Warrior in Bronze

by George Shipway

  Disconsolate and hot, the warband retraced its steps. While crossing a fan of shale to the gully where the chariots were harboured I heard a shout and slid down the slope in a shower of stones. Companions and spearmen surrounded the chariots. Men and horses dying and dead littered the ring like fallen petals.

  ‘A rearguard ambush,’ Talthybius said. ‘Forty-odd Dorians.’ He pressed a hand to his cheek; blood trickled through his fingers from a gash that bared the bone. ‘They hid in a ravine. Waited till you were gone, then rushed us. We weren’t ready; chariots and horses dotted all over the place. They did a lot of damage before we could rally and close. We formed a circle round the chariots and fought for our lives.’ Tears diluted the blood on Talthybius’ face. ‘Your bay stallion is dead, my lord. Panicked and broke his yoke, and one of the bastards speared him.’

  I comforted my young companion, tore strips from a dead man’s tunic and bound his jaw. I counted casualties: five horses and seven men killed and twice as many wounded. Four Iron Men lay dead. I examined a long grey sword, cautiously thumbed the edge and winced from a hairline cut. A terrible weapon. It rendered our bronze blades obsolete as the Goatmen’s chipped-stone spearheads. I sheathed the sword and gave it to Talthybius as recompense for his wound. (He sold it to a Tiryns goldsmith and received ten sheep for the iron’s value. I told him he’d been swindled.)

  We rearranged horse teams (you can’t drive one-horsed chariots), loaded badly wounded men, towed the horseless cars behind and shambled back to Lasion. Our reverse frightened the Warden, who demanded reinforcements from Tiryns or Mycenae. Bad-temperedly I answered that, to judge by our experience, every citadel in Achaea would shortly plumb its resources to stem the Goatmen’s attacks. I inspected Lasion’s walls, and recommended he set workmen to increase the height and breadth, build a tower above the gate, dig a well within the citadel, construct fortified watch-towers on surrounding hills to observe the Goatmen’s approach.

  ‘You make it sound, my lord,’ he bleated, ‘as though Lasion will be permanently under siege.’

  ‘Not only Lasion,’ I said sourly. ‘Within fifty years there won’t be a citadel standing if the Dorians aren’t stopped.’

  I may have been wrong; I hope I am. Today, in effect, the Iron Men hold Arcadia. I hurried to Mycenae to impress the peril on Atreus.

  ***

  A maidservant tilted a silver jug, dripped water over my hands and patted my fingers dry on a soft woollen cloth. Squires brought baskets of wheaten bread and poured wine from golden mixing bowls. Carvers beside the hearth-fire sliced roasted pork and sirloin; a slave slid a loaded platter on the table under my nose. My dagger tested the tenderness. Satisfied, I said, ‘The Goatmen, sire, may make our outlying citadels untenable.’

  A cheerful, noisy company thronged the Hall. The king feasted Echemus, Lord of Arcadian Tegea, passing through Mycenae to visit a physician in Epidauros who guaranteed curing piles. The guest of honour, taciturn, craggy-faced, stocky and strong, sat on Atreus’ right; Pelopia on his left; I occupied a footstool at his feet. Noblemen and ladies ate at tables placed, as usual, in widening rings from the hearth, leaving a lane from throne to fireside so that the king could see the fire and feel its warmth.

  Atreus rested his head on the throne-back, and picked his teeth with a fingernail. ‘I am quite aware of the problem,’ he said, ‘and one day I shall hack it by the roots. The Goatmen alone are merely a nuisance; supported by iron-armed Dorians they’re a menace to civilization. Dorians are the people we have to exterminate. Not easy - and there’s a catch: Thebes protects Doris and encourages the Iron Men’s raids. So, to tear the roots, Thebes must be destroyed - which won’t be done by wishing, Agamemnon. Thebes ranks near Mycenae in influence and power. Our preparations must be thorough, our strategy faultless, our forces overwhelming. You can’t mount major wars in a day. It will all take time.’

  ‘Meanwhile,’ I said, ‘the Iron Men leave Doris in droves to settle in Arcadia.’

  Echemus belched and patted his stomach. ‘I agree. They swarm in the mountains north of Tegea. I hear - can’t vouch for the facts - Dorians have occupied small towns in the depths of Arcadia. May be nonsense. Sinister if true.’

  ‘For the time being we’ll have to contain them,’ Atreus said. ‘I’ve another stew on my plate which is tougher than this beef.’ He scowled at his platter and pushed it aside. ‘Those damned Heraclids are gathering at Marathon and intend to invade the Argolid. I shall have to muster a Host and beat them back.’

  I said, ‘They missed a chance after Megara when Athens ratted. Hyllus is remarkably persistent. Have they found stauncher allies?’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ said Atreus impatiently. ‘Warfare in Achaea has two causes: economic or dynastic. Sometimes the two combine. This is a dynastic war. Perseus’ blood flows strongly in Hyllus’ veins; his great-grandfathers on both sides were Perseus’ sons. Perseus in olden times held Argos and Mycenae: the blood line, in Hyllus’ view, supports his claim to kingship. I must admit,’ Atreus added broodingly, ‘from the genealogical aspect his right to rule Mycenae is better than mine: we Pelopids, after all, are rank usurpers. Hence Hyllus looks for redress by force of arms.’

  ‘Are the Scavengers,’ I inquired gingerly, ‘among their forces?’

  ‘You sound terrified of those buggers,’ said Atreus severely. ‘No, my spies say not. Thebes is having troubles in the palace: Polyneices and Eteocles, Oedipus’ sons, are quarrelling about succession to the throne. Each seeks the Heroes’ backing; neither is disposed to send warriors to war on anyone else’s behalf. Convenient for us, and long may it continue. The Heraclids -- Hyllus and lolaus - have mustered their own followers plus warbands from Athens and Locris, a thousand or so in all.’

  ‘What about Hercules himself? Isn’t he taking the field to support his kindred?’

  ‘I wish he were. The fool would insist on taking command -and make my task much easier. No. He found his way back from Mysia - after marvellous adventures and quite astounding deeds, according to his stories - and lives in Thessaly. Hercules is getting old; incapable, I hope, of inflicting more disasters.’

  A bard in a long white robe embroidered with bands of brown and yellow squatted on a stool beside the hearth, plucked a seven-stringed ivory lyre and looked inquiringly at the king. Atreus nodded permission. The bard burst into song: an epic ballad of long ago describing the taking of Knossos by Acrisius and his Heroes. The king tetchily twitched his beard.

  ‘I can’t stand this new-fangled music. Why in The Lady’s name can’t bards play decent tunes?’

  Privately I considered the modern melodies a vast improvement on those mournful dirges I remembered from my childhood. They had a swing and rhythm that set your fingers tapping.

  Echemus said peevishly, ‘I agree. Disgusting row. Can’t imagine who invented these horrible yowls.’

  ‘Orpheus,’ said Pelopia unexpectedly.

  ‘Really, my dear?’ Atreus said. ‘Orpheus? Surely not the fellow who sailed with Jason in Argo?’

  ‘The same, my lord. A wonderful composer, a superb poet. His music,’ said Pelopia dreamily, ‘is stilled forever, his lyre broken, the player dead.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Orpheus lived in Thrace, and opposed the cult of Dionysus. He taught gentleness and love instead of orgiastic revels and sacrificial murders. In revenge a sect of Maenads waylaid him in the forests and tore him limb from limb.’

  ‘Damned good thing,’ Echemus muttered. ‘No more ghastly noises.’

  ‘I didn’t know, my dear,’ said Atreus kindly, ‘you were interested in verse and music. Your father’s palace at Sicyon seemed an improbable environment for fostering the arts.’

  Pelopia folded hands in lap and retreated into silence. Atreus regarded her worriedly, shook his head and said, ‘To return to the Heraclid problem. I’m not taking any risks. Eurystheus mustered only Mycenae’s Host, advanced too far and was caught unprepared. I have sent to Adrastus of Argos for help, and will
give battle near Corinth on ground of my choice with twice the enemy’s strength. Corinth shall be the mustering place. You’ll get detailed orders later, Agamemnon; meanwhile mobilize your warband and be ready to march from Tiryns at two days’ notice. The corn won’t be cut for a moon as yet, which gives us plenty of time.’

  (Perhaps I should explain there are three campaigning seasons: early spring before sowing; summer between sowing and harvest; and autumn after harvest. You can campaign in winter; I have done it - a cold and wet and miserable business.)

  Echemus said, ‘Mind if I bring my men? I can raise two hundred spears.’

  ‘Certainly, my lord,’ said Atreus, surprised, ‘but Tegea isn’t tributary to Mycenae.’

  A grin split the coarse black beard. ‘Doesn’t matter. My warriors are sick of chasing Dorians and Goatmen. Do them good to see some proper warfare.’

  ‘I am grateful.’ Atreus beckoned a chamberlain, who called above the babble. Voices stilled. The king rose from the throne, and everybody stood. Leading Pelopia by the hand, Echemus at his side, Atreus left the Hall.

  Menelaus overtook me in the Great Court. ‘Did you find the king well?’ he asked anxiously.

  I shrugged. ‘Grim, humourless, hard-headed and sharp as a sword. An odd question, brother. You live in Mycenae: you must know his temper better than I. Why weren’t you in his company at dinner?’

  Menelaus grimaced. ‘I keep out of Atreus’ way as much as I can. Knowing what we know it’s difficult to behave normally in his presence. How did he treat Pelopia?’

  ‘Politely, kindly, as a gentleman should his wife - at any rate in public. Why not? You don’t believe he suspects --’

  ‘Not for a moment. I was only afraid Pelopia’s attempt to expose her son might have turned the king against her.’

  ‘Expose her --? I’ve heard nothing. What did she do?’

  Menelaus explained. Soon after the baby was born and the festivities celebrating a royal heir were over - the child’s line of descent led to Mycenae’s throne - Pelopia bribed a midwife to conceal him beneath bushes in the depth; of the Chaos Ravine. Fortunately - or otherwise - a wandering goatherd found the infant and he was suckled by a she-goat. Meanwhile the disappearance caused uproar in the palace. Atreus could extract no sense from Pelopia, who relapsed into a half-conscious trance and disregarded his questions. He put her slaves to the torture; the miserable midwife confessed. Search parties ranged the countryside, and found the goatherd cherishing his squalling prize.

  Pelopia received her missing son with a kind of silent resignation, as though she admitted defeat in a battle against fate; and afterwards displayed all a mother’s loving care. Although flabbergasted by his wife’s unnatural behaviour Atreus gladly believed a physician’s advice that she had been affected by the temporary madness which sometimes afflicts women after childbirth, particularly in premature births. He replaced her slaves, sent the women to sailors’ brothels in Nauplia, men to stone quarries near Mycenae, and appeared to put the episode out of his mind.

  ‘He hasn’t, in fact,’ Menelaus ended, ‘as the name he gave the brat testifies : Aegisthus means “goat-strength”.’

  I could make neither head nor tail of this peculiar story, and considered the physician’s solution valid. What else could I have done? Who could have guessed the terrible truth?

  ***

  King Atreus summoned the levies from every tributary city. King Adrastus needed no urging to mobilize his Host: he perceived the Heraclid threat as being dangerous to Argos as to Corinth and Mycenae.

  Atreus revealed the administrative genius which marks outstanding captains. Aware that troops and transport, uncontrolled, would congest the road to Corinth and cause unspeakable confusion (I ruefully remembered King Eurystheus’ march) he sent Adrastus a movement table, written by Scribes and deciphered by Argos’ Curator, which ensured that warbands from both cities, marching on different days, would not obstruct the narrow mountain roads. He went himself to Corinth and arranged with the Warden Bunus for each detachment’s reception, encampment and supplies. (Armies moving in hostile territory live off the enemy’s lands; Atreus intended to fight on friendly soil, so men and animals had to be fed.)

  I led the Tiryns contingent - twenty chariots and three hundred spears - on a leisurely, trouble-free march, and reached Corinth on the third day’s afternoon. As a Warden I was quartered in the palace; less eminent Heroes found bedrooms in the citadel; the rest, and all Companions, spearmen, grooms and servants lived in an encampment at the foot of Corinth’s mount. I met again King Adrastus, the leathery Tydeus, Leader of his Host, and Tydeus’ son Diomedes strutting proudly in Hero’s armour.

  Diomedes, bouncing with youthful zest, could talk of nothing except the coming encounter, his first affray-at-arms. I found his ardour engaging and, from the heights of experience and age (he is two years younger than I) offered sage advice, probed his Companion’s driving skills and criticized his accoutrements. ‘Your left shoulder-guard chafes the cuirass,’ I told him. ‘Tell the smith to loosen it a finger’s breadth. Why a brazen helmet? Boars’ tusks give better protection. I prefer a waisted shield myself; this tower affair can hinder your low-line thrusts. An ivory-hilted sword? Very fine and fashionable - but slippery when your hand begins to sweat. You’ll find a silver grip safer.’ I smiled cheerfully. ‘Too late to change now, but I dare say you’ll survive.’

  Diomedes absorbed my counsel like oracular commands delivered by the Selli at Dodona. Echemus of Tegea, listening to my discourse, said caustically, ‘Armour’s perfectly useless if the man inside can’t fight. Strength and skill and courage are the only things that count.’ Hard grey eyes looked us up and down. ‘Don’t worry - I believe you have all three.’

  Atreus’ scouts roved far beyond the Isthmus, and his spies in Megara and Athens informed him of the Heraclids’ strength and movements. They said the Scavengers were safely away in Thebes, and also that our Host - ten-score chariots and two thousand spears - outnumbered the Heraclids three to one. Hyllus marched his warbands from Marathon to Athens where he awaited reinforcement by a levy of Boeotian bowmen. Iolaus led a reconnaissance in force which reached no further than Sciron’s Rocks, where Bunus had stationed spearmen who drove the intruders back.

  In the meantime Atreus exercised his mingled Hosts, Argive and Mycenaean, on the Corinthian Plain. It was an unwieldy mass, incapable of doing much more than charge to the front. Atreus strove to teach the Heroes to shift ground to a flank by wheeling in threes to the right or left; tactics resulting, often as not, in colliding naves, broken poles and tangled harness. Companions who individually could turn their teams on a platter seemed incapable of wheeling round in concert. The confusion arose from inexperience; close-order drill had never been tried before.

  Hyllus advanced from Athens to Megara and headed for the Isthmus, whereupon the king took Tydeus and every warband leader to reconnoitre battle positions. He chose a line confronting the Isthmus’ narrow neck; a river secured his flank on the left, a bluff on the right fell sheer to the sea. A thousand paces of bush-pocked ground sloped gently away in front, sufficient for a charge to gain momentum; the slant would speed the pace. When Bunus, a would-be tactician, suggested our force be concentrated like a stopper on a wine jar to block the Heraclids’ deployment from the pass Atreus looked at him coldly.

  ‘Fight on a narrow front, and waste our superior numbers? You deceive yourself, my lord. I shall let the enemy deploy, then charge and envelop the flanks, cut his line of retreat and massacre every man.’

  On a cloudy midsummer’s morning our outpost at Sciron’s Rocks, hustled from position, galloped into Corinth and reported Heraclids pouring across the Isthmus. The Host was already under arms - Atreus insisted on chariots being harnessed, arms and armour donned at sunrise every day - and warbands marched to the stations Atreus had appointed. Adhering to his principle of separating spears from chariots he grouped the heavy armour in a two-rank line of battle at fifty paces’ distance, an
d placed all spearmen in a third line in support - thus preventing retinues from trailing their Heroes’ chariots. Mycenaeans held the van: Tiryns in the centre, Tegean chariots under Echemus on their right, Mycenae’s on the left. Corinth and Nemea guarded the wings. Behind them Tydeus marshalled Argos’ ninety chariots. King Adrastus’ advancing years confined him to a place in the rearmost line, where he hammered his chariot’s rail and shrilly abused the spearmen’s untidy dressing.

  I glanced along the ranks. An array of tossing horses’ heads, manes plaited in pointed locks, scarlet, blue and yellow chariots, bronze and boars’-tusk helmets plumed in flaring colours, glistening armour and tall hide shields, a forest of upright spears.

  Enemy outriders, specks in the distance, trotted from the cliff-hung Isthmus road, checked and stared, whirled round and disappeared. ‘Could they be surprised?’ I murmured to Talthybius. ‘Surely Hyllus’ spies have told him we are ready?’ Chariots in single file swung quickly right and left, formed a ragged line and advanced at a walk. Then spearmen running, Locrian bowmen and a scurry of naked slingers. I glimpsed the head of a transport column halted on the road: asses and mules and ox-carts, drovers and sutlers and slaves. Slowly and uncertainly, vehicles opening and closing on the vagaries of the ground, the Heraclids’ chariot line approached until, three hundred paces away, you could tell a chestnut horse from a bay.

  There it halted.

  Warriors dismounted and gathered in a group. They were obviously conferring, waving arms and shouting, the air so still their voices carried like starlings’ chatter at roost. Behind them climbed the Isthmus’ mountainous spine; tamarisk, pines and scrub-oak patchworked jagged ridges, precipices split the foliage like waterfalls of rock. Arrows of sunlight pierced the clouds, slashed transient gilded scars on a grey-green sea.

  Atreus moved his chariot four horses’ lengths ahead; every Hero from wing to wing could see him. A sun-ray gleamed on his armour and bathed him in fleeting fire. I shifted my shield a fraction and rubbed my feet on the webbing. Talthybius poised his whip and shortened reins. Atreus looked to right and left, and lifted his spear.