Warriors in Bronze (3 page)

I did as I was told, and sent a man for the palace physician.
Then I went to my brother. He lay curled up on the floor, eyes
screwed tightly shut. Tears trickled down his cheeks.

'Thank you, Menelaus,' I whispered.

(Several years later Atreus recalled this episode. 'I knew per­fectly well you were guilty,' he said, 'and you proved yourself
a liar and a crook. I decided then you should follow me on
Mycenae's throne. You see, Agamemnon, a king must be en­tirely unscrupulous, ready at need to betray his dearest friend -
even his beloved brother. I think you meet the measure very fairly - just the kind of ruler our treacherous Heroes need.')

* *

The transition was abrupt. Menelaus and I shifted quarters to
the squires' wing: long gloomy chambers, dormitories and
living rooms combined, on the first floor facing the mountains.
The squires under training - about twenty sons of noblemen
from Tiryns and Mycenae - quickly put us in our place. All
were equal here, royal offspring like ourselves no more
favoured than the rest. A young Companion named Diores had
charge of this turbulent gang, a stocky dark-haired man with a
scathing tongue and ready whip, who stood no nonsense from
cocky children.

I shall not detail the training we endured for the next four
years: a rigorous routine painfully familiar to every man of
noble blood. We were routed from bed in the dark and running
the fields before sunrise, Diores loping in rear, his lash drawing
blood from the laggards. We paused to draw breath on reach­ing the Field of War: an extensive stretch of level ground six
hundred paces from the citadel's gate where Mycenae's war­riors paraded. Two narrow watercourses, dry in the summer
moons, meandered across the surface: a test for aspirant
Companions, who had to carry them at a gallop. Here we
wrestled and boxed, jumped ditches and walls and performed
strange muscle-racking exercises. Later we progressed to more
exciting work: weapon training, spears and swords and bows;
the care of arms and armour; battle drill and archery.

One day I objected sulkily to Diores that fighting on foot like
common spearmen was hardly gentlemen's work. He forbore,
for a change, to bite my head off, and said, 'Squad - down
shields. Rest. Listen, and get this into your stupid skulls. You
hope one day to be Heroes
-
The Lady save us! What
are
Heroes? They're men of noble blood, and the best fighters in
the world. A Hero leads spearmen and bowmen, slingers,
horsemen and charioteers: whatever they do he must do
better. So he learns to fight on foot like a spearman, shoot like
an archer, ride like a scout and drive like a Companion. Which
will take you years, and you've hardly started. At the end, if
you survive, you'll be fit to ride a chariot in the forefront of
the Battle where Heroes always fight. Until then you work. On
your feet, scum! Take up shields!'

In the afternoons Diores herded us to the palace wine stores
and taught us vintages and serving: essential knowledge for
budding squires - servants handed food at meals, but wine was
a gentleman's business. Finally we observed the lords at dinner
for three successive days, watching from the gallery above the
Hall and listening with half an ear to Diores' running com­mentary. Then he loosed us on a banquet which King Eurys-
theus gave to a visiting lord. I was told to attend on Atreus,
Menelaus on Thyestes. We were timorous as kittens; and the
brilliant scene, the noise and pageantry and splendour were no
anodyne for nerves.

The Great Hall of Mycenae is sixteen paces long by fourteen
wide, the floor laid out in patterned squares, red and yellow, blue
and white. A charcoal fire burns day and night throughout the
year on a circular hearth in the centre where food is cooked.
Four fluted wooden columns frame the hearth and support an
opening in the ceiling which a gallery surrounds, all roofed by
a clerestory whose windows admitted light and air and allowed
the smoke to escape. A single massive portal closed by brazen-
plated doors led to the vestibule and portico beyond.

Brilliant painted patterns blazed from every handsbreadth of
the ceiling; lions hunted stags along one wall, the figures large
as life, colours flaring from the plaster. On another men in
chariots drove to war, armour yellow-gold, horses paired in
white and black. Winged dog-headed monsters flanked a red-
veined marble throne and headed twin processions of birds and
beasts and butterflies: an iridescent riot which seemed to live
and move.

Torchlight shivered stars from crystal and silver and gold;
the air was scented with charcoal smoke, roasting meat and
wine. Squires filled silver flagons from a wine store adjoining
the vestibule and threaded a way through tables and gesticu­lating men: two hundred bare brown bodies gleaming with
perfumed oil, bedizened with golden bracelets and necklaces
and gems - a job that required a dancer's poise and a steady
hand. You also had to dodge the foraging dogs: fast, heavy
Molossians which Heroes kept for hunting, willing to tackle
anything from a stag to a charging lion. Meanwhile Diores,
from a seat near the door, watched like a falcon and counted
each drop we spilled.

Nobody noticed the squires except when he wanted a drink.
I kept - my primary duty - the Marshal's goblet abrim; but any
lord, as I passed, could demand I filled his cup. Edging between
outer tables on a journey from the wine store I felt fingers
pluck my kilt and paused to do the bidding of the owner: a
man whose body was white as a woman's. I saw his face in
profile, hollow-cheeked and thin, features finely cut, a short
fair beard. A Hero or Companion - no lesser mortals dined in
the Hall. A resemblance to someone I knew flitted across my
memory and escaped in the general din.

He tapped his empty cup, and smiled.

I stooped to obey his order, and glimpsed the opposite side of
his face. From jawbone to temple the cheek was smashed and
sunken, the skin grey-white and crumpled. His right eye, fixed
and glazed, stared blindly from deep in the socket. The beard
straggled limply across this frightful scar, like grass struggling
to survive on barren ground.

I averted my gaze and filled his cup, a crystal goblet en­graved with running hounds. He said, A paler wine than I last
was served. What is the vintage?' He spoke softly and slowly,
and hesitated between words as though he had to drag them
from deep recesses in his mind.

'From Attica, my lord, and ten years old.'

He sipped, and rolled the liquid on his tongue. 'Full and
mellow, perhaps a trifle sweet.' I waited, flagon in hand -
according to Diores' lessons I could not go till he gave me leave
- and wondered who he was. I knew by sight the household
nobles and nearly all who lived outside the citadel: they con­stantly came and went within the palace. Not this one; and I
could hardly have failed to notice his ghastly appearance.

He said, 'What is your name, lad?'

'Agamemnon, my lord.'

The good eye widened, a spasm twitched the unmarred side
of his face. 'Indeed ? An uncommon name. Surely I know it...
you must be ...' His fingers stroked the pitted scar; furrows
creased the forehead above the eye that searched my face, the
other brow stayed smooth, unwrinkled - a most disturbing
phenomenon. 'Impossible,' he muttered. 'You're too old. Or too
young. So hard to remember. The years run together like
streams in spate, the waters flow so fast I see no more than a
blur. You should have a brother, boy, a brother. Tell me...'

'Yes, my lord: Menelaus.'

'That's the name, that's it! All is coming back!' He spoke
feverishly, stuttering, groping for words. His hand reached out
and gripped my knee. Diores had warned me that amorous
gentlemen heated by wine often tried to fondle personable
squires waiting beside the tables; unless I was bent that way I
had best leave swiftly on urgent errands. I did not draw away.
No lewdness existed here, only an urgent excitement betrayed
by the working face, by sweat drops beading his cheeks. None
the less I felt embarrassed. The man was decidedly odd, and I
wished he would give me permission to go.

'Your mother,' he said hoarsely. 'No, don't tell me! Let me
think...' He ran fingers through his hair, golden and streaked
with grey despite the comparative youthfulness his unscarred
features attested. 'Anaxibia? No, that's another. Who was
Anaxibia...?'

I opened my mouth to tell him and caught, across the
boisterous Hall, Atreus' eyes on mine. He looked both anxious
and angry, and beckoned imperatively. Welcoming the pretext
I said gently, 'I am summoned elsewhere, my lord. Have I your
leave?'

Like the flame of a torch plunged quickly in water his face
went blank, expressionless; the tenseness left his limbs and his
body went lax in the chair. 'Leave?' he asked vacantly. 'Cer­tainly. Why are you here? Ah, yes, the wine. Very passable,
perhaps not fully mature; a thought too sweet for my taste.
Where did you say it came from ? No matter - off you go.'

I hastened between the tables to the Marshal's side. 'Pour
wine,' he snapped. 'My throat is dry as a virgin's crotch. Where
the blazes have you been ? Your job is to keep my goblet filled
- haven't you been told?'

"Yes, my lord,' I answered submissively. 'I was delayed in
serving a gentleman yonder' - I pointed my chin to the outer
tables - 'who asked me —'

'I saw you.' Cold blue eyes bored into my brain. 'His name is
Plisthenes. You will never, Agamemnon, speak to him again. Is
that understood?'

I nodded mutely, and tilted the flagon.

***

The strenuous existence which a squire suffered under training
often made me yearn for my former life - a pampered child in
the mighty Marshal's household. At the end of the day Idropped into bed and slept like a corpse; and seldom found the
energy to cross the palace courtyard to Atreus' apartments or
the quarters where my mother lived.