Mycenae established a regular trading connection, bartering bronze, slaves, wine and fleeces for corn: after every harvest a train of ox-drawn wagons laden high with grain trundled from Boeotia to Mycenae. But for three years past, the Marshal grumbled, the convoys returned half empty and the agents full of excuses that Theban bailiffs invented: a poor harvest, exceptional home demand, diverting supplies to a famine in Thrace - and so on.
‘Hercules,’ said Atreus sourly, ‘is the original cause of the trouble. His attack, years ago, on Orchomenian tribute gatherers started a war which ended in Theban victory. Now Thebes controls the Copaic cornlands and imposes blockades at will.’
I swallowed a sigh. The Marshal was off on a lecture, one of several about politics and economics he had inflicted on me lately. It was wise to feign interest: his way with inattentive youngsters tended towards brutality. I said, ‘Surely very shortsighted? Why? We’ve never warred against Thebes.’ - ‘Don’t you know any history? Sit down, lad, sit down! Don’t stand there like a cornfield dummy planted to scare the crows! Thebans are foreigners, outlanders. Cadmus came from Phoenicia, and alien blood flows thickly in the veins of his descendants. Always they’ve been hostile to their neighbours, always ready to foster dissension, do us harm. They are insatiably ambitious, and aim at dominating the whole of Achaea. Their hobby and pleasure is sodomy, a vice imported by Cadmus which flourishes like a poisonous weed in the decadent climate of Thebes. They’ve actually raised a chariot squadron manned entirely by buggers, calling itself the Scavengers - The Lady preserve us! - which does nothing but train for war. We have pederasts in Mycenae, I’m sorry to say - but nobody holds it a social virtue, and if you’re caught in the act you get impaled!’
The Marshal paused in his diatribe, and added darkly, ‘I shouldn’t be surprised to hear those Thebans help the Goatmen in every way they can. Your Dionysus may be bogus - but the real one came from Thebes!’
Atreus surged from the bath, a wave of water raced across the tessellated floor. A woman wrapped him in soft woollen sheets and dabbed his body dry. ‘Those greybeards of the Council suggested an ultimatum. I persuaded Eurystheus to think it over and give a decision tomorrow.’
I said, ‘Ultimatum?’
‘Yes,’ said the Marshal, scowling. ‘The idiots think we’re capable of making war on Thebes. Half haven’t seen the place. I have. Immensely strong fortifications, a curtain wall so long it warrants seven gates. It can draw on all the resources of a rich and fertile country. I don’t say the citadel can’t be taken - it can - but it needs thorough organization and the military support of all the allies we have. Now is not the time: Mycenae has other troubles simmering in the stew. Pylos for one: another heritage that scoundrel Hercules bequeathed. I hope Argo tips him overboard and drowns him!’
Skilful stroking fingers massaged the Marshal from forehead to feet; an aroma of scented oil pervaded the steamy air. ‘Pylos,’ he growled, ‘is preparing for war. Neleus saw his family killed and his city sacked by a rogue he regards as King Eurystheus’ hit-man. He doesn’t believe that Hercules acted without orders - and who can blame him? The ruffian has done some unspeakable jobs for Eurystheus in his time! I hear Neleus is expanding his fleet - Pylos, by her situation, was always a maritime power - and intends to raid our seaboard. He’ll do a lot of damage, and we shall have to retaliate: overland, of course, for we can’t face the Pylian galleys. Marching a Host through Arcadia is no damned joke! And who the blazes wants a war with Pylos?’
Atreus traced his toe on a floor-tile’s zigzag pattern. ‘That’s not all. The Heraclids are busy. Iolaus and Hyllus are concerting an alliance with Athens in the hope of getting support for an invasion across the Isthmus. Athens doesn’t much matter: a bunch of yellow-bellied rats. But you can bet your bracelets they’ve also consulted Creon, Regent of Thebes, and he’s not the man to miss an opportunity. I foresee a thrust on Corinth and an attempt to invade the Argolid - and not too far in the future.’
‘So,’ I said sagely, ‘as Mycenae faces a war on two fronts an expedition against Thebes is obviously out of the question.’
‘At the moment, yes. Sooner or later Thebes must be destroyed - but we must choose our time and not loose arrows from half-drawn bows. Neither a Pylian nor Heraclid war,’ said Atreus savagely, ‘will fill our depleted granaries. Already we import all the corn they can spare from Egypt and Crete. The Curator says we’re heading for famine within a couple of harvests if we don’t break the Theban blockade or find a new source of supply.’
‘Does one exist?’
‘It does. I suggested to the king in Council we annex Midea and Asine.’
Atreus interpreted. Midea stands inland midway between Argos and Mycenae; Asine, its port, lies on the coast a half day’s journey distant. The land enclosed between them, notably fertile and bearing heavy corn crops, made Amphiarus of Midea a very wealthy man. Hence, though Mycenaean rulers from Perseus on had cast covetous eyes on the pair, none hitherto had ventured to attack them. They remained an irritation, like a thorn adrift in your boot; and because of their strength were bold enough to loose occasional forays on the cattle herds of Tiryns.
‘But that,’ I exclaimed, ‘means yet another war!’
The woman draped a robe around his shoulders; Atreus pulled it close and sat on the bench beside me. ‘Not necessarily. I have a plan which I believe will do the trick. Highly unorthodox, and the trouble will be to extract the king’s consent.’ Atreus sighed. ‘Eurystheus, I’m afraid, has a very conventional mind.’
A slave removed the drain plug, water gurgled in the runnels. ‘I feel much better. Nothing like a good sluice.’
Pensively I contemplated the red bath, and agreed. ‘But,’ I added, ‘I always get a strange sensation whenever I sit in that tub - a feeling of terrible danger. Quite without reason - and I can’t think why.’
‘Nor I,’ the Marshal said. ‘Safest place in the palace!’
***
Although Atreus often confided to me his reflections and ideas - and never asked my opinion - I was of course not present at the private consultations between the king and his Marshal. Atreus summarized the interview for me afterwards. Eurystheus flatly refused to sanction his proposal. Ludicrous, he stated. It had never been done before, and that was enough for him. Atreus persisted; Eurystheus then suggested discussing the plan in Council, and was delicately persuaded that secrecy was vital. At last the attractions - if not the feasibility - of the project dawned on the king: it was just the sort of venture fit for Heroes; and he insisted on a condition that, if he accorded leave, he personally must lead the expedition. Doubtless he saw himself, in the evening of his days - Eurystheus was then past fifty - wallowing in the glory of a feat the bards would sing for years to come.
Atreus hid his dismay. He had promised the plan was bound to succeed; he could not now dissuade the king by dwelling on the consequence of failure. Instead he emphasized the physical hardships involved and swore that, barring himself, not a warrior over thirty would be included in his force. Eurystheus saw reason - you don’t become king of Mycenae without hard-won recognition of the realities of war - and reluctantly gave consent.
The Marshal’s thorough preparations disclosed to me the genius which won him his high position. In a late autumnal dawn I drove him from Mycenae on the road that led to Argos. The travelling chariot he had ordered was a battered, rickety vehicle, the horses low-bred hairies; we both wore shabby clothes; a mysterious rope-knotted bundle reposed on the chariot’s floor. When the road forked to Midea he directed me to a gully and stopped on the bank of a brook that was bordered by alders and aspens. Atreus dismounted, untied the bundle and dressed himself in a soiled linen tunic, a patched cloak and a strap suspending a leather box of the kind that pedlars carry. A floppy ferret-skin hat completed the disguise. He knelt beside the water and smeared mud on face and arms and legs, disarrayed his beard and said, ‘How do I look?’
I had watched these preparations in goggle-eyed astoni
shment, and could only stutter. He flipped the box open and displayed a jumbie of trinkets and carved bone figurines of the kind that women buy for offerings at The Lady’s shrines. ‘Personal reconnaissance, Agamemnon - essential for a hazardous venture like this. Stay here and keep under cover. If some wandering herdsman finds you, cut his throat. I shall be back before dark.’
He smiled broadly and shambled away, crouching on a staff to reduce his commanding stature: an itinerant pedlar wandering from town to town to scrape a living. I unyoked and tethered the horses, propped the chariot on its pole and wrapped myself in a threadbare cloak: it was cold in the shade of the trees.
The sun crept slowly across a cloud-fleeced sky. Sheep bells tinkled remotely, a shepherd’s distant piping was a threadlike whisper of sound. Nobody came near. I tramped to and fro on the bank of the rill to keep myself warm, and wondered what I would say to the king if his Marshal failed to return. When the sun touched the rim of the farthest hills I put the horses to and waited in gathering dusk, trembling with cold and misgivings.
Atreus entered the grove, discarded his leather box and jumped into the chariot. ‘Off you go, Agamemnon, to Mycenae as quick as you can!’ He sounded gay and confident. ‘A very successful trip - had a good look round and learned what I wanted. Learned something else as well: I’m a most persuasive huckster - sold nearly all my stock! Perhaps I’m in the wrong job! Dammit, boy, you’re cold as an icicle! Here, take a pull at this.’ He handed me a bulging wineskin. ‘Payment for a necklace I flogged to a housewife as genuine silver. They’re a gullible lot in Midea!’
He spoke no more during the nightbound journey except, when we saw Mycenae’s shadowy bulk, to say in a sword-edged voice, ‘You will tell no one of our expedition, Agamemnon, do you understand? Nobody at all!’
During the days that followed I expected a call to arms, an assembly of the Host - and found myself mistaken. Atreus warned a number of palace Heroes, all young and proven in battle, to be ready for a foray against Stymphalos, a troublesome nest of robbers on the borders of Arcadia, and gave similar instructions to certain selected lords of Mycenae’s home demesnes. The Marshal was obviously collecting a handpicked force: the toughest and the bravest of all Eurystheus’ Heroes. At the end he had chosen fifty, and said he did not require their retinues of spearmen.
‘Are you proposing, my lord,’ I said incredulously, ‘to throw a handful of men against a fortress like Midea?’
‘Just that,’ he said cheerfully. ‘And we won’t take chariots either, so Companions are superfluous. Which includes you, Agamemnon!’
I protested violently. ‘Whatever you intend, my lord’ - and not a soul except himself and, presumably, King Eurystheus knew what he did intend - ‘my place is at your side. I’m eighteen years of age, as strong and deadly a man-at-arms as any you’ve picked. Am I never to have a chance to prove myself in battle?’
I was near to tears. After a long pause Atreus said, ‘You’re a loyal and faithful creature, Agamemnon - and I see your point.’
‘Very well. Tomorrow we’ll start training. You’ll have to sweat, my lad!’
Atreus spoke truth. For fourteen grinding days the chosen band of fifty exercised on the Field of War, running, jumping, hurling discs, wrestling and fencing. He forbade spears, the regnant weapon in battle. ‘Unnecessary for your task,’ he said obscurely. ‘Come on, get moving! You’re horribly unfit, you gaggle of flab-muscled farmers!’ A smile purged offence from the words - you can’t treat Heroes like fledgling squires. He also prohibited armour and heavy shields, those tall half-cylinder towers or waisted walls of hide which distinguish Heroes in war. Instead he issued leather corselets and light round targes of the kind that spearmen carry. The company wondered, and argued a little - but it’s hard to argue with Atreus.
Every second day he led the men on a fast long-distance march across the roughest tracks and steepest hills in the neighbourhood. This almost caused a mutiny. Heroes ride to war and ride in battle: they see no point in walking when chariots stand in their stables. Some complained. Atreus said icily, ‘The king has so commanded - do you question his authority?’ Visions of forfeited estates floated before rebellious eyes, and the rumbles subsided in silence.
At the fortnight’s end he tried them higher by taking them out at night. Warriors are accustomed to moving around in the dark, herding flocks and hunting strays in nights as black as a Theban’s heart. But no one had hitherto bothered to move noiselessly in the dark, which now became the object of the Marshal’s stringent training. He chose the stoniest hillsides, and swore like a master mariner when a boot sole scraped on rock or a pebble clattered the slopes. We began to see the reason - though not the eventual object - for his interdict on armour and cumbrous shields: you can’t climb hillsides quietly in accoutrements meant for chariots. So, dressed in helmets, corselets, short swords and round hide shields, fifty sweating warriors learned during moonless nights to mount boulder-littered slopes as silently as mice.
I began to have an inkling, then, of what Atreus intended, and the realization hit me like a blow between the eyes.
Nobody fights at night: an idea unprecedented in all the annals of war. (I do not include Hercules’ night pursuit to Fylus. Sheer opportunism - and anyway the man was a maniac.) Atreus’ purpose dawned slowly on his warriors - Heroes, by and large, are never lightning thinkers - and one or two started to mutter.
Atreus looked them over. They saw the menace in his cold blue eyes, and the mutterings ceased.
Winter advanced her vanguards, gales and rainstorms scoured the land. On a particularly vile afternoon - clouds scudding across a lowering sky, wind howling over the mountains - Atreus led his party out on yet another exercise - or so everyone imagined. We crossed the hills on cart tracks leading south until, at the fall of a stormy night, we reached an outlying manor on Mycenae’s farthest borders held by an elderly nobleman. Here, surprised and perplexed, we gladly halted. Torches lighted the Hall and meat and bread and wine stood ready on the tables. ‘Eat up,’ the Marshal said. ‘You haven’t long.’ Rain-sodden warriors devoured the victuals and crowded round the hearth-fire: the night was chilly besides being wet. Meanwhile Atreus, chewing a leg of mutton, watched servants heaping rubble in a corner of the Hall. Squatting on his haunches he arranged pebbles on the top like a toddler building houses in his playground. The audience gazed in amazement; behind the Marshal’s back a Hero solemnly tapped his forehead.
Atreus rose and slapped dust from his knees. ‘Gather round, gentlemen. This mound represents Midea, which we will occupy tonight. Here is the citadel crowning the top of the hill. From the foot a track just passable for wheels winds thus’ - his sword point traced a crooked line - ‘to the main gate - here. An easy approach - and under observation top to bottom from the gate. We shall not take it. At the side directly opposite a postern pierces the walls - here. There’s no pathway to the postern, and the hillside below is decidedly steep. That is the route we will follow.’
Only the roar of wind on the rooftop broke a stupefied silence. Atreus smiled genially.
‘The wildness of the night will cover our approach, but when we start to climb go quietly as worms. I shall lead, you follow in single file, each man touching the one in front. A spearman in my pay has drawn the postern’s bars. When we’re inside the walls you, Imbrius, with Cteatus, Philetor and Peirus will mount to the rampart walk and go right-handed killing any sentinel you meet. You, Pylaemenes ...’
Sketching the routes on his model, Atreus detailed every man by name: parties to sweep the ramparts clear, seize the main gate guard tower, occupy a bastion which jutted on the east. He himself would lead a twenty-strong detachment to the palace, cut the sentries down and capture Amphiaraus. ‘I want him alive. Whoever else you have to kill, don’t harm a hair of his head!’
Atreus repeated his instructions and ensured that every Hero understood his part. He stood and settled the helmet firmly on his head. ‘Can’t see the stars on a night like this, but i
t must be nearly midnight. I intend to take Midea before the break of dawn. So, gentlemen, let’s march!’
We filed into the dark. A rain-gust slapped my face, the gale snored past my ears. We followed our confident leader on a stony invisible pathway which only he could see.
***
A flickering light in a byre where some farmer, perhaps, attended a calving cow betrayed the little town that clustered at the foot of Midea’s mount. Atreus skirted it widely, trudging miry fields that squelched dismally underfoot. The citadel-crowned eminence loomed blackly from the night. The Marshal changed direction; mud yielded to boulders and rock; the ground began to climb. Atreus halted and waited while the warband closed around him. He called the roll, pitching his voice to clear the moan of the wind. Footsore, weary, rain-soaked Heroes answered their names. (Perhaps they recognized, then, the wisdom of those unpopular long-distance marches.) Everyone was present except a warrior who had tumbled in a ravine and broken a leg; and some idiot lost in the dark. ‘Right. Form single file. Follow close!’
I tracked Atreus a step in rear. For a hundred paces or so the slope was fairly gentle; then the steeps began. I crawled round enormous jagged crags, scrambled over smaller boulders, slipped on screes the winter torrents gouged. Thorn scrub whipped from the dark and clawed my face and legs. For most of the way, shield slung aback, I crept on hands and knees. The climb seemed endless; every sinew ached and my chest heaved like a bellows. I heard during lulls in the wind-blast the scrape of feet and painful gasps from the men who clambered behind me.
Atreus, barely visible in front, made no sound at all.
I bumped his back. He hissed in my ear, ‘Stand still!’ Like sable curtains draping the dark the walls of Midea reared from the crest. The Marshal felt his way along huge rain-slippery blocks. The man behind me hauled himself up and started to mouth a question. I clapped a hand on his teeth.
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