Tiryns – Mycenaean Stronghold and Place of Legend

This week, I wanted to write about a site. I haven’t done that in a while and everyone seems to enjoy the journey that sort of post provides.

But which site? I wanted to pick something that was lesser-known but still exciting. I’ve been to many sites, especially around Greece, all of them fascinating and steeped in myth.

I settled on Tiryns, Mycenae’s poorer brother in the tourist trade.

"In the south-eastern corner of the plain of Argos, on the west and lowest and flattest of those rocky heights which here form a group, and rise like islands from the marshy plain, at a distance of 8 stadia, or about 1500 m. from the Gulf of Argos, lay the prehistoric citadel of Tiryns, now called Palaeocastron." (Heinrich Schliemann; Tiryns; 1885) 

I visited the site with family during the summer of 2002. It was a scorcher of a day and the cicadas were whirring full force by 9 a.m. Luckily, the heat meant that the place was devoid of visitors - the perfect time to explore.

Tiryns is one of those sites that you likely know about if you have studied classics, mythology or archaeology. Most people have not heard about it. It lies in the broad Argive plain, a fenced-in circuit wall along the road between Nafplio and Argos itself, surrounded by orange and olive groves.

At first glance, there is no hint that Tiryns was one of the major Mycenaean power centres of the Bronze Age. The cyclopean walls are big, impressive, but there had been times when I had driven by and not even noticed it. Perhaps that was due to the madness of driving in Greece.

The West Wall

When we got out of the car, the hot wind whipped across the plain to envelope us and, once we paid our entrance fee at the small kiosk, it seemed to sweep us up the ramp to the citadel, and back in time.

Tiryns is a place of myth and legend. It has been inhabited since the 7^th millennium B.C., but by the Hellenistic and Roman periods, it was already in the death throes of a swift decline. Pausanius visited as a tourist in the 2^nd century A.D.

"Going on from here [from Argos to Epidauros] and turning to the right, you come to the ruins of Tiryns... The wall, which is the only part of the ruins still remaining, is a work of the Cyclopes made of unwrought stones, each stone being so big that a pair of mules could not move the smallest from its place to the slightest degree. Long ago small stones were so inserted that each of them binds the large blocks firmly together." (Pausanias; Description of Greece)

I’ve spoken before about the feel of a place of great antiquity. Tiryns is an ancient place.

In mythology, it was founded by Proitos, the brother of Akrisios, King of Argos and father of Danae, the mother of Perseus.

It was said that the walls of Tiryns were built by the Thracian Cyclopes of the ‘bellyhands’ clan before they built the walls of Mycenae and Argos. This is why this style is called ‘cyclopean walls’. They were known as the ‘bellyhands’ because that clan of the Cyclopes were said to have made their living through manual labour.

Perseus

It would have been a feat of tremendous strength to say the least, as each stone weighs several tons.

The association with Perseus is indirect as he acquired Tiryns after he killed his grandfather, Akrisios, but before he established Mycenae.

One of the most important mythological associations with Tiryns however, was Herakles, the son of Zeus and Alkmene. The latter was the granddaughter of Perseus.

Let us go back to the time when Eurystheus was king of Mycenae, Tiryns and Argos.

According to Apollodorus:

"Now it came to pass that after the battle with the Minyans Hercules was driven mad through the jealousy of Hera and flung his own children, whom he had by Megara, and two children of Iphicles into the fire; wherefore he condemned himself to exile, and was purified by Thespius, and repairing to Delphi he inquired of the god where he should dwell. The Pythian priestess then first called him Hercules, for hitherto he was called Alcides. And she told him to dwell in Tiryns, serving Eurystheus for twelve years and to perform the ten labours imposed on him, and so, she said, when the tasks were accomplished, he would be immortal."(Apollodorus; Book II)

After Hera drove Herakles mad, causing him to kill his own children, the Oracle at Delphi told the hero that he needed to serve King Eurystheus for twelve years in order to atone for his horrible actions.

Herakles presents Eurystheus with
the Erymanthian Boar

Herakles settled in Tiryns. His twelve tasks, or Labours, for Eurystheus are legendary and have been depicted in art for centuries throughout the ancient world. 

Admittedly, when I visited Tiryns on that day, I had no idea of its associations with Perseus or Herakles. For me, a lot of research is sparked after visiting a site, and as a result a follow-up visit is certainly in order.

The citadel of Tiryns is about 28 metres high and 280 meters long, and it was built in three stages. In the 12^th century B.C. it was destroyed by earthquake and fire but remained an important centre until the 7^th century B.C. when it was a cult centre for the worship of Hera, Athena and Herakles.

The Late Bronze Age (1600-1050 B.C.) was the height of Tiryns’ existence. It is during this time that the cyclopean walls and most of the fortifications were built. 

Today, as in the Bronze Age, one approaches the citadel on the east side. To get to the upper citadel, which was the location of the Great Megaron and palace, you must walk up a massive ramp that is 47 metres long and 4.70 metres wide. This would have led to the main wooden gates.

The Great Gate

Once past the gates, you walk along what was a corridor that led to the Great Gate which was flanked by a tall tower. The Great Gate was almost the size of the famous Lion Gate of Mycenae, and would have proved an imposing structure.

When I was walking along the ramp, looking up at the remains of the massive walls and the tower, I could imagine warriors in bronze, with boar’s tusk helmets, looking down on me with spears or bows in hand.

Even though the citadel contained a luxurious palace and baths, this would not have been an easy fortress to storm.

Once you attain the top, you find yourself on a level area looking out over the site – the upper, middle and lower citadels.

Artist Reconstruction of the Citadel of Tiryns

There is not much left in the way of intact walls when it comes to the palace but you can see the outlines of the many rooms, especially the courtyards and the Great Megaron where the King of Tiryns held court and had his throne on a raised platform overlooking the central hearth.

Imagine Herakles approaching Eurystheus to ask him what his next labour was to be, in this room. This was the heart of the palace. Other rooms would have included residences, a second Megaron and even a bath, the floor of which is made up of a huge monolith.

I was a bit dazed, standing there in the heat, looking on the remains of this site with awe. It is so very old and the ruins only hint at what was a luxurious, but defensible, palace.  And that was just the upper citadel.

The middle citadel, 2 m lower, provided access to the defences and may even have contained a pottery kiln. The lower citadel, which is also surrounded by walls, may have been used as a refuge for the people of Tiryns town on the west side, in times of need.

Reconstructed frescoe
from Tiryns' Palace

At one point, when I was looking about the gravelly surface of the court, I spotted tiny bits of pottery. Of course, I bent down to get a closer look and picked up a shard with three black lines painted across it. Before I could contemplate the age of this piece, a loud whistle blew and a site person seemingly emerged from the rocks like an asp hiding from the midday sun. “No touching!” I heard, in heavily accented English.

Good thing she didn’t have a spear or bow.

After leaving the upper citadel, we walked down some steps to what is my favourite part of the site – the east Galaria.

This beautiful arched tunnel is still intact, and with the sun shining from above it was suffused with soft light. I immediately imagined a Mycenaean queen strolling between the light and shadow of this place, or a determined king on his way to a war council, his cloak flapping behind him, bronze-clad guards in his wake.

The East Galaria

Such is the power of a site like this to fire the imagination.

Back to the present.

Today, with the cold of November almost upon us, I think back to that scorched but brilliant day at Tiryns, and smile. I feel warmth again, enjoy the glint of the sun radiating off of the stone, its sparkle far out in the Gulf of Argos.

This ancient citadel is a welcoming place where history and myth are entwined, comfortable allies. I certainly hope my path leads me there again one day.

I’d like to thank all of you for reading and to extend a warm welcome to all the new subscribers. If there is anything you are interested in hearing more about on Writing the Past, send me an e-mail at writingthepast [at] gmail.com 

Picture Postcard #3 - In the Morning

We attack the beach at Troy in the morning and I look back, toward home.

I sit and stare west to Achaea across the sea where only yesterday our thousand ships had cut the deep.

My comrades are jovial, thirsty for blood and wine, for women and Trojan gold.

But how can we breach or scale those high walls? They are god-made.  The horse-tamers of Ilium are battle-hardened.

Even with the mighty Achilles and Ajax, Diomedes, cunning Odysseus, Menelaus and kingly Agamemnon, I fear that our charges will break upon the walls to leave a feast for carrion crows and dogs.

The last time I saw a sunset like this I sat with my wife and daughters in the olive grove outside our home. We laughed as the cicadas fell slowly to sleep and fireflies lit those green and silver leaves.

The poet said that war breeds heroes, and that is true. But it also breeds widows and orphans and the death of bloodlines.

Oh goddess, if you can hear me now…

Watch over my wife and children. May I live to see them again, to hold them, to laugh and love and watch this same sun set upon our lands.

I am a warrior. I am strong. My sword and spear are sharp and my bronze and oak shield thick enough to break a hundred Trojan charges.

If I am to fight, let it be for the glory of my gods, of my family and of the land which I long to see again.

I will bleed for you… but I would not yet cross the fiery threshold of Hades.

Gods of Olympus, let this war’s raging be swift that we may all return home soon, the beaks of our ships adorned with wreaths of victory.

May the light of that setting sun guide us home evermore. 

Picture Postcard #2 - A satyr stopped him on the road to Argos

A young goatherd named Kouros walked along the same path he took every day. He cared for his animals as brothers and sisters. Being the only child to a family living high in the hills beyond Tyrins, his animals were his friends.

On this particular day, Kouros stopped at the usual fork in the road. He had never taken the other one, never even thought of it really. His father had said that it led to the polis of Argos, that there were all manner of bandits and undesirables along the way.

But the day was bright and airy and it seemed to Kouros that little that was bad could happen on such a day. So, his mind set, he decided to take the road to Argos, his flock following him obediently, adhering to the commands he clicked out, the tunes he sang.

When Helios’ chariot was at the top of the world, Kouros stopped in the shade of an olive grove near a bridge. The path was well-used here but no one was about. A spring trickled from the rocks and he leaned down to wet his hair the back of his sun-baked neck. Cicadas whirred all about as he leaned against the trunk of a gnarled olive tree just off the road, his flock nestling down to rest and graze all about him.

Kouros awoke some time later, his eyes opening slowly to adjust to the intense light. A form hovered before him, a face horned and scowling with a pushed-up nose that was thrust into his face. The goatherd pushed at what he thought was one of his animals.

Then, he felt a stinging slap across his cheek.

“Who’re you?” came the rough, accusatory words.

Kouros jumped up and grabbed his crook. He blinked, rubbed his eyes. Before him stood a satyr. He was tall and hairy and full of disdain, arms crossed, one hoof tapping impatiently.

“I’m Kouros, a goatherd. I was just resting here.”

“This is my bridge and my spot you were sitting in.”

“I don’t see anything that says it is yours. Surely Zeus decrees that travellers can rest where they will, in peace.”

“Hmph. Beehhh! Don’t be impertinent.” At this Kouros’ goats looked up. “Back to your grazing, dummies!” the satyr spat at them. “Mindless ingrates.”

“Hey!” Kouros said. “You leave them alone.  Who are you anyway?” He was not afraid of the satyr. After all, he was used to telling goats what to do and this satyr was as close to a goat as people could get.

“What do you mean, who am I?” The satyr looked shocked. “I’m Marsyas. I am the greatest musician in all of Achaea.” He bowed and did a little gig, his hooves clicking on the rocky ground.

“Well, I’ve never heard of you and I live around here.”

“Up the mountain lives a nob, comes down the hill and thinks he’s a god.” The satyr laughed and took out an aulos. He placed the double flute to his black lips and his eyes closed.

Kouros wondered how something so ugly and vile could play such beautiful music. He loved music himself, was always singing on his walks up and down the mountain valleys. All of his goats now looked up and gathered about him to listen.

He felt dizzy, like the melody was intoxicating his senses. Then, another slap!

Kouros swung his crook at the satyr but the beast was too quick and he kicked the young man in the stomach, sending him back into the trees where he hit his head and collapsed.

When his eyes opened again, the sun was dipping away. Something cool ran down his cheek and this time he opened his eyes to a face so beautiful he thought for a moment he was trapped in the web of a dream. He smiled in his half-consciousness and then a gentle laughing filled the air, as playful as a trickle of mountain water upon the rocks.

“Hello,” came the voice, soft, clear and soothing. “He is gone now.” A kiss upon his forehead brought him round.

“Who are you?” Kouros asked, making to sit up.

“Nissa. I am the nymph of this grove. I was watching you when that hideous satyr woke you. I didn’t dare approach for he always likes to grab at me. He’s filthy.”

“Is he gone? I owe him a knock on the head.”

“Oh, don’t do that. He is stronger than he looks. Ugly, but strong. Besides, why would you want to scratch up your beautiful body?”

Kouros blushed. She smiled.

The goats were milling about now, moving toward the bridge. It was time to head back and they knew the routine. Kouros looked at Nissa who smiled, wheat-gold waves of long hair playing down from her shoulders.

“Don’t go,” she said, gripping his arm.

“I don’t want to… but I must. My parents will be worried I’ve been taken by wolves.”

She nodded. “Come back tomorrow, will you?”

“Yes,” he answered without even thinking. Of course he would return.

“Wonderful.” She held his arms and together they stood. On her toes, the nymph kissed the goatherd on his neck and then danced into the olive grove, singing and laughing and waving.

The next day, Kouros made his way down the hill from his family’s home, his flock obediently at his heals. He whistled even more that day, his steps and his mood as light as could be, despite the lingering ache in his head.

I’ll get him, Kouros thought.

He sang loudly on the journey to the bridge for his father had told him of a great event.

At Delphi, three days hence, the god Apollo himself was set to play for all those who came to make offerings at his sacred sanctuary. The sound of his kythera was said to make all the pain of human existence disappear so that no listener ever felt sad again.

Of course, no one in Kouros’ family was able to attend, though they wished with all their hearts that they could. To see the Lord of the Silver Bow and hear him play… The whole mountainside of Parnassus would be filled with his music.

The bridge came into view and no sooner did Kouros see Nissa standing on top of the bridge waiting for him, did he hear her scream.

He rushed along the road, knowing his flock would follow.

When he arrived, he found Marsyas with his arms about the nymph, his tongue lashing at her pained face. His hands groped and she did her best to push him away but he was strong and nimble.

“Leave her alone!” Kouros yelled as he ran up the road to the bridge. He poked the satyr hard in the ribs giving Nissa a chance to disappear into the grove.

The satyr turned on him vehemently, eyes burning.

“You!” He walked slowly toward Kouros who stood his ground in the middle of the bridge. “Meddler. You’ll regret that. I’m going to feed your bits to you own herd.” Marsyas launched a series of kicks with his cloven feet but Kouros who was ready, and used to staving off vipers with his crook, managed to block each attack.

Marsyas let out an enraged howl, his aulos falling to the ground at his clicking feet. He bent to pick up his precious instrument and made to play, eyeing the young man wickedly.

Before the first hypnotic note escaped, Kouros spoke.

“You say you are the best musician in all of Achaea?”

The satyr stopped short.

“Ha. In all the world of men and gods!”

“That’s quite a boast. I don’t believe you.”

“What would you know, goatherd. I can tame maidens and goddesses alike so that they melt into my arms. I can make a hydra lie down and dance upon its heads. I can – “

“I know someone whom you cannot beat. Someone who is better than you, Marsyas.”

“There’s no such being.”

“Yes, there is. Apollo.”

“Behhh!” Marsyas waved his hand dismissively. “He plucks away at his strung tortoise shell well enough but he has no real talent. I am the best.”

“Why don’t you prove it?” Kouros walked around the satyr now, keeping his distance. “I have heard that in three days, Apollo himself will be performing at Delphi for all the world.” Marsyas scratched his chin and Kouros pressed on.

“You could challenge him to a contest and if you win, all gods and men will know that you really are the best musician. If you don’t go, you will just be another hillside piper.”

“If I win? If?” Marsyas paced now, the nymph and Kouros all but forgotten.

“You should leave now if you want to make it to Delphi in time. Are you fast enough?”

“Ha! Clearly you’ve never seen a satyr run.” Marsyas nodded. “Yes. I’ll go and challenge Apollo to a musical duel and then, then all will know of Marsyas and equate the name with the artistic perfection that outdid even a god.”

Then, in a puff of dust, Marsyas the satyr sped away up the road, north to Argos and Delphi beyond.

Kouros found Nissa lying in the shade of the olive tree where he had slept the previous day. Her chest rose and fell softly beneath her torn clothing and her golden hair fell in tangled wisps.

The goatherd went over to the spring and wet a piece of cloth from his satchel. He came back and gently wiped the nymph’s face, arms and hands.

Her eyes opened and her arms slid up around his neck. Her kiss was soft and sweet and welcoming and so, in a grove of gnarled trees with the sun beating down and birds chirruping in the boughs, Kouros and Nissa slept in each other’s arms.

Kouros returned to the bridge every day until, a few years later, he built a small house up the hill at the top of the grove. They had a peaceful life.

Marsyas the satyr never returned to what he had called ‘his bridge’ and no one in Achaea ever saw him again.

His flayed skin flaps in the breeze where it is nailed to a tall pine tree. It is silent there, but for the whispering of the wind and the plucking of a kythera.