The Warrior, page 22
part #3 of Orestes Series
Hilarion glanced down at the tablet, and shook his head. “Forgive me, but it seems that the agreement you refer to was with your father, High King Agamemnon. Kleonai has made no such arrangement with you, King Orestes, just as it made no arrangement with the usurper Aegisthus.” All the blood had drained from his face, and the hand holding the tablet trembled. Did he think I was about to murder him for contradicting me? “With your father’s untimely death, Lord Aisymnos exercised his right to withdraw his support from the usurper at Mycenae, and submit instead to Corinth.”
A pregnant look and gesture from Pylades warned me against pursuing the argument. He need not have signaled; the ambassador’s words triggered sudden misgivings, and a flush of embarrassment I dared not call attention to. Had I miscalculated in demanding tribute from an old vassal who had, perhaps, rightly given his allegiance elsewhere?
On reflection, it was best to leave Kleonai alone for the time being. Pride, however, made it impossible to retract my demand outright. I could only soften my bluster, and deal courteously with Kleonai’s ambassador. Hermione came downstairs, wearing her jewels and a gracious smile. Food arrived from the kitchen: sweetmeats, nuts, and soft black bread with cheese and seasoned olive oil. Hilarion enjoyed the hospitality of Mycenae, received my repeated assurances that Chromios and his women enjoyed a safe, comfortable existence, and departed early the following morning laden with guest-gifts.
An hour after the Kleonai ambassador’s departure, my advisors voiced their objections. “What good is the Mycenaean assembly when the king undermines its importance in matters of policy? We should have been consulted over this matter,” Lykeus said. “What are we to say now when Lord Capreus of Corinth complains that we’re making unreasonable demands of its vassal?”
I anticipated a long, wearying morning. “You will have to forgive our lapse. It will not happen again.” For the second time in less than a day, I had to swallow my pride. “But what would you have us do now? Apologize and beg forgiveness for the mistake? Those old vassals who truly are disobedient would howl with laughter and throw our demands back in our face!”
For half the morning, the assembly debated the merits of saving face to withdrawing the order for tribute altogether. Their back-and-forth argument quickly grated my nerves, my irritation with them mirroring the self-exasperation I already nursed over the blunder.
“That’s enough, gentlemen!” I cut through their quarreling with a raised voice. “We will neither apologize nor press our demand at this time, but wait and see what Kleonai does.” I pointed my scepter toward the floor to indicate that the council was over.
I held in my aggravation, despite the pounding headache and sour stomach it engendered, until my wife cornered me upstairs to upbraid me for my foolishness in precipitating a serious diplomatic incident. “I did not ask for your opinion,” I barked, shooing her away. “Mind your spindle and loom, and the baby, and stop meddling in affairs that are beyond your concern.”
Wide-eyed, hissing in a breath, Hermione flinched back as though I had struck her, then she turned on her heel, stormed into her apartment, and slammed the door, a commotion which woke the baby, and set him to crying. Hermione shrieked at her women with uncharacteristic venom to attend to him. A few moments later, I heard her sobbing.
Her outburst and Tisamenus’s thin wailing exacerbated my headache. Forgetting my desire to lie down with a cool cloth over my eyes, I stalked away from the royal apartments, and went downstairs to watch my nephews exercising in the palaestra. Afterward, I played fetch with Hermes, dined with my companions, and engaged in a bout of athletic lovemaking with one of the servant girls, but none of those pastimes alleviated my uneasiness. Next door, my wife lay angry and hurt in her bed; I remembered her sobbing with considerable shame, then reproved myself for sympathizing with her. Had she not presumed to lecture me over matters which were beyond her concern, I would not have reprimanded her, and she would not now be so upset.
By the following afternoon, I realized to my dismay that my sweet, docile Hermione could hold a grudge as profoundly as any other Atreid woman, but with a frostiness befitting her mother’s influence. Even Hermes sensed the wordless tension filling the palace, and stayed close by my side.
I stroked his ears. “You’re fortunate to be a dog, and unattached, my friend. Women are incomprehensible.” He wagged his tail as though he understood, and sometimes it seemed that he did. “Now, look,” I continued, “if a woman forgets her place and tries to lecture her man on matters that aren’t her business, well, doesn’t she deserve to be reprimanded? Of course she’s going to cry and be resentful, and that’s unfortunate, but it’s for her own good.”
Hermes barked and licked my hand. I rubbed my knuckles over his snout, which he loved. “You’re a wise dog,” I said. “Shall we go find Strophius and Medon, and steal a bite from the kitchen?”
After three days, I could no longer bear the silent treatment, and—though I had done nothing requiring an apology—deemed it best to restore the peace by collecting a bouquet of the wildflowers Hermione loved, and venturing upstairs to the queen’s apartment.
“You’re right, I should have consulted the assembly before demanding tribute from Kleonai,” I admitted, “but what’s done is done. Of course, Aisymnos will laugh and scorn me for my foolishness, and it will be humiliating, but at least he can rest assured that I will not attack him for the time being. We simply can’t afford to antagonize Corinth.”
Hermione listened to my rambling with an impassive face which said she could care less what Kleonai or Corinth did. When I was done, she waited a second, then asked, “And what else?”
“What do you mean, ‘What else?’ I’m doing my best not to exacerbate the situation.”
Her mouth curled downward, and she sat up straighter, conveying an air of injured dignity. “Do you have anything to say to me personally, Orestes,” she asked icily, “or did you come merely to excuse yourself over your unfortunate blunder regarding Kleonai? And why you would discuss the matter with me, anyway?” When she said that, my stomach fell; the visit was a waste of time. “As a wife, my only legitimate concerns are working wool, cooking your meals, and breeding heirs.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed to slits when I did not answer. She took the wildflowers from her lap and unceremoniously dumped them onto the floor. “You belittled me in front of my women. How dare you!”
This was outrageous! I did not know what infuriated me more: her summary rejection of my gift, or her taking me to task over an outburst which she had incited. “Did I not just apologize for raising my voice?”
“I have no idea,” she snapped. “Did you?”
Growling, I looked away toward the open window. “It wasn’t your place to accost and reprimand me as you did. I have enough to do with hearing it from the assembly.”
“Do as you please, then.” But her tone said otherwise. “Only, mind your manners when your wife tells you the truth. Would you have me become a widow yet again because you were foolish enough to provoke war with Corinth without consulting your advisors?”
Women always mistook nagging for telling the truth. “Were you not listening when I said I had learned my lesson?” Hermione’s eyes blazed. “We will not argue about this again.” That should have been sufficient, but her angry silence urged me to keep talking, to add something. “You know, I did not have to come.”
She tilted her chin a fraction of an inch. “That’s what your father would have said.”
“Hermione!” I exclaimed, taken aback. “You know I never meant to insult you. You merely caught me in a foul mood.”
To my surprise, she bent down, swept the wildflowers from the floor, and set them across her lap, saying, “That’s what I wanted you to say from the beginning, Orestes.”
Then she should have said so outright, and spared me the ordeal. “You should leave my father out of it.”
Hermione adjusted a wilting daisy. “You shouldn’t confuse me with your mother,” she countered.
“When did I ever mention her?”
“You insinuated,” she answered lightly.
I gazed once again toward the window. “Ah, I see.” It was not worth pursuing another argument just to convince her that she was wrong.
*~*~*~*
Spring’s fair weather saw the arrival of Spartan messengers with letters and presents. Menelaus’s exuberance burst through the text, as he congratulated me on the births of Tisamenus and Teukros, on the capture and dispensation of Nemea, and on my retaining a skilled engineer to begin delving the subterranean cistern, which, he firmly asserted, both Atreus and Agamemnon had intended to construct, before other, more pressing concerns had disrupted their plans.
A month later, however, Menelaus sent a cutting tirade on the subject of my impulsiveness regarding Kleonai. “Perhaps you should join your nephews in the schoolroom and learn something about geography. Did you learn nothing from King Strophius during your Phocian exile? Were you so besotted with women, wine, and raiding that you neglected to realize that the war changed everything? Reclaiming Agamemnon’s throne does not entitle you to lord it over his former vassals; the old arrangements clearly dissolved with his death—which you would have known had you bothered to consult your advisors.
“I sincerely hope that you are not so bullheaded or impatient as to pursue this poorly conceived course against Corinth or Kleonai. Listen to an old man’s advice. Strengthen your bonds with the vassals already beholden to you, and focus on the enemies who lurk much closer to home. Remember, the Spartan assembly is watching your movements very carefully, and this foolish incident has them reconsidering your fitness to rule.”
I kept the contents of Menelaus’s blistering lecture private. Hermione sensed from my mood that all was not well, but she wisely held her tongue about the letter, except to inquire after the general health and well-being of her family. So I read aloud those parts, and encouraged her to sort through the gifts, most of which were for the children.
Menelaus would have said far worse about my character and prospects, I reflected, had he heard Kleonai’s answer, which was accompanied by an abrasive reprimand from Corinth.
Aisymnos arrived in person to deliver his reply, so greatly, as he put it, had he been offended. Worse, his traveling companion was none other than the Corinthian ambassador, a middle-aged, bullnecked man whose face was a patchwork of broken blood vessels. Kleoboulos wasted neither time nor courtesy on greetings or introductions, beyond the customary libations every visitor offered, and launched straightaway into a lecture.
“While you were growing your first beard and fucking your first woman, Lord Capreus of Corinth granted Kleonai’s reasonable and legally sound request for protection.” Kleoboulos dared much, reproving me, the king of Mycenae, in my own hall, secure in the knowledge that the sacred laws of hospitality prevented retaliation. “Had you paid attention to your advisors, and not spent your time fucking and killing, you would have realized that Kleonai owes you no obligation, and so avoided this embarrassing situation.”
Anger pulsed through my veins. With great effort, I reined it in, and acknowledged my primary guest. “Lord Aisymnos, we are grateful for this opportunity to receive you, as you received us on our progress home, and to discuss this matter directly with you. Please, sit and drink with us, and let us amend our differences.” I indicated with a flourish the inlaid ivory table and chairs that the servants had arranged near the dais. “We do not want there to be any further misunderstanding over this situation.”
Aisymnos arranged his bulk on the cushioned seat. “We will not be staying the night,” he announced sourly. Kleoboulos gave table and chairs a cursory inspection, before deigning to sit down. He could have planted his behind in the stable dung heap, for all I cared.
“Lord Aisymnos,” I continued, ignoring the Corinthian ambassador, “we were disturbed to hear your strong condemnation of our recent actions in Nemea, particularly with regard to the false charge that we mistreated Lord Chromios and his women. We are not cruel or vindictive with those who submit to our authority.” I paused, allowing my guests to wash their hands in the cool spring water a female servant poured from a silver ewer, while Eteokles brought the wine.
Aisymnos wiped his hands on the crisp linen the woman handed him. “But we are not beholden to you,” he pointed out.
“Alas, we forgot in the heat of the moment,” I answered, “as your objections seemed to point toward lapsed obligations. Chromios’s initial answer to our demands smacked of insolence, and in our ignorance we assumed Kleonai had given the same response.” Aisymnos raised a hirsute eyebrow, demanding further explanation. Kleoboulos merely rolled his eyes. How I wanted to bury an axe in the Corinthian’s thick skull! Here, I had spent long nights trying to figure out how to smooth over the situation without losing face, and now this uncouth imbecile threatened to ruin the attempt.
Not that I could call him out, the protection of Zeus Xenios notwithstanding. Members of the Mycenaean assembly sat like hawks in the gallery, observing the exchange, and making certain I that did not veer from the course which they had approved.
“Kleonai lies but throwing distance from Nemea,” Aisymnos carefully pointed out. “What were we to think when you gave your followers leave to ravage nearby villages? We saw the smoke rising in the distance.” He regarded his cup with noticeable uncertainly. Kleoboulos had refused my wine completely. “How were we to know it was not the beginning of an attack against us? Can you blame us for wording our condemnation so strongly?”
I drank from my own cup to reassure Aisymnos that the wine had not been poisoned. “You have our assurances that neither Mycenae nor her vassals will move against Kleonai, or—” I stared at Kleoboulos—“any other vassal beholden to Corinth. Let us record this agreement, set our seals upon it, and exchange gifts and promises of friendship.”
Aisymnos was skeptical, but he listened, nonetheless. “And what would these promises of friendship, as you term them, entail?”
I laid out the terms as my advisors and I had agreed to them. “We will not infringe upon Corinth’s sovereignty or make demands of its vassals. Should we be attacked, and request your help, you as our allies will come to our aid. We will do likewise for you.”
Kleoboulos showed his disdain, as well as his supreme ignorance, as he interjected, “Son of Agamemnon, are you trying to hoodwink us into becoming Mycenaean vassals again?”
I gnashed my teeth. “Did you not hear us acknowledge Corinth’s sovereignty? We make no demands, either for tribute or conscripts, only a suggestion that we should act together as friends and allies.”
Aisymnos stroked his beard, smoothing it down where it had been oiled and combed to a fashionable point. “Why should we assist you, King Orestes? Did we not send men and ships to Troy in obedience to your father’s command? All we have to show for that foolish venture are widows and orphans, farms lying derelict, and labor shortages.”
“We all suffered losses.” I nodded grimly, and then, reluctantly shifted my attention to Kleoboulos. “We know Lord Capreus is currently fortifying the Isthmus against the threat of Dorian incursions.” When he started to object, no doubt to tell me that that was not my concern, I lifted a finger to silence him. “Would you reject Mycenaean aid without first conveying our proposal to your lord? Capreus knows as well as we do that the Dorians hunger for arable land, and that Thessaly’s fields and groves will not satisfy their needs for long, given how they breed.”
Kleoboulos stared at me with the intensity of a man trying to find a weakness—any weakness—in my proposal. “We have no desire to engage the Dorians in battle,” he answered dismissively.
Gods only knew how he would report this meeting! I strove to maintain a shred of patience. “We said nothing about engaging the Dorians, unless they enter the Peloponnese and cause trouble, but it would be in our mutual best interest to assist in containing them.”
Neither Aisymnos nor Kleoboulos would commit to an alliance then, which prompted the Mycenaean assembly to suggest appointing Pylades as temporary Lord Ambassador to Corinth, and sending him with Kleoboulos to make certain that the Corinthian, whether through sheer incompetence or deliberate malice, did not misrepresent my offer.
“What have I done,” Pylades inquired drily, “to deserve such punishment as to have that oaf inflicted upon me?” We were alone in his cubicle, the copies of the proposal that he was to take to Corinth lying open upon his desk.
“Alas,” I said, mock-groaning, “you have become too competent for your own good.” Then I cleared my throat, and nodded to the papyri. “Make sure you personally deliver that into Capreus’s hands, with my offer. I don’t trust Kleoboulos for one moment.”
Pylades diplomatically endured the man’s company, and delivered the gifts and good wishes I had sent along with the proposal. Capreus’s response was, not surprisingly, lukewarm. As Pylades later reported, however, his northern defenses were not as strong as he would have liked, and his scouts had sighted bands of Dorian raiders near Megara. All that mattered was his seal upon the agreement, and his compliance.
This time, I did not wait for my father-in-law and the Spartan assembly to glean the particulars through messengers, but I seized the initiative and wrote first, to assure them that a hostile situation had been avoided, and that everything was now under control.
*~*~*~*
Not long after Pylades returned from his Corinthian assignment, a messenger arrived from Ithaca. Telemachus expressed his thanks for the wedding gifts I had sent, but, in rather cool terms, declined my invitation to visit Mycenae. His ambassador, a bard named Phemius, quickly explained that Telemachus could not leave Ithaca at the present time, with so many matters requiring his attention, and when his new wife was with child. Phemius insinuated that King Nestor had imposed restrictions on his son-in-law’s movements, yet for some nagging reason I could not help but suspect that Telemachus’s standoffishness stemmed from resentment over the way I had chastised him in Sparta.
