Warrior in Bronze

by George Shipway

  When the point swooped down we would go.

  The enemy’s conclave ended; warriors remounted. A lone chariot trotted towards us, oxhide frame dyed crimson, wheelspokes limned in silver, prancing sorrel stallions. The Companion wore a leather skull-cap and studded linen corselet, the Hero beside him a brazen helmet; cheek guards curved to a point at his chin.

  Atreus frowned and lowered his spear.

  The chariot reined a spear-cast away. The Hero swept his helmet off and showed his face. Straw-coloured tousled hair, a short fair beard, smouldering dark-blue eyes. ‘Hyllus son of Hercules whom Amphitryon begat,’ he called in rasping tones. ‘Alcaeus fathered Amphitryon, and Perseus Alcaeus.’ (While custom requires that strangers announce their pedigrees I felt that, on a battlefield, the rigmarole was rather out of place.) ‘I demand audience of King Atreus.’

  ‘You see him,’ Atreus growled. ‘What have you to say? I come for war, not words.’

  ‘I also. I offer single combat against any noble warrior from Argos or Mycenae. I will not,’ said Hyllus sharply, ‘fight one whose blood is base.’

  The distance between the speakers compelled both to raise their voices, so the centre of our line could hear the conversation. A surprised murmuration travelled along the ranks, horses lunged at bits, chariots see-sawed back and forth, drivers tautened reins and swore. Talthybius soothed his restive team. ‘Let’s kill the bastard now,’ he breathed. ‘Give the word and I’ll charge.’ ‘Restrain yourself, Talthybius,’ I reproved. ‘We must start the battle like gentlemen - the dirty work comes later.’

  Atreus said, ‘Lord Hyllus, any of my Heroes would be happy to cut your throat. But I see no purpose in your challenge, for we mean to kill you all. Return to your Host and get ready to die.’

  ‘Is your blood-thirst so insatiable you will sacrifice three thousand lives, your followers and mine? We’ll fight to the death, King Atreus, make no mistake. I offer an escape from needless slaughter.’

  ‘Do you mean,’ asked Atreus incredulously, ‘you’re willing to gamble the battle’s outcome and your claim to Mycenae’s throne on an individual duel?’

  ‘You heard me,’ Hyllus said. ‘Will any of your cowards dare to meet me blade to blade?’

  Heroes shouted and brandished spears, chariots surged from the ranks. Atreus faced them and raised his arms. ‘Be still!’ he thundered. He turned to Hyllus. ‘If you are slain, am I to understand your Host will retire from the field?’

  ‘If I die,’ said Hyllus tartly, ‘the sons of Hercules will not return along this road for another fifty years. This I swear on my mother’s womb. If I win, let your throne and realm be mine.’

  Atreus bowed his head in thought. At last, ‘I will consult my captains.’ He dismounted, sent a messenger to summon warband leaders, walked beyond Hyllus’ hearing. Adrastus, Tydeus and Diomedes galloped from the Argive Host in rear. Echemus of Tegea, Bunus, Alcmaeon of Midea, myself and other Heroes clustered round the king.

  He said, ‘Hyllus is the fire and fount of Heraclid dreams of conquest. We want him dead. In a general engagement he might escape - so I’ll accept the fellow’s challenge. His Host won’t honour the compact, of course, and then we can set about them.’

  I said, ‘Are you going to fight him, sire?’

  ‘Who else? It’s my throne he wants.’

  ‘Madness!’ Adrastus squeaked. ‘Why should Mycenae’s king fight a landless outcast vagabond and wager his dominion on the result?’

  Atreus stared. ‘Wager my dominion? Are you serious, my lord? Should Hyllus cut me down, directly you see me fall you’ll charge and sweep that rabble to perdition!’

  ‘Ah, yes, I see.’ Adrastus tried to scratch his armpit, met bronze and wriggled his shoulders. ‘Still, it’s out of the question for you to risk your life. Nonsensical!’

  ‘You’d do him overmuch honour,’ Tydeus snapped.

  ‘Eagles don’t fight rats,’ said Bunus.

  I took a breath and said, ‘Sire, we cannot forbid you, but I beg you to choose another.’ I looked him in the eye. ‘Should the worst befall, no one yet is ready to succeed you.’

  Atreus held my gaze, and gave a tiny nod. ‘Very well. You all seem damnably certain,’ he added irascibly, ‘that Hyllus will chop my head off. Then who will take my place?’

  ‘Let me fight him!’ Diomedes pleaded.

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ his father grated. ‘Hardly out of the nursery - Hyllus would carve you in pieces!’ Every Hero clamoured for the honour. I said, ‘It’s fitting your son should stand in your stead. You’ll find no better champion in the Host.’ I shouldered my shield and turned to go.

  ‘Stop!’ The king’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘We’ll decide the issue by trial of arms. He who casts his spear the farthest shall take his chance against Hyllus.’

  The butt of his spear traced a long straight furrow. ‘Toe this line, gentlemen, and throw when I give the word.’

  Hyllus, I suppose, watched the performance in wordless astonishment. Thirty-odd Heroes formed in line and threw their spears. Atreus walked to the weapons, some slanted in the ground, some flat where they skidded from stones. One quivered a stride ahead of the rest. ‘Mine!’ exulted Echemus. He grabbed the haft and trotted towards his chariot.

  (Did I put every bit of my strength in the cast? I like to believe so - but it’s difficult to remember after so many years.)

  ‘A moment, Lord Echemus,’ said Atreus. ‘The bargain needs Heraclid witnesses.’ He spoke to Hyllus, who galloped to his ranks and returned with two Heroes alongside: Iolaus and another. The king presented Echemus. Hyllus sneered. ‘Is this your valiant champion? Does your kingdom, Lord Atreus, depend on the spear of a dwarf?’

  Indeed the duellists in appearance provided a remarkable contrast: Echemus stumpy, dark-haired, broad, bull-shouldered; Hyllus slim and lithe, nearly as tall as Atreus, straw-haired and fair-skinned.

  Echemus growled deep in his chest. ‘My body is short but my spear is long and thirsty, Hyllus, and avid to drink your blood.’

  ‘Enough,’ said Atreus. ‘You trade blows, not words.’

  He made Hyllus repeat his vow, and testified agreement. Echemus tightened his cheek-guards, hitched shield-strap over his shoulder, hefted spear and mounted his chariot. He spoke laconically to his Companion, swarthy, tough and muscular, a replica ten years younger of himself. The chariots cantered away, turned midway between the opposing Hosts and faced each other a hundred paces apart.

  A great shout rolled from our ranks, answered by a resounding roar from the Heraclid line of battle.

  The chariots sprang to a gallop and hurtled on converging courses, offside meeting offside. Echemus tucked shaft under armpit in the old-fashioned Pylian style; Hyllus lifted his spear on high for an overhand thrust. In a sudden explosion of dust the chariots met. The Heraclid’s point scored his enemy’s shield.

  Echemus speared Hyllus’ Companion from nipple to spine and hooked him from the chariot like a fish.

  Angry yells went up from the Heraclid Host; chariots shot forward from the ranks. Iolaus whirled round and flourished his arms and ordered them back.

  ‘I’m not surprised they’re furious,’ I told Talthybius. ‘You shouldn’t deliberately kill Companions. A foul if ever there was one. They must have different standards in Tegea.’

  Hyllus cradled his spear and grappled the reins and hauled his team about in a dust-feathered arc. Echemus whipped round and darted, galloping hard, to strike his opponent’s flank. His spear was lost, embedded in a body threshing in agony, the shaft flailing like a sapling lashed by gales. He drew his sword and slanted blade on shoulder.

  Hyllus won control of his bolting horses and tugged desperately to face his foe head-on. The chariots closed at an angle, Echemus galloping belly to ground, the Heraclid barely cantering. Hyllus dropped reins and lifted his spear. The cars met wheel to wheel in a splintering crash. Echemus’ pole snapped short, his nearside stallion ploughed to the ground. In a flurry of reins and tumblin
g horses the chariot whirled end over end and flung the occupants out.

  Hyllus’ chariot swung in crazy circles, the nave of a shattered wheel gouging trenches in the dust.

  He jumped to the ground. His horses fled, dragging the broken chariot in bumpy lopsided leaps until the yoke straps broke and it scraped to a stop on its side. His shield dangled by the strap; frantically he retrieved his spear, jerked from his hand in the crash. He plodded towards Echemus, who climbed to his feet, fronted shield and waited, sword withdrawn for the lunge. His Companion, half stunned in the fall, propped himself on hands and knees in the Heraclid’s path, drooping his head and trying to recover his senses.

  Hyllus paused beside him, plunged spear in the driver’s back, stood on the spine and tugged it out. His weight drove the dying man’s breath from his lungs in a rasp like a corncrake’s cry.

  ‘Spear against sword,’ Talthybius observed. ‘Hyllus has the advantage.’

  Immediately he lost it - and I never understood why. Nobody in his senses throws heavy thrusting spears unless the enemy is shieldless or lightly armoured. Then, naturally, it pays to cast your spear before you close with the sword. Echemus peeped over a tower-shield’s rim and wore three-skirted brazen armour. Yet Hyllus halted ten steps distant, straddled his legs and balanced the spear and flung with all his strength.

  The point glanced the Tegean’s helmet and the shaft clattered harmlessly on the ground behind him.

  Echemus staggered slightly, recovered his poise and shuffled forward, one foot behind the other, each stepping in turn and feeling the ground. Hyllus’ sword hissed from the sheath, he fronted a waisted shield and crept to his left, trying to approach his foe on the unprotected side. Echemus stopped moving, and shifted stance to meet the angled attack. Hyllus came within sword-length and slashed at the bull-hide shield.

  Technically it was an interesting contest. The Heraclid wielded a short cutting sword some four spans long, while Echemus used a ribbed thrusting blade a good span longer or more. Heroes in Halls and encampments waste a deal of breath in argument as to which is the deadlier weapon - futile discussions, I maintain, since each has a different function. If you’re unlucky enough to be fighting on foot against a warrior wearing a helmet, gorget girdling neck, body cased in armour and a tower or waisted shield, then the only vulnerable part is his face: to reach this you must have a longer sword. For chariot fighting, however - assuming your spear is lost - speed and a jolting platform don’t allow accurate aim; so a damned good clout with a cutting-sword’s edge is often effective.

  Hence, everything being equal, Echemus’ rapier held the advantage - but the Heraclid was taller and had the longer reach.

  They circled each other, stabbing and hacking in turn. Shields took the brunt, and neither was hurt. I heard the thuds as bronze met hide, the fighters’ laboured breathing, saw the spurts of dust their feet kicked up, cloud-light flashing from blades. Neither could gain the upper hand; the duel became a trial of endurance.

  The opposing Hosts cheered their champions on, yelling and shouting and screaming like spectators at the games. Atreus, erect in his chariot, watched the unending struggle; the fingers of his spear hand impatiently tapped the shaft.

  Single combats between Heroes on foot are fairly rare in Achaean history and so become a theme of bardic lays. I was watching a fight from days gone by, chronicled blow by blow and sung in Halls, a contest like a solemnly stylized dance: cut and thrust, lunge and parry, slash and ward: the kind of conflict I had seen engraved on a golden goblet Atreus owned. According to the artist both duellists fought naked, their sole defences body-length shields. If the engraving depicts the truth - poets and artists care little for accurate detail - the men must have moved more freely than Echemus and Hyllus who, weighted by heavy armour, shuffled around like ponderous mobile trees.

  By unspoken consent the fighters drew apart, thrust swords point-down in the dust and leaned panting on their shields. Echemus’ horses, still yoked to the splintered chariot, peacefully cropped the sun-bleached grass; the Companions’ bodies hunched in puddles of blood. The audience’s uproar swelled, throats bellowed lusty encouragement.

  Wearily the champions grasped hilts and hefted shields and hobbled within sword-reach.

  Hyllus tried a lateral cut; his sword clanged the shield’s bronze rim. Echemus’ riposte was oddly slow, a faltering jab that ended in air. He tottered and his shield swung wide. Hyllus shouted hoarsely, sprang forward, sword aloft. Echemus dropped on a knee, gripped hilt in both his hands and thrust upwards beneath his enemy’s armoured skirts.

  The blade pierced genitals, bladder and guts. Hyllus collapsed writhing round it like a beetle spitted on a pin. Echemus dragged out the sword, Hyllus screamed in a high thin voice. Echemus put a foot on his chest, rested the bloodied point on his teeth and rammed the blade down hard.

  Hyllus arched his back, kicked legs out straight, lay still.

  The Heraclids moaned, a rasping noise like shingle raked by a comber’s backwash. Argives and Mycenaeans brandished spears and bellowed triumph. Atreus spoke to his Companion; the chariot rolled forward and halted within earshot of the stricken pair of Heroes who had seen from near at hand their leader die.

  ‘Will you honour the agreement?’ Atreus called. ‘Hercules’ son is dead. Your vow demands that your Host immediately retire.’

  Fury distorted Iolaus’ sullen countenance. ‘Your man fought foul. Companions are inviolate in battles between gentlemen. The compact is void.’

  ‘Hyllus didn’t stipulate conditions - and you know very well that that archaic convention is nowadays seldom observed. Do you mean to break your oath? The idea of the combat, I gather, was to avoid unnecessary slaughter.’ Atreus swung an arm to the serried ranks behind him. ‘If you insist on battle, Iolaus, who do you think will come off worst?’

  lolaus studied the double line of chariots, wings projecting far beyond the Heraclid flanks, the spearmen massed behind. Horses don’t stand still, they are always shifting and stamping; movement rustled and shimmered the ranks like the waves of a glittering sea, a bronze-tipped cataract poised to engulf all creatures that stood in its path.

  He turned his head and looked at his Host; and bit his lower lip so hard blood trickled down his beard.

  ‘Well?’ said Atreus gently.

  ‘I abide by the oath,’ Iolaus said in muffled tones. ‘No one alive today on this field will ever see Heraclids south of the Isthmus.’ Eyes like points of fire glared into Atreus’ face. ‘I swear by The Lady, sire, my descendants will raze Mycenae and obliterate her site from the memory of man.’

  He rapped an order. The Heraclids lifted Hyllus’ corpse and crammed it in a chariot, turned and galloped away. After much disputation, gesticulation and shouting Iolaus persuaded his reluctant warriors to observe the vow their leaders had made. Slowly the Host dispersed; the backs of the rearguard faded from sight on the Isthmus road. Atreus watched them go, his countenance still as stone.

  Adrastus’ chariot rattled from the rear and pulled up alongside the king. ‘What’s all this?’ he huffed. ‘I thought we were going to attack whether Echemus won or lost. Now you’re letting them go!’

  ‘Changed my mind,’ said Atreus. ‘All promises made by a Heraclid are made on Hercules’ behalf. And however much I dislike that bombastic, braggart ruffian he’s never been known to break his word. In our lifetime and our sons’ I believe we’ll be free of the Heraclids. For the price of three men’s lives,’ Atreus ended sombrely, ‘the boon is cheap.’

  (I always thought it a barren excuse for Atreus’ mental somersault. During one of the king’s approachable periods - rare in his later years - I ventured to ask his real reason for sparing the Heraclid Host at Corinth. ‘You don’t think Hyllus offered single combat from the goodness of his heart, do you?’ Atreus inquired acidly. ‘He saw himself outnumbered and outmanoeuvred, and tried to retrieve the situation by an appeal to ancient traditions, to the duels fought when Zeus’ sons were carving out
shares of the land. Could have made sense when they led two men and a boy apiece. Three thousand troops paraded on Corinth’s plain, and battles aren’t decided that way anymore. But Hyllus’ proposal handed me a diplomatic victory. Public opinion is very strong in our warrior society. However shifty and treacherous Heroes actually are, they all pretend they adhere to gentlemen’s codes. If the Heraclids break the pact and try to mount an invasion they won’t find a single ally, not a Locrian or Athenian, not even a swine-faced Theban. I had Iolaus pronged on the fork of Heroic honour - so why waste Mycenaean lives?’

  ‘And if Echemus had lost?’

  ‘I’d have charged directly he hit the ground.’

  ‘But ... Heroic honour ...’

  Atreus sighed. ‘I had something Hyllus hadn’t - power. Power and honour don’t share the same bed, Agamemnon.’

  ***

  There was a mighty feast in Corinth that evening. Echemus, the guest of honour, sat on the king’s right hand. I have never met a modest Hero; the Tegean was no exception. He recounted the struggle cut by cut; with every cup of wine his adversary grew bigger and stronger, his own feats more amazing.

  ‘Never thought Hyllus would fall for that old trick,’ he hiccupped. ‘Pretend to be tired and lower your guard - hoary as the hills. If I’d been him I’d have backed away, not charged like a drunken bull. Otherwise he fought damned well - doubt anyone else could have beaten him.’

  Corinth’s resident bard hastily composed some adulatory verses and sang them in the Hall. Verbose and far too long, but the tune had a rhythmical beat; I recognized Orpheus’ hand. I have heard the poem sung often since, round campfires and in Halls; exaggerations swell with every telling, Echemus’ deeds grow miraculous.