Warrior in Bronze

by George Shipway

  This was outside my brief. ‘The realm is expanding, my lord,’ I improvised. ‘Mycenaeans are settling in islands overseas; trade is flourishing; and I believe the king is contemplating conquests in Achaea. It’s a heavy burden for a man to carry alone. He needs your help to lighten the load.’

  ‘Very plausible - if one could believe a word the trickster says. He promises an amnesty and guarantees my life. Will you answer for that with your head?’

  ‘I will, my lord.’

  ‘And I,’ Menelaus murmured.

  Then,’ Thyestes snapped, ‘one of you stays in Elis as hostage for my safety.’

  I strove to conceal confusion. ‘I regret we have not King Atreus’ permission. I must obey his orders faithfully - they were detailed and precise. He made no mention of hostages, ourselves or any other.’

  ‘Of course,’ Thyestes jeered. ‘So he extends no solid safeguards, and expects me to take him on trust. He must think me a monstrous fool! Atreus can eat his gifts, the estates he offers, his promises - and I hope they choke him!’ He swung on his heel and stamped to the door, scattering tripods, cups and flagons as he went.

  ‘Wait, my lord!’ I cleared my throat and said incisively, ‘That is not all. Provided you come to Mycenae the king is ready to cede you half his realm in equal rule.’

  Thyestes turned in the doorway and rested a hand on the jamb. He gave me a meditative look. Cunning and calculation glinted in hard green eyes. ‘So. An offer of kingship. Rather more generous than these trashy gifts. It gives a different slant to the whole affair.’ He draped an arm affectionately round Tantalus’ shoulders, and crooked a finger at his taciturn brace of Heroes. ‘You witness Agamemnon’s words, my lords, and you, young fellow? I am entitled, on reaching Mycenae, to share Atreus’ kingdom. Repeat the contract, Agamemnon.’

  I did so, loathing every word, certain I perjured myself. Atreus, of all people, was not the man to yield a tittle of his power to anyone on earth, least of all to a brother he hated from the bottom of his heart. The king was set on vengeance for Aerope, some horrible requital whose nature I could not fathom - for I fully believed his promise to spare the seducer’s life. I almost, against all reason, blurted a warning to stay securely in Elis.

  I kept my mouth shut, and disaster flowed undammed.

  ‘In that case,’ Thyestes said, ‘I’ll consider the matter and give you an answer by morning. Come, my lords. Tantalus, dear boy, it’s time you went to bed.’

  They left the room. Perspiration damped my temples. Menelaus met my look, and wordlessly rolled his eyes.

  At dawn Thyestes, with Tantalus in his chariot, an entourage of Heroes, Companions and squires driving behind, headed the column marching for Mycenae.

  ***

  Atreus accorded Thyestes the ceremonial grandeur befitting a reigning monarch. Taking his palace Heroes and four hundred spearmen splendidly accoutred, he drove out to meet him. The brothers dismounted and embraced. Atreus looked brisk and cheerful. For one optimistic moment I almost dared to hope that the king had changed his mind.

  Nobody, unfortunately, had remembered to tell Pelopia. While crossing the Great Court attended by ladies she met her husband and Thyestes and a boisterous party of Heroes emerging from the stairway. I thought she was going to swoon. She put hand over mouth and staggered, gave an inarticulate moan and ran from the Court as fast as her skirts would allow. Thyestes watched her going; a malevolent little smile quivered on his lips. The king, surprised and anxious, hastened into the portico after his queen.

  When he returned Thyestes inquired easily, ‘Who is the handsome lady who has been suddenly taken ill?’

  ‘My wife Pelopia,’ said Atreus shortly, ‘Thesprotus of Sicyon’s daughter. Heat and sun-glare have brought on a painful migraine.’

  ‘Ah, yes - I heard of your marriage. Although I stayed in Sicyon I never,’ Thyestes lied, ‘had the pleasure of meeting your lady. You have a child, I hear.’

  ‘A two-year-old son: Aegisthus.’

  ‘An uncommon name.’ Thyestes’ eyes were hooded, his countenance inscrutable. ‘Aegisthus. I must remember.’

  Pelopia eased an impossible situation by pleading severe sickness and confining herself to her room throughout Thyestes’ stay. The scoundrel thoroughly enjoyed his secret joke: he inquired solicitously after the queen’s health and regretted he had failed to make her acquaintance. I could have stuck my dagger in his throat. Though most of the palace Heroes were equally aware of Pelopia’s bizarre predicament none dared whisper a hint to Atreus, who maintained a serene composure and seemed entirely indifferent to the queen’s continued absence from the banqueting and ceremonies.

  Atreus royally entertained his brother day after day. Hunting parties went to the hills, bagged many a lion and boar. On the Field of War Atreus organized games and competitions: foot and chariot races, boxing and wrestling matches, javelin and archery contests. A banquet every afternoon, and long evenings in the Hall lingering over wine and listening to bardic caterwauling. Never before, in my memory, had Mycenae seen festivities so prolonged.

  I shared in all these diversions and, when the boy was not engaged in squiring Thyestes, acted host to Tantalus: a pleasant enough lad, a thought dim-witted. Thyestes plainly doted on his son - a viper, I suppose, can love his brood - and was forever stroking his hair and holding his hand. A nauseating spectacle, when you remember the way he abandoned his daughter Pelopia.

  I hardly recognized Atreus. His manner had reverted to the debonair carefree habit which prevailed before he discovered Aerope’s adultery. Watching him at a feast graciously transferring choice morsels from his platter to Thyestes’ I was persuaded he had genuinely forgiven his brother. I said so in an undertone to Menelaus. That hard-headed individual pronged mutton into his mouth and mumbled, ‘Don’t you believe it. The Lady knows what Atreus is at - but I’d hate to be in Thyestes’ place.’

  As the days went by Thyestes became impatient. The king showed no inclination to ratify the agreement which had persuaded him to enter Mycenae’s gates. Atreus stayed deaf to blatant hints, suggested another hunt - ‘a really enormous boar, Thyestes, ravages Midea’s crops’ - a trip to Nauplia to inspect galleys recently launched; anything rather than formal restoration of forfeited estates and announcement to the Council that he and Thyestes shared Mycenae’s rule. Finally, while chatting beside the hearth in the Hall, Thyestes’ patience snapped and he loweringly demanded the king discharge his oath.

  Atreus kicked a glowing log, and laughed. ‘Why, certainly, dear brother. I merely await Mycenae’s greatest day, the anniversary of Perseus’ foundation. Tomorrow as ever is. Surely it is proper your accession to the throne should fall on such a glorious occasion? A most exceptional feast shall celebrate the event and I’ll make the announcement after, provided you are willing.’ ‘I am,’ said Thyestes tersely.

  ***

  Alabaster lamps and pitchpine torches flared in Mycenae’s Hall and dimmed the afternoon sunlight that lanced clerestory windows. On a blazing hearth fire cooks turned spits and basted joints of beef and mutton and pork. Carvers sawed and sliced; servants scurried to tables and handed laden platters; squires poured wine from hammered gold flagons. At the widening circles of tables two hundred noble gentlemen ate and drank, talked loudly between mouthfuls, wagged hunks of meat on dagger points to emphasize an argument. Twenty sheep, twenty boars and fifteen barley-fed oxen had been slaughtered by Atreus’ command; baskets of wheaten bread reposed on three-legged tables running on golden castors - only the palace’s finest furniture decorated a banquet in Perseus’ honour. Fleeces washed to snowy whiteness draped low couchlike seats; torchlight flashed a myriad gems from gold and crystal drinking cups, from gold and silver platters. The din of voices roared like rollers beating rocks; the heat from lights and fire beaded sweat on naked midriffs. A pungent smell of scented oil, roast meat and warm humanity thickened the smoke-hazed air.

  Twin dog-headed dragons glared from the wall behind King Atreus’ throne. D
espite the heat he wore a gold-threaded scarlet tunic, a silver fillet bound his hair, his beard was trimmed to a point and curled. He seemed in uproarious spirits, laughing and cracking jests, repeatedly beckoning squires to fill Thyestes’ goblet. In Pelopia’s absence my table and chair were placed on Atreus’ left: as Master of the Ships and royal heir I ranked next the king in the palace hierarchy.

  Beside me Menelaus sent Atreus worried looks.

  I was not altogether happy myself. Apart from the king’s behaviour, so foreign to his usual grim reserve, I considered it odd that spearmen and armoured Heroes lined the walls at sword-length intervals. All weapons save the dagger used for eating were sternly forbidden at meals in the Hall: gentlemen warmed by wine were apt to become quarrelsome. Over the years I had attended many anniversary banquets; never before had forty weaponed warriors sentinelled the feast.

  An unimportant point perhaps; but for indefinable reasons I felt nervously on edge.

  I had spent the morning showing Tantalus round the stables. The boy had an eye for horses and sensibly remarked their points. I harnessed a team he admired, drove to the Field of War and allowed him to handle the reins. He was, naturally, unpractised; the horses pulled his arms out, quickened from canter to gallop and incontinently bolted. I took the reins, brought the chariot under control and parried his shamed apologies. ‘Nothing to worry about; this pair would test a trained Companion’s skill.’ We returned sedately to the stables where he insisted on grooming the brutes. A stallion nipped his buttock, a severe and painful bite as I knew from harsh experience, enough to reduce any boy to tears. Tantalus yelped, gritted his teeth and went on wisping the horse’s quarters. A likeable child with plenty of guts.

  Soon afterwards someone came to fetch him away, and I had not seen the lad since. Nor could I find him among the flagon-laden squires who flitted from table to table.

  A carver beside the hearth sliced a sirloin and heaped a platter. A servant brought it to the king, knelt and placed it on his table. Atreus skewered a piece and tasted. ‘Not as tender as I like,’ he observed pleasantly to Thyestes. ‘The cooks won’t pound the joints before putting them on the spits. In your especial honour, brother, I have ordered a particular dish prepared in the women’s kitchens where the staff are clever in catering for our ladies’ delicate palates.’

  He spoke to the man who had served him. As the fellow hurried away I noticed his stricken expression - but slaves were often timorous when royalty gave orders.

  Atreus attacked his beef and, between mouthfuls, reminisced about a recent hunt when a savage Nemean lion had disembowelled his favourite hound. Thyestes fingered his wine cup and squinted enviously at Atreus’ laden plate. Like everyone else he had not eaten since dawn - a light breakfast, figs and honey, barley-cakes and watered wine - and was ravenously hungry. The banquet’s opening course, broiled fish and savoury herbs, had merely whetted his appetite.

  The servant re-appeared from an entrance opposite the Hall’s bronze-plated doors. He carried a big gold charger, knelt in front of Thyestes and proffered a smoking joint.

  Atreus said jovially, ‘Tender as newborn lamb, I’ll warrant, garnished with cumin, fennel and mint, tasty and fit for a king - a king, my dear Thyestes. Allow me to serve you.’

  The meat, a haunch of sorts and somewhat underdone, was certainly tender: Atreus’ dagger cut the joint like cheese. He spiked slices and piled Thyestes’ platter. ‘There, fall to. I’ll bet you’ve never eaten so dainty a dish before.’

  Atreus resumed his meal, sending his brother occasional sidelong looks. Thyestes’ dagger hacked the meat. He crammed a hunk in his mouth, champed voraciously and swallowed. A thread of pinkish gravy webbed his chin. Meanwhile the kneeling slave, still holding his golden dish on outstretched palms, behaved most strangely. Though his head was bowed in correctly servile fashion he gagged as though he was going to be sick; a greenish pallor tinged his face.

  The rascal deserved a whipping. I beckoned a steward.

  ‘Does our cookery earn your approval?’ Atreus inquired.

  Thyestes finished his plateful and cut another slice. ‘Excellent. Never tasted better. Veal, is it not, steeped in milk and broiled, then lightly grilled? Thesprotus served me the like in Sicyon, though not so good by half.’

  ‘Not quite the same,’ said Atreus gently. ‘Have you had enough?’

  Mouth full and temporarily speechless, Thyestes nodded. The king reached out a foot and kicked the kneeling slave. ‘Bring that which I commanded!’

  The man shambled from the Hall. I reprimanded the steward for allowing an incompetent servant to wait on the king, and ordered a flogging. The steward hastened through the small side door where the slave had gone, and reappeared a moment later. He threw me a hunted look, and scuttled to concealment on the farther side of the hearth.

  What the blazes was the matter with the palace domestics today?

  Idly I scrutinized spirals and stars and roundels in variegated colours decorating the ceiling. Above processional stags and lions depicted on the walls a dozen bare-bosomed ladies leaned on the clerestory’s gallery rail and watched animated gentlemen feasting and talking and laughing twenty feet below them.

  I addressed some casual remark to Menelaus, who answered by pointing a thumb at Atreus. The king’s genial, breezy manner had gone. He sat on the throne like a sculpted crag, hands gripping the bull’s-head arm rests, staring fixedly ahead, eyes like flames.

  Thyestes swallowed wine, patted his stomach and belched. “What delicacy do you serve us next, brother? Nothing so good as the last, I’ll swear - a culinary masterpiece!’

  Atreus slowly turned his head. ‘My lord,’ he said in quiet, formal tones, ‘I shall show you the animal which provided your pleasure.’

  Thyestes raised his eyebrows. ‘Indeed? You’ll bring a calf to the table?’

  On Atreus’ lips there hovered a thin and deadly smile.

  My clumsy slave re-entered the Hall, still bearing the golden charger and hacked remains of a joint. Another followed him closely; a cloth was spread on a similar dish he carried. They weaved in file between tables and halted side by side before the throne. Both men looked ghastly, sweat glistened on their foreheads. The king’s hand moved in a downward gesture. They lowered the joint on Atreus’ table, the covered salver in front of Thyestes.

  Atreus touched the congealing meat. ‘This, dear brother,’ he said in conversational tones, ‘is the flesh you have eaten. Would you care for another slice? No?’ He reached for the second charger. ‘And here is the beast which furnished your dish.’

  Atreus whipped away the cloth.

  Trimly arranged on the plate were two hands severed at the wrists, two feet cut off at the ankles, and a neatly decapitated head. The features were drained dead white, a grey tongue peeped between tightly clenched teeth, half-closed eyes rolled back to show the whites.

  Tantalus.

  My bowels churned. Thyestes stared in disbelief, his face the colour of clay. His mouth juddered and worked on words that would not come. Painfully he twisted his head and met Atreus’ savage glare. His chest heaved in uncontrollable spasms. Yellow, lumpy vomit flooded from his mouth and fouled the mutilated horrors which once had been his son. Repeated convulsions racked him, inhuman noises gurgled from his mouth. He tumbled forward in his chair, dropped face-down in his vomit.

  Tantalus’ head, disturbed, teetered on its neck.

  Atreus leaned back in the throne and impassively studied his brother’s agony.

  A deathly quiet rippled outwards from the throne. Those nearest the king at once recognized the victim. ‘Tantalus. Tantalus. Tantalus.’ The name whispered across the Hall like a rustle of leaves. Men at the outer reaches stood to view the spectacle, gulped and abruptly sat. In horrified surmise Thyestes’ Heroes scanned each other’s faces. Some stepped towards their stricken lord.

  As if at a signal warriors moved from the brazen ring at the walls. Spearpoints prodded spines.

  Atreus, I though
t dimly, had taken every precaution.

  Thyestes lifted his head and levered himself erect. Vomit clotted brow and beard. He took a staggering pace towards his silent, watchful brother. He groped on the table behind him, feeling for his dagger, and knocked the head to the floor. Thyestes whipped his hand from the salver as though a snake had struck.

  Words came, thick and strangled. ‘My son ... why ... you promised...’

  Atreus said brutally, ‘Who are you, you spawn from the depths, to talk of oaths and honour? None the less I will keep my vow - let everyone here bear witness.’ Lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl. ‘Will you not stay in Mycenae, Thyestes, and share my throne and kingdom?’

  For twenty heartbeats Thyestes stood, swaying on his feet and searching his brother’s features. He uttered a wordless choking noise, turned and reeled to the doors. Men flinched away as he passed. At the doorway he halted and turned a splotched and ghastly countenance to the king. A terrible laughter racked him, he cackled like a madman.

  ‘My revenge, dear Atreus, lives within these walls. Within these walls, I say, a gift from brother to brother, a son for a son. Farewell.’

  His laughter echoed from the vestibule, faded beyond the portico. Atreus smiled evilly - the last smile I ever saw upon his lips. The poor fellow’s mind is unhinged,’ he murmured. Raising his voice he addressed Thyestes’ Heroes. ‘Go. Leave Mycenae forthwith, and take away your lord.’

  Voices muttered and footsteps shuffled. I stared, fascinated, at the hacked-up joint on the charger. Shallow indentations showed beneath the crust, faint but unmistakable.

  The marks of a horse’s teeth.

  ***

  Everyone agreed Atreus had gone too far.