shoulders. At a bend that was tight as a fully-crooked elbow a drooping clump of myrtle overhung the way.
A white-clad figure leaped from the leaves, a spearhead flashed in the sun.
A Companion is taught, when a footman attacks from a flank, to swing instantly towards him to shorten the length of his lunge. Instinctively I obeyed the tenets instilled in months of training, and hauled savagely on the reins.
The turn, though slow - the horses moved at a walk - was enough to deflect the aim. The point scored the Marshal's lifted shield, glissaded past his helmet. Quick as a falling thunderbolt Atreus lunged his spear. I heard a high-pitched scream that died in a bubbling wail.
I reined the horses sliding on their hocks. Atreus tugged his spear out, jumped from the car and lifted it high and plunged it down.
A single shriek, and sounds like an animal crying.
Shaking at the knees, I controlled my frightened horses. Atreus straddled a squirming form that scrabbled hands on stony earth and jerked in the throes of dying. The body arched and crumpled. Atreus leaned on his bloodied spear, both hands clasping the haft, and watched his attacker die. His head was bowed; he stayed curiously still and silent.
Phylacus' chariot rounded the bend. He halted, flung reins to Diomedes and pelted sword in hand to help his lord. I craned to see the body, half hidden by myrtle boughs, and glimpsed a white contorted face, glazed eyes fixed and staring.
Plisthenes.
The chariot's leather-thonged floor rocked beneath my feet like the deck of a storm-tossed ship. I clutched the rail. The horses stamped and sidled; numbly I felt the bits.
Atreus roused himself. 'Quick, Phylacus! Take his arms, help me drag him under the bushes.' A snap in his voice like breaking sticks. 'We must hide this unfortunate corpse lest the men imagine omens and refuse to travel further.' Together they bundled the body into a cleft between rocks which oleanders shaded. Phylacus scuffled earth across a scarlet puddle. Atreus plucked a handful of leaves and scrubbed his spearhead clean, brushed his hands together and remounted.
'Drive on!'
I flicked the reins, wheels grated on grit. Atreus stared straight ahead, and spoke between lips that were set and stiff.
'You saw who he was?'
I nodded dumbly.
'I have killed my son. The Lady will demand requital. I must sacrifice....' The sinewy hand that held the rail clenched till the knuckles whitened. 'He could not have hatched this ambuscade alone. Someone pricked him on. Not difficult to guess. ...'
The road debouched from the pass; Tiryns' greystone towers reared on the horizon. I glanced back. A vulture circled lazily over the slopes where Plisthenes lay.
He was my father. I searched in my heart for sorrow, and
found no emotion at all.
* * *
We met little opposition from the Heraclids. Ostensibly to celebrate Hercules' birthday Thyestes entertained them with a feast in the palace Hall. By mid-afternoon, when our warbands arrived, they were mostly screeching drunk. Atreus halted the chariots at the ramp that climbed to the gate, dismounted all the Heroes and led them at a run through forecourt and palace courtyard. They burst into the Hall and surrounded the stupefied Heraclids. Spearmen followed fast, blocked the doors and lined the painted walls.
Men do not go armed to palace banquets, so there was virtually no resistance. Iolaus, dagger on high, tried to rush Tydeus; the Argive commander butted his shield and bruised the attacker's ribs. Hiccupping and winded, he vomited his meal. Hyllus, owlishly dignified, protested incoherently; Atreus told him amiably to save his breath. The captives were herded into Tiryns' echoing galleries where, with exits closed and guarded, they huddled cramped and crowded in the dark.
From crannies in the citadel and town spearmen rounded up a handful of lesser followers who had not attended the banquet. Some bore weapons and tried to resist; slaves buried them outside the