Warriors in Bronze (14 page)

He smiled broadly and shambled away, crouching on a staff
to reduce his commanding stature: an itinerant pedlar wander­ing from town to town to scrape a living. I unyoked and
tethered the horses, propped the chariot on its pole and wrap­ped myself in a threadbare cloak: it was cold in the shade of
the trees.

The sun crept slowly across a cloud-fleeced sky. Sheep bells
tinkled remotely, a shepherd's distant piping was a threadlike
whisper of sound. Nobody came near. I tramped to and fro on
the bank of the rill to keep myself warm, and wondered what I
would say to the king if his Marshal failed to return. When the
sun touched the rim of the farthest hills I put the horses to and
waited in gathering dusk, trembling with cold and misgivings.

Atreus entered the grove, discarded his leather box and
jumped into the chariot. 'Off you go, Agamemnon, to Mycenae
as quick as you can!' He sounded gay and confident. 'A very
successful trip
-
had a good look round and learned what I
wanted. Learned something else as well: I'm a most persuasive
huckster - sold nearly all my stock! Perhaps I'm in the wrong
job! Dammit, boy, you're cold as an icicle! Here, take a pull at
this.' He handed me a bulging wineskin. 'Payment for a neck­lace I flogged to a housewife as genuine silver. They're a gul­lible lot in Midea!'

He spoke no more during the nightbound journey except,
when we saw Mycenae's shadowy bulk, to say in a sword-
edged voice, 'You will tell no one of our expedition, Aga­memnon, do you understand ? Nobody at all!'

During the days that followed I expected a call to arms, an
assembly of the Host - and found myself mistaken. Atreus
warned a number of palace Heroes, all young and proven in
battle, to be ready for a foray against Stymphalos, a trouble­some nest of robbers on the borders of Arcadia, and gave
similar instructions to certain selected lords of Mycenae's home
demesnes. The Marshal was obviously collecting a handpicked
force: the toughest and the bravest of all Eurystheus' Heroes.
At the end he had chosen fifty, and said he did not require their
retinues of spearmen.

'Are you proposing, my lord,' I said incredulously, 'to throw
a handful of men against a fortress like Midea?'

'Just that,' he said cheerfully. 'And we won't take chariots
either, so Companions are superfluous. Which includes you,
Agamemnon!'

I protested violently. 'Whatever you intend, my lord' - and
not a soul except himself and, presumably. King Eurystheus
knew what he
did
intend - 'my place is at your side. I'm
eighteen years of age, as strong and deadly a man-at-arms as any
you've picked. Am I
never
to have a chance to prove myself in
battle?'

I was near to tears. After a long pause Atreus said, 'You're a
loyal and faithful creature, Agamemnon
-
and I see your point.

Very well. Tomorrow we'll start training. You'll have to sweat,
my lad!'

Atreus spoke truth. For fourteen grinding days the chosen
band of fifty exercised on the Field of War, running, jumping,
hurling discs, wrestling and fencing. He forbade spears, the
regnant weapon in battle. 'Unnecessary for your task,' he said
obscurely. 'Come on, get moving! You're horribly unfit, you
gaggle of flab-muscled farmers!' A smile purged offence from
the words - you can't treat Heroes like fledgling squires. He
also prohibited armour and heavy shields, those tall half-
cylinder towers or waisted walls of hide which distinguish
Heroes in war. Instead he issued leather corselets and light
round targes of the kind that spearmen carry. The company
wondered, and argued a little - but it's hard to argue with
Atreus.

Every second day he led the men on a fast long-distance
march across the roughest tracks and steepest hills in the
neighbourhood. This almost caused a mutiny. Heroes ride to
war and ride in battle: they see no point in walking when
chariots stand in their stables. Some complained. Atreus said
icily, 'The king has so commanded - do you question his
authority?' Visions of forfeited estates floated before rebel­lious eyes, and the rumbles subsided in silence.

At the fortnight's end he tried them higher by taking them
out at night. Warriors are accustomed to moving around in the
dark, herding flocks and hunting strays in nights as black as a
Theban's heart. But no one had hitherto bothered to move
noiselessly
in the dark, which now became the object of the
Marshal's stringent training. He chose the stoniest hillsides, and
swore like a master mariner when a boot sole scraped on rock
or a pebble clattered the slopes. We began to see the reason -
though not the eventual object - for his interdict on armour
and cumbrous shields: you can't climb hillsides quietly in
accoutrements meant for chariots. So, dressed in helmets, cor­selets, short swords and round hide shields, fifty sweating war­riors learned during moonless nights to mount boulder-littered
slopes as silently as mice.

I began to have an inkling, then, of what Atreus intended,
and the realization hit me like a blow between the eyes. Nobody fights at night: an idea unprecedented in all the
annals of war. (I do not include Hercules' night pursuit to
Pylos. Sheer opportunism - and anyway the man was a
maniac.) Atreus' purpose dawned slowly on his warriors -
Heroes, by and large, are never lightning thinkers - and one or
two started to mutter.

Atreus looked them over. They saw the menace in his cold
blue eyes, and the mutterings ceased.

Winter advanced her vanguards, gales and rainstorms
scoured the land. On a particularly vile afternoon - clouds
scudding across a lowering sky, wind howling over the moun­tains - Atreus led his party out on yet another exercise - or so
everyone imagined. We crossed the hills on cart tracks leading
south until, at the fall of a stormy night, we reached an out­lying manor on Mycenae's farthest borders held by an elderly
nobleman. Here, surprised and perplexed, we gladly halted.
Torches lighted the Hall and meat and bread and wine stood
ready on the tables. 'Eat up,' the Marshal said. 'You haven't
long.' Rain-sodden warriors devoured the victuals and crowded
round the hearth-fire: the night was chilly besides being wet.
Meanwhile Atreus, chewing a leg of mutton, watched servants
heaping rubble in a corner of the Hall. Squatting on his
haunches he arranged pebbles on the top like a toddler building
houses in his playground. The audience gazed in amazement;
behind the Marshal's back a Hero solemnly tapped his fore­head.

Atreus rose and slapped dust from his knees. 'Gather round,
gentlemen. This mound represents Midea, which we will
occupy tonight. Here is the citadel crowning the top of the hill.
From the foot a track just passable for wheels winds thus' - his
sword point traced a crooked line - 'to the main gate - here.
An easy approach - and under observation top to bottom from
the gate. We shall not take it. At the side directly opposite a
postern pierces the walls - here. There's no pathway to the
postern, and the hillside below is decidedly steep. That is the
route we will follow.'

Only the roar of wind on the rooftop broke a stupefied
silence. Atreus smiled genially.

'The wildness of the night will cover our approach, but when
we start to climb go quietly as worms. I shall lead, you follow
in single file, each man touching the one in front. A spearman
in
my pay has drawn the postern's bars. When we're inside the
walls you, Imbrius, with Cteatus, Philetor and Peirus will
mount to the rampart walk and go right-handed killing any
sentinel you meet. You, Pylaemenes ...'

Sketching
the
routes on his model, Atreus detailed every
man
by name: parties to sweep the ramparts clear, seize
the
main
gate guard tower, occupy a bastion which jutted on the
east.
He
himself would lead a twenty-strong detachment to
the
palace, cut the sentries down and capture Amphiaraus.
'I want
him alive. Whoever else you have to kill, don't
harm a hair of
his head!
'

Atreus repeated his instructions and ensured that
every Hero
understood his part. He stood and settled the helmet firmly
on
his head. 'Can't see the stars on
a
night like this, but
it
must be
nearly midnight. I intend to take Midea before the break
of
dawn.
So,
gentlemen, let's march!'

We
filed into the dark.
A
rain-gust slapped my
face, the
gale
snored past my ears. We followed our confident
leader on
a
stony invisible pathway which only he could see.

* * *

A
flickering light in a byre where some
farmer,
perhaps,
attended a calving cow betrayed the little town that clustered
at
the foot of Midea's mount. Atreus skirted it widely, trudging
miry fields that squelched dismally underfoot. The citadel-
crowned eminence loomed blackly from the night. The Mar­shal changed direction; mud yielded to boulders and rock; the
ground began to climb. Atreus halted and waited while the
warband closed around him. He called the roll, pitching
his
voice to clear the moan of the wind. Footsore, weary, rain-
soaked Heroes answered their names. (Perhaps they recognized,
then, the wisdom of those unpopular long-distance marches.)
Everyone was present except a warrior who had tumbled in a
ravine and broken a leg; and some idiot lost in the dark.