Warrior in Bronze

by George Shipway

  We strolled the fields, talked horses and disremembered women.

  ***

  The Host that King Tyndareus led met little opposition. At Argos we were joined by Diomedes; two hundred chariots and three thousand spears tramped the stony road to Mycenae, dispersed an irresolute warband waiting in ambush and came within sight of the citadel’s huge rock walls. The gates yawned wide; warriors on the ramparts flourished spears and shouted welcome. Elders of the Council, unarmoured and unarmed, filed from the gate and offered submission. Escorted by my exiled Heroes, helmeted, shielded and mailed, I trudged up the winding pathway and entered Mycenae’s palace.

  Bloodstains and crumpled corpses blemished Great Court, porch and vestibule - evidence of recent sharp contention. When Thyestes’ scouts reported the Spartan-Argive Host he sounded Alarm and ordered the citadel’s garrison to battle stations on the walls. The summons fired revolt; dissenting Heroes Tyndareus had encouraged refused to take up arms; a party loyal to Thyestes attempted to force the issue. A short and bloody conflict erupted in the palace; the loyalists were killed or driven out.

  They left Thyestes behind.

  He was captured in the fighting and imprisoned in an oil-store in the basement. I descended to gloomy warrens, a riddle of rooms and passages, and found him crouching on the floor amid tall earthenware jars. His captors had stripped his mail; he wore kilt and woollen tunic. I stopped at the door, dismissed the men who guided me there - except a brace of spearmen; you never knew with Thyestes - leaned against the jamb and said, ‘The end of your road, my lord. How would you like to die?’

  He lifted a snarling face, and spat at my feet. ‘Why pretend a choice, Agamemnon? The death you inflict will be hard and tormented. What does it matter? At the finish, however painfully you kill me, I shall be dead.’

  ‘Indeed. Do you remember a day long ago in Aerope’s room, when I promised to kill you slowly?’ Meditatively I considered the savage deep-socketed eyes, the bull-necked head and bulky shoulders. His hair was dappled white: I realized with sudden surprise this malignant son of Pelops was now an aged man. ‘You’ve many crimes to appease, Thyestes: my mother’s death, Atreus’ murder, Bunus of Corinth’s tortured end. A woman called Clymene, whom you probably don’t remember. And all the fools who’ve died on your behalf.’

  Thyestes sneered. ‘Am I supposed to weep for those who have gone? You mistake me, Agamemnon. You may kill me slow, and listen to my squeals - and never will you hear me cry remorse!’

  True enough, I thought. I had seen men die in terrible ways: cradling tumbled entrails spilled from bellies slashed in battle, writhing impaled on sharpened stakes, roasted alive above slow-burning fires - and knew that agony obliterated all vestige of sensate thought. Suffering swamped remembrance of why they died.

  I determined that Thyestes should be conscious to the last.

  A childhood memory came to my aid from days when Menelaus and I had played at hide-and-hunt among these underground chambers. I recalled a tiny room, an alcove adjoining a wine cellar that was used for keeping tablets listing quantities and vintages. I left the spearmen to guard Thyestes, found my way to the place and peered inside. A dark window-less stone-walled cell, the roof so low a man bent double, the floor so narrow he must lie curled up. Satisfied, I ordered slaves to deposit within the room a pitcher of water and platters of bread and meat - the more he had to eat the longer he would live - and afterwards fetch plasterers and masons. When that was done I returned to the oil-store. The spearmen at my bidding stripped Thyestes naked, prodded him to the cell and thrust him in.

  I stooped at the entrance hole and said, ‘I have provided food and drink, and time for reflection. Strong and brawny men like you don’t die very quickly. You may, in the end, feel remorse after all. Farewell, my lord.’

  The workmen walled him in, and there I left Thyestes.

  ***

  I called to audience in the Hall every Hero and Companion in the citadel and with Diomedes and Tyndareus at my shoulders proclaimed myself Mycenae’s king. The shout of acclamation shivered rafters in the roof. I postponed for seven days a formal coronation - the whole place was in ferment, servants had fled to hiding, nobody knew where Thyestes had hidden the regalia. A chariot galloped to Sparta to summon Clytemnaistra: a visible reminder that I could call on Sparta’s aid, a discouragement for wavering Heroes.

  Tyndareus and Diomedes sent the bulk of their warriors home, keeping as a precaution a warband each in Mycenae. They remained as my guests in the palace and passed the days in hunting. I found myself too occupied for such frivolities: after sliding into ruin in Thyestes’ dissolute hands the realm’s administration required overhauling. I restored demesnes to Heroes Thyestes had robbed, and inspected the state of treasuries, stores and granaries. I revelled in the work - lacking so long in Sparta - for to governance I was born. My friend Gelon reappeared from gloomy basement cubicles where Scribes conducted business, and shyly offered his help in checking accounts. I immediately appointed him Curator of Mycenae, an office he holds today.

  A panoplied escort, spears and chariots, befitting a daughter and consort of kings guarded Clytemnaistra when she entered the citadel gates. She brought Iphigeneia in Aithra’s charge, her Spartan ladies in waiting and, because I had so directed, my body-slaves and concubines. Spectators packed the roadsides, crowded rooftops and ramparts and exclaimed in wonder at Clytemnaistra’s beauty, her proud and regal bearing. I could not help admiring her myself: she rode a crimson gold-encrusted chariot like an Amazon from one of those ancient fables. After greeting my queen respectfully I conducted her to luxuriously furnished quarters on the palace’s second floor.

  I was crowned next day in the Hall. A multitude of torches bathed in golden radiance the gaudily patterned ceiling, blazoned in resplendent hues the lions, stags and charioteers rampaging on the walls. Torchlight spattered darting flecks from Heroes’ brazen armour, transmuted into gold the cuirasses and greaves, danced on cascading helmet plumes dyed scarlet, yellow and blue, shot sparkling gems from points of ten-foot spears. Ladies in brilliant dresses clustered in the gallery, leaned perilously on the railing and gazed round-eyed at the pageantry below.

  Robed in gold-embroidered purple I sat on a marble throne, Clytemnaistra beside me on a chair of inlaid ivory. The kings of Sparta and Argos stood on either hand, each wearing splendid armour, gilded graven breastplates embossed in rich designs. Solemnly a Daughter tendered Mycenae’s jewelled diadem. I placed the crown on my head, and lifted high a gold and ivory sceptre.

  ‘I, Agamemnon son of Atreus son of Pelops descended from King Zeus through thirty generations hold the kingdom and the glory of Mycenae. May The Lady in Her mercy grant me wisdom and prosperity.’

  I advanced to the blazing hearth fire where a milk-white bull calf kicked against the tethers. A Daughter proffered a sharp stone axe. I judged the blow with care - a bungled stroke presaged the direst fortunes - and smote cleanly behind the poll. The beast grunted, collapsed and died. A collective sigh of relief swelled to a rapturous roar. I sprinkled blood on the flames, returned to the throne and faced my applauding nobles.

  A tempestuous voyage had ended, my ship was safe in port.

  ***

  The coronation banquet rollicked far into the night. I left the Heroes carousing and, escorted by chattering squires, unsteadily wended my way to the royal apartments. The Hero on guard smiled sympathetically and assisted me through the door. Clytemnaistra drowsed on the bed, Iphigeneia slept in a cot, a slave woman snored on a pallet. A single oil lamp lighted the room. I kicked the slave awake, recognized Aithra’s wizened features and bade her depart. I tottered to the bedside, unfastened cloak and dropped it on the floor, fumbled my kilt belt’s buckle. ‘Make room.’

  Clytemnaistra drew the coverlet to her neck. ‘I cannot receive you, my lord. Childbearing, you should know, leaves a mother torn and tender.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ I swallowed a hiccup. ‘The birth was a moon ago. Women can take their lovers wi
thin a dawn and a dusk. Move over!’

  Eyes sharp as twin green stones glittered in the lamplight. ‘If you force me I shall call for help. The guard will irrupt on King Agamemnon striving to rape his queen. A fine salacious titbit for the populace to savour!’

  My temper flared, I called her scabrous names. She answered never a word, a look of cold contempt on her face. The infant woke and cried. I flung from the room, ignored the startled Hero leaning on his spear, lurched along the corridor to a bedroom reserved for guests. I told the slave who kept the chamber to bring Maira from the women’s quarters, stripped my kilt and stretched on the bed.

  I was dozing when she sidled in, desire drowning in dreams. Maira’s titillating fingers swiftly rekindled the fires: I mounted like a stallion and plunged my weapon deep. Then, lulled by her whispered endearments I dropped asleep, woke sandy-mouthed and thirsty. Maira slipped from the bed, held a pitcher to my lips. I drank avidly, water dribbling chin and chest. Refreshed and fully awake, I kneaded my concubine’s buttocks and proved my manhood again.

  Afterwards she snuggled close, her legs entwined in mine, whispered a ribald anecdote which made me shake with laughter, and murmured, ‘I had not expected your favours tonight, my lord, for I thought you would celebrate so momentous an occasion in the queen’s embraces.’

  ‘Not possible,’ I grunted. ‘She has lately given birth, and protested ... frailty.’

  Maira’s amorous undulations stilled; she lay so quiet I thought she slept. Soft fingers stroked my brow. ‘A specious pretence, my lord, as any mother can affirm.’

  ‘So I thought. What matter? You’ve taken her place - one sheath is good as another.’

  Her lips caressed my ear. ‘The queen lies to you. Her womb has never carried a child.’

  The words hardly penetrated the skin of my wine-fuddled wits. I scrubbed hand on aching temples and said, ‘What are you babbling about? She’s just had Iphigeneia.’

  ‘Iphigeneia is not Queen Clytemnaistra’s child.’

  ‘You’re mad. The brat’s my daughter and hers.’

  ‘Neither.’ Maira unclasped her arms from round my shoulders, sat up and hugged her knees. A false dawn’s leaden light bleached the sky beyond the windows. ‘The baby was borne by Helen, the father Theseus of Athens.’

  Staring wide-eyed into the shadows she spoke hardly above a whisper in a low, monotonous voice. ‘Theseus raped Helen when he held her fast in Athens. Her time drew near, and Aithra in desperation blurted the truth to your wife. Together they hatched a scheme to shield from disgrace and dishonour the purity of Sparta’s royal line. Directly the babe was born Aithra carried her secretly to Clytemnaistra who, already feigning labour, pretended the child was hers. That, my lord, is the parentage of the girl you believe your daughter.’

  I swallowed an arid lump that blocked my throat. ‘You weave fantasies, you bitch! How could Helen’s travail be concealed? Her nursemaids, household servants, midwife --’

  ‘One midwife, and Aithra, delivered her, my lord. They tied a cloth round Helen’s mouth to stifle her shrieks.’

  I writhed on the bed, beat fists on thighs. ‘How can I believe this? If they took such pains to keep the birth secret why is it that only you should know?’

  ‘The midwife was my mother. She told me that very day, and swore me to silence.’

  I gripped Maira by the hair, tugged her flat on the bed. Leaning close I glared into her eyes. ‘So. A brittle vow, it seems. And this clucking midwife still roams free to tattle far and wide.’

  Maira breathed in shallow gasps. ‘You are hurting me, my lord. No. Her tongue is stilled forever. My mother died an agonized death after drinking from a bowl of milk that Aithra gave her. Which is why to you alone I have broken my oath.’

  ‘You have told no one else?’

  ‘Never a soul, my lord.’

  I lay back and knuckled my eyes. Sweat started from my pores and runnelled chest and belly. Questions whirled through my brain like flotsam borne on a torrent. I could not doubt the story’s truth: Maira risked her life in the telling. Always she had hated Clytemnaistra and was certain she, through Aithra, contrived the midwife’s murder.

  What induced Clytemnaistra - passionless, cold and calculating - to pretend the child was hers: a masquerade fraught with danger and disgrace? Love for Helen, perhaps, a selfless, devoted deed to hide her sister’s shame. Difficult to credit; I had found no whit of tenderness in Clytemnaistra’s character. Perhaps malevolence drove her to foist the bastard on me and gloat secretly on my cuckolded ignorance. Did the woman hate me so intensely? Why? She could surely know nothing of her husband Broteas’ killing. Could she? No - impossible.

  Suffocated by nightmare thoughts I clambered from the bed and paced the floor. The window framed a pallid sheen that painted grey the chequered tiles I trod. Tables, chairs and coffers crouched in the shadows like beasts of prey. Maira watched me mutely, dark eyes wide and fearful.

  Fury choked my breath. I stopped in my stride, stared sightlessly into the gloom. Go now to Clytemnaistra, throw the accusation in her teeth! Seize the brat by the heels and spatter its brains on the wall!

  I clenched my fists and won control, forced myself to examine the problem coolly.

  High policies were involved. Were Helen’s rape exposed, should anyone be told she had borne a child by Theseus the disgrace would blast in fragments her marriage to Menelaus, shatter his hope of one day ruling Sparta and mine of seeing the kingdoms joined in brotherly alliance. More. Should the infamous scandal be blazoned abroad Clytemnaistra must also be shamed; then I could do no less than put her away. However valid the reasons Tyndareus would be angered; the revelation would smash our friendship, finish the Spartan alliance, end my hopes of breaking Theban power and bring to crisis point the scarcity of corn. Within a year of winning the crown I’d be ruling a starving realm.

  A hint of the truth would destroy the ends I had swindled and murdered to gain.

  It must never come out. How many people shared my knowledge? Helen, Clytemnaistra, Aithra - none, for her own security, would betray so dangerous a secret.

  One remained.

  I looked at the bed. Maira lay unmoving, her naked body a still bronze statue carved on the bedsheet’s white. Scourged by blazing hatred and yearning for revenge she had blabbed the tale to me. Could she be depended on to curb her tongue in future?

  While the sweat dried harsh on my skin I considered the question coldly; and decided not.

  I went to the bedside and knelt beside her. Maira lifted her arms and stroked my face and whispered words of love. I grappled her throat in both my hands, thumbs on windpipe, pressed with all my strength. She gurgled, flailed her limbs and writhed, her fingers clawed my chest. I held her fast, the soft brown neck like a flower-stalk in my grip, lifted her head and forced it back, and heard the backbone snap.

  I lowered the limp form, wiped palms on a rumpled coverlet, stumbled to the window.

  Above the palace rooftops dawn’s rose-red fingers brushed Saminthos’ peaks, the mountain leaned like purple ramparts against a honey-pale sky. I sucked great draughts of cool clean air, and stretched out arms to a wakening world, a world that sprouted dangers and adversities. Like phantoms fleeing at cockcrow a vision of the burdens capered before my eyes: Thebes, the Goatmen, Troy, the Corinthian shore - obstacles towering higher than Saminthos’ distant pinnacles. To cleanse the honour of my House I must hunt down and exterminate Aegisthus, that misbegotten child Thyestes spawned upon his daughter.

  And somehow I must pluck from my nest the cuckoo fledgling Iphigeneia.

  Much remained to be done.

  A rising sun drenched gold the mountain crests. Nothing was unattainable. Nothing lay beyond my grasp, beyond the reach of Agamemnon, king of men.

  Genealogy

 

 

  e.