Warriors in Bronze (27 page)

Aerope rode in the wagon, her seat a bale of hay. She dressed
in the height of fashion. Naked rose-tipped breasts thrust from
a short-sleeved bodice of transparent azure linen scalloped by
silver threads. A girdle of solid gold suspended a quilted apron
studded with gems and striped by golden sequins. Seven separ­ate flounces of a gaudy embroidered skirt flowed gracefully to
her feet. Carefully waved hair clung to her skull like an ebony
cap, a tress in a bandeau across the top. Carmine stars adorned
her cheekbones, the mouth a scarlet wound in a face the
colour of chalk. She clasped her hands in her lap; wide dark
eyes stared trancelike straight ahead.

She had never looked more beautiful.

Menelaus led Tiryns' contingent to follow at the tail, driving
tight-lipped through the chattering mob from Argos, riff-raff
rapidly swelled by trash that spewed from the town and har­bour.

I waited at the place of execution, and gazed across the sea.

The day was sultry, breathless; from horizon to horizon
clouds blanketed the heavens. Thunder muttered remotely,
flashes sheared the skyline. A grey and oily sea breathed out
sluggish surges which broke in splatters of foam at the foot of
the cliff. Gulls spiralled across the surface like snowflakes flur­ried by wind.

Just below a watch-tower perched on the summit an ancient
landslide had sliced a rocky platform broad enough to hold two
hundred men. I stepped to the edge. The cliff fell sheer for fifty
feet, bulged on a rampart of rocks, dropped like a plumbline to
wave-washed crags which the height made small as pebbles.
Tufts of grass and withered bushes mottled the face of the fall.
At the brink of the ledge lay a red-striped woollen rug.

This was the place I had chosen for ending my mother's
life.

I left Talthybius and my spearmen escort, climbed to the
watch-tower and viewed the procession approaching the preci­pice's landward face. From the shoreline a path crept upwards,
stony, steep and tortuous, impassable for wheels. The column
halted, riders dismounted. The executioners guided Aerope to
an open litter borne on the necks of four strong slaves.

The procession crawled up the zigzag track.

I stumbled from the watch-tower and waited on the ledge.
The cloud-pall floated lower, tendrils of mist stroked the crest
of the ridge. The air was oppressive, hot in my lungs. Lightning
gashed like a sword, thunder rumbled and crashed. Far away
on a leaden sea, moth-like in the gloom, a galley ran for shelter
in the harbour.

Spearmen rounded the ridge-top's scarp, marched to the plat­form, halted. Heroes and Companions tramped behind. The
litter appeared, and swayed to the red-striped drugget. A
Thracian murmured commands, the bearers lowered their bur­den. Aerope stayed on the rough wood seat, blank-eyed, lost in a
dream.

Atreus strode forward, folded his arms and stood at her back.
He wore Mycenae's royal regalia: golden crown, purple gold-
hemmed cloak, gold-and-ivory sceptre slanted on his shoulder.
His face was a mask of stone, blue eyes sunk in the pockets, the
brilliance somehow faded. Greyness powdered his hair like
rime. He had aged ten years in the moons since last I saw him.

Noblemen and spearmen thronged the platform. The rabble
scattered and climbed the slope, chattering and yapping, and
found convenient viewpoints. I felt a touch on my arm. Mene­laus. His auburn beard framed ravaged features pale beneath
the sunburn.

The executioners, not unkindly, raised Aerope from the litter
and supported her between them. She swayed a little, and
shuddered, red lips parted and quivered. For an instant our
glances crossed. I looked away.

There was terror in her eyes, and that I could not bear.

The executioners led Aerope to the brink. Atreus, close be­hind, followed step by step. She bent her head and looked at
the sea two hundred feet below. She lifted her gaze to the sky,
and closed her eyes. Thunder rolled in a roaring crescendo, a
searing flash of lightning split the clouds.

The mob on the crest was quiet and tense and still.

The executioners shifted their hold. Each put a hand on my
mother's shoulder, the other spread on her back. They looked
at Atreus, questioning. He said something I could not hear. The
men dropped their hands, and left her free.

Atreus levelled his sceptre, rested the golden eagle between
Aerope's shoulders and lunged with all his might.

She uttered a strangled cry, forlorn as a night-rail's call. The
body hurtled out and down, curved in the air and smashed on
the bulge of rocks. It bounced and plummeted down, broken
and limp as a rag, and plunged to the sea. A transient fountain
spouted, small as a raindrop's splash.

The gulls circled and squawked and swooped on Aerope's
grave.

the
Heraclid War had delayed the expedition to Colchis. I
assembled ships and crews and collected trading goods in ware­houses near lie wharf. We still needed Troy's permission for
transhipment at the Hellespont and use of the overland route.
Atreus decided I should head an embassy to King Laomedon,
and provided royal gifts - gold and bronze and scented oil - to
smooth negotiations.

I took three triaconters. With a following wind and tranquil
sea we beached at dusk successively in Andros, Chios and Les­bos, and on the fourth day lowered sails at the Trojan shore.
Lookouts had reported our approach; a warband barred the
beach. Rowers paddled my ship to the shallows; I jumped over­side and waded ashore alone. A youthful, handsome com­mander introduced himself as Hector son of Priam, son of
Laomedon.

'Who are you, my lord?' he asked. 'From what country have
you sailed across the highways of the sea? Is yours a trading
venture, or are you pirates roving on chance?'

'I salute you, Hector son of Priam,' I answered formally. 'My
name is Agamemnon, son of Atreus of Mycenae. I come in
peace to seek a boon from Laomedon King of Troy.'

The punctilious greetings over, Hector accorded permission
to beach the ships and disembark my followers. His warband
stayed alert, shields fronted, spears on guard. They outnum­bered us two to one: a wise precaution on a coastline fre­quently raided. (A pity it failed disastrously when Hercules
made his landfall.) I introduced my Heroes, detailed a guard on
the ships and mounted in Hector's chariot. We drove across a
windy plain and saw Laomedon's mighty ramparts towering in
the distance. In fact the walls he built on the ridge were not as straight
and steep as those at Mycenae or Tiryns; nevertheless their
aspect was forbidding. Guard towers pillared the battlements
above each of Troy's four gates, the tallest the Tower of Ilion
beside the Scaean Gate.

We forded the Simoeis river, and Hector delicately probed
the reason for my mission. His peculiar dialect was difficult to
follow: Trojan pronunciation grates on Achaean ears. I made
myself agreeable; apart from being a very pleasant fellow Hec­tor, as Priam's eldest son, would succeed in time to Laomedon's
throne, so his favour was worth pursuing. I came in truth as a
suppliant from a lesser king to a greater, because Troy then
governed dominions more extensive than Mycenae's. As the
bulwark of a prosperous kingdom her power was felt in
Thrace, along the Euxine coast, and south to the Lydian
borders.

We drove through a sprinkle of houses - as in Achaean cities
most of the population dwelt outside the walls - and dis­mounted at the Scaean Gate. The houses within the citadel
crowd more closely than Mycenae's, the streets narrower and
steeper, impassable for vehicles. At Laomedon's palace Hector
summoned squires who escorted me to a bath. Clean and smell­ing of perfumed oil and clothed in fresh white linen I was
conducted to an audience in the Hall.

The reception of an embassy is a formal state occasion.
Again I presented my half-dozen Heroes, and spread at Laome­don's feet the gifts we had brought. The king, though full of
years, hair and beard foam-white, was apple-cheeked and hearty,
lean and straight as a spear. After the usual courteous cross-talk
he wasted no more time and directly inquired the reasons
which had brought me across the seas.

I answered him as straightly: Laomedon was not a man to
tolerate prolixity.

He heard me out and said, 'Let me summarize. Mycenae
wants to open a seaway to Colchis through the Hellespont,
which is under my control. Therefore you seek two conces­sions : permission to station permanently four ships within the
straits, and my warrant for overland wagon trains to tranship
goods on the outward voyage and gold on the return. Am I
correct?'-

'You are, sire.
^’

'We levy duties, of course, on merchandise crossing our
territories. I assume you have no objection?'

'None, sire - provided the charges you put on are not unduly
heavy.'

A grey-haired man at Laomedon's side stooped and spoke in
his ear. The king frowned. A whispered argument followed. I
waited patiently, studied the nobles, Scribes and servants
crowding the Hall - smaller than Mycenae's - a frieze of
painted horses galloping on the walls, ladies gossiping in a cor­ner, a huge Molossian boar-hound asleep beside the hearth.
Laomedon gestured the greybeard to silence, sucked in his lips
and said, 'My son Priam dislikes your proposals, my lord. He
objects to the idea of Mycenae monopolizing trade to Colchis;
he sees menace in the squadron harboured permanently in the
straits. What have you to say?'

I glanced at Priam. Watery blue eyes, mouth turned down at
the corners, an obstinate expression. A weakling trying to
assert his authority as heir to Laomedon's throne. I bridled
irritation, and spoke in conciliatory tones.

'Four ships are hardly a threat to Troy's command of the
Hellespont. I am ready, if you insist, to reduce the number by
half. We pioneer a trade route traversed only once before, diffi­cult and possibly dangerous, and feel entitled to reap the re­wards. We do not mind if others follow our wakes - monopoly
is far from our intention. All trade is beneficial, sire. We in
Mycenae send you goods - weapons, pottery, oil - in return for
your horses and hides. The gold from Colchis will profit us
both by expanding that trade, and some will reach your
treasury in payment for your exports. Mycenae takes the risks
- you can only gain. Surely, on these grounds, the concessions
we seek are not extravagant?'

The king rubbed his cheekbones with finger and thumb. 'You
make a good case, my lord. I shall state your views to the
Council and give my decision later.'

He pointed the sceptre downwards to signal the audience
ended. 'Hector, have you shown our visitor the stables? I'll
wager, Agamemnon, you haven't seen such thoroughbreds in
Mycenae!'

There, for a time, I had to leave it. As I have remarked
before, you do not hustle kings.

I remained at Troy for eleven days, was entertained at ban­quets, visited noblemen's houses and hunted frequently with
Hector. We shot galloping deer from chariots and speared boar
on foot in the hills. The more I saw of Hector the more I liked
him; of all the men I have known Diomedes alone was his
peer. He seemed the epitome of all that Heroes ought to be and
seldom are: chivalrous, valiant, honourable and strong. Like all
Trojans an exceptional driver, horseman, and horsemaster he
was also a brilliant shot - I saw him, near Scamander's
marshes, bring down a duck on the wing - and a match for any
warrior with sword or spear. He revealed during our conversa­tions a sparkling intelligence and shrewd judgment of the poli­tical scene both in the lands of the Hittites, which closely
affected Troy, and in Achaea, which at the time did not.

A man born to be king, the greatest Troy had known, over­shadowing even Laomedon. A tragedy he died as he did.

His father Priam, in contrast, was cantankerous, suspicious
and spiteful. I knew from Hector's hints that Priam argued
passionately against the concessions I sought and even sug­gested the Hellespont be closed to Achaean ships. Mulish, iras­cible, stupid, he chafed beneath the harrow of frustration: as
Laomedon's eldest son and heir he saw time and advancing age
shortening the length of the reins of power a long-lived father
held. Meanwhile, as an anodyne for discontent, he interfered in
affairs of state and begat nearly fifty children: nineteen by his
lady Hecuba and thirty-odd from concubines. The legitimate
brood and bastards lived together in the palace - or so Hector
said. I marvelled at the tolerance of Trojan wives.

Laomedon, despite his years, impressed me as equal to
Atreus in all the arts of kingship. He spoke seldom, shortly and
to the point; and brooked no opposition. His joy and recreation
was to drive across Scamander's plain and inspect the herds of
horses which, exported far and wide, were a fount of Trojan
wealth - an innocent hobby eventually causing his death. In
foreign politics
-
again, Hector told me this - he handled his
strong and menacing neighbours like a skilled Companion
managing an ill-matched team.

A clever, prudent, far-seeing king. If Hercules had spared him there'd have been no Trojan War.

Though I met several of Hecuba's offspring I did not en­counter Paris - twelve years old at the time - who was away on Mount Ida herding his father's sheep. Hector's grimace when his name cropped up demonstrated a slight aversion for Priam's favourite son.

At last Laomedon summoned me to the Throne Room and, while Priam glowered in the background, announced he was pleased to grant Mycenaean ships free passage through the Hellespont, a harbour within the straits and transhipment over­land, all goods both ways being subject to customs duties. He limited the inner harbourage to three ships - a concession, I felt, to Priam - and left the Scribes to haggle over details. (Because Scribes alone can properly conduct these mercantile transactions I had brought Gelon, who in long confabulation with Laomedon's Curator fixed reasonable duties: a twentieth of each cargo's value forfeited in kind, and hiring charges for wagon teams.) We removed to the Hall and sealed the bargain in wine. Successive cups, like links in a lengthening chain, bound the king, myself, his Heroes and mine in a frivolous carouse which continued half the night. Priam sulkily sipped heavily watered wine, his emaciated, pale-skinned face a disapproving death's-head.

King Laomedon gave us a ceremonial send-off; all his Heroes - Priam excepted - drove to the beach to bid farewell. I saluted him hand to forehead and promised King Atreus' everlasting amity: a promise, as it happened, never broken. I clasped Hec­tor's hand, and invited him to visit me in Tiryns.

I never saw Laomedon again; Hector, when next we met, did his level best to kill me.

At Tiryns I organized a six-ship Colchis convoy. While I was embarking crews and cargo Amphiaraus, lately Lord of Midea and exiled thence to Argos, arrived and offered his services. Because he was a nobleman of presence and personality and experienced in commanding men I gave him general charge of the expedition - for which, in his role as a seer, he promised success.

Thenceforth, for several years, ships sailed every spring and beached at Troy. Only the Colchis galleys bore the honourable

title Argo; only the men who went to Colchis could properly call themselves 'Argonauts' - though several, naming no names,

swaggered around as such who had been no farther than Troy.