Warrior in Bronze

by George Shipway

  As he spoke I saw the broad white flecks of the corsairs’ sails shrink to a finger’s breadth and billow again like wings. ‘Gone about,’ the master spat. He screwed his eyes and peered at the peaks that soared above the coastline. ‘I reckon they’re making for Malia. We’ll have a job to catch them before they beach.’

  He hailed the triaconters a spearcast on either beam. Steering oars dug froth from wakes, seamen sprang to sheets and hauled. The galleys, turning together, set course for a straight pursuit. Oars swung in a faster cadence. The ships raced on like running stags: black hulls and crimson prows, tall beast-headed sternposts, the honey-hued flash of bronze-sheathed rams jutting from waves as they pitched in the swell, oarbanks rhythmically lifting and dipping, sails bellying and straining on masts.

  In Aithe the rowers’ oak-brown bodies swung forward and back like a single machine. Men crouching at sheets trimmed sail to the shifts of the wind. Sailors spliced stout ashwood staves to make a forty-foot bronze-barbed pole. ‘Fending-pole,’ said the master shortly, answering my questioning look.

  Steadily we overhauled the fleeing ships.

  I distinguished their oars, a helmsman’s figure at the stern, the foaming furrow carved by his sweep. Beyond them soared the mountains, clefts like giant gashes shading tree-clad slopes, snowfields streaking the peaks. A yellow-sand bay was a bite in rocky cliffs. Buildings clustered inland, small as a handful of pebbles cast on the spring-green grass.

  ‘Malia,’ the master stated. He calculated distances, glanced at the sail, shifted slightly the slant of his oar. ‘We might just catch the bastards. They row twenty-five oars a side; we have thirty, and larger sails. Going to be close. Cox’n, speed the strike.’

  The tempo climbed to the battle-stroke, a pace no oarsman can hold for long. Sweat-streams coursed down the rowers’ naked backs; above the screech of the wind I heard their gasping breaths. (I wondered for a moment how these overtasked men could possibly fight when we closed the enemy ships.) The gap shrank fast; three spearcasts divided hunters’ prows from hunted sternposts.

  We entered the arms of the bay. Rollers curved and broke on the sand; serried reeds like olive-green lances palisaded the mouth of a stream.

  A penteconter lagged three lengths behind her sisters, her oarbeats ragged and faltering. ‘We’ll get that one at least,’ the master promised. Faintly I heard orders shouted; the pirate’s sail whipped free from the sheets; the helmsman hauled on his oar with all his strength. Larboard oars dripped clear of the water, starboard dug in short quick strokes. The galley spun in her tracks. Timed by an urgent pipe both oarbanks drove her straight for Aithe.

  ‘Down sail! Down mast!’ our master roared. ‘Out pole! Prepare for ramming!’

  The penteconter’s bows were aimed at our starboard quarter. Our helmsman pushed his sweep; Aithe’s bows swung larboard, angling away from the enemy. I watched the threatening prow approach, bow wave frothing, ram like a shark’s fin slicing the waves. Why, I dithered, mouth gone dry, expose our beam to the ram? I braced myself for the shock of collision. At arrow-shot range the master shouted ‘Ship starboard oars!’ and flung his weight on the steering oar.

  Propelled by the sweep of the larboard oarbank Aithe turned like a pony. Her starboard rowers slipped oars inboard, grabbed spears and swords from straps. In a crash of riven timbers and splintering oars our ram gouged the pirate’s hull. Her mast snapped short and the flying sail smothered her crew in the stern. Our seamen lifted the fending pole, butted beak on enemy strakes and thrust to release the ram.

  The impact had flung me flat on the deck. I climbed to my feet and lugged out sword. Cretans swarmed over the sides and tumbled aboard. Our rowers rushed to meet them, and a savage little battle erupted in the forepart. I scrambled over benches, mast and sail and oars. A burly naked Cretan lunged a spear-thrust at my head; I lifted shield and parried the point, plunged blade to the hilt in his belly.

  I needn’t have doubted the oarsmen’s endurance; inside a hundred heartbeats they had hurled the assailants back or overside into the sea. The sailors’ weight on the pole pushed

  Aithe clear; with a creak and a crack the ram came free and we drifted away. Water surged through the shattered hole in the penteconter’s hull. She listed and started to settle. Bowmen appeared at the side rails, arrows whirred and thumped in wood. A seaman shrieked, and tore at the feathered shaft spiking from his stomach.

  ‘Damned Cretan bowmen!’ the master grumbled, ‘Out oars! Back water!’ Aithe retreated crabwise and paddled beyond range. He eyed the sinking ship, men jumping overside and swimming for shore. ‘She’s done for. What d’you want now, me lord?’

  The two remaining penteconters had rowed themselves on the beach, keels ploughed deep in sand. Crewmen raced for the dunes. Aithe’s sister galleys, following hard on enemy sterns, were likewise preparing to beach. I remembered Atreus’ warning about raiding Cretan coasts. Be damned to that. The pirates were in my grasp and I meant to close the fist.

  ‘Get under way. We’ll beat those fellows to shore and kill them as they land.’

  Spaces in the oarbanks yawned like gaps in teeth: rowers had been wounded in the fight. Keels rasped on shingle, oars rattled inboard and the squadron’s crewmen waded ashore, weapons in hand and baying for blood. They swarmed over sand and tussocky grass in pursuit of vanishing Cretans. I ordered Aithe’s men to stay on the beach, slay the sunken galley’s crew as they swam ashore, and afterwards to fire the two beached penteconters.

  Malia lay inland a short way beyond the dunes: the devastated skeleton of a large and prosperous city. Gaunt grey roofless walls, great tumbled stones and fallen pillars, weeds flourishing in cracks of the Great Court’s paving, sand-drifts covering floors and piled at the bases of buildings. A brittle coating of ash hurled long ago from Thera encrusted open surfaces and crunched beneath my feet.

  Mud-walled, grass-thatched hovels squatted among the ruins and vomited terrified families when swords appeared from the sea. Some of the pirates we chased attempted to rescue their kin; others fled for the foothills; a few made a stand behind rubble and walls and shouted defiance.

  We scoured Malia, hunted stone-flagged streets, searched dilapidated houses, granaries and store rooms, slaughtered every male and burned the huts. Many escaped, dodging between broken houses and hiding in woods on the outskirts. We rounded up women and children, save a handful killed in the turmoil - slaves were in great demand in Nauplia’s market. A sprinkle of cattle and sheep and goats grazed on the fields outside: some we took to replenish our larders, the rest we killed. A search in the huts before burning produced cauldrons, bracelets and golden cups: the pirates’ loot from merchant ships and pillaged coastal towns.

  By mid-afternoon it was over, and our men returned to the beach. Pillars of smoke coiled skywards from burning penteconters. I stayed for a while exploring Malia, wandering desolate streets and poking into the palace’s shattered remains, walking beneath tottering archways of tremendous hewn-stone gates and examining an altar surmounted by marble bulls’ horns. Nowhere was there a sign of fortifications. I speculated on the nature of Cretans in olden times who dared to live for centuries in undefended cities.

  Back at the bay I stripped my armour, wallowed in the shallows and scrubbed off sweat and blood. We buried our seven dead and feasted royally on pirate beef and mutton. The more personable female captives, distributed among galley crews, were taken into the dunes and comprehensively raped. I enjoyed an acrobatic tumble with a dark-haired Cretan filly - a virgin, as I proved - and relished the contrast between her squealing maladroitness and Ariadne’s talents.

  While rustling rollers lulled me to sleep on the sand I considered the repercussions of our foray. In flagrant disobedience of Atreus’ instructions I had sacked a Cretan settlement; and King Catreus would undoubtedly be displeased. Forebodings disturbed my slumbers; and I was glad to board Aithe again and feel the clean salt sea-wind blowing my hair, and sway to the thrust of the oarbanks that carried me h
ome to Nauplia.

  ***

  I described the episode to Atreus: he was bound to hear sooner or later, probably in garbled versions, and I judged it best to tell my story first. He did not seem greatly interested. ‘As well you rooted them out: a warning to other pirates, Sidonians and Sicilians,’ he observed. ‘I’ll soothe Catreus’ injured pride - send him a herd of horses or such.’ His manner throughout the interview was moody and withdrawn, his mind occupied elsewhere. There were more grey streaks in his hair, new lines on the careworn countenance; the beginnings of a stoop diminished his height.

  He beckoned me to a chamber above the Throne Room and pointed from a window across the valley. On the crest of a hill in the distance I saw figures aswarm on a tawny mound of newly-dug earth.

  The king said, ‘I am building my tomb.’

  Which did not necessarily indicate a morbid concern with death though, glancing at Atreus’ expression, I felt a momentary doubt. Royal tombs from Mycenae’s past pimpled the hillsides surrounding the citadel: Sthenelus, Electryon and others before them. (Perseus, who founded Mycenae’s glory, lies at Argos.) Every tomb, so far as I know, was built in the occupant’s lifetime.

  Atreus took me to the site. The scale of the work was enormous. A deep canyon excavated in a hillside led to a vast circular pit dug from the summit downwards, later to be lined with cut stone slabs and roofed by a dome. The sepulchre dwarfed all others, Zeus’ tomb a cairn in comparison.

  ‘A new dynasty rules Mycenae,’ Atreus explained gravely. ‘The sons of Pelops’ memorials should not be less magnificent than the Perseids’ they succeed.’

  I tactfully concurred. An army of slaves and craftsmen worked on a long-drawn task. The Isthmus Wall, then building, also engaged workmen by the thousand. While our expanded maritime trade procured slaves in numbers from abroad these two undertakings together must strain our labour resources. Miletos and other cities provided plenty of slaves, but there was always competition, the supply not inexhaustible. The men would be better employed on the land, in mines and quarries and shipyards.

  However, one does not argue with kings, certainly not with Atreus; and my reservations stayed behind my teeth. Nor was it tomb construction (a dismal pursuit, in my opinion: I have not put mine in hand and never will) which troubled his mind and ploughed the bitter lines from jaw to cheekbones. He called Menelaus and me to the Throne Room’s deserted antechamber and disclosed the black obsession which gnawed in his brain like a rat.

  ‘Thyestes remains at Elis. My spies report he is concocting schemes to oust me from the throne. King Augeas isn’t privy to his plans - he’s anyway beyond the age to engage in risky ventures - but my brother is finding support among young, adventurous, ambitious Elian Heroes. He is also trying to suborn nobles in our tributary cities. He has ripped my honour in shreds,’ said Atreus in a voice like a falling sword, ‘and now he aims at my crown. Thyestes must be destroyed.’

  ‘Surely,’ I protested, ‘he reaches for a star beyond his grasp. How can an exile collect forces enough to defeat Mycenae’s Host - the strongest in Achaea?’

  ‘He has found a tool: Phyleus, King Augeas’ eldest son. Years ago Phyleus and Hercules, then in bondage to Augeas, started some treacherous intrigue - I can’t remember the details. Augeas banished them both. Phyleus has recently returned to Dyme, a short day’s march from Elis across the northern border.’

  ‘Another banished outlaw lacking a following,’ Menelaus said.

  ‘On the contrary. Phyleus’ relations in Elis consider him badly treated and strongly support his cause. Thyestes encourages the malcontents, went to Dyme and saw Phyleus. They’ve made a pact. In return for fomenting a palace uprising, deposing old Augeas and putting his son on the throne, Thyestes has won Phyleus’ promise of military support against Mycenae.’

  I said contemptuously, ‘Are we afraid of an Elian Host?’

  ‘No - although they can mobilize a formidable array. The real danger is internal. If Thyestes can rouse a rebellion in Mycenae and her tributary cities to coincide with invasion from Elis he has a fair chance of success.’

  I said, ‘He’ll have to dangle tempting rewards in the shape of treasure and land - neither of which he possesses. So I don’t see how --’

  ‘Thyestes will promise rewards,’ said Atreus harshly. ‘Would you stake any Hero’s loyalty against an offer of gold and demesnes? I can count on my fingers the lords I would trust to resist a big enough bribe.’

  Menelaus said, ‘Have you no idea who the potential traitors are?’

  ‘Copreus, for one, here in Mycenae. Three in Corinth - not Bunus - three in Nemea, one or two others. Surmise based on intelligence reports; I have no proof. Nor do I need it. I could have them killed tomorrow on the offchance - and consequently make more enemies among their kindred. Until they actually show their hands it isn’t worth the trouble.’

  The antechamber had not been swept since the morning’s audience; a mess of petitioners’ litter strewed the chequered marble floor: a shattered wine jar, bits of bread and biscuit, a kilt belt’s broken buckle, a cloak crumpled in a corner. I picked up a papyrus fragment some Scribe had dropped, and absently studied an indecipherable scrawl. ‘So, sire, what do you intend to do?’

  ‘Send you and Menelaus to tempt him back to Mycenae.’

  The paper fluttered from my hand. ‘Persuade Thyestes to leave Augeas’ protection and enter the lion’s den? You must think the man insane!’

  ‘Not so, Agamemnon. Thyestes, like any exile, yearns for his native land. A vulnerable weakness. I shall send him sumptuous gifts, assure him all is forgiven, promise him safe conduct and guarantee his life. His estates shall be restored intact -provided he stays in Mycenae. I believe the bait sufficient. Moreover’ - a sardonic inflexion - ‘once ensconced in the palace he can more easily weave his plots against my life.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Menelaus rubbed his russet hair. ‘You said Thyestes must be - um - eliminated. Yet, having brought him here, you are bound by your oath to let him live.’

  Atreus said tonelessly, ‘He shall not be killed.’

  I said, ‘Your purpose, sire, escapes my comprehension. You invite a scorpion to nestle in your boot.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing. Now remember this. Before you meet Thyestes you must learn by heart the terms I offer and, before witnesses, repeat them to him exactly as I have stated them to you. Without the smallest variation, Agamemnon.’

  ‘I shall, sire.’

  ‘If Thyestes still refuses to return you have my authority, then, to offer him joint rule of Mycenae.’

  My jaw dropped. ‘You will share--’ I met Atreus’ look, and stopped. ‘Very well, sire.’

  That is all. You’ll leave for Elis immediately.’

  I summoned my courage and said, ‘What do you mean to do with Thyestes?’

  The faintest hint of a smile touched Atreus’ lips, a smile that shivered ice-barbs on my spine. ‘I shall make him endure, living, the tortures I have suffered at his hands.’

  ***

  I detailed a powerful escort for our journey across Arcadia: twenty chariots and three hundred spears guarded a train of mules and ox-carts carrying baggage, provisions and a profusion of valuables intended as gifts for Thyestes. Arcadians are rough mountain folk, inimical to strangers, living in tribal villages clinging to the slopes. Gelon says they descend from Achaea’s earliest people, aboriginals who held the land before the Goatmen. Besides these primitive savages, Goatmen and Dorians infest the heights and descend to harry travellers. Men journeying in Arcadia keep swords loosely scabbarded.

  Despite the need for incessant vigilance, despite stony rutted trackways and barely fordable streams the march was not unpleasant. Fresh greenery mantled hillsides, flowers speckled the valleys in a gorgeous rolling tapestry splashed yellow and red and blue. I sent chariots ahead to Elis to announce our peaceful advent: Elians were touchy about armed parties from Arcadia and I had no desire to meet a pugnacious warband.


  King Augeas received us as hospitably as his infirmities permitted - at this time most of Achaea’s rulers seemed doddery old men - provided a hutted camp for drovers, spearmen and grooms, and quarters in the citadel for Heroes and Companions. After greeting Menelaus and myself, and learning the purpose of our visit, Augeas sent a chamberlain to fetch Thyestes, and tottered to his apartments. We saw him no more until we took our leave.

  It was easy to see in Elis how young ambitious nobles, chafing under a senile king who refused to die, could easily become a fertile bed for the seed of mutinous plots.

  I displayed two ox-carts’ loads of gifts in tempting array on the floor of a room the chamberlain provided. Clad in kilt and sandals. Thyestes swaggered in accompanied by two Heroes and a boy about nine years old - Tantalus, his youngest and favourite son. Sunken eyes surveyed us bleakly.

  ‘King Augeas bids me meet you. I defer to my host’s commands. I’d rather foregather with swineherds than talk to Atreus’ lackeys. Say what you have to say quickly, and return to your master’s midden.’

  It was not a promising start. Moreover Thyestes’ very appearance made gooseflesh pimple my skin. Even today his memory recalls a cringing fear from childhood days fuelled by the loathing my ordeal in Aerope’s room engendered. Time had grizzled a stiff brown beard, deeper hollows and harsher planes chiselled the weathered-oak face. I could almost smell the evil he exuded.

  I indicated the gifts on the floor. ‘King Atreus sends these for your pleasure, my lord, and hopes for a reconciliation. It is not becoming, he says, for brothers to live at enmity.’

  Thyestes’ foot sent a beaker clattering. ‘Damned rubbish! I have treasure enough for my needs. Why this sudden generosity? Atreus wouldn’t part with a wooden platter unless he expected a lucrative return. What does the blaggard want?’

  I repeated the offer I had learned by rote, varying never a word. Thyestes listened in mounting surprise and, at the end, remained silent for several moments. Absently he unsheathed the dagger at his belt, examined the blade unseeingly, returned it to the sheath and tapped it home. He said abruptly, ‘What has caused my brother’s astonishing change of heart?’