To cool my blood and preserve my health I brought Maira to Therapne: she compensated - almost - for the raptures I’d expected from my wife. While perfectly aware I bedded other women Clytemnaistra never reproached me or betrayed any signs of jealousy, reserving her vindictiveness for the unfortunate concubines themselves. Pretending Maira had neglected some petty household chore she had her whipped. When Maira, sobbing, showed me the weals I quietly informed Clytemnaistra that the woman, my personal property, was beyond her jurisdiction.
She said, ‘The slut was insolent. Am I to accept impertinence from slaves?’
‘If she gives you cause for complaint tell me. I’ll ensure she doesn’t transgress in future.’
I sternly reprimanded my bedmate, who denied she had ever offended Clytemnaistra. ‘I keep well out of her way because I know she wants to hurt me,’ she said tearfully. ‘I hate the bitch - a dangerous, vicious harridan!’
I slapped her across the face. ‘Hold your tongue. If you speak of my lady like that again I’ll have you beaten to death!’
Such domestic frictions were transitory irritants in an otherwise tranquil existence. I busied myself with ploughing, sowing and harvesting, pruning vines and breeding cattle and sheep; and tried to forget Mycenae and the throne that I had lost. I once gingerly reminded the king of his promise; he recommended patience, declared the time unripe. Thyestes, said Tyndareus, was like an apple rotting on the tree; when a harsh wind shook the branches the fruit would fall of its own accord. A fire smouldered in Mycenae; when it began to glow Sparta would fan the flames.
Prohibited from detailed information which his spies supplied to Tyndareus I collected what news I could of the world outside. King Adrastus on his sickbed abdicated in favour of Diomedes, who now ruled Argos in name as well as fact. Mycenae’s naval war dragged on in desultory fashion: the Hellespont remained closed. A scandalized public opinion had compelled Thyestes to send his incestuously begotton son Aegisthus to Elis where he lived as Phyleus’ ward. Nestor ruled peacefully in Pylos, Creon tyrannically in Thebes; Athens proclaimed Menestheus king. And a half-forgotten pretender mouldered away in Sparta.
Tragedy in Arcadia led indirectly to the ending of my exile. Castor, Polydeuces and Lynceus of Messene joined forces in a cattle raid across the Arcadian border. After a successful foray the trio and their followers drove the plundered herds away. Evading pursuit they settled around camp fires and amicably discussed division of the spoils. An argument arose, words and insults flew, the hasty-tempered Twins laid hands on spears. Within moments Spartans and Messenians were fighting like wolves. Lynceus died; a spear in the bowels killed Castor; his surviving followers carried Polydeuces, mortally wounded, to Sparta where he lingered for days before dying.
King Tyndareus, subduing a bitter grief, faced the realization he had no heir to his throne - always a dangerous factor in any Achaean kingdom. A glittering prize is dangled within reach of ambitious Heroes, intrigues begin to fester, factions form and plots, perhaps, to hasten the king’s demise. Tyndareus gave his sons a splendid funeral and afterwards, ever a realist, started to mend his fences.
The king called Menelaus and me to a private consultation in a vestibule of the royal apartments and, after seeing us comfortably installed in chairs, goblets in hand, bewailed the political void the Twins’ extinction had opened. ‘I’m the last of the Spartan royal House. If I nominate as my heir a Spartan Hero I’ll be swamped by rival claims, and jealousy will breed disaffection. Directly I’m dead - if not before - there’ll be civil strife in Laconia and the kingdom will disintegrate into separate warring cities.’
‘Have you no blood relatives living?’ I inquired.
‘Twenty-one bastards. None legitimate. I’ll have to find a suitable successor from an alien city, a man from a ruling House connected by marriage to mine.’ He took a gulp from his cup and deposited it on a three-legged greenstone table. ‘You, Agamemnon.’
I felt dumbfounded and dismayed. Mycenae was my heritage, and I wanted nothing else. Moreover Tyndareus, though old, was tough as rawhide and might live for years. Could I rusticate indefinitely in Sparta in hopes of a foreign crown? An admirable city - but not to be compared with magnificent Mycenae. The prospect he unveiled appalled me.
‘You do me honour, sire.’ I trod cautiously; Tyndareus held my future in the hollow of his hand. ‘However, I foresee a serious drawback. We discussed, if you remember, an alliance against Thebes - which will never be accomplished so long as Thyestes rules. An alliance,’ I said pointedly, ‘directed to freeing Orchomenos. I believe corn in Laconia is running short.’
‘True. We’ve had to introduce strict rationing.’ Tyndareus retrieved his goblet, frowned blackly into the bowl. ‘I promised my help in regaining Mycenae, and I hate going back on my word. But with Castor and Polydeuces gone ... damned difficult predicament...’
Menelaus coughed. ‘Sire, Atreus appointed Agamemnon his successor. Mycenae remains his heritage by right. He must be restored, for in setting him on Mycenae’s throne you’ll gain enormous advantages which by keeping him in Sparta you will lose. Meanwhile you need a successor. My blood is Agamemnon’s, my ancestors were kings. Why not designate me as Sparta’s heir?’
I choked on a swallow of wine. Never had it occurred to me that my stolid brother cherished high ambitions.
‘Bless my soul!’ exclaimed Tyndareus, equally surprised, ‘What a curious idea! Admittedly your lineage makes you eminently fitting, but--’
‘With Agamemnon ruling Mycenae,’ said Menelaus earnestly, ‘and myself acknowledged heir to Sparta’s crown the kingdoms are joined by blood relationship, an inseparable union which will dominate Achaea. Militarily, politically and economically we shall be invinncible.’
‘you have a point.’ Tyndareus found his goblet empty, bellowed for a squire. ‘But there’s a snag. I have a sound excuse to nominate Agamemnon because he’s already my son by marriage and hence will be acceptable to my Heroes. Whereas you --’
‘I want to marry Helen,’ said Menelaus firmly.
Tyndareus spluttered. ‘She’s just fourteen - a child. You can’t--’
‘She’ll be of marriageable age within a year. We can be officially betrothed whenever you grant permission.’
By heartily rating his squire the king found time to recover his balance. ‘Steady - don’t overfill the cup! Dammit, boy, you’ve slopped wine all over the floor. Clumsy idiot! Get a cloth and mop it up.’ He took a satisfying swig, leaned back in his chair and said, ‘I’ll think it over. Are you’ - cocking a grizzled eyebrow at my brother - ‘fond of the girl? I thought you were just a playmate.’
‘I love her.’
‘Hr’m. She’s a minx - you’ll find her a handful. Hr’m. Certainly a solution, if Agamemnon’s determined to kick Thyestes out. Well, I can’t answer on the flick of a whip. I’ll talk to Helen and let you know my decision. Your cup’s empty, Agamemnon. Where’s that blasted squire gone?’
Crossing the Great Court afterwards I complimented my brother on his statecraft. ‘A master stroke, by The Lady - a royal daughter employed as a lever to wedge you into the Spartan royal line. You’re deeper than I realized, Menelaus.’
‘You judge me by your precepts,’ he said soberly. ‘The opposite is true. I’m passionately in love with Helen, and use Tyndareus’ quandary as an instrument to win her.’
***
Tyndareus’ spies in Mycenae reported increasing tension. The Trojan War brought a steady attrition of ships and crews, while Thyestes refused to admit his naval strategy could never re-open the Hellespont. A land campaign being out of the question the war arrived at a deadlock. Mycenae, like Sparta, had rationed grain; a disease attacking corn in ear caused harvests to fail and accentuated shortages. Goatmen and Dorians, becoming ever bolder, irrupted frequently from Arcadia and savaged isolated settlements.
Thyestes seemed incapable of decision. He roistered in the palace, granted his cronies estates sequestrated from nobles he disliked, and neglect
ed the kingdom’s routine administration. He fought no campaigns, and seldom sent his warbands to chastise rustlers or Goatmen. Young, aggressive Heroes have to hone their energies in wars and so, deprived of outside enemies, they fought among themselves.
The kingdom stagnated.
So far so good, Tyndareus observed. The soil of insurrection was ripe for cultivation; fertile patches had to be found for sowing the seed. On the pretext of negotiating trade in oil and pottery he sent a deputation to Mycenae whose real purpose was to encourage dissident Heroes in raising a palace rebellion when the Spartan Host drew near. ‘If intrigue can topple Thyestes we might be spared a battle,’ the king said thinly. ‘To fight warriors whom you once trained, Agamemnon, could prove expensive.’
The remark revealed Tyndareus’ private doubt that Sparta unassisted could, in fact, defeat Mycenae in open battle. (I had no doubts at all: if Mycenae’s Host took the field in strength they’d give Tyndareus a tremendous beating.) Therefore I gladly accepted his decision to send me on a mission to Diomedes. ‘He’s been your friend and comrade on campaign,’ said the king. ‘Ask him to prove friendship by lending his support. A token force will do at a pinch: it will at least impress on Thyestes he faces Sparta and Argos combined. You’ll have to bribe Diomedes, kings don’t help for nothing.’
‘What can I offer? I own neither land nor gold.’
You’ll soon possess both in plenty. Meanwhile, sell what you haven’t got. Argos has always hankered after Troezen; fear of Mycenae prevents her taking the city. Promise Diomedes a free hand in subjugating Troezen. I believe he’ll swallow the bait.’
I persuaded an unwilling Menelaus to accompany me to Argos. His reluctance sprang from a conviction that Helen was unwell; since her return from Athens eight moons before she had certainly looked off colour, her sunny vitality quenched. The woman Aithra, Theseus’ mother, guarded her like a watchdog and generally kept her confined in the women’s quarters; you seldom saw her running about the palace. Menelaus swore her abduction had gravely affected Helen’s physical and mental health. I was not so sure. She seemed a resilient creature, and by all accounts had enjoyed her alarming adventure. Probably, I guessed, at over fourteen she suffered puberty’s onset.
I overcame Menelaus’ misgivings, and together we journeyed to Argos.
Though handicapped by a scarcity of corn - as was every kingdom south of the Isthmus - Diomedes had almost restored Argos’ former strength. He received us amiably and lent a ready ear to my proposals. I emphasized the Theban stranglehold on food supplies, promised faithfully that, as king, I would bend Mycenae’s resources in a bid to shatter Thebes, seize the Orchomenos granaries and institute free trade in corn.
Diomedes’ experience in the War of the Seven had left him no illusions about the force required to overcome Thebes; he doubted we could muster sufficient strength. I told him Sparta promised a Host, I bespoke Mycenae’s, we could prevail on Pylos and Elis to mobilize strong warbands.
‘All this,’ said Diomedes, abstractedly studying a frieze of hounds and huntsmen adorning the Throne Room’s seagreen walls where he heard our plans in Council, ‘depends on deposing Thyestes. A fornicating scoundrel - he treats Mycenae’s throne as a fountain of debauchery. Extraordinary to think he’s Atreus’ brother.’ Diomedes ruffled his wheat-gold hair, fixed hard brown eyes on mine. ‘First we’ve got to win you a crown. If I agree to reinforce Tyndareus what advantage may Argos expect - apart from the ominous prospect of a hard-fought Theban war?’
Diomedes had rapidly acquired a ruler’s avariciousness. I said, ‘Mycenae won’t hinder you from taking Troezen’s tribute.’
‘Very sensible.’ Thoughtfully he stroked the carved cedar-wood arms of his throne. ‘I have lately been considering a rational partition of the Argolid between Argos and Mycenae. We hold Epidauros, you give us Troezen. Should not Hermione, a sheltered harbour, also logically submit to Argive rule?’
The suggestion kindled a fiery argument, Diomedes and his Council contesting Menelaus and me on a noisy verbal battleground. Hermione, like Troezen, was a city which owed continuing independence to rivalry between more powerful neighbouring kingdoms, each unwilling to see the other acquire additional wealth and strength. Diomedes, regrettably, had sound basis for his reasoning: both cities geographically fell within Argos’ ambit.
I proposed a compromise.
‘If Mycenae grants you Troezen and Hermione, will Argos in return restore the tributes of Midea and Asine?’
The Council vehemently dissented. Diomedes propped chin on knuckles and watched the heated faces. I had turned a facet of his arguments against him; for if the disputed cities could be claimed as lying in Argive territory then Midea and Asine were certainly appendages to Mycenae. At last he clapped his hands together and said, ‘Enough, my lords. I decree the exchange is justified.’ He smiled genially. ‘When you hold Mycenae’s sceptre, Agamemnon, you shall have the tributes of Midea and Asine. You may also assure Tyndareus that when his warriors march Argos’ Host will support him.’
Diomedes grinned widely when he saw the gladness in my face. He knew as well as I that rather than forgo the backing of his troops I’d have yielded more than Hermione - perhaps Nauplia, even Tiryns. (Afterwards, assuredly, I’d have mounted a brisk campaign to wrest them back.)
Though Diomedes feasted and entertained us admirably we did not linger for long in Argos: I was keen to goad Tyndareus to action. On return to Sparta I sought an audience and assured him the Argives would reinforce his Host. He demanded details, congratulated me on recovering Midea and Asine and continued, ‘I’m in touch with Mycenaean dissidents - more than you’d have guessed. Revolution seethes in Thyestes’ palace. They yearn for Atreus’ golden days, and are happy to crown his son.’ Irony edged his tone. ‘Or so they believe - your unfortunate sire Plisthenes seems totally forgotten. No matter. We’ll strike while the bronze is molten - I’ve ordered the Host to be mustered.’
I dropped on my knees and grasped his hands. Tyndareus patted my shoulder. ‘No call for thanks. I gain nearly as much as you: a king for your son by marriage is always politically useful. Which reminds me. You’ll find a pleasant surprise awaiting you in Therapne.’
He would divulge no more, and I was far too happy to bother - the granting of my supreme desire transcended all else in the world. Talthybius drove me, singing joyfully, the short distance to my home - my home for not much longer, I mused contentedly. I bathed and scrubbed away travel dust, donned a deerskin kilt and clean linen tunic and sauntered to Clytemnaistra’s rooms. A slave girl opened the bedroom door. Covered by fleeces and blankets my lady reposed on the bed.
An infant wrapped in swaddling clothes mewed on the sheets beside her.
Stunned into speechlessness I faltered on the threshold. Clytemnaistra said languidly, ‘You have a daughter, my lord.’
‘Why,’ I stammered, ‘didn’t you tell me you were ... I had no idea...’
‘A pregnant woman grows rather rotund. I assumed you used your eyes.’ (An unjustified remark. Loose flounced skirts, frills and aprons easily conceal the signs.)
‘When was she born?’
‘The child is three days old.’
Cautiously I touched the babe’s red wrinkled face. It cried and waggled tiny fists. A girl - and I needed sons. Too late to have the infant exposed; all Sparta must know it was born; you rid yourself of a girl-child directly after the birth. I stooped to kiss Clytemnaistra’s lips. She turned her head away.
I said, ‘You are well, my lady? The delivery was not difficult?’
‘I am well, but I have no milk. A wet-nurse suckles the child.’
‘What name will you give her?’
‘With your consent I shall call her Iphigeneia.’
‘Iphigeneia,’ I pondered. ‘ “Mother of a stalwart race.” Very fitting. You must cherish her carefully, so that she may fulfil the promise of her name.’
‘I shall indeed, my lord.’
I left the bedchamber, and in
the portico met Menelaus, come to pay his respects to mother and infant. After he had complimented Clytemnaistra, and recoiled from the whimpering brat with unconcealed revulsion, I called for wine and honeyed figs and we took our ease in the vestibule, enjoying the summer sunlight splashing between the pillars. We discussed the imminent campaign; and Menelaus declared he intended remaining in Sparta.
‘Henceforth my destiny lies here; there’s nothing for me in Mycenae. And I want to look after Helen.’
‘You are besotted, brother.’
‘Helen,’ he continued, ignoring my jibe, ‘was seriously ill while we were away in Argos. She is now recovered, though still delicate and weak. I saw her this morning very briefly -we had hardly exchanged greetings before that beldam Aithra sent me about my business.’
‘What ailed her?’
‘A stomach sickness, I understand. Aithra was taciturn and vague. Helen,’ my brother said dreamily, ‘is more beautiful than ever. The disease has thinned her, wasted girlhood’s puppy-fat, planed the angles of her face to absolute perfection. Never have I seen so lovely a woman - for woman she has become, no longer a child.’
‘A paragon,’ I said dryly. ‘Is she more cheerful than when I saw her last?’
‘Still somewhat melancholy and serious, her laughter lost. But,’ said Menelaus earnestly, ‘I shall attend her every day and strive to restore her spirits.’
‘Yes - you don’t want a moping wife. Nor,’ I added bitterly, ‘one who hides her feelings under a cold, indifferent husk.’ Irritated by the recollection I finished my wine and stood. ‘Come with me to the pastures, brother. The mare I bought from Castor foaled while we were gone - a likely-looking colt, my steward says.’
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