The Warrior, page 24
part #3 of Orestes Series
There was nothing to do but what the gods ordained. Chromios made no fuss about the inconvenience; he even nodded his somber agreement, and commented, “We must not keep the gods waiting.” Banishment and bereavement had silenced his old bluster, and deepened the furrows around his mouth and eyes, but his color had improved, and his hands no longer trembled when he reverenced Hermione. She was gracious, as always, even eliciting the faintest smile from him and his dour wife; the daughters, plain-faced girls, were clearly fascinated with her.
Aglaos went on ahead, to ascertain that the snake was not dangerous. Chromios nodded woodenly. “I had a horse once, a fine animal,” he mumbled, “but Ares took him.”
A harmless grass snake coiled among the wilting poppies with which we had colored the grave. Hermione gingerly placed an offering bowl of milk on the ground, then lifted her arms and addressed the godhead incumbent in the serpent, “Messenger of the earth, accept this libation we set before you.” The Nemean daughters watched her with wide eyes and hanging jaws, as though she were a goddess herself. “Be welcome here. Protect this estate and its inhabitants. Guard the grave of the faithful companion buried under this earth.”
Even holy house snakes never drank while under scrutiny. Hermione signaled over her shoulder that we should withdraw a space, and leave her with the snake. She would venerate it, as the priestesses did in the cult house, but gods forbid she should handle a wild serpent when she knew, as she must have been taught, that all snakebites, even non-venomous ones, were painful. I lingered longest, until custom forced me to leave.
Not long after, and having suffered no hurt, she rejoined us. “It loosened its coils,” she reported, “and raised its head to signal that it accepted our offering.” Then, she bestowed upon me a dazzling smile. “Mother Dia has sent her messenger to watch over Hermes.”
Chapter Seventeen
Father’s vassals had come not only from Corinthia and Achaea, but also the nearby islands called the Cyclades. His ships had patrolled the Aegean, keeping the fishing and mercantile lanes free from pirates, and his administrators had collected revenues totaling a third of the realm’s annual income. Those precious revenues had since been lost, the intricate web of administration, trade, and sea power torn asunder with Father’s death.
Those vassals would once again pay tribute to Mycenae. I must reestablish Father’s lucrative overseas trade routes, and curtail piratical activity. Foreign ambassadors and merchants must be made to feel secure enough to return to Hellene shores.
I had ambition sufficient for four kings, but last year’s diplomatic mistake with Corinth and Kleonai had taught me a valuable lesson in patience. The Mycenaean assembly stressed concerns closer to home, and, when pressed about the Cycladic tributaries and the ongoing pirate raids, cited a frustrating shortage of resources. Where Father could muster a hundred ships, I commanded less than twenty, for which I was paying an exorbitant amount in berthing tolls. To reclaim the Cyclades and make them safe required more ships and the men to crew them, and to accomplish that meant controlling the harbor and shipyards at Tiryns.
What I did not realize was that, over the last three years, six former Cycladic vassals had sent representatives to Argolis seeking protection against the pirates devastating their coastal villages and fishing fleets. My spies never realized that the humble Cycladic sailors coming ashore in Tiryns were ambassadors; it spoke to Cylarabes’ cunning and malice toward me that his agents intercepted the men on the beach at high tide, or in the uncouth establishments sailors frequented, and heard their petitions in secret. Cylarabes let them know that they would be wasting their time appealing to the impetuous young king of Mycenae, but that he would send word to his kinsman in Argos, and do what he could, which amounted to nothing.
At last, Captain Nephos, having brushed elbows with the Cycladic visitors, and pieced together the story, had been astonished enough to travel to court to inquire whether I knew about the rebuffed Cycladic embassies, and to request permission to lead his bored crewmen against the pirates plaguing the near Cyclades. “Fourth such gripe from the islands since Plowistos,” he said. “Did you know, their ambassadors disguise themselves as fishermen, the sea lanes are so dangerous?”
It was late, but the matter was serious enough to warrant a meeting of the assembly. I sent Eteokles to summon the councilors, but given the hour, only Pylades and Kleitos were available.
Once they arrived, and Sama had arranged his writing materials, I had Nephos backtrack, and start from the beginning. “You mean to tell me,” I muttered afterward, “that the warden of Tiryns has been diverting messengers from the islands to ensure I never receive their petitions? Why would he discredit me, and yet leave the job unfinished?” Gnashing my teeth, I stared at the lion hunt splashed across the back wall as though the beasts might suddenly come alive and offer counsel. “Argos has a fleet, with sufficient men to engage these raiders. Why not steal my glory?”
Pylades leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard. “Cylarabes may have asked Cyanippus for the privilege, but the king of Argos is a small-minded man. Either he believes Cylarabes can’t lead the Argive fleet—which, given his lack of prowess and corpulence, he probably can’t—or the matter doesn’t concern him enough to see why Argos should bother.”
“The Argives are fools,” Kleitos said, “when these raids affect them in equal measure.”
Nephos drank from his cup, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “There was a time,” he said, “when Cyanippus would have taken up the challenge. He was brave in his youth, and ambitious. Only ten years ago, he ousted his brother Cometes and Queen Aegialia from the throne, and my grandfather told me he cut his teeth leading cattle raids for King Eurystheus. But he’s old now, without sons or grandsons, and when a man knows infirmity and death are creeping up on him, and he’s got no legacy, it makes him cautious.”
Pylades leaned forward, holding his cup between his ringed hands. “And nervous, too, perhaps,” he suggested. “Suppose Cylarabes or some other Argive nobleman managed to defeat raiders in the Cyclades, and brought home considerable fame and booty. Cyanippus might find himself dealing with an unexpected rival to the throne.”
I brushed aside Argos’s hypothetical dynastic squabbles. “Let him sit on his hands. Now that we know about the Cycladic embassies, we can act, and salvage something out of this mess. We might not be in a position to hold the islands, but a successful attack on these raiders would heap honor on our name, and persuade the Cyclades to keep the old alliances.” I turned to my faithful captain. “Nephos, you once told us that you know the seas from Euboea to Crete as a babe knows the inside of his mother’s womb.” He nodded. “Let’s say now that we wished to hunt pirates this summer. Where would we begin our search?”
Nephos wasted no time advising me; it was obvious that, hoping to command a raiding party, he had rehearsed his speech on the way up from Tiryns. “There’s a small island east of here, within sight of a little town called Minoa-in-Argolis. We call it Hydra, because it has as many coves and beaches as the Hydra had heads. In my grandfather’s time, pirates used to ground their ships there, shelter from squalls, and divide their spoils.”
Sama’s stylus scratched notes in the wax as the captain made his recommendations. “No more than four ships, my lord, with two hundred men equipped and ready to fight on short notice. We can be ready within days, once we’re provisioned.”
When she heard, Hermione raised strident objections to my going, as I expected she would. “Why must it be you, Orestes?” she asked. “Let Pylades lead the fleet in your stead. He hates sitting in his cubicle poring over the tallies all the time. A command would give him some much-needed glory among the Phocians.”
I touched her cheek. “You know perfectly well why I must lead the fleet. But once this raid is over, and the first honors are mine, I will gladly grant Pylades the next command.”
Abashed, Hermione turned her head aside. “Please, don’t.”
She had conceived last autumn, within weeks of weaning Tisamenus. This pregnancy had not been kind to her. Nausea and fatigue plagued her, and she was mortified by the blotchiness that discolored her alabaster skin, and by the dark, puffy circles that ringed her eyes. “You are still beautiful,” I told her reassuringly.
“And you are a terrible liar.” She clutched her shawl around her shoulders, despite the warm afternoon. “Can’t you delay until after the birth? It will be so much harder with you away.”
“You’re not due for six or seven weeks, and this expedition will take but a fortnight. “I will be taking four pentekonters and two hundred well-armed men.” I reached past her shoulder to push open the shutter, to admit more sunlight and fresh air. “It’s a beautiful afternoon outside. Let me take you for a walk. It isn’t good for your health or the child’s for you stay shut up in here.”
Hermione shook her head, as she shielded her face with one hand. “I look terrible.”
“Here.” I rummaged about her dressing table, found a ribbon and some amethyst beads, and indicated that her handmaids should make her presentable. “You will look like the queen you are. And besides, everyone will be paying attention to whatever Harpalos has in his mouth.”
Two weeks after Hermes’ death, my kennel master had alerted me to an unexpected surprise: a pair of puppies with their sire’s black and white coloring. I sent one to Aethiolas in Sparta, and kept the other, whom I called Harpalos—Grasper—after he had ruined three pairs of my leather shoes. Even now, at nine months, he stole anything that was not tied down, from Hermione’s sewing to Tisamenus’s toys.
Once she was more presentable, I managed to persuade Hermione to walk out with me, though we left the dog with Eteokles. She did not trust her balance or considerable bulk with him weaving around and nudging her feet.
Hermione would be safe with Pylades and Elektra, and Harpalos, displaying the aggressive vigilance of his mastiff mother, insisted on lying in the corridor before her door at night, so I harbored no guilt in departing with my companions for Tiryns.
We had good sailing weather, clear and warm, with a light wind from the north. Nephos had kept the ships seaworthy, running them out into the Gulf of Argolis four times a year, and his sailors fit to heave an oar; they were not allowed to drink or laze about excessively, as many other sailors did, but undertook strenuous labor in the shipyards. From the stern, where I had surrendered the contents of my stomach to Poseidon not an hour before, I observed the men at their benches, their broad brown backs straining and shoving to the sonorous drumbeat establishing the rhythm, and listened to the creak of weathered wood and the lapping of the waves against Sea Nymph’s hull. Depending on the favor Poseidon and Artemis granted us, it would take three days to reach the town of Minoa-in-Argolis, and from thence to the island of Hydra across the narrow channel.
“I’ll wager a few Minoans know their way around Hydra.” Nephos braced his sinewy arms against the wooden rail. In the seven months since I had seen him last, the combined effects of salt, sand, and wind had added more gray hairs and wrinkles to his appearance; he was thirty-three, but looked twenty years older. “Some pirates, I hear, have families on the mainland.”
“Do you suspect anyone in particular?” I had no qualms about torturing men, even women, as necessity dictated, but cruelty without purpose seemed counterproductive, particularly as the Minoans were also my vassals, and I could not afford to have word spread that I abused loyal and innocent subjects.
Nephos responded with the long, thoughtful silence typical of seafarers, pondering his answer. “There’s a certain harbor master,” he finally said. “A miser despite his considerable wealth, and obsessed with the contents of his storehouses. If I had to guess, I would say he’s dealing in more than pithoi of second-grade olive oil and salted fish.”
It might be nothing, simply a cheapskate who had to monitor every minor detail, or, as the captain suggested, this harbor master might be dealing in plundered goods. “Perhaps we should have a look into his storehouses,” I mused. “Once we arrive, it should be simple enough to detain his scribes and inspect his ledgers.”
Minoa-in-Argolis had been founded centuries ago as a Cretan colony, and still called itself after Minos. Its buildings, set against the crystal blue waters of a broad natural harbor, were, as Nephos explained, typical examples of Cretan architecture: multistoried tenements vivid with colored washes of pink, yellow, and brown. A prosperous little seaside town, it lacked the fortifications of other Argive towns like Tiryns and Nauplia, making it an easy mark for raiders, except that it did not appear to have suffered any depredations. “Most curious,” I murmured to myself, and went to issue orders.
Nephos fulfilled his charge swiftly, leading twenty-five men into the waterfront district while his second-in-command, a cousin named Teledamas, oversaw the disposition of sailors and ships along the beach. An official bearing the brown skin, straight nose, and the usual Cretan hauteur marched down, the tasseled fringes of his garment swaying with his plodding movements, to demand our names and errand; an apologetic scribe scrawled our answers onto a wax diptych.
“We are the king of Mycenae, and your lord and master.” I sourly noted no change in the official’s demeanor. “Our errand is our own business.”
At length, Nephos and his men returned leading a dozen captives: a fat-bellied man, his even fatter wife, five whining, sniveling children, and five other men who were either household servants or storehouse clerks; their ink-stained fingers suggested the latter.
“What is the meaning of this?” exclaimed the official. “These are free citizens!”
Hearing his voice, the fat man twisted his head, and shouted back, “Yidini! Go fetch Lord Eubalos. Tell him what’s happened, and to save us from these brigands!”
I let the imbecilic official run where he would, and raise the alarm. Brigands, indeed! If neither he nor anyone else in Minoa-in-Argolis recognized the lions of Mycenae splayed across my sails, then that was to their detriment. “Teledamas, take these servants aboard your ship and secure them, but do not hurt them.” I indicated the five clerks lashed together. “Nephos, we’ll interview this man and his family aboard your vessel.”
“Help, help!” the wife shrieked, as the sailors prodded her up the gangplank. “They’re going to rape us!” I heard the sailor at her back grumble at her to shut up, that she was hardly worth raping.
“I wanna go home!” the eldest boy whined, and kicked the shin of the nearest sailor—shameful behavior for a boy his age. As the man raised his hand to retaliate, I bounded aboard the deck to deal with the matter myself. A moment later, the boy was yowling, one hand to his reddened cheek, with snot dribbling from his nose. Even Tisamenus had more dignified tantrums than this brat! “Another sound from you, and we’ll see how well you can swim.”
“You leave him alone!” the wife screamed.
Her husband added, “You can’t treat my son that way!”
Time to deal with the father. I marched over to the harbor master, and twisting my fingers in his curly graying hair, wrenched his head back. “Do you know who we are? We are the king of Mycenae, the lord and master to whom you pay tribute. Do not try our patience any further.”
The harbor master went fish-belly pale, stammered out frightened courtesies, while his wife tried unsuccessfully to shush their brats.
“We wish to inspect your storehouses,” I continued. “Now, if we should find your goods and records are as they ought to be, then you, your wife, and your children will go free with our apologies, but if we find something amiss, well, then...” To be honest, I had not yet decided what I would do if I discovered that they had been conspiring with raiders, or to what extent, or even if I was correct to proceed in this fashion against free citizens when all I had were the flimsiest of pretenses.
My captive naturally assumed the worst; he released a terrible groan which only heightened my suspicions. “Nephos,” I said, “truss these piglets by the stern and guard them well. Thestalos, bring me one of the captive scribes. No, wait.” What would Father or Atreus have done? I thought fast. “Bring me whichever one hates his master the most.”
Rusa was an ill-favored man with a sunken chest, spindly legs, and stooped gait all too eager to spill venom against his employer. “Even has us work on festival days,” he grumbled.
“Spare us your personal grievances,” I said sharply. “What we wish to know is how the harbor master conducts his business. So tell us, what do you think we will find when we open his storehouses?”
“Oh, you’ll find plenty, my lord.” Rusa rubbed his hands together, the very archetype of a rascal. “Olive oil and salted fish, to be sure, but he has interests far beyond that.”
He led us on a short tour of the storehouse on the waterfront. At first glance, it appeared like nothing more than the establishment of a local official with shares in oil and fish, as pithoi of olive oil and jars of salted fish, all neatly labeled, lined the storeroom walls, but then Rusa directed us toward the rear of the last room where the light was dimmest, and revealed a secret door of Cretan manufacture which had no hinges, but slid back, giving access onto a dark corridor.
Rusa scurried forward with the lamp, into the shadows like a scrawny brown rodent, and jabbed his finger toward what appeared to be a trapdoor at the end of the corridor. “There, there.”
Thestalos and Aglaos went ahead, unlatched the trapdoor, pulled it open, and all in an instant the overwhelming stench of human misery hit me square in the face. I gagged, and clapped my hand over my nose as the unmistakable whimpers and mutterings of frightened, captive women flooded into the corridor.
“He keeps them down there.” Rusa shone his lamp across half a dozen squinting, fearful female faces. How many had the harbor master crowded into that windowless space? “Perimedes brings them in, and the master keeps them a while before he sends them out.”
