Warrior in Bronze

by George Shipway

  ‘When you’ve recovered the throne you’ll join me immediately in a war on Thebes, together with any other allies we can find.’

  To haver would be disastrous. When the sceptre nestled firmly in my grasp I could consider the factors at leisure and, if prudence dictated, postpone the operation or withdraw. After all, you cannot hazard kingdoms to repay a debt of gratitude. I said, ‘For that you have my oath.’

  ‘Good. Recovering Mycenae is a project requiring careful planning and preparation, in which I’ll need your help. We’ve heard about your expertise as Marshal of the Host.’ A whirling cut-and-thrust encounter caught his eye. ‘Did you notice that? As neat a bit of spearplay as I’ve seen - a low thrust glancing upwards to the throat. Ends the battle, I think: a leader’s killed.’ Approvingly Tyndareus watched the contenders draw apart, start counting bodies, totting up the score.

  Meanwhile I thought furiously, trying to screw up my courage.

  For days I had been remembering the king’s unspoken preference for me as Clytemnaistra’s spouse in the days when Atreus lived and I was undisputed heir to Mycenae’s crown. My circumstances since were greatly changed - royal successor become landless Hero - but Tyndareus seemed determined to recover my throne. Therefore he had every reason to feel as he had before. Should I nudge his memory? Or, with my future still uncertain, had he resolved to give Broteas his daughter?

  I licked dry lips, and ventured all on a gambler’s throw.

  ‘Sire,’ I began uncertainly, ‘you’ve promised me your aid to attain my greatest ambition. I hesitate to ask another favour, but ... You have it in your power to realize my dearest wish, a boon to place me always in your debt - and none the less redound to your advantage.’

  Tyndareus said coldly, ‘I can’t conceive what else you want. Nothing is more valuable than a throne.’

  ‘For me, sire, there is. Your daughter Clytemnaistra’s hand in marriage.’

  Which clearly demonstrated the abysmal infatuation that ensnared me. I will not labour my folly: a madness bitterly punished in years to come. I had tried over the moons to exorcise obsession by strenuous physical exercise, hunting, racing, wrestling, by rampantly bedding concubines until they cried for mercy, by feasting and in wine - in everything but work: there was none for me in Sparta. All to no effect. Clytemnaistra’s beauty bound me in chains of desire; only within her body could I quench the fires of lust.

  You may believe this or not as you will: on looking back I find it scarcely credible myself.

  Tyndareus’ expression showed less surprise than I expected. My pursuit of Clytemnaistra could not have passed unnoticed in a society so closed as Sparta’s.

  ‘We mentioned this on your previous visit. Broteas is due any day. He’ll wed my daughter and take her to Pisa. My word is pledged.’

  ‘Consider, sire,’ I prompted, ‘the advantages to be gained by marriage between your House and mine. With Sparta and Mycenae inalienably related they can together dominate the whole Achaean world!’

  ‘Provided you regain the throne, which is by no means sure. Nor does it always work,’ Tyndareus grumbled. ‘Leda is the king of Aitolia’s daughter, yet Sparta and Aitolia remain opposed as fire and water.’

  ‘Besides being rulers,’ I reminded him, ‘we would also be friends.’

  ‘Don’t talk bull’s-milk!’ Tyndareus snapped. ‘Friendship has nothing to do with politics. Besides, Broteas has paid me a hefty bride price: a hundred cattle and a thousand sheep and goats. I’ve no intention of returning the herds. The wedding, damn and blast it, must go through.’

  At that point I deemed it best to cease persuasion. The king obviously preferred a dynastic union with the House of Pelops and Mycenae to a profitless connection with petty Pisa, and cursed himself for yielding to Clytemnaistra’s will. I had made my offer and planted the seed; best to let it germinate undisturbed. Tyndareus was not the man to allow his daughter’s whim to defy high policy’s prescriptions.

  We descended from the mound; Tyndareus bestowed a garland of bay and laurel upon the victorious city - three dead against the loser’s five; maimed warriors did not count - and we drove at a leisurely pace to Sparta.

  Maira, my concubine from Samos, revealed the results of the king’s meditations. When I lay pleasantly satiated beside her after an exhausting tumble she gently tickled the instrument of her pleasure, and murmured, ‘They say Lord Broteas arrives within the moon to wed my lady Clytemnaistra,’

  ‘Everybody knows that,’ I answered, irritably, my desires instantly aroused, not by Maira’s manipulations, but in longing for the woman I had lost.

  ‘And everyone in Sparta knows you are mad for the lady. You can’t prevent the marriage, my lord.’

  I slapped her hand away. ‘Let me alone, you bitch. I have never thought of interfering. And what’s it to do with you?’

  Maira propped chin on hand, and touched her lips to mine. Her nipples brushed my chest. ‘When the couple are wed the king has kept his word. If anything happens afterwards how should he be blamed?’

  I seized her by the shoulders and rammed her hard on the bed. Glowering into her eyes I said, ‘What are you implying? Out with it - or I’ll call a slave to flog you!’

  Maira smiled. (Have I mentioned her entrancing mouth, small tip-tilted nose and a body like golden fire?) ‘If some misfortune befalls Lord Broteas on the journey back to Pisa - why then, my lord, the lady Clytemnaistra is free to marry again!’

  I released her and rolled on my back. ‘Has the king suggested this?’

  Maira’s amber eyes rounded in surprise, twin circles of shocked astonishment. ‘How can you say such a thing? What have I to do with the king?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. We both know you’re one of his spies.’ I rested forearm on brow and thought. ‘Utterly impracticable. Broteas travels guarded by a retinue of warriors.’

  ‘A small retinue, perhaps a score all told. I saw it myself when last he visited Sparta.’

  I hardly heard her. I would need help, I mused, and who would dare to concern himself in so treacherous a venture? Not the Mycenaean Heroes, and certainly not Spartans. I said aloud, ‘The idea’s impossible.’

  Maira snuggled closer. ‘A man named Dracios holds Aigion on the Arcadian border. Aigion is naught but a robber stronghold, Dracios a freebooter, his followers unprincipled ruffians. They’ll do anything you ask if paid enough.’

  I stared at the ceiling. Tyndareus’ hand in the business loomed abundantly clear. Maira - an exciting wench, but brainless as a sparrow - simply repeated instructions learned by rote. Useless to probe to the roots: for fear of a tortured death she would never implicate the king. I said caustically. ‘How very interesting. Am I expected to seek Dracios in his fastness?’

  ‘By a strange coincidence,’ said Maira guilelessly, ‘he is now in Sparta, residing at a house in the silversmiths’ quarter. I can show you the place, my lord, if so you wish.’

  No harm in meeting the fellow. ‘Very well. Now, you horrible little spy, let’s see what else you can do.’

  I grabbed her hips and swung her astride my crotch.

  ***

  I pondered deeply before interviewing Dracios. The risks of the enterprise sparkled like menacing spears; the reward - Clytemnaistra. Provided the plot succeeded I could expect the king’s implicit support. Failure, and exposure, must drive me from my Spartan haven to sanctuary in Pylos or even farther afield.

  A stimulating conversation with Clytemnaistra finally pricked me to action. We were watching herdsmen corralling bulls - dangerous work : two men were fatally gored - and she responded to my raillery more freely than ever before, displaying a talkative vivacity instead of her proud reserve. I could not beguile myself that she was yielding to my charms: allusions in her chatter made it plain her defences were lowered solely because her marriage was drawing near. She felt happy and safe in the thought of her betrothed’s embraces.

  I decided to liquidate Broteas.

  I saw Dracios in a squalid hous
e shouldered by silversmiths’ workshops. A blackbearded, dark-skinned, shock-haired villain, short broad body a mesh of muscles striped by ancient wound scars. He spoke an outlandish brogue, an amalgam of Arcadian and Spartan dialects. I introduced my object cautiously, fencing with words. Dracios brusquely interrupted and came straight to the point.

  ‘You want me to waylay Broteas on the road to Pisa and kill him? Consider it done, my lord.’

  I blinked. ‘How did you know?’

  Dracios hawked and spat, ground his foot on the gob. ‘Why d’you think I’m in Sparta? Not for fun, I promise you - hate the infernal place. Give me Aigion any day. Let’s arrange the details and I’ll be on my way.’

  Cautiously I mentioned payment - an obstacle barring the road to attainment like a landslip crashed from a mountain. The services of Dracios and his gang must come exceedingly expensive; and I owned no cattle or sheep, only a meagre hoard of bronze from King Tyndareus’ bounty.

  The chieftain checked my stumbling inquiry.

  ‘All fixed.’ He saw the question shuddering on my lips, and held up a horny, filthy hand. ‘No names, no punishment drill. Now, I’ll see Broteas pass on his way to Sparta, and will watch for his return.’ Dracios cackled coarsely. ‘With a blushing bride in tow. When do you intend to appear, my lord?’

  ‘We’ll plan particulars later. Foolish to mount an operation without reconnoitring the scene. I’ll come with you to Aigion.’

  I left Sparta unadvertised and travelled to Dracios’ stronghold a long day’s journey distant, Talthybius driving the chariot. I told my Companion we went to examine a possible hunting ground: how much he swallowed, then or later, I do not know. (I had debated bringing Menelaus into the plot, and decided against. My brother had old-fashioned notions about gentlemanly behaviour and what a Hero could honourably do and couldn’t. I am constantly surprised that, holding these ideas, he rules Sparta so efficiently today.)

  Aigion materialized as a small rock-ramparted eyrie perched on a hilltop, the inhabitants impoverished and brutish. Dracios did not improve on acquaintance; his attitude was disrespectful, his manners abominable. I suppose he must have been a Hero of sorts descended from a family tucked away for generations in this remote mountain fastness, living by cattle raiding and inexorably reverting to the barbaric existence of Achaea’s population before Zeus descended from Crete. His followers were the roughest, toughest scoundrels I have seen.

  Some way short of Aigion the trackway narrowed to a defile piercing wooded, precipitous hills. I picked this as the likeliest place for an ambush: Dracios’ bandits could hide in the trees and fall unannounced on the Pisans. The chieftain concurred; and after making detailed plans I returned to Sparta where I learned Broteas was setting out from Pisa to claim his bride.

  King Tyndareus off-handedly passed me the information while inspecting an annexe he was building to the palace. (In Sparta, unconfined by walls, expansion offers no problems; all you do is knock down humbler dwellings.) He added, ‘I’ll have to entertain the fellow, lay on junketings and banquets. I hope they won’t interfere with any arrangements you’ve made. I hear you’re going to hunt in a new and promising area.’

  Subduing a qualm - although aware I possessed the king’s tacit approval it was slightly alarming to find his spies reported every step - I kept my face expressionless and said, ‘Very promising, sire. With your permission I’ll organize a meet there directly after the wedding.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Tyndareus nonchalantly examined the plastering on a wall. ‘I hope you have bloody good sport.’

  Despite my self-control I winced. In Laconian rustic idiom the name Broteas means ‘bloody’.

  The bridegroom duly arrived; apprehensively I scrutinized his retinue. Pisa could not afford a magnificent cavalcade. He brought half a dozen Heroes, their squires and Companions, thirty-odd spearmen and the usual train of servants: a troop considerably inferior in numbers to Dracios’ savage ruffians. Broteas himself belied his gory name: a pale, slim, good-looking man with finely chiselled features, long blond hair and a suggestion of effeminacy in the slack-lipped, petulant mouth. I could understand his appeal for Clytemnaistra: a comely weakling attracting a strong-willed woman who would mother and direct him.

  The festivities were splendid and prolonged: banquets, boar and lion hunts, gorgeous reviews on the Field of War, chariot races, games. Contrariwise the wedding in the Hall was a short and simple ceremony. Witnessed by Spartan and Pisan nobles a Daughter cut a lock of Clytemnaistra’s hair and dedicated it to The Lady, Broteas took her wrist and declared her his fond and willing wife. The bride, to my vexation, looked radiantly happy and hung on her willowy husband’s arm like an oak entwining a sapling.

  I departed immediately for Aigion, taking again Talthybius, two chariots and a dozen spearmen who, accoutred in marching order, mysteriously appeared as I was setting out. (Tyndareus obviously considered that realism demanded more than a couple of men to ‘rescue’ his daughter.) After passing Dracios’ scouts lurking near the defile to give warning of Broteas’ approach we encamped under cover in a thicket nearby. On the third noonday a ragged ruffian skipped into the thicket, said the column had been sighted and ran to tell Dracios’ band hidden on the slopes above the pass. I told my party to stay concealed - they had no active part in the ploy, and the fewer witnesses the better - and hid under tamarisk, bushes beside the track.

  The column trundled into view, Broteas and Clytemnaistra riding the leading chariot, Heroes and spearmen following, baggage wagons clattering in the rear. They marched without scouts or guards, confident of safety inside friendly Laconia’s borders, and entered the defile’s mouth and vanished round a bend. As the last ox-cart disappeared a resounding clamour echoed among the rocks, shouts and screams and clashing weapons, the scrape of hooves and stamping feet.

  I trotted along the track.

  A brutal little battle was coming to an end. The men from Aigion quickly overwhelmed a retinue trapped in a narrow ravine and unprepared for attack. A Pisan Hero or two continued to fight it out, desperately trying to ward with shields a forest of lunging spears. Avoiding the scrimmage I thrust to the column’s head. Broteas’ chariot lay tilted on its side, frightened horses plunged in the yokes. He sprawled face down in the dust, a spear-shaft slanted crookedly between his shoulder blades. Clytemnaistra crouched above the body, face hidden in hands and crying aloud. I gripped her beneath the armpits and unceremoniously hauled her up.

  ‘Hurry, my lady! Escape while you can!’

  I hustled her, terrified and dazed beyond resistance, through confused and noisy wreckage of the ambush. The fight was over, the last Pisan warrior killed. Dracios’ men prodded followers into a bunch and plundered the carts. (Slaves and booty were promised as part of his reward.) Nobody hindered our going; Aigion’s lord drilled his scoundrels well. He waited at the throat of the pass, leaning against a boulder above the road. A cynical smile split the swarthy face and he lifted spear in salute. I hurried on, supporting a near-swooning Clytemnaistra.

  On reaching the thicket I bundled her into a chariot and took the reins, told Talthybius to mount the second car and the spearmen to make all speed for Sparta. Flogging the horses hard I galloped my prize to safety.

  ***

  Naturally the affair raised a rumpus in the city: royal bridegrooms are rarely slain so quickly after the wedding. Tyndareus, professing astonishment and anger, vowed he would send a warband to annihilate Dracios’ gang. (Later on he did so, and massacred every living being in Aigion. ‘All the evidence gone,’ he confided to me contentedly.) I won unmerited renown as the paladin who single-handed rescued Clytemnaistra from rape and death or slavery: the kind of Heroic feat the bards rejoice in telling. Only Talthybius doubted: I saw questions in his eyes that wisely never passed his lips. Menelaus had his suspicions. ‘I can’t twig what you’ve been up to, brother,’ he snorted, ‘but it’s unlike you to plunge your hand in a hornets’ nest unless you’ve made sure you won’t get stung. Death or
glory escapades are not in your line at all.’ I laughed, and swore he was jealous.

  Clytemnaistra, meanwhile, retired into the ladies’ quarters and nursed her grief. We had exchanged hardly a word during the rapid ride from the ambush; after delivering her at the palace I saw her only at a distance and made no attempt to accost her. ‘Leave her alone,’ the king recommended. ‘She’ll recover soon enough. The girl’s tough as thrice-boiled oxhide.’

  The summer days rolled past, sharpening to winter and mellowing into spring. Clytemnaistra emerged from her seclusion, discarded her mourning veil and shared in the palace’s pastimes. I met her on social occasions, exchanged civilities and received belated thanks for saving her from Dracios. (By that time he was dead.) I was careful to alter my approach, eschewing the banter and bawdy hints which formerly marked my wooing. Instead I endeavoured to impress myself upon her as a serious, respectable and eminently eligible suitor.

  Which turned out damnably difficult. While engaging her in edifying and horribly boring prattle I craved to fondle those arrogant breasts, to stroke her belly and loins, probe the secret mysteries hidden between her thighs. I felt so madly lustful whenever I was near her I even forgot the benefits - political and pecuniary - that marriage to King Tyndareus’ daughter would scatter in my lap.

  My restrained and sympathetic demeanour gradually thawed Clytemnaistra’s icy reserve; slowly she recovered her acid sense of humour. We conversed easily, without constraint; and she accepted me as her regular escort when walking abroad or driving: a habit Tyndareus subtly encouraged. So, on a sunny springtime afternoon we strolled a path that led to the Field of War where the Twins had arranged an archery competition. At the drystone parapet of a roadside well I stopped, took courage in both hands and said, ‘My lady, I have something important to ask you.’

  ‘Here and now?’ Clytemnaistra looked at the cheerful throng that surrounded the Field an arrow-shot from where we stood. ‘Already we’re late for the contest - and Castor has wagered a two-year-old bull on his winning.’