The Warrior, page 33
part #3 of Orestes Series
“Matricide!” The crowd raised an outcry. A memory of the pilgrim throngs at Delphi flashed through my mind, raising shivers along the back of my neck. Four years ago, on the morning of my purification, the priests had hustled me from Apollo’s sanctuary to the Castalia spring, past a crowd which had erupted with curses and threats of physical violence, because they had not been told about my absolution.
No priest was going to come to my aid now. A mob would form, and pull me down from the platform, unless I brought the crowd under control. I turned to the companion standing nearest. “Thestalos—quickly, have the men clash their spears against their shields!”
The thrumming of stout wood and bronze upon thirty-four ox-hide and wicker shields captured the crowd’s attention, bringing them up short. “Enough!” I shouted. “How dare you invoke our mother’s shade, when we have atoned for that sin and appeased her ghost!”
“King Orestes,” one of the elders interjected, “you have sworn an oath—”
“Yes, we have, but now the Argives malign us, and incite the crowd. Do you think we will just stand here let them tear us to pieces like sacrifices to Dionysus?” I shot back. “Now, sit down.”
Then I turned upon my accuser. “And how dare you, Lord Lysimachus, lay a charge of wanton murder at our door when we had nothing to do with your son’s untimely passing.” He attempted to speak, but I silenced him with an abrupt gesture. “We have three young sons of our own, so not only did we receive this news with surprise and great regret, but as you right well know, we sent gifts for the young prince’s tomb.” I paused for a breath, while marking the sudden uncertainty of the crowd; they had not known this. “Our beloved queen, as a gentlewoman and the mother of a son, labored over her condolences to your wife, only you refused to receive our envoy. You ordered your heralds to drown out his supplications with jeers and horns, and he was a priest of Poseidon! What say you to that, warden of Tiryns?”
Cylarabes maneuvered his bulk forward to protest, and, most likely, to wheedle the crowd’s favor with one of his clever answers. That I could not allow. “Save your breath, king of Argos,” I said sharply. “We had no reason to murder young Polylaos, or even wish him dead. What threat was he to us? We hardly knew his name before our messenger brought us the news. What advantage would we have gained by that monstrous act?” I spread my hands before the crowd. “There are those who might benefit, though. Open your eyes, Lysimachus, and consider who benefits from your son’s death! There is a serpent lurking at your hearth. Open your eyes and seek the truth!”
His nostrils flared, his posture stiffened as though someone had jammed a rod through his spine, and he went two shades paler; the change was so profound it was visible across the twenty feet separating us. Cylarabes threw a concerned glance in his direction, but in his confusion and outrage, the warden of Tiryns suddenly refused to meet his father-in-law’s gaze.
Cylarabes lumbered forward to claim his right to speak, and addressed me. “Come, now, Agamemnonides! When have you ever hesitated to slay children? Hah! You are no stranger to it. How many infants did you dash to the ground during your raiding days on Mount Parnassus? And need we remind you how your men, acting on your express command, dragged Lord Chromios of Nemea’s defenseless young sons from their beds and cut them to pieces right in front of their own poor mother?”
I let him finish, and only then answered each charge. “Those raids were on brigand dens, where we took no captives, as you well know. And with regard to the execution of the lord of Nemea’s sons, you also know that they were youths growing their first beards, old enough to bear arms and swear vengeance, not infants at their mother’s breast. Their deaths were unfortunate but necessary. We are not cruel or spiteful, as our subjects and even the captive lord of Nemea and his family would tell you, but you—” I jabbed a finger at him. “You allowed your followers to attack our merchants on the road and our farmers in their own fields, to abduct and assault our women, and to wreak terror, and to what end? Mycenae has always been a friend to Argos. Most of our subjects have Argive blood! Even we have Argive blood, through our grandfather Tyndareus, whose mother was Gorgophone, daughter of Perseus.” I slapped a hand across my heart to emphasize those blood ties. “Why would we start a war with our kinsmen and closest allies?”
“You attacked me without provocation!” Akelos dashed to the edge of the platform to make his accusation like the hothead he was. “Your men struck me from behind, and left me for dead!”
Tactically, he had made a huge mistake. Akelos should have held in his temper, kept his mouth shut, and let his king calmly, persuasively refute my argument. It showed. The Argive king’s eyes bulged, his jowls quivered, and his long, fleshy face flushed purple with rage; had the two men been alone together, Cylarabes probably would have slapped his charge hard across the face.
“Had we attacked you,” I said slowly, “you would now be a mindless shade wandering the fields of Asphodel. But we never raised a hand against you.” Pause. “Everyone here knows how much you like your cheap wine, your women, and your uncouth drinking company, just as they know that when you drink too much, which is almost always, you cuss like a sailor and brawl like a villain.” Akelos’s face turned bright red. “You were set upon by ruffians after a night of drinking, boy, and were too ashamed to admit it to your king.”
“That’s a lie!” he shouted back.
Akelos was so undisciplined that it was pathetic how little effort it took to provoke his anger. Excellent. “What a ferocious temper you have, son of Diomedes—that is, providing you are his son. Yes, you have his coloring and powerful build, but nothing of his noble bearing or restraint. And yet, somehow you, a lowly shepherd boy, have managed to dupe everyone.”
“Liar!” Akelos surged forward with the intention of attacking me, only to be caught by the Argive king’s followers; it took three of them to restrain him. I smirked. What a fool.
An elder of the damos ordered the triton horn sounded, calling the Argives to order. “Need we remind you that you have sworn an oath to abide by the customs of his assembly?” he barked.
“He will obey.” Cylarabes snapped his pudgy fingers under the young man’s nose, warning him against any further outburst; had Akelos been a dog, he would have bitten those fingers right off. Cylarabes turned toward me. “Is that what this public assembly has devolved into, king of Mycenae, you ridiculing this young man’s parentage?”
“And you believe his outlandish claim?” I shot back. “We did not realize how gullible the king of Argos and his councilors were, as to be beguiled by a lowly shepherd.”
His triple chins quivered as he shook his head. “Trust that we have made inquiries, and verified this young man’s lineage.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed. “So you sent a ship west to the Daunian tribe, where Diomedes now dwells?” Silence. “No? Why not, king of Argos? Ah, yes! We remember now. Because it is common knowledge that he never sired any children, trueborn or bastard, during his reign in Argos. And because you know that he would never help those who sided with his treacherous queen and helped drive him and his companions away after he spent those long, hard years fighting at Troy.” Ignoring the Argive king’s growing rage, I addressed the people directly. “Those of you who revere Diomedes of the mighty war cry, remember who it was that banished him from Argos in the first place!”
Akelos strained against the arms holding him back. “You insult my father, you mother-murdering freak!”
“Young man,” I asked tolerantly, “how can we insult your father when no one even knows who he is?” Laughter erupted from the crowd; even his patron’s own followers sputtered, while striving to hide it behind their closed fists.
“You will pay for those words!”
Chuckling, I spread my arms wide. “Well, here we are. Loyal followers of Cylarabes, release the young hound, and let him take us on.” Enthusiastic cheers attended my remark.
Another triton call brought the crowd to order. The elder of the damos who had chastised the Argives a short time earlier rose, and, clearing his throat for silence, addressed them. “Akelos, the king of Mycenae has invited you to face him in single combat. How do you wish to answer his challenge?”
“To the death!” Akelos answered with such a holler that Zeus on high Olympus might have heard him.
What a windfall, and what stupidity on his part! I read his patron’s stricken expression, and knew then that Akelos lacked the training and discipline to fight a warrior in his prime. But it was too late for Cylarabes to intervene, or for Akelos to withdraw from the challenge.
Then the elder turned toward me, and stated, “King Orestes, your royal rank allows you to appoint a champion to fight on your behalf. Do you wish to exercise this prerogative?”
Three dozen spear-butts drumming the platform behind me answered the query with a terrific din. Every single one of my men, it seemed, wished to volunteer. What a splendid display! And it had not even been staged. Acknowledging them, I raised a hand; the noise subsided, and then ceased altogether. “Noble followers, you honor us with your loyalty and courage!” I said. “Yet it is we who issued the challenge, and we who must see it through.”
Ixion brought my shield and spear from the chariot, while Thestalos and Aglaos inspected my corselet and greaves for loose laces and buckles, and adjusted my helmet straps. Across the way, the Argive king’s followers outfitted Akelos in leather and bronze, and took him in a huddle to instruct him on fighting a duel in armor.
A duel in the old fashion was no mere brawl, but an elaborate ritual which required a suitable sacrifice and the taking of solemn oaths. There was a long delay while the elders procured the requisite animals. Phemios brought me water from a skin; it was warm and flat. People milled about, speculating and laying wagers on the duel to come, while they sought the shade of the nearby oaks. I had no such luxury, but was obliged to stand under the hot sun where everyone could see me. Akelos suffered likewise.
At last, the lambs arrived, one white, the other dun-colored, were inspected for blemishes, and found suitable for sacrifice. The priest’s two acolytes bound their limbs with cord, then the priest himself sheared bits of fleece from the animals’ heads, and tossed them into the brazier. “In the name of Zeus Horkios,” he intoned, “he who witnesses and binds all oaths, this ritual combat shall proceed accordingly. The combatants, Orestes of Mycenae and Akelos of Argos, shall face each other in single combat, and engage to the death. He who strikes the fatal blow shall be declared the victor, without prejudice. And these two combatants shall swear additional oaths, as to the nature of their dispute, the disposition of the loser’s remains afterward, and the treatment of his surviving kinsmen.”
When the priest dispatched the offerings, slashing their throats with his sharp bronze, the acolytes took some of the sacrificial blood on their fingers and bore it up to the platforms to smear upon Akelos’s brow and mine, and make our vows binding. “Swear your oaths,” the priest said, dripping knife still in hand. “Swear in the god’s name that you shall honor the rules of this ritual combat.”
I gave my oath a regal flourish certain to please the gods. “We, Orestes Agamemnonides, king of Mycenae, overlord of Nemea and the Cyclades, do swear by Zeus Horkios that, once our opponent is defeated, and sent down into the darkness of Hades, we shall return his remains to his kinsmen without committing outrage upon them, and with his armor and honor intact. Let the god witness these words. Let him cause the brains to leak from our skull, and worms to eat our bowels, and the bowels of our women, and our children, should we transgress upon this oath.”
Akelos swore his oath like the oaf he was, utterly lacking the eloquence that pleased the gods. “I, Akelos, son of Diomedes, and lord of Argos, swear to kill my enemy and avenge the injury and insult he has done me. Let Father Zeus witness this oath.”
There was nothing about returning my corpse, leaving my wife and children unmolested, or even binding his words with the customary prayer to strike him down should he violate his oath. “Oh, come,” I called out, “even a halfwit can do better than that.”
“I fight with bronze,” he shouted back, “not words.”
The crowd shifted back as an elder of the damos marked out the ground, and invited the combatants to step forward. “I have the lots!” He raised aloft his fist, in which were hidden two sticks. “Let Orestes of Mycenae and Akelos of Argos choose their fate.”
Akelos drew the short stick, which gave him the first cast. I swallowed hard. Athena, cast your shield over mine. I strode to my designated place, and accepted my waisted shield from Eteokles. Turn his spear-point aside, and grant mine a god-like strength, and I swear by Zeus Horkios that you shall have two white heifers, the finest of my herd.
Akelos hefted his ash spear to test its weight. Now I would see how strong he was, how accurate his aim. I lifted my shield, taking care not to hold it too close to my body, lest the force of Akelos’s cast punch through the layers of ox-hide and wicker, and into my torso. Yet that left me blind, and unable to mark the precise moment when Akelos released his spear. Now I had to rely on my other senses: touch to feel the slight change in air pressure, and sound to catch Akelos’s grunt upon casting, and the telltale whistle his spear made as it clove through the air.
I had time to draw a single breath before the spear’s leaf-shaped bronze head ruptured through my shield’s layers of hide, narrowly missing my shoulder; the strike impacted farther to the right than it should have. Although Akelos had put all his strength behind that cast, he had not accounted for the slight variation which every warrior and huntsman called the breath of Artemis.
Eteokles took the shield from my arm, replacing it with a heavy oak spear. Akelos was visibly agitated at having to stand still for my cast, but assumed his place, and raised his shield.
I assessed the target, a point just above his elaborate shield-boss, balanced my spear, and released it with a swift prayer to Athena. If that gray-eyed goddess, the fearsome Mistress of Battles, blessed my arm, then Akelos, who apparently had not mastered the art of holding the shield away from him during a volley, would take the spear-point right through his chest.
He turned aside at the very last second, instinctively crouching down, while bringing his shield up. I held my breath waiting to see what injuries he might have sustained. Blood from a shallow graze streaked his right forearm, but the wound was insignificant. Akelos snorted, tossed his head so that the crimson plumes cresting his helmet quivered, and called out, “Is this little scratch the best you can do, son of Agamemnon?”
I did not deign to answer.
A momentary break allowed our followers to remove the spears and hand the tattered shields back so we could draw our swords and continue the duel in closer quarters.
I had never seen Akelos fight, and thus sought what clues I could through his movements and swordplay. His tendency to grasp his hilt too quietly proclaimed his novice status; he had not learned to relax his grip, to let his sword serve him as an extension of his arm, which meant that it would not be long before his hand started cramping.
While he had no finesse, he had a fool’s courage, hitting hard and fast like a charging bull. His blows landed strangely on my shield; it took me a moment to realize that he was stabbing at the tear in the ox-hide, thinking perhaps to reach through and gouge me. That was an excellent technique for dulling or breaking a bronze blade, but not for killing a man.
I had always favored a traditional waisted shield for its tactical advantages. Its pinched, convex shape lent strength to the wicker frame, and allowed a warrior to fight with sword and spear without compromising his protection. I managed to lunge, and slash Akelos across his left thigh, right above the knee; it was not enough to hamstring and bring him down, but was sufficient to draw blood. The crowd muttered, called out, and took fresh wagers; their activity registered as a mere blur on my periphery, as meaningful as the buzzing of gnats.
Akelos was caught in the throes of battle-madness—wounded in two places, yet insensible to everything except a raging need to kill me. Never mind about slicing through my shield, he charged with a mighty war cry, using his own tall shield as a battering ram with such force that I stumbled back. The baking earth gave away under my leather soles. Perspiration filmed my brow under my helmet, and coated my upper lip.
Then he bulled me again, hitting me so hard that the nearest onlookers scattered, and it was all I could do not to collide with the Argive platform. I stumbled a second time, lost my footing, and landed clumsily on my back in the dust. I heard a strained grunt, then the clash of metal against metal as Akelos’s blade lanced through the side of my corselet and scratched my outer thigh. Enraged, I rolled away, heaved to my feet, and, raising my shield, slammed against him.
The crowd, the damos, and my followers vanished utterly from the periphery. Akelos and I were alone in the universe; the only sounds I heard were his ragged breathing and mine comingling. The scratch he had dealt me burned, but it was nothing compared with the pain I was going to hammer down on him for his presumption. My sword was no use in this situation, for we were locked together now, and getting close enough to employ an effective thrust meant entering his range, and thus exposing myself to a potentially fatal blow.
Athena must have turned my head, then, to let me notice my discarded spear; Aglaos had set it down where he should have held onto it. It was not illegal to change weapons mid-fight, to strangle one’s opponent with his helmet straps, to pummel and kick him to death, or to drive a dagger through his ribs, as long as one combatant killed the other without assistance from the spectators.
I sought an opening to break free, to scuttle and roll to one side. Shoving my sword at Aglaos, I swiftly snatched up the spear. Akelos thundered after me, of course, but not quickly enough to pin me down. Regaining my feet, I charged him head-on, and reached over the top of his shield with my spear, a maneuver which obliged him to protect his head by raising his own shield. That left just enough of his lower limbs exposed for me to hook my right foot behind his left ankle and, like a wrestler, drop him to the ground.
