The Warrior, page 36
part #3 of Orestes Series
“Defenders of Tiryns, warriors of Mycenae,” I called out. “You have fought bravely for your lord. You are all lions!” A second deafening roar engulfed the passageway. Again, I had to command silence. “In a few moments, we will unbar the gate and funnel the Argives through this passage. We will stay and fight with you. Leave no enemy alive!”
Erekos gave them no time to stand about and cheer; he shoved his way through the press, ordering men to their stations. The passage started to empty. I climbed a stairwell leading onto the curtain walls. Men started trading spears and shields for bows and slingshots; others ran ahead to the main gate to await the command to release the bolt. On my left hand, I saw gray smoke billowing from the inner court, and orange tongues of flame licking at the megaron’s roof. The wind blew briskly from the northwest. My plan would either work brilliantly or end with stray sparks igniting adjoining buildings, and it would be a disaster.
Athena, Mistress of Battles, let the Argives take the bait and come swiftly. I crouched down beside a young archer. Let them fall like sheaves of wheat beneath our fierce onslaught, and I shall dedicate to you a splendid new altar.
“What is your name?” I asked the young man.
“Sirios, my lord,” he answered, a vivid blush spreading across his beardless cheeks.
“Let Lady Artemis guide your arrows,” I said. His flush deepened even further. He could not have been more than sixteen.
A shout clove the air. “They’re coming!”
Quiet stretched along the curtain walls, the anticipation of predators awaiting their prey. Sirios fitted an arrow to his bowstring, but did not draw it back. I heard the quickness of his breathing, then a tremulous sigh, before the enemy burst through the unbarred gates. Multiple treads, clanging bronze, and more than half a hundred incoherent epithets echoed through the passageway beneath me. What fools, running headlong into what they must have known was a trap! The thickest of the doors, at the very end of the passageway, was barred shut; fifteen men stood behind it, prepared for the slight possibility that the enemy’s momentum might somehow manage to batter it down. Not a single one of them would escape, I thought gleefully. In just a few heartbeats the first door would slam shut, trapping them inside to meet a horrible death. Such was the deserving fate meted out to those who dared slander and poison me, attack my borders, seize my subjects, and set fire to my ships!
“Now!” Erekos roared.
Sirios drew his bowstring back to his cheek, sighted, and let fly his quarrel; it struck an Argive’s breastplate and ricocheted off. Sling stones rained down among the hail of arrows. Shouts of surprise and terror echoed through the passageway. The Argives were packed in like cattle, with little room to maneuver. They jostled for sufficient space to raise their shields. I grabbed a stone from the slingshot pile on my right and hurled it against an unshielded helmet. Sirios nocked another arrow to his bowstring and fired; his shot took a man in the wrist.
There was a sheltered block between passages where the more levelheaded Argives were huddling; it would take men on the ground to kill them. A perfect opportunity to bloody my sword and win honor. I grabbed my spear and shield and hurried down the stairs to join the fifteen guarding the last door. They welcomed my arrival with shouts of “Wanax!” and shifted ranks to make a place for me and my companions.
I caught hold of Iobates. “Go find Lord Menon.” I shoved him toward the propylon leading to the outer court. “Make sure the fires are put out.” Iobates did not want to leave with me about to rush into battle, but his obedience outweighed his indecision.
“Are you ready to win glory?” I shouted to the men behind me. They answered with a tremendous roar and the clashing of swords and spears on shields. A signal from above indicated that all was clear, that only the sheltering Argives were left. I ordered the door unbarred and flung open, then, raising my spear, I shouted, “You lions of Mycenae—follow your wanax!”
The passageway beyond was a field of carnage, slick with blood and choked with the bodies of the dead and wounded. The surviving Argives were no cowards. Having heard the rallying cries from without they knew what they were about to face, and charged us head-on. The odds were against them, even though the barrage from above had ceased. I almost pitied those last, brave Argives, almost regretted the undignified death we were about to deal them, but then forced my sympathies aside. Pity was not a warrior’s sentiment.
I barreled into one warrior’s shield, then jabbed with my spear. Deflecting the blow, he started to pivot and raise his own spear, but then he suddenly faltered, moving his shield a fraction of an inch too much to the right. Now his head and throat were exposed. He was an older man, a veteran, with a broken nose. I thrust again, aiming at his face, gouging his lips and shattering his teeth as the spear point lanced him through the mouth.
It was a short, brutal skirmish. I chased a young man to the sheltering block, caught him by his streaming crest, and smashed him against the wall, again and again until his brains oozed from beneath his helmet. No sooner had I let him slump to the ground than I glimpsed a fallen man reaching for his sword, trying to get to his feet to fight. I aimed a savage kick at his face, then bent down and, snatching up the sword, slashed it across his throat.
Then there were no more men left to kill. While the archers and slingers cheered from the curtain walls, Erekos came down to consult with me. “I reckon about twenty-five Argives avoided the trap and escaped the citadel. They won’t get away for long, though. The sentries have called down that your reinforcements are on the way.”
At last! I found the veteran’s corpse, and wrenched my spear from his gaping mouth. “Get a rider out there to direct them toward the waterfront and Lord Kleitos’s forces.”
The fires had been extinguished by the time I returned to the megaron. Menon’s men had not only doused the pyres, but had rinsed down the aithousa and adjoining buildings beforehand; the only visible damage was the scorch marks on the plaster. The citadel’s servants and stewards, however, were in a ridiculous state of panic, despite Menon’s roaring at them to calm down. I caught sight of Myrto’s middle-aged chaperone, strode across to her while she, gaping at my blood-spattered appearance, regarded me with abject terror.
I seized her arm, shaking her to command her attention. Gods only knew what this foolish woman might do with her charge if she believed the end was near. I could not afford to lose such a valuable hostage. “Return to your mistress.”
“The fire,” she gasped.
“We’re not under attack!” I bellowed in her face. “Now, return to your mistress and keep your head. Stay in your chamber. Do anything foolhardy, allow any harm come to the princess, and you will die for it.”
The arrival of reinforcements permitted Kleitos to come to the citadel. His charioteer had been killed during the fighting; he drove his own chariot like an automaton, haggard from lack of sleep, and almost unrecognizable under layers of soot and blood. Behind his chariot, hands bound to the rail, stumbled a prisoner. At least fifteen other prisoners, bound hand and foot, shuffled into the rearmost court under the spears of his followers.
“Makarias,” he announced dully, tossing the man’s sword at my feet. Acknowledging Kleitos, I circled around his chariot to study the Argive nobleman who had led the assault on my ships. Without his armor, and covered head to toe with lacerations and bruises, he was nothing much to look upon, yet he was alert enough to realize who I was. Throwing back his shoulders, he straightened his posture and lifted his chin. Glittering dark eyes followed my every movement; he was like a feral dog, liable to attack the moment he gnawed his leash.
“You burned our ships,” I said. Makarias did not deign to respond except for a disdainful curl of the lip. I grunted at his defiance. “We will let you look upon what you’ve wrought.”
I had him and the other prisoners marched down to the outer defenses, where Erekos had slaves removing the corpses and washing down the flagstones. “Call the menials back.” Erekos frowned over the order, but obeyed. Once the last slave had exited that charnel double passageway, I directed Kleitos’s followers to usher their prisoners into the slaughtering ground and bar the door.
Makarias and his men were standing around in the smaller passageway, taking in the carnage, when I climbed to the curtain wall to address them one last time. “You might recognize some of the dead. Perhaps you have fought alongside them. Perhaps they are your brothers or cousins or dear companions. Had you not attacked our ships, we would not have mustered our host. We would not have taken Tiryns. Thus, these men—these brothers, cousins, friends—might still be alive, and you would not be looking at their corpses.” Makarias held onto his arrogance, looking about him in distaste; his men showed their uncertainty. One warrior, who was barely more than a youth, doubled over and retched; a second warrior grasped his arm, hauling him to his feet while admonishing him to man up.
“You will soon face these men in the hereafter,” I finished. “While you are carting away their corpses and cleaning up the bloodshed you have caused, contemplate what you will say to their shades when you meet them on the shores of the Styx.” Makarias narrowed his eyes with the hauteur of a nobleman who had no intention of doing menial labor. “Make no mistake,” I added. “You will die before nightfall, but your actions here will determine whether you meet a swift, honorable death or a slow, agonizing one.”
Upon returning to the megaron, I found Kleitos snoring on a bench inside the vestibule. I left him alone and went upstairs to grab an hour’s rest. My wound ached somewhat, but the discomfort was bearable and the bandage under my corselet unblemished apart from some sweat stains. I closed my eyes and dozed, the reek of smoke lingering in the air, and the citadel noisy with the sound of over a hundred armed men going about their business.
When I stirred, Eteokles reported on the prisoners. “Makarias’s men have fallen into line, but he does nothing. Just stands there and glares death at everyone.”
I ran a hand along my jaw. “So be it.”
By sunset, the prisoners had not finished their gruesome task. I ordered them removed, anyway, and marched up to the ramparts where fifteen nooses awaited the condemned men. The youngest, who had vomited earlier, soiled himself when he saw the method of his death and, sinking to his knees before me, sobbed that he was only a foot soldier. I did not spare him.
Makarias watched them twist and struggle in their nooses. He must have thought that he was to be executed in a manner befitting his noble rank, or perhaps even ransomed. Not so. I had him brought to the nearest bastion, where a scaffold and gallows had been erected above a pile of kindling. At last, realizing that he was not going to receive the deference due his status, his arrogant demeanor faltered. “A nobleman should be beheaded.”
A signal to his guards had them haul him onto the scaffold and fasten the noose around his neck. The executioner stood ready to kick the wooden block out from underneath him; an assistant stood nearby with a torch. “You will meet Hades in a manner befitting your crime,” I said.
Makarias was still gasping and squirming when the executioner’s assistant lit the fire under his feet.
His capture and execution brought an end to the fighting. Kleitos awakened in time to return to his post and declare martial law. Tiryns was well and truly under Mycenaean control.
I slept fitfully through the night, rising with the dawn to ride down to the waterfront and assess the damage. What had been a thriving port was now a scene of devastation. Blackened shells of storehouses, houses, and other establishments smoldered along the cobbled streets. Crowds of displaced fishwives, merchants, and families followed at a distance, measuring my every gesture and movement with uncertainty. To them, I was the Mycenaean conqueror who had turned an Argive nobleman into a living torch—never mind that he, not I, was responsible for the destruction of their homes and businesses—and the villain who had set fire to the megaron with their princess still inside.
Ignorant commoners. I cared nothing for what they thought, only for their obedience and their tribute.
Rage swelled in my breast when I saw the charred skeletons of my pentekonters—Mistress of Battles, Hermione, and Sea Nymph. Had Makarias still been alive, I would have killed him all over again for this outrage. It took a comment from Eteokles for me to notice that four unscathed ships were beached just beyond the wreckage.
A figure limped toward me. Nephos wore his arm in a sling. His hands were swathed in soiled bandages. “Tried to smother the flames myself.” He nodded toward the ruins of Sea Nymph. The pain in his eyes came less from his physical wounds than from the ache in his soul. “We launched the rest yesterday. Kept them under oars till it was safe to beach again.”
“You did well, Captain.” I braced a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “When we rebuild our fleet, you will have the services of the best shipwright available. Sea Nymph will sail again.”
Nephos’s mouth twisted into a sad smile, as though I had offered him a second woman to replace his beloved first spouse. “As you say, my lord, but I won’t be calling her Sea Nymph.”
No sooner than I returned to the citadel than Menon’s men rounded up what noblemen and other prominent citizens had not fled and ushered them at spear-point into the megaron. A cacophony of complaints filled the air the moment those three dozen men saw me seated upon the throne. I signaled to my companions, who immediately separated the most raucous agitator from the rest and slit his throat. Blood from his severed artery sprayed onto the painted hearth and stucco floor. Myrto and her chaperone, stationed on the dais beside me, audibly gasped, while the noblemen and merchants shrieked and moved back several paces. Iobates bent down and wiped his dagger clean on the dying man’s tunic.
I allowed the man a moment in which to stop gurgling and twitching, then rose to address his horrified compatriots. “As you can see, the megaron is intact and your princess is alive and unharmed.
“You are now vassals of Mycenae,” I coolly informed them. “As long as you obey us and pay tribute, you will be treated with all due consideration. We will not pillage your homes, defile your wives or daughters and sell them into captivity, or place any undue burdens upon you. You will mind the example we have set.” I neither gestured to nor gazed at the dead nobleman on the floor; there was no need. “Defy us, and you will not like the consequences.”
Silent and suspicious, the men shifted from one foot to the other, exchanged uncertain looks, and generally wished themselves anywhere but here. Yet not a single one raised an objection; the corpse and the congealing pool of blood in which he lay proved most persuasive.
I spent the day visiting the men in the citadel and on the streets, praising their courage and assuring them of the spoils they would receive. As the new warden of Tiryns, Menon had begun marshaling all available stewards and scribes to assess the contents of the remaining markets and storehouses. Kleitos, despite his exhaustion, insisted on making funerary arrangements for those who had fallen, and assuming responsibility for delivering their share of the spoils to their families. Nephos did likewise for the dead sailors who had been under his command. Erekos and the other lieutenants continued to enforce martial law. Anyone found pillaging, raping, or murdering joined those already dangling from the ramparts. Day’s end found six such miscreants stretching ropes. When the king of Mycenae issued an order, there was no room for debate.
At sunset, I sacrificed two bulls and a horse to Zeus and Athena. The savory smell of the burnt offerings did much to scour the air of the residual stench of roasted flesh.
Eteokles woke me in the small hours of the morning. “Lord Menon sends for you,” he whispered. “He says to inform you that Lord Lysimachus is coughing up blood.”
I shoved aside the fleeces and, shrugging aside the morning chill, stood yawning as Eteokles fetched my tunic. Once dressed, I rinsed the sourness from my mouth with wine and hastened the short distance down the corridor to the dying warden’s apartment.
Menon was already there. directing the physician and servants; his pallor indicated he had not slept much. Lysimachus’s coughing spell signaled the end. Droplets of blood stained the bed linens and the discarded cloths dumped on the floor. More blood flecked Lysimachus’s mouth, giving his saliva a pinkish tint. He struggled for each breath, but his mortal flesh could not endure the wounds his enemies had inflicted upon it.
A dutiful Myrto sat beside him, holding his hand. Dark circles ringed her eyes. Her pale oval face was careworn, framed by straggling tendrils of hair. Although she struggled valiantly against tears and exhaustion, and had a right to be present at her father’s side when the end came, she was too young and too valuable a hostage to bear the strain. I ordered her removed, ignoring her tearful protestations when her chaperone half-led, half-dragged her from the room.
Lysimachus registered her removal. His fingers clutched at empty air, and he groaned, which brought on a coughing fit. A male slave supported his heaving body while dabbing at his mouth with blood-flecked linen.
He had enough life left in him to acknowledge me when I sat down beside him, and to grasp my every word. “Your daughter will be well cared for in our household. Our own wife will look after her and attend to her education. Our own nieces and daughter will be her companions, so she will not be alone. And when the time comes, she will make a good marriage according to her station.” I allowed him a moment to absorb those facts, without asking his consent. He knew as well as I that I could do whatever I wished with the girl, even take her as a concubine when she reached womanhood.
After a moment, he reached for my hand. I gave it to him, and felt him exert a slight pressure on my fingers; he did not have the strength to do more. Drawing a shuddering breath, he nodded. Lysimachus’s life thread was fraying before my very eyes.
“We sent your daughter away, that she should rest and not see you thus,” I continued. “Do you want us to call her back to your side, that you might bid her farewell?”
Lysimachus did not answer, but let slip his fingers from mine, and closed his eyes.
