Warriors in Bronze Read online

  Hunting pirates at sea is like searching for an amber grain in sand. They might be anywhere. In spring-bright days we cruised across sunlit seas, sailed from island to island and landed to make inquiries. At nightfall we hauled the ships ashore and lighted driftwood fires to cook our meals, after­wards reposing on soft warm sand, sipping from wineskins and watching the stars swing slowly across the heavens. A carefree life untrammelled by conventions governing life in citadels: no audiences or parades or ceremonial dinners, no Scribes or stewards or slaves, my sole attendant a fourteen-year-old squire called Eurymedon.

  Nowhere did we find word of Cretan pirates. We sailed round Naxos and put in at a shelving, sheltered strand where ships could be safely beached - not so easily come by on these rocky island coasts. A large fishing village clustered round the haven, boats bottoms-up on the beach, nets spread out to dry, a penteconter tilted on her keel. The appearance of a six-ship squadron roused frenetic activity: spearmen ran to guard- towers and gathered on the shore, women and old and young hastened towards a rock-built fort on a hillside above the town. In those days Mycenae's maritime grip had hardly begun to close; no dominant power ruled the sea; coastal settlements constantly feared attack.

  Within six years I made the seaways safe.

  The rowers of my triaconter - Aithe was her name - backed water beyond arrow-shot; her leather-lunged master bawled our identity and asked permission to land. Rowers grounded keels, jumped overside and hauled the hulls ashore. I splashed to the beach, greeted a greybearded elder clad in a leather cuirass which drooped on his skinny frame like a windless sail, and shortly related our mission. No - he had neither seen nor heard of Cretan pirates.

  The stranded penteconter was being prepared for sea. Crew­men ran the hull to the water, put mast and sail aboard, fixed pinewood oars in leather slings, waded waistdeep carrying vic­tuals - bleating foot-tethered goats, corn sacks, bulging wine­skins. A man in a calfskin kilt directed operations from the beach. Intending to ask news of our elusive pirates I crunched across the shingle, introduced myself and politely inquired whence they had come and whither they voyaged.

  'From Amnisos in Crete,' he said. 'We sail for Athens. I am Theseus son of Aegeus son of Pandion.'

  The Hero I had chased at the Battle of Megara. Short, deep- chested, muscular. A countenance all features: bulging fore­head, beaked thin nose, a gash for a mouth and square blunt chin. Grey wideset eyes; sun-bleached hair and beard. No longer a youth; past thirty, I guessed.

  He had not recognized his late opponent, nor I him: helmets and battle-excitement blur your enemy's face. I thought it tactful not to remind him, and offered a share of my wineskin.

  We sat side by side on the sand. Theseus described a journey to Knossos where he had sought remission of a tribute Athens paid. 'An iniquitous imposition,' he declared, 'which dates from an unfortunate accident years before I was born. One of Minos' sons visited Athens to compete in the annual games - the man was a notable athlete - and got himself killed in a robbers' ambush. Minos in revenge disembarked a warband, raided Megaran territory and ravaged Attica. We can't mobilize much of a Host,' Theseus admitted, 'so my father agreed on a stiff indemnity and a nine-yearly tribute of slaves. I accompanied the last consignment and tried to persuade Minos that Athens had paid enough compensation for a killing not her fault.'

  I remembered tales of the episode, and knew Theseus lied: politics lay at the root of a deliberate slaying. Minos had sent his son to encourage Athenian dissidents who aimed at re­moving Aegeus. Aegeus discovered the plot and conspired with Megaran bandits to have the Cretan killed. I was not surprised:

  Athenians are liars by nature. Their city is small and unimport­ant, yet they call the ruler king: a title properly kept for powerful kingdoms like Pylos, Argos and Elis, Sparta, Mycenae and Thebes.

  'Were you successful?' I asked.

  'Indeed,' said Theseus smugly. 'I am, as you probably know, a mighty wrestler and gymnast. In Knossos they leap bulls for sport, and train acrobats to somersault over the horns. Ex­tremely dangerous, I promise you. I'd never done it before, of course, but easily outshone the Cretan- experts. Minos was so impressed he wanted me to stay and teach his performers.'

  'A risky profession.'

  'Being braver than any man I've met, risks to me are enjoy­able. It wasn't that. My charm and personality persuaded Minos to cancel the tribute, and he liked me so much he in­sisted I wed his daughter Ariadne.'

  'An advantageous marriage, uniting Athens and Crete.'

  'Maybe. She fell head over heels in love with me but,' said Theseus frankly, 'the old hag has a face like the backside of a bullock. I prevaricated and made excuses, and eventually skip­ped to Amnisos, hoisted sail and slipped away by night.'

  Theseus tilted the wineskin and drank, wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. 'A day out from Crete I found a stowaway hidden under sailcloth in the hold. Ariadne,' he ended despond­ently.

  I ran an eye along the people thronging the beach, gathering round my crewmen with presents of fruit and honey. 'Is she here?'

  'No.' Theseus glanced furtively over his shoulder. 'I told Ariadne we're sailing tomorrow, and she's gone to the hills for the day with a bevy of women. Wild looking creatures: prob­ably a sect Dionysus founded, bent on some feminine orgy. I couldn't care less. I'll be well away before she's back.'

  A heartless, vain and bumptious man, I reflected, and foolish as well: Minos' offended pride might look for reprisal. (In fact Minos died of extreme old age during the time we harboured at Naxos. Catreus, his son and successor, disliked his sister Ari­adne and let the matter drop.) Belatedly I remembered to ask Theseus whether he had seen any sign of our quarry during his voyage.

  'Very likely. We passed three penteconters a day's sail out from Naxos going southward fast under sail and oars. I didn't like the look of the blighters, and sheered away. As I must now, in case the woman returns before she's due.'

  Theseus ran to exhort his sailors. The last of the baggage was handed aboard, rowers settled on thwarts and the coxswain trilled his pipe. Oars thrashed water in gouts of foam, the galley slid from the shore. Theseus in the sternsheets waved farewell; the gilded sternpost vanished behind a headland.

  I had to cope with Ariadne when she returned to the town that evening. Minos' youngest daughter was well past mark of mouth - my aunt, in point of fact - thin, sallow and highly strung and, as Theseus had hinted, excessively plain. She was more than a little drunk, her breath wine-rank; and blood flecks stained her flounced blue skirts. (One has heard hair- raising stories of gory drunken orgies in which Dionysus' female acolytes, commonly called Maenads, indulge in secret places in the hills.) Finding the Athenian galley gone Ariadne threw a fit of hysterics and clung weeping to my shoulders. I comforted her as best I could, delivered her in charge of the local chieftain's family and retired to sleep on the beach among my men. The Naxians seemed harmless enough, but you can never be too careful.

  I slumbered wrapped in a cloak, and was woken by a naked woman entwining her limbs with mine. In darkness and half asleep I could not recognize my visitor and gratefully accepted the gift that fate bestowed. She proved passionate, expert and tremendously exhausting; except for the moans which sig­nalled successive crises she never uttered a sound. (Just as well: my crewmen snored on the sand not far away.) When I failed to respond to her fifth assault she removed her hand from my weapon and whispered in my ear, 'Now, dear Aga­memnon, will you take me on your ship?'

  I must admit I was shocked. 'Ariadne, this is disgraceful! How could you —'

  ‘You enjoyed yourself, didn't you ? Take me with you, dear­est, and we can make love every night when the ships are beached. There's a lot I can teach you yet!'

  I pushed her off and reached for my cloak. 'Impossible. We're hunting pirates and have no place for women aboard.' 'I promise to keep out of the way. You can land me at Nauplia when you return and I'll travel to Athens' - her voice hardened - 'and confront that runagate Theseus.'
r />   'No. You must wait for a passing galley.'

  Ariadne started weeping. I groped fruitlessly in the dark for her clothes: apparently she had stolen from the chieftain's house stark naked. A coppery sheen tinged the eastern sky; distractedly I besought her to go before daylight disclosed her shame. At last, still sobbing, she stumbled away.

  I reclined tiredly on the sand and reflected on the oddities of women.

  We launched the ships at sun-up and loaded provisions bought in the town. Everyone gathered on the strand to see us off. I looked for Ariadne among the serried faces and failed to find her. With something akin to remorse I signalled coxswains to trill their pipes; oars flashed in the rising sun and we rowed from the harbour in line ahead. In wind-rippled water beyond the headland I ordered masts to be raised, and was struck by a devastating thought.

  Hailing the ships I instructed masters to search thoroughly for stowaways in the holds.

  None was found. I breathed a sigh of relief. Sailors stepped masts in hollow boxes, hoisted sails and sheeted home. A following wind swept the squadron south on tumbling seas to Crete.

  I never discovered what happened to the unfortunate Ari­adne. Rumours abounded later: that she married Dionysus in Naxos (quite ridiculous: the ancient I met near Rhipe must then have been dead for years); that she was accidentally killed by a hunter's arrow; that she emigrated to Cyprus and died in childbed. (I hope I had nothing to do with that.) Years after­wards when, as king, I conducted the long sea war against Troy I harboured at Naxos. They still remembered Ariadne on the island; I was shown a shrine where Maenads worshipped her memory. Bards have seized on her tragic story; men will remember her name, I feel, for generations to come.

  Theseus returned to Athens, found his father dead and assumed in his place the grandiloquent title of 'King'. I never cared for the fellow, and he gave me, indirectly, a basket of trouble later. Though he spurned the wretched Ariadne he never could keep his hands off women; and his rape of Spartan Helen begat the lunatic Iphigeneia whom Helen's sister Clytemnaistra successfully foisted on me. Killing Iphigeneia damned

  near cost my throne. But, as they say, I anticipate.

  * * *

  Our navigators set course for a landfall near Malia. The sea stayed calm, a fair wind rested the rowers. On the second morning the Cretan coast heaved above the horizon, a long grey line like stormclouds stroking the sea. The galleys sailed line abreast within hailing distance; the slowest periodically unshipped oars in order to keep her station. I drowsed on deck in the cabin's shade; the master leaned on his steering oar; rowers lounged on benches, dozed or gossiped or diced; the coxswain piped lilting melodies; seamen idled in handy reach of the sheets. Waves slapped strakes, Aithe pitched gently and rolled, the wind played tunes on mast-stays.

  A lookout hailed from the prow.

  Three white specks like wisps of wool drifted on the haze where shore met sea. I peered beneath the sail and shaded my eyes. Impossible at that distance to decide the course they set, whether they moved towards us or away. The master resolved my doubts. 'They're crossing our course, me lord. Sailing slow with the wind abeam. Could be the ships we're after. May be peaceful merchantmen. Can't tell yet. Shall I alter course to intercept?'

  'Yes - and make all speed!'

  Orders volleyed from galley to galley. Sailors jumped to sheets and trimmed the sails. Oars rattled from thwarts, drop­ped and struck. Pipes shrieked a quickening beat. The line of triaconters leaped like hard-whipped horses, smacked foam from bows and flew.

  I clutched the backstay and watched faraway sails which seemed to draw no nearer. Then, remembering the chase could end in a fight, I called my squire and ducked inside the cabin. You don't wear chariot mail on ships; I donned a bronze- studded leather cuirass and plumeless metal helmet, strapped on a slashing sword, put arm through grips of a round hide shield and picked up a throwing-spear. Thus armed I stood in the sternsheets. The sails looked distant as ever. For one accustomed to swift and sudden clashes on land the nerve- twanging slowness of battles at sea was disconcerting.

  The master tugged his steering oar and said, 'Pirate galleys, me lord. Unless they go about we'll cross their course.'

  As he spoke I saw the broad white flecks of the corsairs' sails shrink to a finger's breadth and billow again like wings. 'Gone about,' the master spat. He screwed his eyes and peered at the peaks that soared above the coastline. 'I reckon they're making for Malia. We'll have a job to catch them before they beach.'

  He hailed the triaconters a spearcast on either beam. Steering oars dug froth from wakes, seamen sprang to sheets and hauled. The galleys, turning together, set course for a straight pursuit. Oars swung in a faster cadence. The ships raced on like running stags: black hulls and crimson prows, tall beast- headed sternposts, the honey-hued flash of bronze-sheathed rams jutting from waves as they pitched in the swell, oarbanks rhythmically lifting and dipping, sails bellying and straining on masts.

  In Aithe the rowers' oak-brown bodies swung forward and back like a single machine. Men crouching at sheets trimmed sail to the shifts of the wind. Sailors spliced stout ashwood staves to make a forty-foot bronze-barbed pole. 'Fending-pole,' said the master shortly, answering my questioning look.

  Steadily we overhauled the fleeing ships.

  I distinguished their oars, a helmsman's figure at the stern, the foaming furrow carved by his sweep. Beyond them soared the mountains, clefts like giant gashes shading tree-clad slopes, snowfields streaking the peaks. A yellow-sand bay was a bite in rocky cliffs. Buildings clustered inland, small as a handful of pebbles cast on the spring-green grass.

  'Malia,' the master stated. He calculated distances, glanced at the sail, shifted slightly the slant of his oar. 'We might just catch the bastards. They row twenty-five oars a side; we have thirty, and larger sails. Going to be close. Cox'n, speed the strike.'

  The tempo climbed to the battle-stroke, a pace no oarsman can hold for long. Sweat-streams coursed down the rowers' naked backs; above the screech of the wind I heard their gasp­ing breaths. (I wondered for a moment how these overtasked men could possibly fight when we closed the enemy ships.) The gap shrank fast; three spearcasts divided hunters' prows from hunted sternposts.

  We entered the arms of the bay. Rollers curved and broke on the sand; serried reeds like olive-green lances palisaded the mouth of a stream.

  A penteconter lagged three lengths behind her sisters, her oarbeats ragged and faltering. 'We'll get that one at least’ the master promised. Faintly I heard orders shouted; the pirate's sail whipped free from the sheets; the helmsman hauled on his oar with all his strength. Larboard oars dripped clear of the water, starboard dug in short quick strokes. The galley spun in her tracks. Timed by an urgent pipe both oarbanks drove her straight for Aithe.

  'Down sail! Down mast!' our master roared. 'Out pole! Pre­pare for ramming!'

  The penteconter's bows were aimed at our starboard quarter. Our helmsman pushed his sweep; Aithe's bows swung larboard, angling away from the enemy. I watched the threatening prow approach, bow wave frothing, ram like a shark's fin slicing the waves. Why, I dithered, mouth gone dry, expose our beam to the ram ? I braced myself for the shock of collision. At arrow- shot range the master shouted 'Ship starboard oars!' and flung his weight on the steering oar.

  Propelled by the sweep of the larboard oarbank Aithe turned like a pony. Her starboard rowers slipped oars inboard, grabbed spears and swords from straps. In a crash of riven timbers and splintering oars our ram gouged the pirate's hull. Her mast snapped short and the flying sail smothered her crew in the stern. Our seamen lifted the fending pole, butted beak on enemy strakes and thrust to release the ram.

  The impact had flung me flat on the deck. I climbed to my feet and lugged out sword. Cretans swarmed over the sides and tumbled aboard. Our rowers rushed to meet them, and a savage little battle erupted in the forepart. I scrambled over benches, mast and sail and oars. A burly naked Cretan lunged a spear- thrust at my head; I lifted shield
and parried the point, plunged blade to the hilt in his belly.

  I needn't have doubted the oarsmen's endurance; inside a hundred heartbeats they had hurled the assailants back or overside into the sea. The sailors' weight on the pole pushed Aithe clear; with a creak and a crack the ram came free and we drifted away. Water surged through the shattered hole in the penteconter's hull. She listed and started to settle. Bowmen appeared at the side rails, arrows whirred and thumped in wood. A seaman shrieked, and tore at the feathered shaft spiking from his stomach.

  'Damned Cretan bowmen!' the master grumbled, 'Out oars! Back water!' Aithe retreated crabwise and paddled beyond range. He eyed the sinking ship, men jumping overside and swimming for shore. 'She's done for. What d'you want now, me lord?'