I wonder whether, in ages to come, poets will recite huge lies about me?
Next morning Atreus drove a queasy, blear-eyed Bunus to the Isthmus’ neck where it joins the Corinthian Plain. He demarcated a line eight thousand paces long, and commanded the Warden to build on the line a wall from shore to shore. The wall would be twenty feet high, a tower at every hundred paces, a fort in the centre and one at each end. ‘Set every slave you have on the work,’ said Atreus. ‘I’ll send you more from Mycenae. The wall will be finished within two years - or Corinth will get a new Warden.’
Bunus blinked, and massaged throbbing temples. I said, ‘You told Adrastus, sire, you accepted Iolaus’ promise. If so, why raise these massive fortifications? No one except the Heraclids threatens Mycenae.’
‘Their terms have a limit - fifty years. I build for posterity, Agamemnon, against the day the Heraclids return.’
The huge grey stones are standing now, a barrier pierced by a single gate, watch-towers manned day and night, forts garrisoned by spearmen. Wasteful in troops and stores, and nobody dreams of attacking the wall. I often wonder whether it’s worth the expense. The Heraclids have settled in Doris - native Dorians nowadays live mostly in Arcadia - and give us no trouble.
With Thebes and Troy destroyed and Heraclids contained perhaps I shall evacuate the Isthmus Wall. Perhaps.
Chapter 6
Soon after Hyllus’ death I received disturbing reports about threats to our overseas trade.
Piracy is an ancient profession and has a respectable history. When your ships on a trading voyage seize a galley more weakly manned or land to sack a village and capture slaves you call it tapping new markets; when somebody does it to you the crime is condemned as piracy. So long as the practice is kept within bounds losses and gains are roughly balanced - but things get out of hand when inconsiderate ruffians make piracy a whole-time occupation.
This was happening now; and the offenders came from Crete of all unlikely places.
Gelon says that in ages past, before the kings from Egypt landed, Crete had ruled the seas. After Zeus’ forbears conquered the island they maintained Crete’s naval supremacy until Thera’s devastation destroyed their ports and ships. Zeus crossed to Achaea, and afterwards Phoenicians ruled the waves. Knossos, however, revived, and under Minos - a Cretan royal title; similarly Pylos calls her rulers ‘Wanax’ - defeated Phoenician fleets and gradually restored her ancient maritime mastery.
In Achaea her resurgence passed unnoticed: Zeus’ sons were busily establishing their kingdoms, fighting the natives and one another for shares of the land. Around Acrisius’ time, when life had settled down, they found Cretans raiding Achaean coasts and waylaying ships.
Such maritime bullying was more than Heroes could tolerate. Acrisius mounted a seaborne invasion, chose a time when Minos had taken his fleet to wage war on Sicily, landed unopposed and burnt Knossos to the ground. The Sicilians slew Minos and sank his ships; so Acrisius had no difficulty in placing Asterius, an Achaean noble, on Knossos’ throne and thenceforth ruling Crete as a tributary kingdom.
Asterius placated native Cretans by assuming the Minos title; then raided a Phoenician town and carried off Europa, a local chieftain’s daughter. From these two spring the Cretan Royal House. The ruling Minos, third since Asterius and an aged man who sired my maternal grandfather Catreus, was therefore Achaean by blood. Though Mycenaean hold on Knossos loosened over the years, and tribute has been remitted, he naturally kept on friendly terms with his powerful Achaean neighbours.
Hence, when a battered penteconter - a twenty-five-a-side oared galley - limped into Nauplia’s harbour and her master related a running fight against ships undoubtedly Cretan I found it hard to believe him.
Other sources confirmed his story. Survivors described a roving Cretan squadron raiding islands lately colonized by settlers from Mycenae. Ships voyaging on the Rhodian route mysteriously disappeared: a surviving crewman swore the enemy Cretan. I reported the tales to Atreus, who sent an embassy to Minos protesting against his seamen’s depredations.
Minos denied responsibility. He said a band of pirates occasionally used Malia as a base - a shanty town arisen on the ruins of a city the earthquake waves engulfed centuries before. He had sent warbands to evict them; but the pirates embarked at sight of a spear and fled beyond the horizon.
Atreus summoned me to hear his delegates’ reports. ‘All very unsatisfactory,’ he declared. ‘Minos, if he wanted, could easily crush the nest. They probably pay him a share of the loot for beaching their ships at Malia, and the king makes a nice little packet.’
I said, ‘Shall I take a squadron and burn the place?’
‘Nothing much to burn, from what I hear - a scatter of huts among fallen stones. Besides, Minos would certainly take umbrage, and we don’t want to start a war. Knossos can launch a powerful fleet.’
‘By all accounts the pirates have only three galleys. With your approval, sire, when next I hear of a strike I’ll sail a triaconter squadron - six fast ships - and try to intercept them.’
‘Yes. You may be lucky. Blasted nuisance, though - six ships less on the trade routes.’
I returned to Tiryns, and hadn’t long to wait. One of our galleys beaching at Cythnos found a fire-wreathed town and three sails disappearing in sea-mist on the skyline. A dying fisherman confirmed the raiders Cretan. (You can always tell a Cretan by his accent: they speak our tongue with guttural intonations derived from the native language.) The news was two days old. I launched my triaconters and, hoping the pirates were heading for Malia, set a course for Melos in hope of cutting them off. Thanks to a following wind we reached Melos four days later, and saw not a sign of a ship except a peaceable galley from Troy.
Hunting pirates at sea is like searching for an amber grain in sand. They might be anywhere. In spring-bright days we cruised across sunlit seas, sailed from island to island and landed to make inquiries. At nightfall we hauled the ships ashore and lighted driftwood fires to cook our meals, afterwards reposing on soft warm sand, sipping from wineskins and watching the stars swing slowly across the heavens. A carefree life untrammelled by conventions governing life in citadels : no audiences or parades or ceremonial dinners, no Scribes or stewards or slaves, my sole attendant a fourteen-year-old squire called Eurymedon.
Nowhere did we find word of Cretan pirates. We sailed round Naxos and put in at a shelving, sheltered strand where ships could be safely beached - not so easily come by on these rocky island coasts. A large fishing village clustered round the haven, boats bottoms-up on the beach, nets spread out to dry, a penteconter tilted on her keel. The appearance of a six-ship squadron roused frenetic activity: spearmen ran to guard-towers and gathered on the shore, women and old and young hastened towards a rock-built fort on a hillside above the town. In those days Mycenae’s maritime grip had hardly begun to close; no dominant power ruled the sea; coastal settlements constantly feared attack.
Within six years I made the seaways safe.
The rowers of my triaconter - Aithe was her name - backed water beyond arrow-shot; her leather-lunged master bawled our identity and asked permission to land. Rowers grounded keels, jumped overside and hauled the hulls ashore. I splashed to the beach, greeted a grey bearded elder clad in a leather cuirass which drooped on his skinny frame like a windless sail, and shortly related our mission. No - he had neither seen nor heard of Cretan pirates.
The stranded penteconter was being prepared for sea. Crewmen ran the hull to the water, put mast and sail aboard, fixed pinewood oars in leather slings, waded waistdeep carrying victuals - bleating foot-tethered goats, corn sacks, bulging wineskins. A man in a calfskin kilt directed operations from the beach. Intending to ask news of our elusive pirates I crunched across the shingle, introduced myself and politely inquired whence they had come and whither they voyaged.
‘From Amnisos in Crete,’ he said. “We sail for Athens. I am Theseus son of Aegeus son of Pandion.’
The Hero I had chased at the Battle of Megara
. Short, deep-chested, muscular. A countenance all features: bulging forehead, beaked thin nose, a gash for a mouth and square blunt chin. Grey wideset eyes; sun-bleached hair and beard. No longer a youth; past thirty, I guessed.
He had not recognized his late opponent, nor I him: helmets and battle-excitement blur your enemy’s face. I thought it tactful not to remind him, and offered a share of my wineskin.
We sat side by side on the sand. Theseus described a journey to Knossos where he had sought remission of a tribute Athens paid. ‘An iniquitous imposition,’ he declared, ‘which dates from an unfortunate accident years before I was born. One of Minos’ sons visited Athens to compete in the annual games - the man was a notable athlete - and got himself killed in a robbers’ ambush. Minos in revenge disembarked a warband, raided Megaran territory and ravaged Attica. We can’t mobilize much of a Host,’ Theseus admitted, ‘so my father agreed on a stiff indemnity and a nine-yearly tribute of slaves. I accompanied the last consignment and tried to persuade Minos that Athens had paid enough compensation for a killing not her fault.’
I remembered tales of the episode, and knew Theseus lied: politics lay at the root of a deliberate slaying. Minos had sent his son to encourage Athenian dissidents who aimed at removing Aegeus. Aegeus discovered the plot and conspired with Megaran bandits to have the Cretan killed. I was not surprised. Athenians are liars by nature. Their city is small and unimportant, yet they call the ruler king: a title properly kept for powerful kingdoms like Pylos, Argos and Elis, Sparta, Mycenae and Thebes.
‘Were you successful?’ I asked.
‘Indeed,’ said Theseus smugly. ‘I am, as you probably know, a mighty wrestler and gymnast. In Knossos they leap bulls for sport, and train acrobats to somersault over the horns. Extremely dangerous, I promise you. I’d never done it before, of course, but easily outshone the Cretan experts. Minos was so impressed he wanted me to stay and teach his performers.’
‘A risky profession.’
‘Being braver than any man I’ve met, risks to me are enjoyable. It wasn’t that. My charm and personality persuaded Minos to cancel the tribute, and he liked me so much he insisted I wed his daughter Ariadne.’
‘An advantageous marriage, uniting Athens and Crete.’
‘Maybe. She fell head over heels in love with me but,’ said Theseus frankly, ‘the old hag has a face like the backside of a bullock. I prevaricated and made excuses, and eventually skipped to Amnisos, hoisted sail and slipped away by night.’
Theseus tilted the wineskin and drank, wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. ‘A day out from Crete I found a stowaway hidden under sailcloth in the hold. Ariadne,’ he ended despondently.
I ran an eye along the people thronging the beach, gathering round my crewmen with presents of fruit and honey. ‘Is she here?’
‘No.’ Theseus glanced furtively over his shoulder. ‘I told Ariadne we’re sailing tomorrow, and she’s gone to the hills for the day with a bevy of women. Wild looking creatures: probably a sect Dionysus founded, bent on some feminine orgy. I couldn’t care less. I’ll be well away before she’s back.’
A heartless, vain and bumptious man, I reflected, and foolish as well: Minos’ offended pride might look for reprisal. (In fact Minos died of extreme old age during the time we harboured at Naxos. Catreus, his son and successor, disliked his sister Ariadne and let the matter drop.) Belatedly I remembered to ask Theseus whether he had seen any sign of our quarry during his voyage.
‘Very likely. We passed three penteconters a day’s sail out from Naxos going southward fast under sail and oars. I didn’t like the look of the blighters, and sheered away. As I must now, in case the woman returns before she’s due.’
Theseus ran to exhort his sailors. The last of the baggage was handed aboard, rowers settled on thwarts and the coxswain trilled his pipe. Oars thrashed water in gouts of foam, the galley slid from the shore. Theseus in the sternsheets waved farewell; the gilded sternpost vanished behind a headland.
I had to cope with Ariadne when she returned to the town that evening. Minos’ youngest daughter was well past mark of youth - my aunt, in point of fact - thin, sallow and highly strung and, as Theseus had hinted, excessively plain. She was more than a little drunk, her breath wine-rank; and blood flecks stained her flounced blue skirts. (One has heard hair-raising stories of gory drunken orgies in which Dionysus’ female acolytes, commonly called Maenads, indulge in secret places in the hills.) Finding the Athenian galley gone Ariadne threw a fit of hysterics and clung weeping to my shoulders. I comforted her as best I could, delivered her in charge of the local chieftain’s family and retired to sleep on the beach among my men. The Naxians seemed harmless enough, but you can never be too careful.
I slumbered wrapped in a cloak, and was woken by a naked woman entwining her limbs with mine. In darkness and half asleep I could not recognize my visitor and gratefully accepted the gift that fate bestowed. She proved passionate, expert and tremendously exhausting; except for the moans which signalled successive crises she never uttered a sound. (Just as well: my crewmen snored on the sand not far away.) When I failed to respond to her fifth assault she removed her hand from my weapon and whispered in my ear, ‘Now, dear Agamemnon, will you take me on your ship?’
I must admit I was shocked. ‘Ariadne, this is disgraceful! How could you --’
‘You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you? Take me with you, dearest, and we can make love every night when the ships are beached. There’s a lot I can teach you yet!’
I pushed her off and reached for my cloak. ‘Impossible. We’re hunting pirates and have no place for women aboard.’
‘I promise to keep out of the way. You can land me at Nauplia when you return and I’ll travel to Athens’ - her voice hardened - ‘and confront that runagate Theseus.’
‘No. You must wait for a passing galley.’
Ariadne started weeping. I groped fruitlessly in the dark for her clothes: apparently she had stolen from the chieftain’s house stark naked. A coppery sheen tinged the eastern sky; distractedly I besought her to go before daylight disclosed her shame. At last, still sobbing, she stumbled away.
I reclined tiredly on the sand and reflected on the oddities of women.
We launched the ships at sun-up and loaded provisions bought in the town. Everyone gathered on the strand to see us off. I looked for Ariadne among the serried faces and failed to find her. With something akin to remorse I signalled coxswains to trill their pipes; oars flashed in the rising sun and we rowed from the harbour in line ahead. In wind-rippled water beyond the headland I ordered masts to be raised, and was struck by a devastating thought.
Hailing the ships I instructed masters to search thoroughly for stowaways in the holds.
None was found. I breathed a sigh of relief. Sailors stepped masts in hollow boxes, hoisted sails and sheeted home. A following wind swept the squadron south on tumbling seas to Crete.
I never discovered what happened to the unfortunate Ariadne. Rumours abounded later: that she married Dionysus in Naxos (quite ridiculous: the ancient I met near Rhipe must then have been dead for years); that she was accidentally killed by a hunter’s arrow; that she emigrated to Cyprus and died in childbed. (I hope I had nothing to do with that.) Years afterwards when, as king, I conducted the long sea war against Troy I harboured at Naxos. They still remembered Ariadne on the island; I was shown a shrine where Maenads worshipped her memory. Bards have seized on her tragic story; men will remember her name, I feel, for generations to come.
Theseus returned to Athens, found his father dead and assumed in his place the grandiloquent title of ‘King’. I never cared for the fellow, and he gave me, indirectly, a basket of trouble later. Though he spurned the wretched Ariadne he never could keep his hands off women; and his rape of Spartan Helen begat the lunatic Iphigeneia whom Helen’s sister Clytemnaistra successfully foisted on me. Killing Iphigeneia damned near cost my throne. But, as they say, I anticipate.
***
Our navig
ators set course for a landfall near Malia. The sea stayed calm, a fair wind rested the rowers. On the second morning the Cretan coast heaved above the horizon, a long grey line like storm clouds stroking the sea. The galleys sailed line abreast within hailing distance; the slowest periodically unshipped oars in order to keep her station. I drowsed on deck in the cabin’s shade; the master leaned on his steering oar; rowers lounged on benches, dozed or gossiped or diced; the coxswain piped lilting melodies; seamen idled in handy reach of the sheets. Waves slapped strakes, Aithe pitched gently and rolled, the wind played tunes on mast-stays. A lookout hailed from the prow.
Three white specks like wisps of wool drifted on the haze where shore met sea. I peered beneath the sail and shaded my eyes. Impossible at that distance to decide the course they set, whether they moved towards us or away. The master resolved my doubts. ‘They’re crossing our course, me lord. Sailing slow with the wind abeam. Could be the ships we’re after. May be peaceful merchantmen. Can’t tell yet. Shall I alter course to intercept?’
‘Yes - and make all speed!’
Orders volleyed from galley to galley. Sailors jumped to sheets and trimmed the sails. Oars rattled from thwarts, dropped and struck. Pipes shrieked a quickening beat. The line of triaconters leaped like hard-whipped horses, smacked foam from bows and flew.
I clutched the backstay and watched faraway sails which seemed to draw no nearer. Then, remembering the chase could end in a fight, I called my squire and ducked inside the cabin. You don’t wear chariot mail on ships; I donned a bronze-studded leather cuirass and plumeless metal helmet, strapped on a slashing sword, put arm through grips of a round hide shield and picked up a throwing-spear. Thus armed I stood in the sternsheets. The sails looked distant as ever. For one accustomed to swift and sudden clashes on land the nerve-twanging slowness of battles at sea was disconcerting.
The master tugged his steering oar and said, ‘Pirate galleys, me lord. Unless they go about we’ll cross their course.’
Warrior in Bronze Page 18