Warriors in Bronze (2 page)

the
palace's summer bedrooms gave on to a balustraded balcony
shaded by a sloping terrace roof which overlooked the town.
The balustrade's veined marble pillars supported an alabaster
parapet soft enough to be cut by the small toy daggers we wore
at our belts. The rail therefore was scratched and notched
throughout its length; and all our nursemaids' scolding failed to
stop an enchanting game. Nobody who mattered ever noticed;
the bedrooms were always deserted during the day; except for
servants we had the balcony to ourselves from dawn till dusk.

This was our playground; here my earliest memories begin.

From our eyrie the palace walls fell down like sheer white
cliffs. The road which climbed the hilltop from the Northern
Gate - not the Gate of the Lions, of course, which was only a
postern then - curved between tiers of flat-topped houses and
ended at a flight of steep stone steps leading to the Great
Court's entrance directly below. On the citadel's guardian wall
sentries looking small as flies paced the rampart walk. Broken,
stony ground sloped from the base of the wall to a shallow
valley thronged with houses painted yellow and red, white and
blue and green like jewels spilled from a lady's casket.

From the balcony's height the buildings looked tiny as those
small baked-clay cottages which slaves gave my sister to house
her dolls. It seemed possible to lob a stone on to the farthest
roofs - an illusion, as it proved. Our most strenuous throws just
cleared the road beneath; although Menelaus, taking a run
which bruised his chest on the parapet, once hit the guard­house roof at the top of the steps. Unluckily a sentinel ob­served the whole performance; and a stern message from our
mother forbade a repetition. So I never had a chance to beat
my brother's record, an improbable feat in any event, for
Menelaus was always stronger than I. Cultivated land surrounded the villages; olives and vines ter­raced the hillsides; sheep grazed wiry grass which bordered the
forests of oak and cypress. In the crystalline sunlight of spring
and early autumn you could sometimes catch a glimpse of the
sea near Nauplia, a shining blade on the horizon's farthest rim.
The whole mightiness of Mycenae, we thought in childish
ignorance, was spread like a gaudy tapestry before our eyes.

We were very young then - Menelaus seven, myself a year
older - and could not conceive of the vast foundations support­ing our family's dominion.

The patterned floors of the summer bedrooms extended to
the balcony and offered a smooth surface for games we played
with ivory discs: the patterns made convenient aiming marks
and goals. The object was to throw or slide your counters with­in the chosen goal and knock your opponent's out. Our throws
were erratic; we lost many counters which bounced between
the balustrade pillars and dropped the height of eight tall men
to the road below.

The disaster which struck one bright spring day had nothing
to do with accident. We had tired of the game, and were lean­ing side by side over the balustrade, chins just topping the
parapet, trying to distinguish the warriors' evolutions on the
Field of War in the distance. A chariot crunched slowly up the
road from the gate, the occupants, judging from their armour,
a Hero and his Companion returned early from parade. The
Hero dismounted, spoke briefly to his driver and began to climb
the steps. He came directly below our interested faces. I
juggled in my hand an ivory disc - a finger's-breadth thick, a
palm's-width across.

The temptation was overpowering. I reached out and drop­ped it.

The counter struck his helmet; ivory clicked on the boar's-
tusk crest and spun away in the dust. The man jumped, lifted
hand to helmet, raised his face and stared at the heads which
peered at him from far above. In horror I recognized my target,
and recoiled from the railing.

'Thyestes!'

'You fool!' Menelaus whispered.

Neither of us dared look out again. We heard the chariot's
bronze-tyred wheels descending the path, and the guard com­mander's voice calling a salute. Then silence. We stared
dumbly into each other's eyes and awaited the doom which
must fall on our heads surely as leaf-fall follows harvest. In a
futile attempt to hide the evidence I feverishly told our attend­ant slaves to gather the counters littering the floor and conceal
them under a bed.

Menelaus said in a strained voice, 'He's a long time, Aga­memnon. Do you think he didn't see us?'

'No. Nothing escapes Thyestes.'

We were deadly afraid of Thyestes. Everyone was. I cannot
think of him, even now, without a shudder of loathing.

Footsteps clumped the wooden stairway. We backed from the
bedroom in panic like a pair of frightened mice, shuffled to the
balcony and pressed our spines against the balustrade. Two
formidable figures crossed the floor. One, as we expected, was
Thyestes; the second his brother Atreus, Marshal of Mycenae.

A gold-studded belt, drawn tightly at the waist, secured a
short leather kilt and emphasized Atreus' slim hips and power­ful wide shoulders. Muscles rippled like lazy snakes beneath a
skin burned oaken brown by the suns of forty summers. He
was immensely tall, the biggest man I have known, taller than
myself when I reached my prime. His face was sharply cut
and lean, flat-cheeked and eagle nosed; yellow hair unflecked
by grey curled behind his ears and caressed a beard trimmed
short to a tilted point, the upper lip clean shaven in a fashion
then prevailing. His mouth was thin and mobile, curving easily
to a smile and as easily to a cruel knife-edged gash; deep fur­rows joined the corners to his nostrils. Before all else you
noticed his eyes, a blazing blue beneath shaggy brows the sun
had bleached near white.

He dismissed the servants, and rocked silently on his heels. I
glanced once at his face, and looked quickly away, and exam­ined miserably the deerskin boots which encased his legs to the
knee. They were laced with silver wire; golden-corded tassels
dangled from the tops. He carried a chariot whip, the long ox­hide thong looped between finger and thumb, and idly tapped
the butt against his thigh.

The tapping ceased. 'A stone struck Lord Thyestes. Which of
you threw it?'

I flicked a glance at Menelaus, who was staring, fascinated, at
the whip. 'Not a stone, father. A counter we use for our games.
It
.
.. slipped.'

'From whose hand?'

I licked my lips, and swallowed. Thyestes stirred impatiently.
'What does it matter ? Impertinent little rats! Flog them both,
brother, and have done with it!'

The growling voice recalled the man, though I did not dare
look at him. He had discarded helmet and cuirass and wore an
armour undershirt: a sleeveless woollen garment descending to
the kilt. A handspan shorter than Atreus, his bull-necked head
crouched on his shoulders like a brooding bird of prey. Heavy,
thickset shoulders, and muscles cording arms and legs like
hawsers intertwined. Thyestes moved clumsily, lacking his
brother's sinuous grace but - as many a foeman found to his
cost - he was quick on his feet as a cat. A bushy brown beard
framed features harsh as wind-eroded rock. Only the eyes were
sentient, deeply sunken, pale green like the offshore sea. When
he was angry the pupils darkened, turned stone-grey flecked
with white, twin ice-pools frozen hard.

He was angry now. My knees quivered; I was glad of the sun-
warmed parapet which supported my shoulder-blades.

Atreus repeated, 'From whose hand?'

'I can't remember,' I muttered. 'It was mischance. We never
intended .
.
.'

Menelaus pushed himself from the balustrade and stood
shakily upright, hands clenched tight at his sides. 'I dropped the
disc, father,' he said in a tiny voice.

I raised my head to see Atreus' response. He might not have
heard. His gaze was fixed on me; the long searching look a man
gives a horse whose quality he doubts. I saw contempt in his
eyes and, strangely, a flash of admiration. You could say I was
overly young to read the thoughts of a man four times my age.
True - but this percipience, an ability to probe men's minds
and motives is a gift The Lady bestowed on me at birth. With­out it I could not, today, be where I am.

'Insolent little swine!' Thyestes snapped.

Atreus roused himself. 'You aimed deliberately, Menelaus?'

My brother bowed his head. Atreus coiled his whip-thong
round the handle, tightly ridging the shaft, and said briskly,
'Right. You shall be taught to respect your elders. Turn round.
Fold your arms on the balustrade, and don't move!'

Menelaus obeyed. He sank brow on forearms, his hands
gripped the parapet's edge. Atreus moved behind him, raised
the whip and slashed it down. A weal scarred the boy's thin
back. The second cut slammed a finger's width from the first,
the third and fourth criss-crossed it. Red droplets beaded the
skin. Menelaus squirmed a little, and bit his wrist.

Atreus ended the thrashing, unwound thong from shaft and
dropped the lash distastefully. It trailed a scarlet smear on the
painted plaster. Menelaus sank to his knees, scraping his fore­head on the balustrade pillars. He had not uttered a sound, but
now he moaned very softly. Thyestes stepped forward and
lifted a foot. Atreus moved sharply to block the brutal kick.

'Enough, brother! The child has learned his lesson.' He added
sternly, 'He is of our blood. Would you treat him like a slave?'

Thyestes scowled. Atreus gestured him to the stairway. As
they went he said across his shoulder, 'Call the servants,
Agamemnon. See his cuts are washed and anointed.' He paused
at the head of the stairs and tugged his beard. 'You are both
growing up,' he mused aloud, 'too old to idle here in charge of
slaves and nursemaids and tumble into trouble. Time you began
your training. I shall see to it.'

His teeth flashed white in a sudden smile, and he clattered
down the stairs.