The Warrior, page 26
part #3 of Orestes Series
“Wait.” I noticed an older man among the mortally wounded. “Leave me that one.”
He lay on his side, bleeding from the stump of his severed arm and a wound which had gouged out half his cheek. But he was sensible enough to question. I removed my helmet, went over to him, and offered him water. “Do you know who I am?”
Blinking, he groaned a little, and exhaled painfully; his time was growing short. I held the cup to his lips so he could slurp the water, and said, “I am Orestes, king of Mycenae. Your leader, Perimedes, where is he?”
His teeth, when he grinned, were stained scarlet, and he answered weakly, “Perimedes is here.”
For some reason, I had imagined the brigand leader to be younger. “You lead these men?”
Perimedes nodded slowly. “Led them in war—” A rattling breath. “—and straight down to Hades.” His eyelids drooped as he started losing consciousness. “Do what you must, boy.”
He would have died within minutes without my assistance, but he wanted an honorable end I was not altogether certain he deserved. Perimedes sensed my reservations, even with his diminishing faculties. A laugh sputtered from his blood-stained lips, till the pain of his injuries turned his chuckle into a groan. He sucked in a tormented breath, then fixed me with his piercing gray gaze. “Go on, boy. You know you want to.”
I dispatched him like a sacrificial bull, with a sharp, swift cut across his carotid artery. He bore it bravely. A relieved sigh escaped him as the light dimmed from his eyes. So died a pirate, a common criminal like a hundred others I had killed over the years, and yet somehow I could not shake misgivings that this man’s death had been a terrible waste.
Nephos strode over, his helmet tucked under his arm. “I sent Teledamas and his men to keep order up there.” He jerked his chin toward the huts. “I told them to bring out the captives so we could share.”
I counted twenty-seven women who straggled down to the beach disheveled, bruised, and, with few exceptions, naked. Of the children I knew to be among the brigands, only the girls had survived, and to judge from the blood trickling down the inside of their thighs, it was obvious that they, regardless of their tender years, had also been subject to the men’s attentions. All the females bore signs of hard living, but they were clear-eyed and sturdy-looking, and would probably fetch a good price as menials. I ordered the captains to give them something to cover themselves with, and water to wash away the blood. Moreover, they were to let the women rest before the other men took their turns.
A search of the huts yielded plunder: gold and silver trinkets, bronze ingots, amphorae of wine, bolts of cloth, and ivory and stone carvings in the bizarre Cycladic style. I had it all brought down to the beach to be tallied, and later divvied among the men. As for the dead, they were dumped in the huts or aboard the wrecked vessels, which were set alight. Teledamas was now captain of a triaconter, as his foolhardiness had smashed his bow, and caused Amphitrite to take on water, where we did not have either the time or the resources to stay in the cove to repair the damage. “Wreck this ship,” I warned him, “and you’ll be lucky to find yourself captaining a rowboat.”
He took his chastisement in stride, and named his new triaconter Gorgon, which probably made it the thirtieth vessel in the Aegean bearing that name.
The air quickly filled with smoke, and the stench of burning wood, pitch, and human flesh. The captive women and their daughters keened and rent their cheeks, which I allowed, as long as they remained otherwise docile. But I did not care to stay, and walked upwind, to where the water was cleanest, and stripped off my armor and filthy clothes, and waded into the sea to bathe. I had won the glory and booty I had sworn to win, and was more than ready to head home, but could not until two final matters were settled.
At sunset, Teledamas brought over the comeliest of the women, if any of them could be rated as such, but neither she nor any other female among those pathetic captives incited my hunger. Anyway, rape had never appealed to me. Trying to pin down an unwilling woman and claim satisfaction with her squirming, squealing, and thrashing against me soured my pleasure, but I did not begrudge my followers their spoils. I had Teledamas bring wine instead, and spent the evening drinking and talking with my nobly-born hostage, who, for his good behavior, was permitted the privilege of stretching his legs on the beach.
Witnessing the bloodshed from the deck had left Phaestus shaken; it was clear that he had never seen a battle. “The first time is always the worst,” I assured him, “but you get used to it. And when you’re in the thick of the fighting, Ares takes over, possesses you, and you simply don’t have time to think about how vicious or terrible killing is.”
Just then, Aranaru and the captive scribes came ashore under guard in order to bathe in the sea, as I did not intend to spend the next three days subject to the reek of their shit and urine.
“Are you going to kill them?” Phaestus asked hesitantly.
“No,” I said. “I am going to demonstrate what happens to those who betray their king.”
Morning tasted like ashes. The huts were smoldering ruins, and the ruined ships had burned down to the waterline. I had a quarter of Teledamas’s men and all of the captives loaded onto Agamemnon, the other remaining pentekonter, and gave the leathery old captain strict instructions that the women and girls were royal booty, and not to be touched again. Then Phaestus and I boarded Sea Nymph, while the sailors removed the chocks, shoved the vessels down into the ocean, quickly scrambled over the rails, and took their stations at the rowing benches.
Seriphos was a three-day sail southeast of Hydra. According to legend, Perseus had been raised on the island by a kindly fisherman after he and his mother had washed ashore in a wooden larnax. As we sailed into the main harbor, Nephos pointed out certain tall rocks standing above the water line. “Those are Polydectes and his followers,” he said, “as they appeared after Perseus turned them to stone. I knew a man once who swore his grandfather’s father saw the statues brought from the palace and erected here.”
Medusa’s head was a story for children, but the rocks with their weathered hollows and bulges had a disturbingly human quality about them, suggesting faces, or limbs, or folds of clothing. “I would have dumped them into the harbor, had they been my enemies.”
“The locals say Athena told Perseus to leave them here,” Nephos answered, “as proof of the deed.”
The local ruler and his officials hastened down to the beach upon seeing the double lions of Mycenae on our sails. I received their obeisance, reassured them that I had heard and responded to their complaints, and then ordered the captains to bring the prisoners forward.
“Perimedes and his brigands are dead.” I spoke loudly enough for the fishwives, shipwrights, sailors, and other folk gathered along the beach to hear. “But these men from Minoa-in-Argolis did business with those who burned your villages, slew your neighbors, and carried off their women.” Aranaru and his scribes at last realized what their fate was to be, and started struggling against their bonds and crying for mercy. “They are now yours to punish as you choose.”
A mob swarmed the captives and dragged them away to the sound of shrieks, angry shouts, and fists beating on flesh; the sailors who had brought them narrowly escaped serious injury. I did not see what became of the harbor master or his unscrupulous servants, but to judge from the bloodstains and torn clothing left on the sand as the mob moved toward the outskirts of the town, they would not survive long.
Ekhelos, the local ruler, invited me to stay the night in the very palace, he claimed, where Perseus had slain the villainous Polydectes and his followers, and had afterward installed his kindly stepfather as king. “My lord, you must see the tomb of Dictys and the lady Danaë.”
Although I knew for a fact that Danaë had been buried with her son in the old grave circle at Mycenae, I humored the man, and even sacrificed to Poseidon and Athena at the altar beside the tomb. Ekhelos then led me to the megaron, where over refreshments he related local anecdotes about Perseus, and expounded upon his one meeting, twenty-five years ago, with my father. “High King Agamemnon was a great man, but even before that, from time beyond memory, we have always been well-disposed toward our friends in Argolis.”
To reveal to him that the Argives had diverted his messengers and, in effect, prolonged his people’s suffering would have soured relations, as well as diminished my standing as an competent ruler. “We would have come sooner,” I said, “but it took considerable time for us to discover the conspiracy in Minoa-in-Argolis, and then obtain reliable intelligence as to where Perimedes and his raiders were hiding. We had to wait for our agents to confirm it.”
“They say that on Hydra, Poseidon’s daughters have their grottos. There are hundreds upon hundreds of coves and sea caves where such villains might conceal themselves.” Ekhelos set aside his cup as a servant entered bearing a tray of fresh mussels. “These were caught this morning, my lord. You will never taste better shellfish, because they have been prepared according to an ancient recipe given to us by none other than the great Daedalus.”
I honored him by sampling the local fare. From what little I had observed, Seriphos was a lovely and hospitable island. “We would ask of you a favor.” When Ekhelos nodded, urging me to continue, I elaborated, “Perimedes and his ilk were veterans of the war at Troy, and we understand that a great many pirates plaguing the Cycladic sea routes have similar histories. It seems to us that killing these veterans would be a waste, when their talents could be turned to our advantage.”
Perimedes had been resourceful and organized enough to last ten years as a brigand leader. How much more successful he could have been, turning his talents to lawful use by preying upon other pirates, and clearing the sea lanes for Mycenae! Decades ago, King Pelias of Iolkos had sent his quarrelsome nephew Jason east to the Euxine Sea as much to maintain order as to open trade routes for gold and grain. Eurystheus had imposed the Twelve Labors upon Herakles as both a form of atonement and a means of quelling the hero’s troublesome impulses. Here, I had a chance to do likewise with the fighting men from Troy who had not been able to return to their old lives.
“Dear gods, my lord, do not traffic with pirates!” Ekhelos exclaimed. “One does not conduct business with such ruffians, but eradicates them like the vermin they are!” He smacked his fist into his palm.
Being older, and set in his ways, he naturally did not recognize the advantage of what I proposed. “That may be,” I answered, “but we cannot devote all our time to chasing down brigands, nor, do we think, would it effective. We simply ask that you spread the word that the king of Mycenae is willing to employ and amply reward those who turn from their present lawlessness to render him honest service, as they did our father at Troy.”
Ekhelos was still recalcitrant, and would remain so. I could see it was time to change the subject. “We will return to you the women we discovered in Minoa-in-Argolis.”
“Hmm, those who still have families who can take them.” Ekhelos’s focus remained elsewhere; he continued to chew on the unwelcome prospect of mercenaries patrolling the Cyclades, and never did show any further concern about the women captives.
Upon my return to Minoa-in-Argolis, I found a Mycenaean messenger awaiting me in the lord’s residence. “My lord,” he said, kneeling, “Queen Hermione has been delivered of a daughter.”
“So soon?” I had not been gone more than a fortnight, and Hermione had not been due for another four or five weeks. “Has something gone wrong?” I strove to remain calm. “Is she well?”
The messenger presented me with a letter bearing my brother-in-law’s seal. I broke the wax and, skimming over the salutations, found the information I sought. “It was a difficult birth, and Hermione is very weak, but Elektra and the midwives inform me that she will recover. The infant is healthy. We are waiting the customary ten days, while hoping for your swift return, but if you do not arrive in time we hope you will forgive our presumption in inspecting the little princess, and naming and presenting her to the household gods.”
I had a daughter. What joyous news! I was eager to see her and Hermione. Pylades had not mentioned the child’s name, in keeping with the tradition of not announcing it before the naming day, but, having calculated that I would not make it home in time for the ceremonies, I would have at least liked to know ahead of my subjects.
It satisfied me to find that the women I had left behind had been looked after according to my orders, and were now more presentable. Young Oia cleaned up very nicely, and that night I coaxed her into bed, where I found her shy yet, after enough fondling and kissing, responsive and anxious to please. I was strongly tempted to take her home, even though she possessed no special talents deserving a place in the royal household. Perhaps that was for the best, as adding a new concubine would not have pleased my wife or sister.
In time, I settled Oia with Kleitos, whose stubborn persistence in leading a bachelor existence left him needing a good woman. The other women from Seriphos either returned home, or gave me leave to distribute them to households where they would be well-treated.
I handed the women taken from Hydra to my agent, who sold them in the marketplace of Nauplia.
As a final matter of business, I gathered the lords of Minoa-in-Argolis in their council chamber—the town, in the old Cretan fashion, did not even own a proper megaron, but rather a labyrinthine network of shrines dedicated to various deities—and imposed penalties upon them for their waywardness. “You are no longer a Cretan colony,” I said, “and have not been for at least two centuries. You are subjects of Mycenae, and therefore owe your taxes and your loyalty to us. Lord Eubalos—” He glared resentfully in my direction. “Your son Phaestus will accompany us back to Mycenae, till such time as we are satisfied with regards to your allegiance. We are establishing our fifty men as a local garrison, and will send such agents as are necessary to ensure that there are no underhanded dealings, and that all arrangements continue as we have commanded.”
“Would you treat us as criminals?” one old lord grumbled. Mutters of assent rumbled through the space.
I regarded him coolly. “Perhaps you would prefer to see your town razed to cinders, and your wives and daughters sold into slavery?” I gave them the requisite moment to mull over that option. “Do as we command, and you may find that you will profit much through your friendship with Mycenae.”
Chapter Eighteen
“What is it about the Cyclades that shrinks pentekonters into triaconters?” Cylarabes maintained his deceptively innocent smile as he waved to his valet to fetch more figs and honey cakes. When I did not rise to the bait, he continued, “You’ve returned laden with booty. Been raiding in the islands?”
The great inner court of Tiryns was more generous than my own, and equipped with elegant altars. From the shady aithousa, where Cylarabes had pressed me into taking refreshment and visiting while my ships were unloaded, I admired the high fortification walls, while regretting their impregnability. “A rather unsavory rumor has been going around that we have lost interest in our Cycladic vassals.” I waved aside the sticky-sweet sesame balls and honeyed figs the warden’s servant tried to press on me. “We cannot imagine who would say such a thing, and turn honest ambassadors away from us.”
“Neither can we.” Cylarabes reached for a sesame ball with his sticky, pudgy fingers, and popped it into his mouth. “By the way, we heard your queen bore a daughter.” He tsk-tsked my so-called dilemma through his loud chewing. “How disappointed you must be.”
“Not at all,” I answered pleasantly. “A daughter is a blessing on the House of Atreus.”
He shrugged, and swallowed. “We noticed you captured several women during your raid. Any strike your fancy?”
Was he serious, asking whether I intended to take a new concubine just as my wife was recovering from childbirth? What did he care about my sexual preferences, anyway, when, according to my agents, his widening girth had left him impotent and disinterested in sex? His aged wife must be thanking the gods. “Why do you ask?”
“I heard we had company!” Footfalls echoed along the aithousa, and a husky, fair-haired young nobleman approached. Squinting to see who had come, Cylarabes wagged his fingers, urging the man closer, then introduced him to me. “King Orestes, meet Lord Akelos, natural son of King Diomedes. Akelos, my dear boy, our guest is Orestes Agamemnonides, king of Mycenae.”
So this was the bastard Cylarabes had found dwelling in a shepherd’s hut last summer. Akelos matched me for height and breadth, and was good-looking, but any resemblance to an actual nobleman ended the moment he clapped my shoulder and opened his mouth. “One hero to another!” he exclaimed. “Let us drink wine together and talk.”
What deeds had this upstart performed, to call himself thus? Eying the sweetmeats on the platter, Akelos grabbed the footstool the valet brought over. Cylarabes wiped his sticky mouth with a linen cloth. “Orestes is drinking barley water with mint.”
Akelos shrugged, took the wine the valet offered, anyway, without splashing a libation to the gods. “I heard your wife just whelped a daughter.” What, did he think Hermione a bitch dog, to birth a litter of puppies? Had we been outside the citadel, I would have slashed a dagger across his throat. “Speaking of which, have you met my three sons?”
I shot a look toward Cylarabes, who maintained a neutral expression. Why was Akelos here, and what were he and the warden of Tiryns about? “We had no idea you were married.”
“Married?” Akelos snorted. “Oh, no! The serving wenches around here are so wet and willing, and fruitful.” He reached a muscled arm across Cylarabes and nudged me. “Say, if you’re looking for a skilled woman, you should try Nefret, down at the house with the fish sign on the street behind the custom house. Hah! She does things with her mouth that...” He winked knowingly. I did not reciprocate his crass grin, and certainly did not appreciate his advice. Whichever man had shot his seed into his mother’s womb, he had definitely not been well-born.
