The warrior, p.30
The Warrior, page 30
part #3 of Orestes Series
And then, just as abruptly, he was gone. I waited, staring at the rosettes decorating the ceiling, my teeth chattering as much from fear as the unnatural cold, until my body and mind accepted that Father’s ghost had done no harm; it had been nothing more than an innocent visitation. Still trembling, moving slowly so as not to rouse Hekamede, I slid from the bed, and lifted the lamp from a table to explore the apartment and corridor outside, where Aglaos kept the night’s watch. A quick consultation revealed that he had neither seen nor heard anything beyond the ordinary; the shade had been for me alone.
Dawn arrived with Menelaus bursting unannounced into my chamber, and shaking me into full consciousness while rambling on about a message from Sparta. Hekamede mumbled in her sleep, opened her eyes, and jolted back with alarm when she saw the king of Sparta standing there fully dressed.
“You may go,” I told her. She sidled from the bed, collected her discarded garments, and scuttled from the chamber. The moment she was gone, I turned to my father-in-law, and asked irritably, “What’s so important that you had to wake me so suddenly?”
Menelaus managed to slow down enough to be coherent. “Aethiolas has forwarded word from Pylades. Akelos was injured in a drunken brawl or some other altercation in Asine, and now claims that it was your men, acting on your orders, who attacked him.” He sucked in a deep breath. “What’s worse, Cylarabes repeated the accusation before the Argive assembly. He’s called upon them to take action against Mycenae.”
I could not believe what I was hearing, less than ten hours after discussing that very subject with Menelaus and Nestor. Too late! Cylarabes and Akelos, it seemed, were ten steps ahead of me. “That’s ridiculous!” I snatched the papyrus from Menelaus’s hands; the seal had already been broken. “How could I possibly have ordered my men to attack that low-born good-for-nothing when I have been away for almost a month?”
“The Argives believe it, nevertheless.” Menelaus shooed Eteokles toward the clothing chest to fetch clean garments. “Nestor’s waiting for us. Read that quickly, and get dressed.”
I skimmed through the text with sleep-encrusted eyes, thanking the gods for Pylades’ matter-of-fact style. “Akelos was bruised and battered in a late-night drunken brawl in Asine. Our agents could not identify the men involved to question them, but were able to report that there were no broken bones or other serious injuries. I said as much to Lord Ambassador Melandros, when he came two days later exaggerating Akelos’s injuries, and demanding an explanation and restitution. Of course, he did not believe a word of what he was told. The Argives believe that you arranged for this assault beforehand, and then went abroad in order to foster your seeming innocence, while leaving your regent and various members of the Mycenaean assembly to carry out the actual attack. It was only through the agency of the goddess Athena, they say, that Akelos survived.”
I flung the papyrus aside in disgust. “At least I would have finished the job properly!”
When Nestor met us downstairs, his knowing look made it obvious that he required no explanation. “It would appear that Cylarabes and Akelos are doing to you and Pylades what you ought to be doing to them. But there is still time to undo the damage.”
No wonder Father’s ghost had appeared to me last night. “King Nestor,” I said, adopting courtly speech on account of the court officials and petitioners thronging the great court below, “we sincerely regret having to shorten our visit to attend to such unpleasant matters when we have only just arrived. King Menelaus, do not feel obliged to accompany us if you wish to stay and enjoy the hospitality of Pylos. We have a sufficient escort.”
Menelaus rumbled something about fulfilling his duty as a host and kinsman, though his downcast expression betrayed his regret at not being able to linger among friends.
Chapter Twenty
An uncharacteristic strain of agitation clouded my brother-in-law’s welcome. “This last month has been hard without your presence,” Pylades admitted. “I regret having had to trouble you or King Menelaus with the matter, but I could do no more under my own authority.”
After the hot, dusty ride up from Tiryns, I savored the coolness of the wine Eteokles set beside me, and the comfort of familiar faces; the reception at Tiryns had been uncomfortably brusque. “You were right to send for me,” I told him. “Call a mandatory meeting of the assembly for tonight. We must discuss this further.” The journey home had allowed me sufficient time to decide on a course of action, but I acknowledged that tensions might have escalated, and the situation altered in the fortnight since receiving my regent’s message.
Elektra accosted me on my way upstairs. “Thank Hermes that you’ve returned safe! Someone has to do something about that upstart shepherd and his slanders. All Pylades has done is consult with your advisors and make excuses to the Argive ambassador.”
“Would you have had him stray beyond his authority, and possibly instigate a war?” No wonder Pylades was so tense, with this gadfly woman hovering about. “We will deal with them according to their desserts, and teach them not to trifle with the House of Atreus. Now, we’ve had a dusty ride from Tiryns. Tell the servants that we wish to bathe and rest for an hour.”
After sunset, and despite the heat, I ordered the sentries to close the megaron doors. I heard the assembly’s full report on the situation as it had developed since Pylades had sent his messenger, then related to them what Nestor and Menelaus had advised. All agreed that the plan was sound, though some expressed misgivings as to whether a policy of slander and deception could be effective, now that the Argives had anticipated that tactic.
Menon’s face assumed a dissatisfied glower. “It would be far easier to kill Akelos and spare ourselves the trouble.”
“And turn Argive slanders into truth?” Kleitos exclaimed. I had noticed during the past two years how the middle-aged, bellicose Menon and young, level-headed Kleitos almost never agreed with each other when it came to debating matters of war. “Why do you think the king hasn’t already ordered Akelos’s death? Because it’s a foolhardy idea, that’s why. The Argives believe that shepherd is the natural son of Diomedes. Murder him now, when he’s already crying foul, and we might as well declare open war on Argos.”
Haimon, the councilor who had replaced the late Atymnios, now ventured his opinion. “Kleitos is right, however much you might want to disagree. Whatever measures we take, we must proceed with cunning and caution.”
Menon defensively crossed his arms over his chest. “Rumors and lies are women’s games.”
“Would you rather waste men’s lives and valuable time trying to take Tiryns or the Larissa?” Kleitos shot back. “If Cylarabes wants to slander our king’s good name, and so bring the wrath of Zeus Horkios upon his head, then we will turn his falsehoods back on him by exposing him as the liar and cheat he truly is.”
“You talk boldly,” Menon argued, “but what difference will it make when the Argives already know about his deception?”
Haimon said, “They may have decided to look the other way with regard to Akelos’s parentage, but are we certain that they know about and stand behind the other lies?”
“You’re assuming that they are concerned with the truth.” To my surprise, Pylades spoke up. “Gentlemen, I do not voice my opinions very often before this assembly unless I am serving as regent, and certainly will not tell you what to do now, but during this last month you have all borne witness to my repeated attempts to reason with the Argive ambassador. It is easier for men to close their ears to the truth when rumors and innuendo are so much more palatable.”
“So you would support a campaign of like-minded rumor mongering?” I asked him. “King Nestor of Pylos advised us to do the same, and even asked why my councilors hadn’t suggested it themselves.”
There were nervous glances, shuffling, and impromptu clearings of the throat all around. At last, Menon delivered an answer. “To do that smacks of impiety and dishonor.”
I met his eyes. “You know that our father did the same in eliminating his own cousin, yes? Palamedes never committed treason, but was betrayed for the threat he posed.” As expected, Menon glanced aside, leaving no one else willing to return my gaze. I did not belabor the point. “Yes, dealing in such intrigue is a dishonorable business, and we do not care for it, but we have no choice now. We must find a way to discredit Akelos and Cylarabes, and make it so shocking, so irrefutable that the Argives must believe it. We need suggestions, and we need them quickly.”
Pylades accompanied me upstairs. “Forgive my presumption in speaking out of turn, or suggesting that you embark on a course that might offend the gods, but you haven’t had to deal with the Argives over this matter.”
Taking his arm, I steered him to one side, against the stairwell wall where we could whisper. “You’re right, as Nestor was, but there must be limits to this thing.” I then proceeded to relate last year’s incident at Tiryns, when Akelos had insulted Hermione’s good name. “As damaging as it would be to him, I will not bring her into this. She knows nothing of it.”
He nodded, and, moving up another step, drew me along with him. “A wise decision. She would resent it, and the tactic might well backfire. Remember whose daughter she is.”
Morning saw a royal messenger and an honor guard of twenty-six foot soldiers and ten chariots depart for Minoa-in-Argolis, to fetch Hermione, my daughter, and my niece home where I could ensure their safety. A second messenger headed for Argos with harsh words for the Argive assembly. I spent the rest of the morning hearing petitions, and attending to some pressing correspondence, before visiting my chief engineer at the work site.
Labor on the cistern had proceeded at a steady pace throughout the spring and summer months. Tekton led me down the finished twenty-eight steps into a claustrophobic passage heavy with the smell of the thick lime plaster the workers had daubed onto the walls to seal them against moisture. I expressed my approval, upon which Tekton outlined the ongoing construction, involving a turn in the passage, and saddle roofing. Finally, he thanked me yet again for the woman I had given him last year. “She says I am to be a father, Great King.”
I congratulated him. “May the gods bless you and her, and send you a son to follow in his father’s trade!”
The following morning brought from Argos a messenger bearing his king’s haughty reply: Cylarabes deigned to send his Lord Ambassador, who would arrive the next day. Then, to heap on the scorn, he accused me of taking my leisure about returning. “Do the sons of Atreus always dawdle about their pleasures, and over-stay their guest-welcome, when at home honest Argives are viciously assaulted on the road and left for dead?”
When he arrived, Melandros echoed his king’s superior demeanor, and demanded—in my own megaron!—to know exactly how much compensation I intended to offer for Lord Akelos’s injury.
I could have bludgeoned him with my scepter for his insolence. Lord Akelos, indeed! Yet I fought to maintain a cool, civil tone, and answered, “There shall be no redress from us, as we had nothing to do with this unfortunate incident.” Melandros started to interrupt. I bulled right over him. “Let us be clear about one thing, Lord Ambassador. Akelos has a reputation for starting fights whenever he drinks, and he drinks far too often. What is it to us, then, when some low-born Argive shepherd gets into a brawl with the local ruffians?”
Melandros’s long, gaunt face flushed red. “Akelos is the true and natural-born son of King Diomedes—”
“Then let Diomedes acknowledge him as such,” I said sharply. “Ah, but Diomedes is not here, is he? And why is that, Lord Melandros?” The ambassador’s gnarled fingers were clenched into fists at his sides, and his mouth drawn into a tight pucker. “All we hear from Argos these days is how splendid a king Diomedes was, and how much the Argives wish he would return and restore them glory. Remind us again why he left Argolis in the first place?”
Defiant silence. “Could it be,” I continued, “that his own people drove him out?” Melandros held his chin high; he was not going to admit to any error. “However, we have heard from credible sources that he has settled his men among one of the many Italian tribes to the west. So send to Diomedes and ask him to return, or let him send tokens under his personal seal to acknowledge his bastard son.”
“We are not here to discuss Lord Akelos’s parentage,” Melandros said, expelling the words with great effort, “but the grievous injury done him. He swears upon the breasts of Mother Dia that the perpetrators who carried out their orders received them from this very hall.”
“And we swear upon the stones of Father Zeus that his accusation is preposterous.” So saying, I stood, handed the ivory scepter of kingship to Eteokles, reached between my thighs, and grasped my testicles through my kilt. “We so swear upon our own stones, and in the name of Zeus Horkios, that neither we or nor our servants or advisors had anything to do with the attack on your king’s quarrelsome protégé, either in the planning of it, or the execution.” I waited a few heartbeats to let Melandros and his attendants take in the gesture before removing my hand and sitting down. “Now, go back to Argos and tell your king that if this insolent shepherd’s whelp wishes to maintain his accusation, and insist upon compensation he does not deserve, then let him act in a manly fashion and call us out in the old way, face-to-face. Otherwise, tell him to hold his tongue and not insult his betters.”
Argos declined to answer. Rather than behave as a king’s son should, Akelos wept and complained to all who would listen that the high-handed king of Mycenae, whose friendship he craved, and upon whom he had never wished any harm, had tried to murder him.
Hermione and the girls returned within the fortnight. Ignorant of the recent troubles, Hermione took issue with the excessive number of guards and charioteers. “Captain Eumenos would tell me nothing except that it was to keep us safe. What is going on?”
As I escorted her upstairs, I told her about the attack on Akelos, and the accusations of treachery which had prematurely curtailed my visit to Sparta and Pylos. “There will be no war. Cylarabes prefers to fight with slanders and accusations, and Akelos has no experience leading men into battle. They would be fools to try to hurl themselves against our walls, when our hosts have been warned to remain on alert. But should it come to that—which I doubt it will—your father has pledged an additional seven hundred Spartans.”
We reached the nursery, where Tisamenus tossed and turned on his little bed, restless in the noon heat. He brightened when he saw his mother enter the room, whimpered for her, and held out his arms for a hug, which he never did for me. Hermione gathered him up, smothering him with kisses. “I have missed you so! Have you been good for your father?”
Tisamenus eagerly said that he had, though that was not entirely true. “He didn’t like it that you went away with Astydamia and Antiklea, and didn’t take him,” I explained.
“Was good!” he insisted.
Hermione kissed his cheek. “Mama went somewhere where boys aren’t allowed to go, but she brought you gifts. Lie down now and close your eyes, and later you can see them.”
Toward sunset, after she bathed and rested, she told me all she had seen and learned in Minoa-in-Argolis. “Forgive me,” she admitted, “but I can’t bring myself to use the name you insisted on. It would be hubris.”
“Of course.” All that mattered to me was that she had been treated with the respect due her. It gladdened me to see her again in such good health and spirits. Her skin smelled like sunlight and oil of lilies. “Now, what did you do while you were there?”
Hermione laid her head against the pillow; her loose hair left perfumed damp spots on the white linen. “The women took me to their sanctuaries to bless them, and taught me their rites as the original Cretan settlers brought them over centuries ago. I knew about the pillar crypts the Cretans kept in their great houses, but I had never seen one,” she said, “or imagined that they would be so dark and plain inside, and well, rancid.”
I frowned. “Rancid?”
“Yes,” she replied, closing her eyes. “Every pillar crypt has an opening in the floor into which the priestess pours libations of wine, blood, and milk to the powers of the underworld. It’s never flushed out, so that after many years it starts to smell like a tomb.” Hermione wrinkled her nose. “It was dreadful, the sort of place where you expect the gods to step from the shadows and demand a human sacrifice. How strange and frightening it was, like the great Labyrinth must have been when the Knossians offered victims to the Minotaur.” Her breast swelled and subsided with a deep sigh. “Everything else was so beautiful.”
Her words conjured unsettling memories of tombs and ordeals in dark sacred caves. I stretched out beside her, inhabiting the last, golden shaft of sunlight slanting down the edge of her bed, and told her about my visit to Pylos, particularly the conversation I had had with Thrasymedes regarding his son. “Enkhelaon is a fine-looking young boy, intelligent and personable. He’s healthy and strong, a good hunter and bowman, with an excellent head for figures. I think Astydamia might suit him very well.”
It surprised me, then, when Hermione expressed reservations. “Perhaps we should wait, and see how she turns out. Astydamia is a lovely child but so was Chrysothemis, and as much as I adore her, you and I both know that she’s completely witless.”
*~*~*~*
When bad news came, it arrived in droves.
The very same day which saw word of a vicious assault on a Mycenaean merchant passing through Lerna also brought news of farmers being attacked in their fields. Two men had been killed while tending their vines near Asine, whilst a mother and her two daughters had been abducted in the hills three miles north of Argos; the father left his farm that very evening, traveled to Mycenae, and slept on the ground beside the Lion Gate so as to be the next morning’s first petitioner. He told me this as, weeping, he got down on the floor, crawled on arthritic hands and knees to the dais, where he assumed the supplicant’s pose: grasping my knees with one sinewy arm, and reaching for my chin with the other. His simple piety shamed and outraged me, for the mere fact that I could not snap my fingers and order his women returned. I left it to Eteokles to help him to his feet, and to the stewards to see that he had refreshment and a place to sit before sending him on his way.
