Warrior in Bronze

by George Shipway

  He ignored an officious steward who inquired our names, and whispered curt commands. Menelaus and I circled the Hall in opposite directions, sidling along walls and keeping in shadows, and examined bearded faces flushed by wine. Few of the boisterous company remarked our presence; a reeling reveller forced a wine cup into my hand. We returned to the king, who shook his head.

  Thyestes was not in the Hall.

  Atreus strode to a bald-headed man who sprawled on an elmwood throne. The king unpinned his cloak and dropped it on the floor.

  ‘Atreus son of Pelops greets you, my lord Thesprotus. I have travelled from Mycenae to taste your hospitality.’

  Protuberant red-veined eyes blinked at the visitor’s creased wool tunic, earth-stained leather kilt and muddy boots. ‘Whas-sat? Atreus? Ruddy nonsense! Trying to pull me leg? My dear chap, you must be drunker than I am! Atreus never stirs without a warband at his back, and dresses in gold and jewels. Look at you! Have another drink and sober up!’

  A bodyguard in half-armour who lounged on his spear beside Thesprotus’ throne stiffened and widened his eyes. He spoke quickly to his lord, stood to attention, saluted. ‘I once served Lord Bunus at Corinth, sire,’ he mumbled, ‘and saw you there.’

  Thesprotus struggled to his feet. ‘Your pardon, sire,’ he spluttered. ‘Didn’t recognize you ... should have known ...’ He gesticulated to squires, bellowed for chairs and tables, meat and wine. ‘Please make yourselves at home. I can recommend this wine, the grapes from Mount Hymettos....’

  Atreus seated himself and accepted a goblet. His name was whispered rapidly through the crowd; men craned to see Mycenae’s king. He exchanged polite pleasantries, inquired after the harvest, the health of Thesprotus’ family. Spearing a hunk of meat on his dagger he added, ‘I understand my brother Thyestes is a guest in your house, my lord.’

  Thesprotus’ plump face sagged, the loose lips quivered. Aerope’s crime and death had been blazoned throughout Achaea; everyone knew of the enmity that sundered the sons of Pelops. Nobody wanted a part in the feud, caught like a nut between hammer and anvil - certainly not a petty lord ruling an unimportant city. When lions fight the foxes run for cover.

  He stammered, ‘Lord Thyestes came to Sicyon, sire. Now he has gone.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This morning, suddenly and in haste. I believe he returned to Elis.’

  Forewarned of our coming, I thought, despite the precautions we took. Who had sent the alarm? Copreus? The Curator? Improbable. More likely one of the guard who had seen us leave the postern, a spy in Thyestes’ pay. Inquiries must wait but, from the look on Atreus’ face, someone was going to hang.

  The king relaxed, popped pork in his mouth, swallowed and sipped wine. He stroked the arm of his chair and inspected the Hall, men talking in undertones and glancing over their shoulders, women whispering, servants moving noiselessly as ghosts, a bard quietly thrumming his lyre. He said genially, ‘You’ve been having quite a party. Some particular celebration?’

  ‘Nothing special,’ Thesprotus quavered. ‘Merely my birthday. How may I serve you, sire? I hope you will honour my humble abode for many days to come.’

  Atreus ignored this blatantly obvious lie. His gaze, idly roaming the room, settled on a trio of ladies seated near the hearth. I followed his stare. The fire lit their faces clearly. Two were middle-aged and plain, the third young and darkly beautiful. She was listening eagerly to something her companion said. Atreus leaned forward, intent as a hawk that sights a guileless mouse. His teeth were clenched, the hollows in his cheeks like shadowed caves. I wondered at his interest. An attractive wench - but several in Mycenae’s palace, both concubines and ladies, surpassed her looks by far. The king was no great lecher; and I had heard, in roundabout fashion, that since Aerope’s betrayal he seldom took a woman to his bed. Perhaps continence afflicted him, and any pretty face aroused a sudden lust.

  Idly I viewed the girl. Something vaguely familiar about the tilt of her head, the upward slant of eyebrows, the way she used her hands. Who did she remind me of?

  The cup in my hand jerked sharply, wine-drops splashed the table. Icy fingers stroked my spine.

  Of course -- Aerope.

  No close resemblance, the nose sharper, mouth fuller, face more rounded. More an elusive likeness in the way she moved and spoke.

  Atreus lifted a hand and pointed. ‘Who,’ he asked Thesprotus in a strained, unnatural voice, ‘is the woman beside the hearth?’

  The simple question shattered the Lord of Sicyon. His eyes bulged, pendulous jowls quivered, lips shuddered so much he could hardly speak. ‘W-which one, sire?’ he yammered. ‘The g-grey-haired lady is wife to --’

  ‘No,’ Atreus grated. ‘The girl. What is her name?’

  Thesprotus looked wildly around the Hall, dragged a hand down a sweat-dewed countenance. He said huntedly, ‘P-Pelopia, sire. My d-daughter.’

  A common enough name in our family. Was the shaking, corpulent fellow somehow related? I raised an amused eyebrow at Menelaus across the table. His expression froze the question I meant to whisper. He looked shocked as a man confronted by imminent death.

  Atreus said, ‘Bring her here.’

  With a kind of resigned terror Thesprotus sent a squire. The girl threaded gracefully between people and stools and tables and stood before her father, who presented her to Atreus in a voice that was a shadow of his usual unctuous boom. She bent her head and murmured formal phrases. When you saw her close you found a haunting sadness in her face, suffering in the wide brown eyes, memories of bitterness and hurt. And also, rigidly repressed, a fear of the haggard, grey-haired king whose gaze devoured her like flames.

  Atreus reached out and took her hand. He said softly, ‘My lord Thesprotus, I wish to marry your daughter.’

  Thesprotus, gulping wine, choked as he swallowed and crashed to the floor. Menelaus started to speak, changed his mind, thumped crystal cup on the table and shattered it in shards.

  ***

  ‘She’s Thyestes’ daughter, Agamemnon. I saw her often when I squired him in Tiryns years ago. He must have left her in Thesprotus’ charge when he fled. What the blazes shall we do?’

  We lay on adjacent cots in the portico, our whispers drowned by the snores of Sicyon’s Heroes. A sentinel tramped the Court beyond the pillars; starshine speckled his helmet with flashes of silvery light. The night was hot and breathless; I kicked away the coverlet.

  ‘We’ll say nothing at all. Atreus is infatuated, fallen flat on his face. If he learned the truth he might do anything - to himself, Pelopia or Thesprotus. He balances on insanity’s edge; the knowledge could push him over.’

  ‘But why Pelopia in particular? A good-looking girl, I’ll admit - but hardly a raving beauty.’

  ‘Surely you recognized the likeness?’

  ‘What likeness? Whose?’

  I slapped a whining mosquito; the little murder soothed a momentary irritation. Must my brother always be so dense? ‘Aerope’s.’

  ‘Can’t say I did.’ Menelaus ruminated. ‘You think that’s why Atreus wants to marry her? Very strange, considering how he treated our mother.’

  ‘He always adored Aerope. The Lady knows what anguish he’s suffered since. Pelopia replaces the woman he loved and killed.’

  A sleeper thrashed his arms and gabbled dream-talk. Menelaus said, ‘Too complicated for me, I’m afraid - but the results are going to be horrid. That lunatic Thesprotus! Why did he tell such a thumping lie?’

  ‘He was given charge of Pelopia. How could he betray her to her father’s bitterest enemy?’

  ‘What he has done is very much worse. Atreus intends to wed her tomorrow - unless we warn him first.’

  The sentry’s spear-butt prodded a snuffling shape that scavenged on a midden in a corner of the Court. The dog yelped and scuttled into the dark. I said, ‘No. The king might have a brainstorm, possibly murder Pelopia. His reputation won’t stand it. Even for kings there’s a limit to the female relations they kill.’ />
  ‘He’s bound to find out. I’m not the only man who will recognize Pelopia. The scandal will spread like a forest fire and someone, some time, will tell Atreus the truth.’

  I laughed without amusement. ‘Can you visualize anyone who values his life informing Atreus he’s married his niece and his enemy’s daughter? I can’t.’

  ‘What about Thyestes?’

  ‘He won’t persuade any messenger to face the king with that little titbit; and he’s unlikely to visit Mycenae himself. Thyestes is a callous, malevolent scoundrel. When he learns that Atreus has married Pelopia believing her Thesprotus’ child he’ll probably keep his mouth shut and pick the tangle over in search of some advantage he might win.’

  Menelaus made an exasperated noise. ‘What a damnable muddle! These blood feuds have a habit of embroiling innocent people. That wretched Pelopia!’ He jerked upright on the bed and smacked his brow. ‘Burn my belly and bones! She knows what she’s doing!’

  I sighed. Really my brother was sometimes a most bone-headed ass. ‘Of course. What choice has she? Tell all, and face Atreus’ fury, possibly her own death, and prove Thesprotus a liar? I bet Thesprotus has begged her to stick to his tale, and deployed the very arguments we have used.’

  ‘So. We hold our tongues and hope for the best. No point in arguing ourselves silly any more. I’m going to sleep.’ Menelaus pulled the blanket to his chin, and added sombrely, ‘I foresee a bucket of trouble spilling from this night’s work.’

  ***

  Atreus held Pelopia’s wrist and married her in the presence of Thesprotus and his Heroes. (Thesprotus later received a generous bride-price - oxen, chariots, horses and gold - a cynical twist Thyestes must have enjoyed.) The king and his bride drove to Corinth in borrowed chariots, and he lay with her that night. Next evening they reached Mycenae, and Atreus presented his queen to an assembly of nobles in the Throne Room. I saw astonished expressions, heard whispers murmured in slanted ears. Pelopia had been recognized; before the sun had risen twice the scandal would be broadcast throughout Achaea.

  Atreus that day had ten years to live. In all that time I was never certain he discovered her real identity. Certainly no one told him, but a truth universally known is hard to conceal from the person most deeply concerned. Any little incident could have given him an inkling - a change of conversation heading for dangerous channels, a stilted avoidance of awkward connotations, incautious remarks overheard. If so, he never openly betrayed his knowledge.

  I speculate on this because, as time went by, his attitude towards Pelopia subtly altered. Although his loving lacked the cheerful abandon Aerope had destroyed he was always, in the early days, kindly and attentive. Gradually his manner changed; he saw her less, avoided her company, discouraged her from dining in the Hall and confined to state occasions her appearances in public. Towards the end he quitted the bedroom they shared and slept in a chamber at the farther end of the royal apartments. Frequently he summoned concubines to his couch.

  An enduring air of sadness lingered around Pelopia, a constraint in all she said, a guarded watchful manner as though hidden dangers lurked. She seldom smiled; the vivacity I had glimpsed when she spoke with her ladies in Thesprotus’ Hall had gone for good. I believed I knew her reasons for unhappiness. I could not have been more wrong.

  Eight months after the marriage Pelopia bore a son. A bonny, bouncing baby, I was told. A pity no one strangled him before the cord was cut.

  ***

  Before returning to Tiryns I had a long discussion with Atreus and his Curator; they reminded me most forcibly that the ships being built in Nauplia’s yards must go trading overseas directly keels touched water. (Merchantmen and warships are identical in build, their functions interchangeable at the peep of a hostile sail.) Though Mycenaean ships from Nauplia already voyaged the seas from Sicily to Rhodes the commerce must be expanded and additional markets sought.

  We had arranged for Colchian gold to replace the trickle from Egypt the Hittite wars had throttled; similarly we must tap fresh sources for other products: tin from Etruria, ivory, silver and cloth from Phoenician Sidonia; and establish trading stations far to the north in Thessaly, southwards in Cyrene. Atreus assured me our mariners and merchants needed no encouragement: predatory and adventurous by nature they asked only for ships and cargoes - which the kingdom would now provide.

  I wiped my brow, and demanded more Scribes to help keep Gelon’s accounts. Hardly the kind of job, I groused, a Hero wanted chucked in his lap. Atreus said sternly, ‘This is your introduction to the business of ruling a realm. Kingship doesn’t solely consist of galloping into battle and battering your enemies to bits. Very little, in fact: Most of the time you sit on your buttocks totting up debits and credits.’

  Because my new responsibility entailed control of all Mycenaean fleets Atreus granted me the title of Master of the Ships: a style not borne since Poseidon, Gelon averred. An empty reward, I told him grumpily, for a task demanding the knowledge and skills of seaman, Scribe and merchant combined.

  We returned to Tiryns, and worked for many moons from dawn to dark. I shall not bore you with the details. Gelon and his assistants kept the accounts; I consulted master mariners, navigators and traders; chose sea-routes and destinations; sent commercial envoys - reluctant noblemen from Tiryns - to negotiate with rulers in distant lands across the seas. I voyaged myself to the nearer islands, Crete and once to Sicily; and built a second wharf in Nauplia’s harbour.

  Before two years were out Mycenae had a hundred ships at sea.

  These maritime concerns were sometimes interrupted. A warband I sent to harry Goatmen in the Arachneos Mountains returned at half its strength. The commander, a saturnine Hero nursing a bandaged arm, informed me morosely he had not only been heavily outnumbered - which did not matter much with Goatmen - but Iron Men in quantity reinforced the nomads. He showed me his shield. ‘Hand-to-hand fight on a hill, and a Dorian bounded down like a boulder loosed by a landslide. I fronted my shield to ward his slash. Look at the results.’ I fingered a cleft in the treble-hide shield from upper rim to waist. ‘I tried to parry the swipe that followed; his sword lopped my blade like a leek. Iron, of course. I didn’t wait for more.’

  The incident confirmed information from other parts of Achaea. Elis, Sparta and Argos reported increasing numbers of Iron Men stiffening the Goatmen. Chasing the hairy savages was ceasing to be a sport. Hitherto they had raided unprotected herds, occasionally but rarely attacking a carelessly guarded manor. Strengthened by Dorian allies they no longer waited for winter to descend from their mountain fastnesses. The character of the hit-and-run warfare Goatmen normally waged was changing for something more dangerous.

  Soon afterwards a hysterical runner from Lasion reported an outlying manor burned to the ground, the occupants massacred, stock driven off or slain. Lasion was in the Arachneos foothills; the town paid tribute to Mycenae; so I mustered every fighting-man available in Tiryns and force-marched through a sweltering summer’s day. The Warden had manned the walls; the gates were closed and barred. I considered these panicky precautions surprising and displeasing. Lasion is a tiny fort, the garrison small and defences weak - but fancy a citadel standing to arms for Goatmen roaming loose! The Warden received us gladly, and crowded the warband within walls already packed by husbandmen and animals from the countryside.

  I demanded details.

  ‘They came on here after burning the manor,’ the Warden said. (I’ve forgotten his name; Goatmen killed him a year or two later.) ‘Normally, as you know, they raid and run for the hills. A shepherd warned us, and judged their strength around three hundred. In Lasion,’ he added defensively, ‘I have three Heroes and fifty spearmen. So I sounded Alarm and closed the gates. As well I did.’ The Warden pointed. ‘We haven’t much of a town; they destroyed the little there was.’

  I looked at a scattering of ruined, burnt-out houses, wisps of smoke still drifting. ‘Did they storm the citadel?’

  ‘No. Stayed beyond arr
ow-shot and yelled abuse - gibberish we couldn’t understand. Then they went. If ever they try an escalade I doubt we’ll keep them out.’

  ‘How many Iron Men did you count in the pack?’

  ‘Fifty or so. Easily distinguished: short leather corselets, small round shields, bronze or iron helmets. Stand out from the Goatmen like falcons among sparrows.’

  When a citadel, however puny, was forced to close its gates, warning beacons flared in tomorrow’s skies. I recalled my experience near Rhipe, where a Goatman band of forty contained a single Dorian. The proportion had increased alarmingly over the years and indicated a Dorian emigration, an effort to settle permanently in Achaea’s mountain wilderness. If their aggressiveness was anything to reckon by they would not be content to remain in the hills for long.

  I abandoned my gloomy reflections and said, ‘We’ll chase the brutes at daybreak. Meanwhile keep your garrison standing to arms.’

  In the greyness of early morning we easily followed the trail - all warriors are herdsmen, accustomed from childhood to tracking wandering cattle or predatory beasts. The swathe the Goatmen beat was plain as a stone-paved road. We crossed the flatlands below the Arachneos foothills, left chariots under guard - Companions and twenty spearmen - and ascended steep forested slopes. Climbing rocky mountainsides in armour is a pastime worth avoiding. Even in the tree-shade I broiled in a brazen cuirass, tripped on my body-length shield, tangled the ten-foot spear in bushes and branches. Leather-clad spearmen skipped ahead; sweating, swearing Heroes clambered behind.

  A hill crest won from a morning’s toil revealed the trail -- broken twigs and flattened grass, cattle-hoof scrapes on rock -- dippping to a valley and soaring to another crest beyond. Successive ridges in forested tiers mounted to peaks still streaked by winter snow. I unbuckled my helmet strap, wiped sweat from my temples and said, ‘I’d hoped the Goatmen would camp in the hills, but they must have marched all night. Too long a start - high in the mountains by now. We’ll have to give up.’