across his shoulder, ‘Call the servants, Agamemnon. See his cuts are washed and anointed.’ He paused at the head of the stairs and tugged his beard. ‘You are both growing up,’ he mused aloud, ‘too old to idle here in charge of slaves and nursemaids and tumble into trouble. Time you began your training. I shall see to it.’
His teeth flashed white in a sudden smile, and he clattered down the stairs.
I did as I was told, and sent a man for the palace physician. Then I went to my brother. He lay curled up on the floor, eyes screwed tightly shut. Tears trickled down his cheeks.
‘Thank you, Menelaus,’ I whispered.
(Several years later Atreus recalled this episode. ‘I knew perfectly well you were guilty,’ he said, ‘and you proved yourself a liar and a crook. I decided then you should follow me on Mycenae’s throne. You see, Agamemnon, a king must be entirely unscrupulous, ready at need to betray his dearest friend -even his beloved brother. I think you meet the measure very fairly - just the kind of ruler our treacherous Heroes need.’)
***
The transition was abrupt. Menelaus and I shifted quarters to the squires’ wing: long gloomy chambers, dormitories and living rooms combined, on the first floor facing the mountains. The squires under training - about twenty sons of noblemen from Tiryns and Mycenae - quickly put us in our place. All were equal here, royal offspring like ourselves no more favoured than the rest. A young Companion named Diores had charge of this turbulent gang, a stocky dark-haired man with a scathing tongue and ready whip, who stood no nonsense from cocky children.
I shall not detail the training we endured for the next four years: a rigorous routine painfully familiar to every man of noble blood. We were routed from bed in the dark and running the fields before sunrise, Diores loping in rear, his lash drawing blood from the laggards. We paused to draw breath on reaching the Field of War: an extensive stretch of level ground six hundred paces from the citadel’s gate where Mycenae’s warriors paraded. Two narrow watercourses, dry in the summer moons, meandered across the surface: a test for aspirant Companions, who had to carry them at a gallop. Here we wrestled and boxed, jumped ditches and walls and performed strange muscle-racking exercises. Later we progressed to more exciting work: weapon training, spears and swords and bows; the care of arms and armour; battle drill and archery.
One day I objected sulkily to Diores that fighting on foot like common spearmen was hardly gentlemen’s work. He forbore, for a change, to bite my head off, and said, ‘Squad -- down shields. Rest. Listen, and get this into your stupid skulls. You hope one day to be Heroes - The Lady save us! What are Heroes? They’re men of noble blood, and the best fighters in the world. A Hero leads spearmen and bowmen, slingers, horsemen and charioteers: whatever they do he must do better. So he learns to fight on foot like a spearman, shoot like an archer, ride like a scout and drive like a Companion. Which will take you years, and you’ve hardly started. At the end, if you survive, you’ll be fit to ride a chariot in the forefront of the battle where Heroes always fight. Until then you work. On your feet, scum! Take up shields!’
In the afternoons Diores herded us to the palace wine stores and taught us vintages and serving: essential knowledge for budding squires - servants handed food at meals, but wine was a gentleman’s business. Finally we observed the lords at dinner for three successive days, watching from the gallery above the Hall and listening with half an ear to Diores’ running commentary. Then he loosed us on a banquet which King Eurystheus gave to a visiting lord. I was told to attend on Atreus, Menelaus on Thyestes. We were timorous as kittens; and the brilliant scene, the noise and pageantry and splendour were no anodyne for nerves.
The Great Hall of Mycenae is sixteen paces long by fourteen wide, the floor laid out in patterned squares, red and yellow, blue and white. A charcoal fire burns day and night throughout the year on a circular hearth in the centre where food is cooked. Four fluted wooden columns frame the hearth and support an opening in the ceiling which a gallery surrounds, all roofed by a clerestory whose windows admitted light and air and allowed the smoke to escape. A single massive portal closed by brazen-plated doors led to the vestibule and portico beyond.
Brilliant painted patterns blazed from every handsbreadth of the ceiling; lions hunted stags along one wall, the figures large as life, colours flaring from the plaster. On another men in chariots drove to war, armour yellow-gold, horses paired in white and black. Winged dog-headed monsters flanked a red-veined marble throne and headed twin processions of birds and beasts and butterflies: an iridescent riot which seemed to live and move.
Torchlight shivered stars from crystal and silver and gold; the air was scented with charcoal smoke, roasting meat and wine. Squires filled silver flagons from a wine store adjoining the vestibule and threaded a way through tables and gesticulating men: two hundred bare brown bodies gleaming with perfumed oil, bedizened with golden bracelets and necklaces and gems - a job that required a dancer’s poise and a steady hand. You also had to dodge the foraging dogs: fast, heavy Molossians which Heroes kept for hunting, willing to tackle anything from a stag to a charging lion. Meanwhile Diores, from a seat near the door, watched like a falcon and counted each drop we spilled.
Nobody noticed the squires except when he wanted a drink. I kept - my primary duty - the Marshal’s goblet abrim; but any lord, as I passed, could demand I filled his cup. Edging between outer tables on a journey from the wine store I felt fingers pluck my kilt and paused to do the bidding of the owner: a man whose body was white as a woman’s. I saw his face in profile, hollow-cheeked and thin, features finely cut, a short fair beard. A Hero or Companion - no lesser mortals dined in the Hall. A resemblance to someone I knew flitted across my memory and escaped in the general din. He tapped his empty cup, and smiled.
I stooped to obey his order, and glimpsed the opposite side of his face. From jawbone to temple the cheek was smashed and sunken, the skin grey-white and crumpled. His right eye, fixed and glazed, stared blindly from
deep in the socket. The beard straggled limply across this frightful scar, like grass struggling to survive on barren ground.
I averted my gaze and filled his cup, a crystal goblet engraved with running hounds. He said, ‘A paler wine than I last was served. What is the vintage?’ He spoke softly and slowly, and hesitated between words as though he had to drag them from deep recesses in his mind.
‘From Attica, my lord, and ten years old.’
He sipped, and rolled the liquid on his tongue. ‘Full and mellow, perhaps a trifle sweet.’ I waited, flagon in hand -according to Diores’ lessons I could not go till he gave me leave - and wondered who he was. I knew by sight the household nobles and nearly all who lived outside the citadel: they constantly came and went within the palace. Not this one and I could hardly have failed to notice his ghastly appearance.
He said, ‘What is your name, lad?’
‘Agamemnon, my lord.’
The good eye widened, a spasm twitched the unmarred side of his face. ‘Indeed? An uncommon name. Surely I know it ... you must be ...” His fingers stroked the pitted scar; furrows creased the forehead above the eye that searched my face, the other brow stayed smooth, unwrinkled - a most disturbing phenomenon. ‘Impossible,’ he muttered. ‘You’re too old. Or too young. So hard to remember. The years run together like streams in spate, the waters flow so fast I see no more than a blur. You should have a brother, boy, a brother. Tell me...’
‘Yes, my lord: Menelaus.’
‘That’s the name, that’s it! All is coming back!’ He spoke feverishly, stuttering, groping for words. His hand reached out and gripped my knee. Diores had warned me that amorous gentlemen heated by wine often tried to fondle personable squires waiting beside the tables; unless I was bent that way I had best leave swiftly on urgent errands. I did not draw away. No lewdness existed here, only an urgent excitement betrayed by the working face, by sweat drops beading his cheeks. None the less I felt embarrassed. The man was decidedly odd, and I wished he would give me permission to go.
Warrior in Bronze Page 1