The warrior, p.21
The Warrior, page 21
part #3 of Orestes Series
Chromios was no longer the headstrong lord who had defied my demands last harvest, or who had reached for his spear to defend his family only a few nights ago. In two days, he had aged ten years. When he walked, he shambled, the stride of a man broken by grief, and his hands trembled. I sent him his own physician to prescribe strengthening tonics and exercise, and offered him assurances that he and his family would be well treated as long as they stayed obedient and docile. His daughters would have generous dowries and make prosperous marriages, while Chromios and his wife would be allowed to retire to a small estate near my own at Midea. On the way back from the tomb, I described how the well-watered soil and sun-drenched hillside facilitated the cultivation of grapes. “You will be content there,” I said. “The servants have long maintained an ancient shrine to Zeus.”
Chromios bobbed his head, distracted, and made no reply. I let him alone to reflect on his loss, and spoke no more to him about his daughters’ marriages or his enforced retirement.
After securing the citadel, I honored with public libations and blood sacrifices those gods whose aid had made our victory possible, then on the third day, once the princes of Nemea were safely interred, I entertained the high priest of Zeus and his entourage, and under their auspices visited the famous sanctuary situated in the lower town.
The sanctuary of Zeus was a splendid building, decorated with colorful lion frescoes and gifts from the many pilgrims who flocked to consult its oracle, it was the oldest such cult center to Zeus in the Peloponnese, predating even the sanctuary my great-grandfather Pelops had refurbished and endowed at Olympia. High Priest Opheltios delighted in showing me the temple treasures, including the sword of Inachos, founder of the Argive dynasty, and a richly embroidered garment and golden rhyton Acrisius had sent the oracle in order to learn whether he would have a son to succeed him; after more than a century, the tunic’s once-vivid purple dye was fading, and the golden embroidery had lost its luster. A sad reminder that oracle’s answer had been a bitter one—Acrisius would have no son, but a grandson, Perseus, at whose hands he would die—and further proof that nothing good ever came from mortals glimpsing into the future.
In exchange for a suitable donation, Opheltios offered me an audience with the oracle. Although I vowed to present the god with a gift of fine Laconian marble, I refused the ramblings of the god’s priestess, and asked instead to see the sanctuary’s resident lion.
To see a flesh and blood lion in those days was a rare thing, as overzealous hunting and cultivation had driven the creatures from the fringes of human habitation even deeper into the wilderness. I might have instructed the goldsmith who had carved my seal to embellish it with a lion, but it was not until Nemea that I actually laid eyes on one.
Lions were a natural embodiment of royalty, of Zeus, and the sun high in the heavens, but there was nothing divine or royal about this captive beast, whose domain was bounded within the space of a single courtyard. He might have been, I mused, a splendid animal in his youth, but captivity and old age had diminished him. Sensing a stranger’s presence, he turned his great head with its straggly tawny mane toward the portico where I stood with the priests, and slowly blinked his golden eyes. He seemed wise and world-weary, and had I the authority, I would have struck loose the bronze chain constricting his movements, and released him back into the hills from whence he had come.
Opheltios obviously did not see what I did. “All kings, like this lion,” he pontificated, “are subject to the will of Father Zeus.”
That night, I dreamt of lions: frescoed animals that turned their heads and followed my movements with sorrowful eyes begging for release that I could not grant them, because I lacked the power to reach into the walls to unchain their golden manacles.
Nemea’s vassals took their time about answering my summons; two refused outright, much to their detriment. I ordered them killed with all their male relatives, young or old, their women taken into captivity, and their estates forfeited; it gave Menon’s men a chance to exercise their bloodlust, and to seize the plunder he had promised them.
Chromios’s former vassals practically tripped over themselves to pledge their fealty after that. I received them in the megaron on the sixth day, and brought out Chromios and his family to render their oaths of loyalty and reassure the other vassals that I could be merciful with those who submitted.
Chromios surrendered his scepter, and mumbled the correct phrases. Together, we made a libation to Zeus Horkios, who sanctified all oaths taken in his name, then I draped about his shoulders a blue cloak banded with rich embroidery, which Hermione had sent as a special gift to help alleviate the sting of defeat. We embraced, and I settled him in the seat of honor beside me.
Hermione had likewise sent jewels and other pretty trinkets for the Nemean ladies, with instructions that I should be courteous, and not frighten them with talk of bondage; she had no need to lecture me on treating with wellborn women. I hung carnelian and silver around Lady Ianeira’s thin neck, offered her an inlaid chair, and spoke gentle words to her and her husband regarding the disposition of their three daughters.
“You are both acquainted with Lord Nearchos, who was our Lord Ambassador and is now our new warden of Nemea,” I said. “His eldest son Antinous is a worthy young man and able administrator, but he lacks a wife.” I indicated the young man, standing beside his father to the right of the dais. “If you would grant him the hand of your eldest daughter in marriage, your bloodline may continue to prosper here in Nemea.”
The Nemean court that evening celebrated a marriage. I departed for home the next day, with Chromios, his wife, and the few servants I had allowed them to retain, under light guard.
Chapter Sixteen
Cylarabes, that arrogant busybody, dared to personally chastise me over my handling of the Nemean affair. First, however, I had to endure his meaningless courtesies, and his queries about every single member, no matter how young or far-removed from court, they were. “We trust your sons are in good health? Prince Tisamenus and...” Pausing, he licked his lips. “Forgive us, but the other one’s name escapes us right now.”
“Teukros,” I muttered. Chione had borne a healthy boy with her fair coloring, and I had named him after Telamonian Ajax’s bastard half-brother, who had been a famous archer and a much-loved and faithful sibling.
“What a splendid name, Teukros!” As though Cylarabes did not already have spies planted in my household, and had not known about my natural son’s birth or his naming. “We trust that mother and child are doing well?”
I ground my teeth. “And how is your house guest faring, Lord Cylarabes?” When he coolly feigned ignorance, I came right out with it. “You know perfectly well who we mean. Akelos, the bastard son of Diomedes. So tell us, how is the young herdsman finding life in the court of Tiryns?”
Cylarabes did not answer, except for the infuriatingly enigmatic smile he cast over his cup. “King Cyanippus asked us to express his concerns over these troubling recent events.” He paused to drink, forcing me to wait on his pleasure, that fat, meddlesome agitator. “Hmm, we would say he has a right to be concerned, wouldn’t you?”
I leaned back against the leopard skin draped over my throne; the pelt had just come from the storeroom, and smelled like sawdust. “We would ask why Cyanippus should feel such concern, as those recent events do not concern him.”
“Ah, but it is our royal kinsman’s opinion that antagonizing poor old Lord Chromios of Nemea, killing his young, unarmed sons, and taking his women captive speaks ill of you, when you were his most honored hearth-guest not eighteen months ago.”
A servant entered the megaron bearing sweetmeats and nuts. “You have had a tiring ride from Tiryns. Would you care to eat something?” I sampled an almond, exaggerating my enjoyment with absurdly loud noises. “Try one?” Had the laws of hospitality allowed such honesty, I would have shoved his corpulent face into the dish instead.
Cylarabes squinted at the dish, which aggravated his frown, and made his selection. “We are getting away from the point,” he said. “King Cyanippus has expressed grave concerns over the disquieting rumors surrounding this matter of the Nemeans.”
That ancient corpse could choke on his disapproval. “We are well within our rights to chastise a disobedient and defiant vassal,” I said, chewing on another almond, “which we have done. It was an unfortunate necessity that dictated the death of Chromios’s sons, but, since he and his women have submitted, they enjoy the utmost courtesy and consideration.
Cylarabes stared at the almond between his pudgy fingers without biting into it. “Surely you recall pledging mutual friendship and—”
“Yes,” I stated firmly, “and we hold to our word. Now, do you mean to tell us that your king honestly believes we are going to creep through his postern gate and murder him in his sleep?” This dance was getting tiresome, when we both knew the truth. “How absurd! Argos has always been Mycenae’s staunchest friend and ally. What reason should we have to attack you?”
“Need we remind of you of your rather strong language concerning that relationship during last year’s visit?”
I brushed his query aside, while popping another almond into my mouth. “Ah, that. Your king and his assembly must forgive us our youthful bluster, as it was not meant for them. Rather, it was our father-in-law that we wished to impress, which, you may rest assured, we most certainly did not. He chastened us quite thoroughly on the way home.” Reaching for my cup, I washed down the salty morsel. “Need we say it again? Mycenae and Argos are friends! If there should be any misunderstanding between us, then it would be over your agents continuing to impose unreasonable tolls upon our ships. Did we not agree that this practice would cease?”
“We promised only that we would look into the matter.” Cylarabes would not meet my gaze, and shifted in his seat like a man plagued with piles, which I wholeheartedly wished upon him.
“Do you not recall setting your seal upon a reduction in tolls?” I gestured to Sama, standing beside Eteokles beside the dais. “Our scribe has the copy of the document we received. We would be delighted to let you view it again.”
Confronted with such evidence, his only recourse was to mumble excuses: his agents had not been properly instructed, they were swindlers, and they would be disciplined upon his return. He did not linger, staying only long enough to finish his wine before taking his leave. I did not envy his charioteer or team, having to cart that conniving pithos home.
Hermione had not come down to greet the warden of Tiryns, but remained upstairs to bathe Tisamenus, nurse, and put him down for his afternoon nap. Once her milk started flowing, she had dismissed the wet nurse. I appreciated her zeal for motherhood, but also wanted more children from her, and knew from my sister that, despite the strength of my seed, my wife was not likely to conceive again while she suckled our son.
She listened impassively, twisting wool between her nimble fingers, as I described the meeting. “What did you think the reaction in Argos would be?” she commented afterward. “I would be worried, too, if I were an Argive. They know perfectly well in the Larissa that your protestations of friendship and support are just words.”
Hermione had made no secret of the fact that she did not like my having slain Chromios’s sons, or that women and children had been among the casualties in the seizure of the citadel; it was the mother in her that objected to those violent necessities. Sighing, I glanced over at Tisamenus, dozing in his cradle. Now that the redness and wrinkles of childbirth had faded, he was quite a handsome child, with large blue eyes. “So they are.”
She made no further comment on the matter, instead changing the subject as deftly as her fingers twisted the raw wool into thread. “While you were enduring the warden of Tiryns, a Phocian messenger arrived with news for Pylades. Elektra says whatever the message contained, it upset him, and that he’s downstairs in his office, brooding.”
I would have wagered ten tripods that the message concerned his father’s intractable stance against reinstating him as heir apparent. King Strophius had disinherited his son three years ago, after Pylades aided me in committing matricide, replaced him as heir with a royal kinsman, and now maintained that the Phocian assembly would not entertain breaking an arrangement where sacred oaths had been exchanged to affect a reversal.
Just as Hermione said, I found Pylades in his downstairs cubicle, giving vent to his frustration while his hapless scribe attempted to take dictation. I dismissed the man, then shut the door after him. “I hear you’ve just received a message from Phocis. More bad news?”
“The Phocian assembly wants me to send my sons to be fostered at Krisa.” Pylades bunched his fist atop the stack of wax tablets and papyri awaiting his perusal, growling, “The only way they will ever see the boys is by acknowledging me as the rightful heir—or over my dead body.”
I sat down. “Why would the assembly want your sons to begin with, when they’re perfectly content with the heir they’ve chosen?” My thoughts raced to keep up with my speech. “Or perhaps all isn’t well within the court of Krisa, and they’re reconsidering.” Our agents had reported that Kteatos, the Phocian heir, loathed the business of the court, had no head for figures or administrative duties, and regularly whiled away his days hunting and drinking. All he had to recommend him were his blood ties to his grandfather Iphitus, who had been well-loved among the Phocians, and his father Epistrophos, who had led the Phocian contingent at Troy only to return a broken man.
“You needn’t tell me that,” Pylades answered crisply. “I would go to Krisa myself and state my position before the assembly if I thought Father or his councilors would listen. Damn them and their sacred oaths!” His fist slammed onto the wooden desk, rattling writing implements and tablets. “Why must they be so hidebound, so unreasonable? Kteatos is worthless as a man. How could they ever have considered setting him on the throne as king?”
Yes, I decided. The Phocian assembly had realized its mistake, and sought to undo it by molding their king’s impressionable young grandsons into worthy princes. What, then, did they intend to do with Kteatos? “Then they must be compelled to see that you, and you alone, are the god’s own choice to rule over them as king after Strophius dies.”
Pylades frowned, staring into empty space, his anger burning cold now that he had vented the worst of his spleen. “I would have arranged a convenient accident for Kteatos months ago, except that suspicion would have automatically fallen on me.” He sucked in a breath through flaring nostrils. “Besides, it would have offended the gods had I raised my hand against my own cousin.”
“Hmm,” I mused. “Perhaps there’s no need to buy his death. Rather, I think certain members of the Phocian assembly might benefit from a persuasive, generous reminder as to where their best interests lie.”
“Thank you,” Pylades grumbled, “but I would prefer to buy their loyalties with my own gold. Otherwise, the Phocians will mistake me for a Mycenaean lackey. Had you simply allowed me to administer Nemea, instead of—”
“What do you want with that second-rate backwater when you could have something better befitting your royal lineage as a grandson of Atreus?” I exclaimed. “You will have no cause to regret losing Nemea.” I rubbed my hands together, grinning to deflect his growing agitation. “How would you like to rule Argos?”
His mouth fell open. “Argos? I assumed you would give Argos to Kleitos.” Pylades was not an easy man to surprise or confound, but how could he ever have believed that I would permit a non-royal advisor to sit in authority in the Larissa of Argos?
“Kleitos?” I dismissed that suggestion with a snort. Kleitos would have his reward governing a lesser state, such as Sikyon or Kleonai. “Argos is too vital, too prestigious to be administered by anyone but my own kinsmen. Think of it, Pylades. You as warden and hereditary prince of Argos, and, when they’re old enough, one of your sons as warden of Tiryns.” I focused on the tablets before him, those records tallying the yearly lambing. “Just think of the revenues to be had. Argos boasts the largest horse market in Argolis. It’s a gathering place for merchants from all over the Aegean. Your percentage of the tithes alone would be enough to buy the Phocian assembly ten times over.”
Pylades listened with obvious interest, yet as always he remained pragmatic. “That’s generous, Orestes, but you can’t grant me what you don’t have. When Cyanippus dies, you’ll have to deal with Cylarabes, and he’s dangerous enough to keep you plotting against him for years. You won’t be able to eliminate him as you did Chromios.”
I chuckled, “Well, I know better than to use the same tactics twice.” A jug of wine stood on a table near the brazier. Dealing with Cylarabes had left me with a tremendous thirst. “Come, let’s have a drink. Our spies will continue to watch the Argives and Phocians, and, gods willing, all our offerings to Zeus and the Two Ladies will inspire them to show us the way.”
*~*~*~*
Kleonai sent an ambassador to ascertain whether rumors about the slaughter of Chromios’s entire family held a grain of truth. Had I not already heard as much from Cylarabes, that underhanded accusation would have astonished me, as Nearchos had taken great pains to broadcast the truth throughout Corinthia. There was no reason whatsoever for Kleonai, which lay only a few miles northeast of Nemea, and its ruling assembly to doubt the tale.
I bore Lord Ambassador Hilarion no particular ill will, but thought that his masters had either been hoodwinked, or were looking for an excuse to avoid honoring their old obligations to Mycenae. “Go back to Kleonai,” I said, “and inform Lord Aisymnos and his councilors that they also owe us tribute.”
Hilarion swallowed hard; he had not touched the wine Eteokles set before him. “King Orestes,” he said weakly, “there must be some mistake. Kleonai is beholden to Corinth.”
We would see about that. Sama handed me the clay tablet stamped with the tallies of grain, oil, wool, and other goods that were due, and I in turn had Eteokles convey it to Hilarion. “Give this to your master. Tell Lord Aisymnos that we are generous and merciful with those who submit, and ruthless with those who are insolent with us. Remind him also that we have his seal on an agreement between him and Mycenae, promising annual tribute in the exact measures which you now have before you.”
