The Warrior, page 28
part #3 of Orestes Series
Once we arrived, Lord Eubalos was nothing but courteous, presenting his wife, daughters, and younger sons, each of whom recited a polite speech of welcome. Hermione assured everyone that she was delighted with all she saw and heard. Nevertheless, I drew Eubalos aside and said, “Our wife is neither difficult nor demanding. See to it that she has all she desires.”
After securing his promise, I rewarded him with a message from his son. Phaestus had adjusted well to life at Mycenae, residing with Kleitos on his estate, and serving as his charioteer, an arrangement which rankled Eubalos’s Cretan sensibilities; his ancestors’ customs regarding hostages were, as he explained over supper, quite different. “We assumed Phaestus would be sequestered with your priests, not relegated to the status of a servant.”
“Phaestus is an honored guest, not a slave,” I answered. “Why would we shut him away in a sanctuary with our priests?”
“Because it is the priests who will have to sacrifice him should we somehow violate the terms of our agreement,” Eubalos said. “Surely you know the story of Theseus.”
What Hellene did not know about Theseus? “Of course,” I replied, “but what does Theseus have to do with your son? Phaestus has not been sent to us as tribute, to sate the unnatural appetite of the Minotaur. We do not possess such a creature, or a twisting labyrinth to confound him with.” Titters and muttered comments from the guests augmented my bewilderment. Did the nobles not believe me, or had I said something wrong?
Eubalos shredded his flatbread between his fingers. “You Hellenes always confuse the tales you tell about Crete. The Athenian Theseus who stole your wife’s mother was a clever liar, claiming deeds that were never his. He never descended into the passages and sanctuaries of sacred Knossos to confront the Minotaur, because the Labyrinth that was burned down more than a century ago. I have been to Crete, and can tell you that there is nothing left of the place but the great Bull Court and one small sanctuary.”
I chuckled, partly to conceal my growing discomfort among these nobles with their strange and superior Cretan ways. “So you would have us believe that there was never a Minotaur, and that the hero Theseus never killed him?”
“Did we say that?” Eubalos raised an eyebrow, much to the amusement of his guests. “The Theseus who came to Knossos and went down into the Labyrinth lived centuries ago, when fire rained down from the heavens, and the waters rose, and swallowed Kalliste in a single day and night. We know Theseus was a hostage held against King Aegeus’s continued defiance. Minos even demanded him by name, to ensure his father’s obedience.”
“Was there ever a Minotaur?” Hermione asked softly.
“Of course, my lady,” Eubalos answered graciously, inclining his head. Whereas he and his court saw no harm in subtly mocking me, he showed my wife nothing but deference. “In Knossos, hostages were held under the authority of the high priest of Poseidon. Often, that was Minos himself, or his eldest son. The high priest always donned a bull mask of beaten gold and silver when performing the holiest sacrifices, which included the offering up of forfeit hostages and slaves dedicated to the god. Theseus slew the bull-masked high priest to avoid going under the labrys when Aegeus defied Minos, but what could he say when his countrymen asked how he had made his escape? How could he confess that he had slain the god’s own consecrated servant? Thus, the legend of the monstrous half-man, half-bull was born.”
Bull masks and hostages, indeed! “We have also heard it said that Theseus slew the Minotaur in the Bull Court,” I said.
Eubalos nodded, but disingenuously, as though humoring an ignorant child. “You’re thinking of the Bull Dance, my lord, which was a sport designated only for youths and maidens of the noblest Cretan families. Foreign hostages like Theseus met the god down in the sanctuary, with a blow from the labrys, but I suppose a desecrator such as he would have had no compunction about exaggerating or lying outright about his deeds.”
Again with the superior attitude. “Hellenes do not,” I said stiffly, “sacrifice forfeit hostages to the gods, but execute them outright.” I caught the stricken look on Eubalos’s wife’s face. “However, we see no reason to dwell on such misfortune, as we are confident you will do nothing to bring that about.” Pause. “As to your other complaint, we assured you earlier that Phaestus was an honored guest, not a slave. In fact, it’s common for young Hellene noblemen to serve their betters at court and on battlefield.”
Eubalos glumly contemplated the torn flatbread on his platter. “We would not have our eldest son and heir thrust into battle, or have him forget the ways of his ancestors.”
I said, “You have our solemn word that we will not allow Phaestus to participate in any Mycenaean skirmish or battle.” As for his father’s other concern, forgetting his alien Cretan ways was exactly what the young man was going to do. Placing him with the youngest member of the Mycenaean assembly had been a deliberate move, for he would be more receptive to the athletic and astute thirty-year-old Kleitos than to a middle-aged curmudgeon like Menon.
In time, Phaestus would return home a well-groomed, loyal Mycenaean nobleman.
As supper concluded with the last libation, I received a message from Nephos, informing me that my baggage had been taken aboard his ship, which had arrived yesterday according to prior arrangement from Tiryns; he added that the weather appeared favorable for the voyage to Sparta. I spent a final night with Hermione and our daughter, and was down on the beach by dawn to sacrifice a pair of spotted bulls to Poseidon and Artemis.
Chapter Nineteen
Menelaus meant well, arranging a celebration suitable for a king, without realizing how little I liked excessive pageantry. After five days at sea, I wanted only to relax, enjoy a quiet visit with my Spartan relations, and absorb astute advice from Menelaus and Nestor, without the itinerary of lavish sacrifices, feasts, games, and presentation of court officials that my father-in-law’s well-intentioned but overblown hospitality seemed determined to force upon me.
A steward showed me to the guest apartment set aside for my use, where I undressed and stretched out upon crisp linens scented with sage and lavender. I would have fallen asleep straightaway, but, suddenly hearing my mother-in-law directing the servants in the corridor right outside the door, all thoughts of relaxation fled. Every nerve tensed, alert to the possibility that Helen would barge into the apartment and subject me to a long, scathing interrogation regarding her daughter. I flung an arm over my face, while trying unsuccessfully to ignore the fierce headache starting behind my eyes.
Helen left me unmolested, to sleep through the drowsy Spartan afternoon. An hour before sunset, Eteokles awakened me from a fitful nap, bathed and anointed me, and dressed me in lightweight blue and white wool rubbed down with olive oil to make it gleam. I heard the movements of courtiers and servants below, as my open window faced onto an inner court, heard the cicadas singing, and smelled the aroma of cooking meat, baking bread, and kitchen herbs hanging in the warm air.
Aethiolas arrived shortly to escort me downstairs. My brother-in-law had thickened in the waist, and now sported a full beard like Menelaus. He said, “I’m relieved to hear Hermione’s feeling better, but...” Then he leaned close, his breath blowing warm in my ear, as though someone might be eavesdropping. “Father has forbidden Mother from scolding you over Hermione’s difficult labor, but heed my warning. If her heart is fixed on it, she’ll find a way to corner you.”
Eteokles whisked a final speck of dirt from my shoulder, then straightened a sleeve. “To judge from the letters she’s sent Hermione,” I replied, “I have no doubt about her sentiments.”
Chrysothemis, glittering with golden ornaments, awaited us with her women on the aithousa. She let me kiss her cheeks before introducing me to her two young daughters. Three-year-old Thalaia had her mother’s chestnut hair and hazel eyes, and held the promise of stunning beauty to come, while her thirteen-month-old sister Marpessa had cheeks like dimpled little pomegranates and bright blue eyes.
Like her husband, Chrysothemis had gotten plumper, yet remained as empty-headed as ever. She nattered on about the children and their ailments, recipes for teething, and other matters best discussed with another mother, while Thalaia grew fidgety and sulky. I wondered why my sister did not correct the girl, or even seem cognizant of her misbehavior; she left it to her husband to discipline their daughter by banishing her to the nursery.
“Oh.” Chrysothemis turned her head as though just noticing. “Thalaia’s overexcited.”
Aethiolas wore a frosty look of displeasure that told me that this was not an isolated incident.
Menelaus had arranged a sumptuous feast for the entire court. Entering the megaron, I brushed elbows with members of the Spartan assembly, and right away noticed a difference in the way my father-in-law’s councilors approached me. Cantankerous old troublemaker Paios had since died, thank the gods. His colleagues dared not patronize me as an untried, inexperienced youth, but dealt with me as an important, mature king whose views mattered. Predictably, they showed considerable interest in the recent developments in Nemea and Minoa-in-Argolis, and asked many detailed questions about Mycenaean tactics and policy, before soliciting my advice on certain local matters. I recognized their fawning for what it was, and for the harsh opinions it concealed. The Spartans still disliked the prospect of an absentee king, no matter how powerful or competent he was, never mind that Spartan royal blood ran through his veins.
Throughout the evening, lords and ladies of the court inquired about Hermione and the children, and expressed sincere regret that they had not accompanied me on my visit.
“If she could spend three days in a rickety mule cart going from Mycenae to Minoa-in-Argolis,” Menelaus groused, “then why could she not have borne five days on a good ship? It’s been such fine sailing weather, and going by sea is far more comfortable than traveling overland.”
“Because she gets seasick,” Helen reminded him, “and she should not have to endure such a hardship after being so seriously ill.” I endured the poisonous glare she cast in my direction.
That I had named a town for my wife and granted her its tax revenues simultaneously shocked and delighted the Spartan court. Menelaus toasted his absent daughter. Helen wore a rare and dazzling smile that, for a time, negated the perpetual displeasure she emanated around me; her eyes clearly stated: you have finally done something right.
The feast lasted late into the evening; it was almost midnight when the guests dispersed. Menelaus wobbled to his feet reeking of retsina. He grasped my arm, and drew me aside for a private word; it amazed me that he was still sober enough to be coherent. “We’ll have a day of games tomorrow, and you can pay your respects at the family tomb, but all the rest can wait. This afternoon, I sent a messenger to Pylos to let Nestor know to expect us within the week. The day after tomorrow, we’ll be on our way.”
I endured the games for form’s sake, barely registering the footraces and wrestling matches, as I cast my thoughts ahead to tomorrow’s journey and eventual meeting with Nestor of Pylos. Menelaus claimed he was not only the most sagacious man he had ever met, but also the most garrulous. “He remarks on everything, and misses nothing. He’ll interrupt a heated debate to tell you about the time he killed so-and-so on a border raid when he was twenty, and go on about how war leaders today aren’t like the heroes of old. Gods know he gives excellent advice for the man patient enough to sit through the rest.”
A twelve-hour trek through the Taygetus Mountains brought us into Messenia. We stayed the night with a lord who insisted on showing us the ripe pistachio and fig trees growing in his inner court. We embarked early the following morning on the final leg of our journey, through the Messenian countryside with its fertile olive groves and flax plantations, reaching the coast toward day’s end. The port of Pylos with its sprawling town and harbor occupied the northernmost end of a broad crescent bay. Nestor’s palace, which, to my astonishment, lacked the imposing fortifications of Mycenae, Tiryns, or any other typical Hellene royal citadel, crowned a long ridge overlooking the harbor. Farther to the north lay a tract of saltwater marshes abundant with sea birds.
Nestor staged no pageantry, but received us on his wide aithousa with its vivid blue and yellow columns. At almost eighty, when other men stooped and forgot themselves, the king of Pylos stood tall. An unassuming man, he had the weathered brown skin of a sailor, twinkling gray eyes, and the most pronounced widow’s peak I had ever seen.
“Menelaus,” he said, striding forward to clasp my father-in-law’s arm, “it has been far too long.” Then he acknowledged me. “Now this young man can only be Agamemnon’s son Orestes. Come, let us go indoors and pour out libations for Poseidon and the Two Queens. Then my lovely daughters-in-law will show you and Menelaus upstairs where you may refresh yourselves.”
That evening, we enjoyed a private supper in the megaron, feasting on fresh mussels, fish, and lamb spiced with coriander, along with the purplish olives from the famous Kalamata groves in the Further Province, and Cretan wine. An ocean breeze wafted through the megaron’s open doors, cooling the space. Nestor’s wife had died several years ago, but his three eldest sons and their wives ate with us. Peisistratus’s absence neither troubled nor surprised me. “Would you believe that only yesterday,” Nestor drily remarked, “the boy suddenly remembered that he had urgent business elsewhere?”
He sounded perturbed at his youngest son’s lack of courtesy. “Business is business.” I kept my tone neutral, and hoped that Nestor did not raise the specter of Peisistratus’s engagement to Hermione. I did not want to have to criticize the man to his own father.
“Peisistratus often spends the summer drilling his chariot corps.” Why was Nestor telling me this, when I could care less what the man did? “I had hoped, though, that, knowing you were coming, he might postpone his business so you and he might spend some time together.”
I stared at the wine in my cup. “Let him do as he wishes.”
Nestor studied me closely, as if gauging the veracity of my sentiments, then grunted, and fell silent. He drank sparingly throughout the evening, and spoke little, preferring instead to listen to the conversation around the great hearth; sometimes he chortled at a witty remark here or nodded at an astute observation there. Given his reputation for talkativeness, this sudden silence surprised me. I had assumed he would inquire about my family, comment on recent events as the Spartan lords had done, or even regale me with one of his many stories, anything but this thoughtful reverie. Perhaps I had offended him by neglecting to display sufficient regret over Peisistratus’s absence.
Menelaus, on the other hand, grew steadily more boisterous with drink, and conversed enough for two men. Thrasymedes and Aretus, the eldest sons, asked logistical questions about the night assault on Nemea, while answering my queries about the local marshlands and the nearby flax farms. Stratichus, the third son, was, as Hermione had once described him, so tedious that one might have mistaken him for an imbecile.
Toward evening’s end, Nestor leaned toward me. “Tomorrow, enjoy the hospitality of Pylos. Go hunting in the marshes, or go fishing in the harbor, and let the old men converse.”
His friendly tone ameliorated my anticipation, yet all the time, I chafed at the invitation. Did he take me for a child requiring amusement while the adults went about their affairs? I would have stayed home had I wished to hunt, loiter about, and accomplish nothing. “I value your sage counsel, my lord, and would remain close at hand.”
“Patience, young man,” Nestor admonished. “As I said, let the old men confer, then in the evening we will discuss matters. There is no reason why you should sit idle on the aithousa while we examine the motives of Cylarabes and his uncouth young charge. Thrasymedes, my boy.” Hearing his name, the royal heir of Pylos raised his head. “Take King Orestes out tomorrow. Hunt in the marshes. Race your chariots. Amuse yourselves.”
The next morning, as we rode out from the palace, Thrasymedes explained how Nestor preferred to send the young people away whenever a particularly vexing conundrum demanded his attention. “He tells us that he has accumulated so much knowledge that it takes him longer than it used to, to sift through it all. And Menelaus sitting with him means that he will spend as much time visiting and reminiscing as pondering and debating. You are missing nothing. Their old men’s chatter would bore you to tears.”
I found it ironic, hearing this from a man past forty, whose eyes and mouth radiated crow’s lines, and whose dark hair mingled with the salt of middle age. Nonetheless, the House of Neleus was long-lived and vigorous, and Thrasymedes handled his chariot like a youth as he drove along the rough trail leading toward the marshlands. He had his son Enkhelaon, a nine-year-old enthusiastic about birds and ships, along for the excursion; the boy proudly showed me his bow and arrows, and catalogued for my benefit the many birds that called the marsh home. “I fletch my arrows with kestrel feathers,” he said. “Are there any kestrels in Argolis? What birds and other animals do you hunt there?”
“Of course there are kestrels in Argolis,” I said, “and hawks and eagles. As to what we hunt, it is no different there than here, for Argolis is less than a fortnight’s journey from Pylos. We have red-tailed deer, boar, and lion.” Enkhelaon’s eyes brightened to hear about the lions, which had been a careless mistake on my part. However, I did not have the heart to undo the error, and explain that lions had become scarce in the years since my father was king.
I had never ventured into marshes to hunt, as the marshlands nearest Mycenae belonged to Tiryns and Nauplia, and were Argive territory. No great loss, as I discovered. Enkhelaon might relish the infinite variety of marsh birds, and the ocean breeze ruffling through the reeds and the sea grass edging the dunes nearby, but the marshes were infested with stinging insects that brought fever, and snakes, and what ground there was, was spongy underfoot; it was an eerie, limbo place that was neither land nor water.
