The Warrior, page 35
part #3 of Orestes Series
“Provided Lysimachus doesn’t take offense and regard our ‘assistance’ as a takeover,” Haimon admonished.
“He does not trust his own garrison,” Imbrasos said. “When I was there, he hurried me through the outer defenses, what you call the killing box, as though he expected his men to cut us down.”
Rumbles of assent filtered through the assembly. My mind flashed through the logistical challenge in taking the citadel; any objections vanished with the instinctual knowledge that my advisors were right. Lysimachus would regard Mycenaean interference as a hostile takeover, and with good reason, but if he saw reason and cooperated he would come out of it unscathed, which was far more than he could say about any mercy he could expect from his father-in-law. “The gods may never again grant us such an opportunity,” I said. “Let Lysimachus think he’s avenging his son’s murder and salvaging his own honor by handing Tiryns over to his father-in-law’s enemies.”
I authorized Menon to start mustering men, with the provision that four hundred infantry must be ready to move out within two to three days. “Be discreet about it,” I added. “The merest suggestion of a Mycenaean preemptive strike on Tiryns and the warring Argive factions will close ranks.”
Would Lysimachus risk opening the gates to us, or would his long-standing loyalties to Argos override his instincts for self-preservation? Although he might in principle seek freedom from his father-in-law’s yoke and crave vengeance for his son’s murder, who was to say that he would not hesitate at the last minute and return to the Argive fold?
The very next afternoon cinched my decision. Word of fresh violence arrived from Captain Nephos, who had contacted one of Kleitos’s agents the moment pandemonium broke out.
Kleitos himself brought the news to my apartment, where the physician was changing my bandage. “Lysimachus was stabbed this morning by two of his own retainers, acting under orders from Cylarabes.” Then he hesitated, indicating that whatever he had to tell me next was much worse. “The Argives also fired two of your ships, Mistress of Battles and Hermione. Nephos and Teledamas have mustered their crews to stop the blaze and fight off any additional attacks, but the situation is precarious.”
I stared at him, in my anger forgetting the physician probing my stitches. Torching Mycenaean ships was tantamount to declaring war on Mycenae. Surely Cylarabes knew that, and knew that a Mycenaean host would descend on him in retaliation. “Is Lysimachus dead?”
Kleitos shook his head. “No one could tell me how gravely he’s been injured, only that he’s still alive and holed up in the megaron with his young daughter and roughly thirty loyal supporters. The rest of the garrison is trying to batter down the doors. They would have already fired the entire building, except that their young princess is still inside.”
I called an emergency session of the Mycenaean assembly. Kleitos faced a barrage of questions about the news which his agents and Captain Nephos had passed along to him, chief among them: how many loyal Argive soldiers held the citadel, and how could our forces get past the outer defenses? From my own surreptitious observations during previous visits, I knew that a handful of men could defend that approach.
“Forget the killing box,” Kleitos replied. “My agents say to concentrate on a section of the western battlements where the defenses aren’t as tight. There are no bastions and no gate, and the way is very steep. You would have to scale the citadel rock, and then the walls themselves, but it could be done.”
Haimon objected, “Our men would be seen and shot down before they ever reached the top.”
“That’s why it must be a night assault, and carried out immediately, tonight, before Argos sends additional men to fortify the garrison.” Menon stroked his bristly jaw. “Hmm, let’s see. Fifty men could scale the walls and secure the gates for reinforcements. Any more men would alert the garrison that we were coming, and gods know, they might still decide to fire the megaron with the warden and his daughter inside.”
Lysimachus might be dead already, but his young daughter would make a valuable hostage. “Select whatever men you want,” I said, “and carry out the assault. We want the megaron taken intact, with the warden and the princess alive and unharmed.”
“Let me lead them,” Kleitos suddenly interjected. “I am far younger, and know Tiryns much better than—”
“You dare suggest I am unfit to command?” Menon shot straight to his feet. “Mind your tongue, and sit down, boy, or you will find out that this bull still has his horns!”
Kleitos raised a hand. “I meant no offense. You have your children and grandchildren to consider, while—”
“Exactly, boy!” Menon thumped his breast with his meaty fist. “I have sons, descendants, while you have none.”
“Lord Kleitos,” I said sternly, “you will lead our reinforcements tomorrow morning after the citadel is taken. Meanwhile, you will assist us by sending word ahead to our captains and your agents to be ready to wipe out any last minute resistance. We have no doubt that the fighting will be thick by the waterfront.”
Kleitos smarted over his secondary role, but obeyed my command and took Menon aside for a lengthy discussion about contacting his agents in Tiryns, and finding the landmarks that would help him find the right place to scale the citadel rock in the dark.
As sunset neared, Menon donned his leather corselet and molded greaves, and went down to the lower citadel to meet his men, who had hastened up from the town where they were billeted. I sacrificed a yearling bull calf and two rams at the Perseid altar, and poured a libation of wine to Zeus and the Two Ladies while asking them to watch over and bless the expedition. Then I went among the men, calling out in the fading light to those I knew by name, and extolling their courage. “Menon, your war leader, has selected you fifty above all others to share in tonight’s peril. Obey his commands as you would ours, fight well, and the gods of Mycenae shall grant you glory.”
A cheer went up. “I think they can hear you in Argos,” Arkados wryly commented. His sentries stood ready to open the postern gate, but it was too early yet; the moon had not yet risen.
“The Argives will hear us from the ramparts of Tiryns come morning,” I answered.
Upstairs, I instructed Eteokles to lay out my war gear, against the strident objections of my wife and sister.
“You only just left your sickbed four days ago,” Hermione said. “You are in absolutely no condition to fight.”
“If I meant to lead tonight’s assault on Tiryns,” I told her, “then I would have already left.”
“You’re not going to fight tomorrow, either.” Elektra snatched the boar tusk helmet away from Eteokles. “If I have to, Orestes, I will drop this down the deepest well.”
“Were you not paying attention when I said Kleitos would lead my reinforcements?” I wrenched the helmet from her hands, laying it atop the mended corselet. The physician had been right about my natural vigor subduing my sickness. I felt fine; the persistent itching in my thigh was a good sign that the wound was healing properly. That was just as well, since I had every intention of fighting. “Now, don’t argue with me any further.”
Down in the megaron, the servants laid out grilled lamb with fried bread. My stomach roiled with anxiety, killing my appetite. I managed only a little cheese and bread, and liberally watered my wine. Kleitos joined me in abstaining, while making sure that his two hundred men loitering in pockets around the citadel had sufficient nourishment. He was good company, except for his infernal pacing back and forth. “You’re wearing down the floor,” I grumbled.
Kleitos huffed, “What an obstinate fool!” So he was still smarting about his imagined loss of honor. “You should have let me lead those fifty to Tiryns. I know where to go, at least. Menon will break his back trying to scale those cliffs and high walls, foolish old man.”
Midnight came and went before the messenger arrived: winded, excitable, and bearing the sought-after news from Tiryns. “The citadel is captured...seven men lost.” He gulped down another breath, until he was almost hiccupping his words. “There’s fighting in the town...on the beach. The lord...Lysimachus...and his daughter...are alive.”
Cheers erupted throughout the megaron. Menon had done it; he had scaled the walls, overcome the garrison, and taken command of the citadel. It did not escape my notice that Kleitos was glowing with pleasure. But the fighting on the beach... That meant my remaining ships were still under threat.
I praised his exertions in bringing the news so swiftly, and ordered a servant to feed and show him a place to rest. Meanwhile, there was no time to waste. “Lords, leaders of men, you heard the messenger. Lord Menon has won for us the citadel, but there is still fierce fighting in the streets. Argos will send reinforcements, you can be certain of that. We must beat them to the prize!” Cylarabes must be stumbling and heaving himself from his bed right about now. “Lord Kleitos, assemble your war band. We leave within the hour.”
A hundred torches illuminated our route on the north-south road to Tiryns; our mission no longer hung upon stealth, but speed. We set a steady pace, but not so strenuous that the men would not be able to fight once we reached our destination. I would have marched alongside them, but knew my limits, and ordered Ixion to harness my chariot.
An orange glow bordered the horizon to the south. As we moved across the bridge of the Chavos, the breeze turned, washed away the saline and fish-scale smell of the sea, and wafted inland an acrid odor of smoke. It must be coming from the lower town, and the ships beached along the strand. Nephos, Teledamas, and their sailors would be fighting valiantly to preserve my fleet. How many more vessels had the Argives managed to fire, or had the damage ended with Hermione and Mistress of Battles?
The north gate had been left open. Streams of frightened men and women were fleeing with whatever belongings they could carry into the countryside; they panicked and quickened their pace when they saw us. Ignoring them, I halted the advance. “Kleitos, take fifty men to the waterfront to rescue the ships. Divide the other hundred among your lieutenants to restore order in the streets. Make sure they obey our commands.” I did not have to elaborate. No Mycenaean warrior, under any circumstance, and on pain of execution, was permitted to rape or slaughter indiscriminately in any settlement earmarked for Mycenaean vassalage. “We will take our fifty and secure the citadel.”
Ixion drove my chariot up the steep ascent to Tiryns’s main gate and into the rearmost court. Everywhere, I glimpsed familiar Mycenaeans prodding at and dragging corpses, most of which had been stripped of their clothing and armaments; others splashed buckets of water across the flagstones where blood had been spilled. The lieutenant must have feared that I would not find the citadel presentable in its current state.
I found Menon awaiting me in the megaron. The bronze panels decorating the great double doors had been dented where Lysimachus’s enemies attempted to batter them down a bench left on the aithousa among the kindling the attackers had heaped against the walls to burn Lysimachus and his followers out, before some thinking individual realized that the king’s young granddaughter was inside. The remnants of a makeshift barricade crammed the vestibule. Blood still spattered the floor where the fighting had been thickest.
Menon’s face was bruised and filthy, and his hair had been flattened by his helmet, but he might as well have been clad in his finest robes, such was his pride in presenting me with the warden’s scepter. “The fighting out there’s only gotten worse since the townspeople heard we took the citadel,” he observed. “An Argive named Makarias is responsible for the attack on the ships. I’ve heard he has two hundred warriors rampaging through the streets. I hope you sent for reinforcements, my lord. Kleitos will have his hands full.”
I undid my chin strap and dragged the boar tusk helmet from my head. “Is Makarias leading the Argive king’s host?” I had never heard of the man, but he could well be the war leader my assembly had speculated about.
“No,” a voice wheezed.
Lysimachus lay upon a cot near the hearth; his face was gray, and his body swathed in fleeces and blankets. An adolescent girl occupied the footstool beside him, holding his hand in her dainty one. She regarded my approach fearfully, with large, widened eyes.
An older woman who must be her chaperone whispered something in her ear, prompting her to vacate the footstool for my use. I sat down and took Lysimachus’s clammy hand in mine. The warden of Tiryns was awake, in spite of the dark circles ringing his eyes. His grayish pallor and labored breathing set me on edge. This was a man on his deathbed. “Makarias is not acting on the authority of Cylarabes and the Argive assembly?”
Lysimachus shook his head. At my periphery, I saw one of his followers signaling for my attention. Turning, I beckoned him forward. “What can you tell us about this matter?”
“Makarias is an ambitious nobleman seeking to oust King Cylarabes,” the man replied. “He has the support of many of the younger lords who looked to Akelos for glory and gold.”
“And so they burn Mycenaean ships hoping to start a fight with us?” I finished angrily.
A nod. “Any storehouses and wealthy homes they can get to, as well, King Orestes.”
Lysimachus gasped incoherently as if trying to add something. I bent down to him. “You have our assurances that we will drive out this villain and restore order.” Even as I spoke, he was shaking his head and mouthing his daughter’s name. “Myrto will not be harmed.” I glanced toward the girl and her chaperone, nodding. “You are both under Mycenaean protection. Lord Menon will act as warden of Tiryns until such time as you are well enough to resume your duty.” A lie could not hurt now. Lysimachus was finished.
He mouthed something else; his parched lips moved so feebly that I could make out only a single word—poison. “You had nothing to do with the poisoning of the blade?” Lysimachus nodded. “But did you know about it beforehand?” He shook his head. I believed him. As much as he had despised me that morning, he remained an honorable man.
With my leave, his followers arranged for a litter to carry him upstairs. Myrto and her chaperone were allowed to retire with him. No sooner had they gone than I called for a courier to memorize a simple message to take back to Mycenae: send reinforcements. Pylades was to send two hundred men, no more. Under no circumstances could the home defenses be compromised. Cylarabes would jump at the chance to hurl his host against Mycenae if he thought I had diverted all my forces to Tiryns.
Morning dawned under a smoky haze. The fighting continued throughout the lower town, with no word from Kleitos; his lieutenants reported that he was alive, organizing the offensive on the waterfront. There was no message from Mycenae. Pylades would need time to gather and dispatch two hundred men. I needed them by noon.
Menon’s sentries brought word as I was finishing breakfast. “Men are approaching from the west, along the road from Argos. We counted more than a hundred, men on foot and twenty chariots in the front line, under the Argive king’s colors.”
A hundred was no royal muster, but it was sufficient enough to complicate matters. Kleitos’s men had fought all night, they would be exhausted, and I could not release men from the citadel without compromising its defenses. I exchanged glances with Menon, who had come down with his sentries. “Is it too much to hope that Cylarabes is leading them?”
Menon shook his head. “He’s not a man to venture into battle with only a hundred.”
Regardless, Cylarabes had sanctioned these reinforcements. “A hundred isn’t enough to retake the citadel, but we need them to make the attempt.” I cast my gaze toward the vestibule, still crammed with the furnishings with which Lysimachus’s followers had fashioned their makeshift barricade. “Cylarabes’ men spared the megaron because his granddaughter was inside,” I mused. “What do you think his men would do if they were led to believe the princess was still trapped inside, and the megaron was ablaze?”
Menon stared at me. “The megaron adjoins other buildings. If the blaze spreads...”
“We only need to create the illusion that the megaron is burning. The aim is to force the enemy to act impulsively, and the best way to do that is to make them believe their princess’s life depends on them breaking into the citadel.”
My gut told me it was an excellent plan, as long as it was carried out properly. There was no time to waste. I rose from my chair and went outside, to the opposite portico which afforded a good view of the megaron as a whole. “Menon, instruct your lieutenants to have the men assemble a pyre on the roof. A second pyre will go down here, as close to the aithousa as possible. There’s an empty courtyard behind the megaron, isn’t there?” Menon nodded, despite his obvious skepticism. “The men will raise a third pyre in the rear court. Make it look like the Argives fired the megaron from three sides. Have men standing by with buckets to douse the pyres.” I slapped his shoulder. “We haven’t time to debate this. Station additional men in the bastions, and send sixty of your best fighters to the outer defenses. We will meet them there.”
Menon frowned. “You intend to fight?”
I ignored the concerned looks from Eteokles and my companions. “We certainly did not come to sit idly by and watch. Now, go! The Argives could be pressing through the west gate by now.”
Commands echoed throughout the citadel. I donned my helmet and hastened down to the outer defenses, where a swelling coalition of men under Menon’s trusted lieutenant Erekos were assembling in the long passage. There was so little room that newcomers had to gather on the walls above.
The outer defenses, colloquially known as the killing box, consisted of a long, narrow passageway closed at both ends by sturdy wooden doors, and a second, shorter passage, likewise shut. The citadel’s defenders had only to seal the doors, trapping would-be attackers inside; they could then rain arrows, stones, and spears down from above.
A cheer went up when the men saw me, spear in hand, shield slung over my shoulder, and the scarlet horsehair crest nodding from my helmet. “Wanax! Wanax!” Spears drummed against tall shields. There was no time for adulation. I raised my arm for silence.
