Myrsilus caught up with the king, who was marching at the head of his people in silence.
‘Wanax,’ he said. ‘There’s a woman walking at the middle of the column who’s talking about the land of the Mountains of Fire that is found at the end of this trail. At thirty days’ march from here. I think she is speaking of the land of the Cyclops! I have heard it described by men who sailed very far from our land. No one has ever dared approach it; from the sea at night, you can see the Cyclops’ blazing eyes, flaming, you can hear their wild cries. They devour those who the waves cast up on their deserted beaches. I know that you do not fear them, you fear neither gods nor men, nor monsters of the earth or sea, and you know that I am ready to follow you anywhere, even to the Mountains of Fire, even to the land of the Cyclops, but listen to me, I beg of you. I think that the time has come for us to stop, as soon as we find a place where we can live. We have women, and we’ll take others. We can build a city, with walls, we can establish alliances with nearby peoples. We lost more comrades in taking that pass, brave men, skilled with spear and sword. How many more will we lose if we continue on this way? You have your bride . . . stop, and generate a child so that this land can nourish him and accept him as its own . . . or we will stay foreigners . . .’
The king did not turn and continued on his way.
They marched along the crest of the mountains all day, until dusk, leaving behind their lost companions, leaving behind Telephus, the slave who died as a warrior, as the commander he had always been.
The king advanced with his head low, the first of the entire column, and for the first time he looked small to his men against the immensity of the mountains and the sky. He looked lost, in that labyrinthine, wooded land where every valley might conceal new threats. As far as the eye could see, there were no places that could sustain a city, no fields where crops could be grown, no plains that led to the sea, to a port from which ships could depart, making contact with other peoples, striking up trade. All they saw, few and far between, were villages of huts inhabited by shepherds who withdrew fearfully into the forests upon their approach.
Some of the men began to envy those companions who had remained in Argos. Perhaps nothing had happened to them; they had certainly rejoined their families and were sitting at table now with their wives and children, eating fragrant bread and drinking strong red wine. And when they awoke in the morning their eyes beheld the walls and the towers of Argos, of all cities the most beautiful and gracious.
It even seemed to them that their king had been abandoned by the gods. Where was Athena, who was wont to appear to him in human form, or so they said, and speak with him? Where was the goddess who had been at his side in his war-car on the plains of Ilium, guiding his horses like a charioteer?
The king advanced alone, head low, as if he had lost his way, as if he no longer had a goal. Some said that perhaps by walking among the severed heads, he had unknowingly surrendered his inner strength, his indomitable courage.
They camped in a little valley, wedged between the forests, near a clear-watered lake. There was an island in the middle of the lake, connected to the shore by a thin, partially submerged isthmus. The island was bare, save for a single, gigantic tree. Diomedes reached the shore of the lake and sat on a stone; he seemed to be contemplating the huge tree that extended its boughs to cover the island.
The bride from the Mountains of Ice joined him. She had a name now, Ros, and she had learned the language of the Achaeans.
She stepped up lightly behind him. He heard her but did not turn. He said: ‘I stole you away from your husband because I thought I could found a kingdom in this land for myself and my comrades. I thought I could build a city and make it invincible. I thought, when I saw you, that only you could erase from my mind and my flesh the memory of the wife who betrayed me, Aigialeia . . . But now my strength is abandoning me, the road has become endless. I abducted you from your promised husband . . . for nothing.’
‘Nemro,’ she said. ‘I saw him but once, and I held his hand only at the moment when I was to become his bride. I cried when you killed him, but perhaps . . . perhaps I would have cried over you if he had killed you. I cried for his youth cut short before its time, for the day that darkens before it reaches noon. I could do nothing anything else; a woman cannot choose to whom she will bind her life. But you are my destiny now, you sleep beside me every night.’
Diomedes turned and looked at her in the moonlight. She was young and perfect even in the shabby clothing that covered her. If she had been able to dress in royal finery, she could have sat on the throne of a powerful kingdom in the land of the Achaeans.
‘I want to be the man you wait for with longing in your bed. After making love, I want to feel your arms holding me, your body warming me. The cold seizes me when I leave your womb and you turn away to sleep. I’m cold, Ros . . .’
‘But the season is warm and the nights are mild.’
‘It is the cold that grips men who fear death.’
‘You are not afraid of death. I have seen you fight, time and time again, as if your life was worth nothing to you. There is a pain inside of you that you cannot overcome, a wound that will not heal. Was your queen so very beautiful? So lovely her breasts and so ardent her womb? I turn away from you because it is she you are thinking of, it is she you dream of at night. It is beside her that you would like to awaken. Forget Argos, and forget her if you want to conquer this land and begin a new life. Forget what has been, or you will lose everything: your comrades, this land, and me, if you care about me. Your nights will become colder and colder, until one day you will be terrified even to fall asleep, to close your eyes.’
The king reached out his hands and the girl felt him tremble. ‘Help me,’ he said, and his eyes blazed, in the shadows, with fever and pain.
*
They marched on for many days, leaving the territory of the Ambron behind them. They could sometimes hear the wail of their horns in the distance, as if they were still observing them from on high, without daring to face them again.
‘So you have a name,’ said Myrsilus to the Chnan one evening as the men were setting up camp. ‘I heard you talking to yourself up on that pass we took.’
‘I wasn’t talking to myself. I was talking to my Hittite friend who died to save the king.’
‘Malech. Why didn’t you ever say so?’
‘Why should I have? It wouldn’t have changed anything. I won’t be living the rest of my life with you. When I’m gone, you’ll just keep calling me “the Chnan” no matter what my name was, and you’d be right. My name doesn’t hide anything important. I’m not like Telepinu, whom you called Telephus; he was a commander of a squadron of war chariots in the land of the Hittites before he was made a slave. In my land, everyone is like me; we go to sea, transporting goods to be exchanged with other goods. In Keftiu, in Egypt, in Tarsish, everywhere. Our kings trade as well, with other kings, and they haggle over the price when they buy and swindle when they sell. The Achaeans of the islands call us the Ponikjo because the sails on our ships are red. That’s everything. We never go to war unless we absolutely can’t avoid it, and we hold on to our poor little land pinched between the mountains and the sea.’
‘A place to return to . . . we’ve lost that. But our king will give us a new homeland. These steep mountains will end, and we’ll find before us a fair, flourishing plain, rich with pastures and surrounded by hills, with one side open towards the sea. There we will build a city and gird it with walls.’
‘You’re looking for Argos. The place you’ve described is Argos.’
‘Have you seen it?’ asked Myrsilus, and his eyes sparkled like a little boy’s.
‘Yes. I’ve seen almost all your cities. But you must forget it. You’ll never find anything here that resembles it.’
Myrsilus scowled. ‘I’m going to draw up the guard,’ he said, and he moved off towards a hill that overlooked the valley. On the other side of camp, Diomedes was taking his horses to pasture; they follow
ed him docilely and ate grass from his hands.
Myrsilus walked along the slope, to see what lay beyond the wooded hillock that limited his field of vision to the east; when the territory opened into view on that side, he dropped to the ground immediately, hiding behind a stone.
A long line of warriors was crossing the valley, followed by carts and pack animals. He pounded his fist on his thigh; they were headed towards a valley which the Achaeans would also have to cross, heading south. It was not a route that the two groups could share. He remained at length to observe them, and tried to count them. There were many of them. Too many.
‘Shekelesh,’ said a voice behind him. The Chnan had followed him.
‘You recognize them?’ asked Myrsilus.
‘Yes. But I can’t understand what they’re doing here. This is not their land. They live in Libya, although many of them have migrated to a large island with three promontories and attempted to drive away the native inhabitants, the Sikanie.’
‘You know the world and many of its peoples . . .’ said Myrsilus, without taking his eyes off the marching column. ‘I’ve never left Argos, except to go to war. And once I was there, I never left the camp.’
As they were still speaking, he noticed that the column was slowing its pace and had stopped. They were bustling about the carts and preparing to set up camp for the night. Small groups positioned themselves on the hills surrounding the valley to head off any perils, protecting that main part of their forces, who were pitching their tents in the wider part of the valley near the banks of a torrent.
‘They are on the same road as we are,’ said Myrsilus. ‘We must tell the king and ask him what must be done.’
‘It seems strange to me that they have come so far inland,’ replied the Chnan. ‘Perhaps they’ve settled on the coast, some place with too few resources for them to live on. They may have sent this group towards the interior to seize livestock or women, or both. Look, see there at the end,’ he continued, pointing, ‘there are flocks of sheep, and what look like cattle as well.’
‘I think you may be right,’ said Myrsilus. ‘Perhaps tomorrow they’ll turn back, and never give us any trouble.’
‘But they might go on. And in that case, we’ll have to decide whether to attack them or let them go by. Or change our own itinerary.’
Myrsilus pondered his words for a while, then said: ‘If we capture one or two of them, we can make them talk and learn their intentions. I don’t want the king to send men out in an attack, we’ve lost far too many as it is.’
‘You are becoming wiser,’ said the Chnan. ‘Perhaps there’s hope we’ll be saved.’
‘Wait for me here,’ said Myrsilus. ‘I’ll be back soon. Do not let yourself be seen and don’t move.’ He crept off, low to the ground, and reached his comrades. He chose three of them, Eupites, Evenus and Crissus, and told each of them to pick out one of the Shekelesh and follow him in secret, carrying only a bow and dagger.
They advanced separately, shifting from one cover to another with rapid, silent moves. Myrsilus thought of how that strange land had changed them; how long it had been since they had drawn up in the open field, shield to shield and helmet to helmet, awaiting an encounter with the enemy who faced them drawn up in the same formation!
The Chnan pointed to a spot at mid-slope, in front of them: ‘See them? There are three of them, and they’re stretching out under that jutting rock. Do you want one or all three?’
‘One is enough, I think.’
‘Fine. As soon as it is dark, send a man back to camp to get some fire.’
Myrsilus gave an order for the Chnan’s plan to be carried out, and remained at his side to observe the three Shekelesh who were sitting in their shelter and speaking among themselves. Every so often one of them would stand up and walk around, checking the area. As soon as darkness fell, they stopped moving altogether and their shapes could barely be made out against the whitish rock.
The Chnan explained to Myrsilus what he planned to do; he took the embers that one of the men had brought in a clay jar and started up a fire. Just a few moments passed before the Shekelesh noticed the bivouac. They got to their feet and consulted amongst themselves, then one of them started creeping cautiously towards the fire. Myrsilus never took his eyes off him and strained his ears to hear the little noises brought about by his movements. When he was rather close to the fire, Myrsilus put several men at his back to prevent any possibility of escape. When the intruder was about to turn back, they jumped at him and immobilized him with a dagger to his throat. He did not move nor breathe, aware that any resistance on his part would result in the blade slitting his neck open.
They dragged him off to a solitary place, not within view of his companions or the Achaean camp.
‘Do you understand my language?’ asked the Chnan in Canaanite. The prisoner nodded his head.
‘Good,’ continued the Chnan. ‘I know that you understand us, even if you sometimes pretend not to. You will have realized that these friends of mine will cut your throat if you try to make yourself heard by the others. But if you tell us what we want to know, we’ll keep you with us for a while and then we’ll set you free. We don’t want your sorry bones.’ The prisoner let out a sigh of relief.
‘Well then, where do you come from? Libya, or the island of the three promontories?’
‘From Libya. We fought under King Mauroy against the king of Egypt but we were defeated and the wind pushed us to the northern gulf.’
The Chnan gestured to the man holding the dagger to ease up so that the prisoner could speak a little more freely.
‘Where are you headed now?’
The Shekelesh seemed to hesitate a moment, but as soon as he saw the Chnan gesturing to the man with the knife, he hurried his reply: ‘We have built a city on the coast, near a place called “the Elbow” but our chief wants to know if the island of the three promontories can be reached from the interior.’
‘The island of the three promontories? But it is very far from here, very far south!’
‘Perhaps not so far . . .’ said the Shekelesh, twisting his neck a little.
‘And why do you want to reach the island of the three promontories?’
‘Because our people are there. Here we don’t know if we can manage to survive. But we had no choice. We had crossed the sea when we ran into a storm; almost all of our ships were destroyed on the shoals and the rocks. We lost all our tools, our provisions. We could not rebuild the ships, or even repair them.’
‘The Borrha,’ said the Chnan, as if speaking to himself; it almost seemed as though the thought gave him a strange satisfaction.
‘What were you doing in the northern gulf in the first place?’ he insisted.
‘I told you; the wind pushed us there after the great battle, and we were sailing up the eastern coast looking for food.’
‘Did you find any?’
The Shekelesh shook his head: ‘Nothing. Only empty villages inhabited by shepherds who ran off to the mountains with their sheep as soon as they saw us. The only ship we met before the storm was nearly empty as well; only water, dried fish and a little wheat.’
‘I understand, my friend,’ said the Chnan with a confidential tone, aiming to put his guest at ease. The man looked relieved, and cracked a half smile. ‘Peleset, I imagine. We met some of them ourselves around those parts.’
‘No. Ahhijawa,’ he said, still smiling. Myrsilus quivered at the word but the Chnan grabbed his arm to warn him not to speak or make a move.
‘Ah,’ said the Chnan, ‘those bastards. We ran into some of them too and they tried to attack us. They must have been famished. I hope you gave them a good lesson. Were there many of them?’
‘You’d better believe that we gave them a good thrashing! No, it was just one ship alone; they tried to slip off to the south, but we caught up with them. Not a single one of them survived, if I remember correctly. But they put us to a lot of trouble, for nothing. They put up quite a fight. Good at using
their fists, too. Warriors, that’s what they were, and tough ones at that, no merchants, that’s for sure.’
The Chnan turned towards Myrsilus and said something under his breath.
‘So, what do you know about the land that lies before us?’ asked the Chnan then, indicating the mountain chain that extended south as far as the eye could see.
‘Little or nothing. I think that further on there must be some Teresh, up ahead of us. We’ve run into them here and there in the villages. The inhabitants of these valleys captured some of them while they were out hunting or putting the horses to pasture, and they’ve kept them as slaves.’
‘Teresh!’ murmured the Chnan, astonished. ‘Teresh in the Land of Evening.’
The Shekelesh seemed relieved and looked at his questioner as though waiting for permission to return to his camp. ‘Why don’t you let me go?’ he said. ‘There’s nothing more to tell.’
‘No,’ said the Chnan. ‘I think not.’ He looked at Myrsilus. The eyes of the Achaean warrior were full of ire and his hand gripped the hilt of his sword. The Chnan turned away as Myrsilus’s sword cut the prisoner’s head clean off.
‘I had promised him that we would spare him,’ said the Chnan, getting to his feet.
‘I didn’t promise anything,’ said Myrsilus. ‘He killed our companions . . . he killed Anchialus! The king’s message will never reach our land. The invaders will arrive without forewarning . . . it will be a massacre. Our cities . . . our land . . .’
‘You can’t be sure,’ said the Chnan. ‘You can’t be certain. It might be an incredible trick of chance. Perhaps there were other Achaeans in the northern gulf . . . perhaps. You don’t think that there may be other madmen of your race wandering those inhospitable seas? There are Teresh here as well, can you believe it? Teresh in the Land of Evening.’
They walked slowly towards camp, still keeping an eye on the valley behind them.
When they were close, Myrsilus stopped. ‘They say that the Trojans even asked the Teresh for help when they were forming the great coalition of Assuwa.’
Heroes (formerly Talisman of Troy) Page 21