Warrior in Bronze

by George Shipway

  ‘Your mother,’ he said hoarsely. ‘No, don’t tell me! Let me think...’ He ran fingers through his hair, golden and streaked with grey despite the comparative youthfulness his unscarred features attested. ‘Anaxibia? No, that’s another. Who was Anaxibia . ..?’

  I opened my mouth to tell him and caught, across the boisterous Hall, Atreus’ eyes on mine. He locked both anxious and angry, and beckoned imperatively. Welcoming the pretext I said gently, ‘I am summoned elsewhere, my lord. Have I your leave?’

  Like the flame of a torch plunged quickly in water his face went blank, expressionless; the tenseness left his limbs and his body went lax in the chair. ‘Leave?’ he asked vacantly. ‘Certainly. Why are you here? Ah, yes, the wine. Very passable, perhaps not fully mature; a thought too sweet for my taste. Where did you say it came from? No matter - off you go.’

  I hastened between the tables to the Marshal’s side. ‘Pour wine,’ he snapped. ‘My throat is dry as a virgin’s crotch. Where the blazes have you been? Your job is to keep my goblet filled - haven’t you been told?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ I answered submissively. ‘I was delayed in serving a gentleman yonder’ - I pointed my chin to the outer tables - ‘who asked me --’

  ‘I saw you.’ Cold blue eyes bored into my brain. ‘His name is Plisthenes. You will never, Agamemnon, speak to him again. Is that understood?’

  I nodded mutely, and tilted the flagon.

  ***

  The strenuous existence which a squire suffered under training often made me yearn for my former life - a pampered child in the mighty Marshal’s household. At the end of the day I dropped into bed and slept like a corpse; and seldom found the energy to cross the palace courtyard to Atreus’ apartments or the quarters where my mother lived.

  But I cannot honestly say I missed my mother.

  A delicate subject.

  Aerope was then about twenty-five years old, small and dark, vivacious and voluptuous and fatally attractive. Lively hazel eyes in an oval face the colour of old ivory, a flawless skin, short tip-tilted nose and wide red mouth. Her open bodice revealed imperious breasts, nipples painted scarlet, inviting the clasp of a lustful masculine hand.

  Lest sunlight darken delicate complexions many of the palace’s noble ladies lounged all day indoors gossiping and prinking, only venturing out at evening to take the air in litters or to lie on rooftop couches watching the world go by. Not Aerope. She handled the reins as cleverly as any Companion, and followed boar hunts dressed like a man in kilt and deerskin boots, galloping her chariot over the roughest going. Amid all her entertainments she found time, in successive years, to bear me and Menelaus and our sister Anaxibia: a harmless little creature who lived in her mother’s apartments and hardly enters my story.

  Aerope had forbidden us unannounced visits to her rooms since a day when Menelaus and I, both very young, trotted in unexpectedly and found Atreus caressing her in a most familiar way. We were neither surprised nor shocked; to small children the relationships of adults are both esoteric and uninteresting; but Atreus, flushed and annoyed, ordered us sharply away. We ran out, hurt and chastened.

  On the occasions, nowadays infrequent, when I visited my mother I expected to find Atreus there - and usually did. She inquired sweetly after my health, hoped I was not overworked, and exclaimed at my physique - I was growing fast and developing hard muscles. Atreus amiably ruffled my hair and tweaked an incipient beard. I answered as manners dictated and left when politeness permitted. These were duty visits, which did not altogether account for the awkwardness I felt when talking to them together, an embarrassment never sensed when I met them individually.

  Which was strange, for where else should my father be except at my mother’s side?

  ***

  A messenger driving lathered horses arrived from Tiryns with news that flung the palace into confusion. That remote, majestic figure King Eurystheus of Mycenae hastily called his Councillors to the Throne Room and, behind closed doors, debated an intelligence which was obviously disturbing. With a fourteen-year-old’s avid curiosity aroused I loitered in the vestibule until the Councillors, looking serious, spilled into the Court. Atreus came out last, walking slowly, chin in hand. His eyes lighted on my face and the absent expression cleared.

  ‘Anxious to discover what it’s all about? Well, there’s no harm and’ - he spoke half to himself - ‘it’s time you began to learn the intricacies of government. Word has come to Tiryns that Hercules sacked Pylos and killed all King Neleus’ sons save only Nestor.’

  Everyone knew of Hercules, Warden of Tiryns, who years before had left his native Thebes under a cloud, fled to Mycenae and taken service under King Eurystheus. He was a mighty warrior whose deeds resounded throughout the land and far beyond the seas.

  I said so.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Atreus sourly. ‘The king at first employed him as a huntsman, and Hercules - by nature a rover - roamed all over Achaea destroying beasts of prey. If you judged by his bragging you’d conclude that no one else had killed lions and boars before. Over the years he developed into a sort of hatchet man and troubleshooter - Eurystheus allotted him all kinds of unpleasant labours. He’s collected during his travels a ruffianly gang, scum of every description, commanded - so far as they can be commanded - by his son Hyllus.’

  ‘How did it happen,’ I asked, ‘that Hercules became Warden of Tiryns?’

  Atreus sighed. ‘The man is a robber, a freebooter, and more than a little mad. He lifted cattle and horses; and angry rulers, knowing him Eurystheus’ man, sent embassies to complain. The king recalled Hercules and, to keep him quiet, gave him charge of Tiryns.’

  ‘Yet he has managed to sack Pylos.’

  ‘He led a warband into Arcadia in pursuit of cattle raiders.’ Atreus gritted his teeth. ‘Fair enough - but he lost the rustlers’ track and instead marched clean across Achaea to attack a realm with which we have no quarrel! This is the kind of anarchy we had in olden times before Perseus branded order on the land!’

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘what now?’

  ‘The king has summoned Hercules to Mycenae to account for his invasion. Eurystheus must control the lunatic, or he’ll have a dozen rulers reaching for our throats! I wish I could devise a way of getting rid of him once for all. The trouble is,’ said Atreus sombrely, ‘the blaggard has become a legend in his lifetime, and attracts worshipping supporters - Heroes who should know better - besides his riffraff rabble.’

  A visitor three days later gave Atreus the chance he wanted.

  Journeying with a small retinue a seaman from Iolcos arrived on a rainswept winter’s day. He announced himself as Jason, a son of Iolcos’ ruling House, and Eurystheus made him welcome. He had come with a proposal which he explained to the king in Council on the morning, after a banquet in his honour. I was present in the Hall as Atreus’ squire: the Marshal insisted nowadays I attend him on formal occasions, often at the expense of my training on the Field.

  The Council consisted of older, wiser, Heroes on whom Eurystheus relied. They assembled in chairs in front of the king, while Atreus and two senior Scribes - Curator and Procurator* - stood either side of the throne, ready to tender expert advice on war or economics. Eurystheus invited the visitor to state his case.

  (* Linear-B: ko-re-te and po-ro-ko-re-te.)

  Jason was a stocky man with a neat brown beard, a broken nose and harsh storm-beaten features. His eyes were black and piercing; he had a mariner’s rolling gait and spoke in jerky sentences, wasting never a word. He brought information, he declared, about a land called Colchis, far beyond the Hellespont on the shores of the Euxine Sea. Had anyone heard of it? No one had. Very well: he wanted to mount a seaborne expedition and sail to faraway Colchis. Therefore he had come to mighty Mycenae, Achaea’s wealthiest realm, to seek silver to pay his shipwrights, supplies to stock the ship and men of courage and purpose to form the crew. Iolcos, a penurious kingdom, rent by dynastic dissension, could provide neither one nor the other.

 
; ‘What,’ asked Eurystheus benignly, ‘is the object of so hazardous a voyage?’

  Jason said tersely, ‘Gold.’

  The Council stirred in their seats. Nothing makes men jump like the mention of gold, second only to iron in rarity and preciousness. Atreus said sharply, ‘How do you know? How can you be certain there’s gold in Colchis?’

  ‘Had it from a Thracian who went there overland. Terrible journey. Took him three whole years. Lost an arm on the way, but brought back this.’ Jason fumbled beneath his cloak and produced a sheepskin pouch. He loosened the string and poured in his palm a yellow glittering sand.

  ‘There you are. River gold.’

  Eurystheus stirred a fingertip in the little heap. ‘It looks genuine enough. Atreus, send your squire to fetch a goldsmith. We’ll have this assayed.’

  When the man arrived Eurystheus tossed him the pouch. ‘Examine this thoroughly, and ascertain the worth in sheep and oxen.’ The smith squatted beneath the clerestory where the light was strongest, unfolded his scales and juggled weights, gritted the gleaming grains between his teeth and muttered to himself.

  Atreus said, ‘There may be gold in Colchis, Jason, but have you any proof there’s enough to make a voyage worthwhile?’

  ‘The Thracian’s word, no more. A river flows through Colchis to the sea; the bottom’s awash with gold. The locals peg fleeces to the bed. Wool filters the silt and traps the gold. After a time you haul up a golden fleece.’

  The Curator stooped and whispered at length in Eurystheus’ ear. The king meditatively examined his fingernails, and said, ‘I am reminded of a factor which may bear on our discussion. Achaea contains no indigenous sources of gold; we import all we have. The bulk comes from Egypt: a supply which over the last few years has been drying up because their campaigns against the Hittites absorb Egyptian resources. The situation is becoming serious: we need gold to pay for imports. So we must find alternative sources, or trade will quickly decline.’

  The audience nodded gravely. I suspect, with after-knowledge, the king’s exposition passed well above most Councillors’ heads. While Heroes cannot be faulted in questions of war and weaponry their mastery of economics is sometimes frail. But Atreus grasped the point, and said, ‘I agree. We should at least examine the Colchis deposits.’

  The goldsmith returned from the hearth, bowed to the king and mumbled, ‘My lord, the sample is pure high-quality gold, and worth ten oxen or fifteen sheep.’

  Eurystheus lobbed the pouch to Jason. ‘We will support your venture. I shall let you have warriors from Tiryns and Mycenae. Silver will be given you, and ten cartloads of corn and oil. How many ships are you taking?’

  ‘One. A fifty-oared galley. I call her Argo.’

  ‘You know your business best.’ Eurystheus looked doubtful. ‘I’d suppose you needed more. However. Have you recruited crewmen from the lands you traversed while journeying here?’

  ‘Not many. They believe it a fool’s errand.’

  ‘When people realize I’m supporting the expedition you’ll have a flood of volunteers. One condition, Jason. Half the gold you find will be delivered to Mycenae. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed, sire.’

  Eurystheus rose creakily -- winter’s dampness stiffened his joints. ‘The Council is ended.’

  I followed Atreus into the vestibule. He leaned against a pillar and scrutinized, eyes remote, the accoutrements of a sentinel who paced outside the portico. ‘Fellow’s helmet plume needs combing,’ the Marshal murmured. Then he clapped my shoulder. ‘I’ve had an idea for getting Hercules out. The moves will have to be subtle, but I believe the plan will work.’

  ***

  Jason concluded his arrangements and interviewed Heroes who volunteered for Colchis. Meanwhile an outrider from Tiryns announced Hercules was coming.

  I was engaged on the Field of War and missed his arrival. On returning to the citadel I met an entourage gathered outside the Northern Gate - and a villainous lot they looked. Diores identified some characters as we passed: Iolaus, Hercules’ nephew, a bitter-faced young man, trap-mouthed and restless-eyed; and Hercules’ son Hyllus, not much older than I, a surly youth with a brooding air. A seasoned bunch, their armour grimed and dented - not the sort of men you would care to meet in a narrow pass in the dark.

  Hercules, Eurystheus and the Marshal were closeted in conference. I learned later they questioned him closely about the Pylos escapade. Hercules, surprised and hurt, explained that his cattle-thieving quarry had crossed into Pylian territory; and during a night pursuit - typical of Hercules to go on fighting after sundown - gave him the slip and he found himself at dawn below the rock of Pylos. A quick reconnaissance disclosed a yawning gate and sentries half asleep. Cheated of his prey, irritable and frustrated, Hercules pounced on a heaven-sent gift, caught the garrison literally napping, killed everyone in sight, collected all the booty his warriors could carry and marched away, satisfied with a job well done.

  Atreus listened incredulously, met the king’s despairing look and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. They made no attempt to expound the enormity of an unprovoked attack on a friendly city: Hercules’ brain was not of the kind to unravel political niceties. Eurystheus, instead, casually mentioned Jason’s mission and suggested the dangers involved would daunt the bravest paladin: men of proven valour flinched from a venture so hazardous. Of the few that offered to serve, Jason chose only the most renowned.

  Hercules swallowed the bait like a hungry shark. ‘Why hasn’t the idiot come straight to me? I’m just the leader he wants!’

  ‘I don’t think,’ said Atreus carefully, ‘Jason is seeking a leader; he’s doing the job himself. He badly needs outstanding warriors like you - but he’s a very selective man.’

  ‘Selective?’ Hercules spluttered. ‘He can’t have doubts about me! He’ll jump for joy if I join him. It’s a chance to add to my laurels, and Tiryns is damnably dull. If you’ll release me for a while I’ll interview Jason and tell him I’m coming.’

  Eurystheus kept his face impassive. ‘It can be arranged. Come to the Hall and take a cup of wine.’

  There, relaxing in a chair, surrounded by admiring nobles, I first met Hercules. I had expected a giant, and found instead a person of middle height, almost as broad as he was long; tremendous muscles knotted a bulky body. He wore a lion skin -summer or winter he never changed - and carried a knobbled vine-staff. A shaggy man: tousled rust-coloured hair fell to his shoulders, the beard cascaded across a barrel chest, a furry mat swathed legs and arms. You could hardly see his face for all the hair, only mad blue eyes that stared between the tresses. His voice was high and squeaky, a chicken’s cackle mouthed from the frame of a bull.

  I poured him wine in a golden cup and waited close beside him: a moonstruck boy adoring a famous Hero, the remembrance of Atreus’ criticisms gone like mist at sunrise. Hercules drained the goblet at a gulp. As I refilled it I asked, in reverential tones, the history of the tawny hide he wore.

  ‘Ha!’ he squawked. ‘Have you not heard of the Nemean lion, my lad? Where have you been all your life? A monster which killed cattle, men and horses, and nobody would face him. So, naturally, they sent for me. The creature must have known I was on his track, and went into hiding. Took me days to find him. Cornered him at last on a rocky hillside, strung my bow and shot. By The Lady, the brazen barbs glanced off his hide like raindrops! I charged and swung my club; the wood splintered on his ribs. Nothing left but my hands, so I closed and strangled the brute.’

  Hercules drank deeply, wiped his mouth. ‘Not too difficult, really, for a man of my courage and strength.’

  Atreus entered the Hall, Jason rolling by his side, and interrupted Hercules’ fascinating discourse. The Marshal said, ‘Here, Jason, is the Hero who wishes to sail in Argo. I promised you’d be surprised - it’s Hercules, no less!’

  Hercules waved his cup. ‘Ho, Jason, well met! I’m told you want a champion to stiffen your force, set an example, provide initiative and guts. You’ve found him!
When do we start?’

  Jason’s face showed none of the pleasure and gratitude befitting the occasion. ‘Hercules, blast my eyes! Be damned if you step on my deck! Anyone but you! Are you aware,’ said Jason tautly, ‘that Neleus of Pylos, whose city you looted, whose sons you slaughtered, is my uncle?’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ said Hercules.

  ‘Nor I,’ Atreus murmured despondently, seeing the stratagem he had woven shredding about his ears.

  Hercules recovered his poise. ‘Unfortunate, I admit, but these things happen. Chances of war, my good fellow, chances of war!’

  Jason’s weatherworn features suffused. Atreus seized his elbow, led him aside and whispered energetically in his ear. The sailor angrily shook his head. After a long confabulation Atreus brought him back to Hercules who, between great gulps of wine, bragged loudly about a gigantic stag he caught and killed in Arcadia.

  ‘I have persuaded Jason to overlook the - um - unfortunate accident at Pylos. He agrees you should return with him to Iolcos, and voyage in Argo to Colchis.’

  Hercules belched. ‘Can’t do without me. Bound to fail unless you have the strongest and bravest Hero in Achaea to lead the way. That’s me. I’ll find you your gold.’

  He buried his nose in the goblet. Jason turned on his heel and stamped from the Hall.

  Atreus smiled contentedly as we crossed the Great Court together. ‘I had to promise Jason a sheep-flock’s price in treasure. Well worth it. But fancy voyaging to the ends of the earth on the word of a wandering Thracian! These Argonauts will vanish without trace - and we’re rid of Hercules.’ Atreus chuckled. ‘Pity about Jason, though. I like the chap. Now to dispose of another nuisance.’

  His eyes discouraged the question that trembled on my lips.