Heroes

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  14

  The mountains seemed to have no end in the land of Hesperia, just as one day, long ago now, it had seemed to Diomedes and his men that the plains were without end. The Achaeans managed to avoid the Teresh who controlled the region to the west by journeying along the crests of the mountains, but they ended up in the land of the Ombro, where they had to struggle to force their way through, although the Chnan at times tried to negotiate with them. Their small communities were very belligerent and mistrustful, and they were scattered everywhere, behind every corner. The Achaeans were often forced to seek shelter in the forests, so that too many men would not be lost. Whenever they neared a town in search of food, Diomedes’s men were often attacked and forced to engage in unsparing combat.

  The Ombro inhabited a splendid land, made of gentle hills and valleys full of flowers of every colour, edged with sparkling torrents. But it was a poor land, and very far from the sea; the Pica lived in the intervening territory, on the eastern side of the mountains. They were quite similar to the Ombro, cultivating the earth and raising animals in wooden pens. They burned their dead on woodpiles, then put their ashes into clay jars which they buried with a few humble belongings.

  The Pica were dangerous because they knew the art of crafting metal, and they made spears, axes and knives and sometimes even laminated bronze vases which the Chnan considered with great interest, carrying off as many as he could when they managed to seize a town. Their women were beautiful, with long, smooth braided hair; they wore gowns woven at the loom in bright colours.

  In the chiefs’ huts they sometimes found abundant quantities of amber, which certainly came from far away, perhaps from the fabled Electrides islands celebrated by sailors in every one of the Achaean ports.

  At the centre of each village, the Pica planted a pole topped with the image of a woodpecker, their sacred animal or perhaps their god. They took their name from him. Their land was very bare, suited mainly to grazing sheep and goats. Sometimes the sea could be seen in the distance, a sea as green as the meadows and edged with white foam. But the coast was completely uniform and there was not a port to be seen; no promontories from which one could gaze into the horizon, no coastal plains that could be cultivated. Myrsilus claimed that that was the same sea that they had crossed years earlier when they had left Argos to head north, and that if Anchialus had lived, he would be looking for them along that coast. He wondered what fate had befallen their homeland, since Anchialus had surely died in the hands of those bastard Shekelesh without ever delivering Diomedes’s message of alarm.

  One day, having pushed on in the direction of the eastern sea, Myrsilus returned with little objects of no value, but that he was never to part with; they were small vases and drinking cups that came from the land of the Achaeans. He showed them to the king, saying: ‘See, wanax? Someone from our land has ventured this far. That must mean that nothing terrible has happened to them. If we succeed in founding a city one day, we can make contact with merchants who come from our land and have news of it whenever they come out this way.’

  The king had taken those humble little objects into his hands and caressed them, so Myrsilus gave him one to keep for himself.

  Diomedes still tried to breed confidence in his men, but he realized as time passed that they were living from hand to mouth. They always ate as though it were their last meal, slept with a woman as though it might be the last time they ever made love. It was sad, and made him sick at heart, but there was nothing he could do to change it.

  Ros, the bride from the Mountains of Ice, loved him after all the time they had spent together, but she had not given him a child and this instilled a dark foreboding in Diomedes’s soul; if that woman had been summoned from lands far away to restore life to a dying people, then he must be the one who bore the seeds of destruction and annihilation within him. He realized that Aphrodite’s revenge would persecute him to the very end, to any corner of the land or sea. He had wounded her on the fields of Ilium and she punished him by extinguishing life wherever he now tried to sow it.

  At times, in the dead of night, he would awaken suddenly when a wolf or a jackal howled from a mountain top or wood, because he had become convinced that in that land the gods made themselves heard through the voices of the animals. Why else had they so often found signs of animal worship and votive offerings?

  One evening he returned to his tent after a raid, covered with dust and sweat. He lay down his weapons and poured a jug of water over his head. Just then his bride appeared, and he saw deep sadness in her eyes, or compassion perhaps. Or pity.

  He had not seen himself in a mirror for years, but it was enough to see those eyes and that gaze to understand everything.

  ‘A goddess once mounted my chariot and fought at my side,’ he said. ‘Do you believe me?’

  The girl came closer. ‘If you believe it then I believe you,’ she said.

  ‘No, you don’t believe me,’ said Diomedes. ‘For the man you see before you is not the same, and this land is not the same and not even the sky is the same. I feel the weight of the end. I passed between the severed heads: did you know that?’

  ‘Yes. But that will not be the cause of your death.’

  ‘My comrades follow me because I promised them a kingdom, a city with houses and families. And I’ve given them nothing but hardship, grief and death.’

  ‘Your comrades love you. They are ready to follow you anywhere. And after all, didn’t they suffer with you when you fought under the walls of that city so far away?’

  ‘Don’t you understand? This is why my heart aches! Then we knew what our sacrifices were for, then we lived in a world where we knew the rules and the confines. Not any more. I don’t know where to lead them. Years have passed since we reached the mouth of the Eridanus. We have crossed plains and mountains and forests, we have forded swamps and swirling rivers. We have fought with many peoples but we have conquered nothing. This land saps our strength from us day after day, robs me of my comrades, one after another. How many have I buried until now?’ Tears brimmed in his eyes but his voice was firm and strong. ‘I remember them all, each one of them. I remember their names, their families, their cities. But they no longer exist. No one will ever take an offering to their tombs, no one will pronounce their names on the anniversary of their deaths. I had hoped that one day, when I had built a city and a kingdom, I would be able to raise a lofty cairn to them, with many steles of stone, each one carved with a name. Every year I would have offered a sacrifice and celebrated funeral games. Even for the Chetaean slave who died as a warrior to save my life.

  ‘Perhaps I shall never succeed. One day my strength will abandon me and I too shall fall. Perhaps I will be left unburied. Another man will have you, just as I took you from the man who was destined to have you.’

  ‘That is not true,’ said the bride. ‘This land could welcome you, if you could only banish the ghosts of time past. One night, while you were sleeping and I was wakeful, I went to the campfire to warm myself. The small, dark man that you call the Chnan approached me, and he sat down in silence next to me. I asked him: “If you were certain that the king would listen to you, what would you ask him?”

  ‘He understood my sadness and he had many times seen the despair on your face. This is what he said: “I would tell him, go towards the sea and find a place which is big enough, near a little promontory and a source of fresh water. Build a village by cutting down the wood of the forest. Learn to extract salt from the water and to preserve fish, establish good relations with the nearby inhabitants, exchange gifts and swear to hold to agreements. Take women in marriage and bear children. Live off what the earth and the sea can give you. Sow the fields, graze flocks of goats and sheep, so you will have food in abundance in the winter, when the cold wind blows over the sea and the mountains. You will have wood to warm you, soft fleece on your beds. One day, perhaps, you will plant olive trees and grape vines and you will have oil to fortify your bodies and wine to warm your spirits. No
one will ever know you exist, but you will live in peace and die one day, enfeebled by age, watching the sun set on the sea with clear eyes.”

  ‘This is what the small dark man that you call the Chnan told me, and I think he is right. Why don’t you listen to him? Perhaps you would find peace. You would see life flourish, instead of wandering aimlessly, pursued by death. Finally, I believe, you would become my husband, my man. I could bear you a child whom you would see growing strong as a colt, beautiful as a tree in bloom.’

  The king looked at her without speaking, and for a moment, it seemed to the girl that she could see a serene light in his eyes, like a golden sunset, but only just for a moment. Myrsilus came running up, breathing hard. His weapons clanged against his shoulders and the crest swayed on his helmet, stirred by gusts of wind. She shuddered as if she had seen a starving wolf galloping towards her: Myrsilus was the only adviser Diomedes listened to.

  ‘Wanax!’ he was shouting. ‘Wanax!’ He stopped before his king with a mad gleam in his eye, like delirium. The king had him enter his tent.

  ‘Wanax,’ he said again when he had calmed down. ‘I was advancing westward with my men as you had advised me, to see if there was richer, more open land in that direction. We found villages populated by an unknown people and we attacked them to take their animals. The Chnan says that they are the Lat, and that they come from the north. They are tough, combative. They venerate a she-wolf as their god and are led by her.’

  ‘Is this why you are so excited?’ asked the king. ‘We already know that there are many unfamiliar peoples roaming this land.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Myrsilus. ‘But when we burst into the largest house, belonging to their chief, perhaps, we found a prisoner, a man, bound. We’ve brought him here with us. You have to see him. Now.’

  Diomedes followed him, directing a fleeting glance towards his bride, as if to ask her forgiveness for not having listened to her, and he went down the slope until he found his armed comrades thronging around someone or something. Myrsilus led him to the centre of the circle and showed him a man sitting on the ground at the foot of a tree. He was unbound, and when he saw Diomedes he leapt to his feet as if he had seen a ghost. He stood still and silent, staring at the king. He was a man of about thirty-five, tall and slim, well built. His face and body showed signs of hardship.

  ‘He’s a Trojan,’ said Myrsilus. ‘His name is Eurimachus.’

  ‘A Trojan,’ said the king, drawing closer. ‘A Trojan, here. .’ Then he turned to Myrsilus: ‘Have you done him harm?’

  ‘No, wanax.’

  ‘Have you interrogated him?’

  ‘Yes, but he hasn’t said much.’

  The king turned to the prisoner: ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.

  ‘Your appearance tells me that the gods have justly punished you for what you did to us, but I recognize you nonetheless. You are Diomedes. You wander without a homeland or a family in foreign territory. Destiny has been no kinder with you than with the vanquished.’

  Diomedes bit his lip. He was ashamed of his wretched semblance, of the dwindling ranks of his men. The last time that man had seen him he was flying over the plain of Ilium on his chariot in a cloud of dust, clad in shining bronze, followed by an army as numerous as the stalks of wheat in the fields. He felt stabbed by deep humiliation, and yet he understood that strange, giddy enthusiasm that had possessed Myrsilus: that man was a part of his lost world; he obeyed the same rules, spoke the same language.

  ‘How did you get here?’ he asked, and hope seemed to quiver in his words.

  ‘From the sea. With Aeneas.’

  Diomedes was struck dumb. He remembered the night that he had spent in the swamps near the banks of the Eridanus, the black mirror of water that swelled up under a mysterious force. There he had seen the Dardan prince, Aeneas! Covered with bronze, advancing towards him with a menacing air, brandishing his sword. This was the meaning of his vision! Only a final bout of single combat between the two races would satisfy the gods! Only thus would they be satisfied, and assign dominion over that land. The gods had led him here, through mud and dust, and they had led the son of Anchises to the same place. This was the reason, without a doubt! The gods were not content with the savage encounters that had bloodied the plains of the Hellespont for years; they demanded to watch the last duel, from up on the top of Mount Olympus, as they drank ambrosia from their golden cups. They could not be disappointed; if they were granted their pleasure, they would surely assign the prize. Perhaps Athena, who had once protected Diomedes’s father Tydeus, would appear to him again, a diaphanous figure in the mists of sunset. She would take up the reins at his side, on his war chariot.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked. His voice had lost all uncertainty; it was metallic and hard, peremptory.

  ‘You will never know.’

  ‘There’s no place for both of us in this land. It must be either me, or him. You don’t have to tell me where he is; I’ll find him nevertheless, and I will challenge him to a duel. But if you do tell me, you can be certain I won’t attack him from behind, when he least expects it. I will send a herald, and you can accompany him yourself. If you accept, you can return to him and remain with him, if he wins. But if I win, this land will be mine, mine the people who populate it far and wide.’

  ‘Isn’t the blood you spilled for years and years enough? All those innocents, mown down by death, all those tears. .’ said the Trojan. ‘Isn’t it enough that your homeland has become a nest of vipers, cursed by the gods? Do you know what has become of the great master of deception? He who designed the trick that defeated us, do you know what fate has reserved for him?’ Eurimachus’s eyes blazed, the veins on his neck stood out.

  ‘Ulysses! What do you know? What do you know?’ shouted out Diomedes.

  ‘We met one of his comrades in the land of the Mountains of Fire, in the region of the giant cyclops. The poor wretch had been cast ashore and forgotten; for months he had been living like an animal, eating roots, worms and insects. He seemed crazed when he saw us, he threw himself weeping at Aeneas’s knees, he embraced his knees, do you understand that? He told us what happened to the great deceiver: Ulysses has lost all his ships and wanders the sea aimlessly, persecuted by implacable destiny.’ The Trojan’s eyes glittered with cruel, fearless joy. Diomedes lowered his head and felt anguish invading his soul: Ulysses. . had not returned. His faithful bride and the little prince still waited for him, gazing out over the distant waves day after day, in vain. Ulysses, the greatest sailor in the land of the Achaeans, had lost his way! Or perhaps he was so shattered by the loss of his ships and his comrades that he dare not return to his homeland to face the elders and the nobles.

  ‘Do not rejoice too soon, Trojan,’ he said, staring wildly into his eyes. ‘Ulysses will return. Ulysses always finds the way. His mind fears not even the gods; he can win any challenge. But consider now what I have told you. If you accept to take me to Aeneas, you will witness a fair duel. If you refuse, I’ll sell you as a slave, trade you for some food or animals.’

  When Diomedes returned to his tent, his bride ran to him. ‘What did Myrsilus show you? There was a man down there; who is he?’ she asked, and her fear was plainly written in her eyes.

  ‘The past,’ said the king. ‘My past has returned. I must kill if I want to conquer the future. Only then shall we found a city for the living and raise a mound to the dead. Only then.’

  The Trojan prisoner leading them to Aeneas had lost his way. Autumn was ending, and the weather worsened abruptly. Snow fell heavily on the mountains and covered the trails and the passes. Diomedes tried nonetheless to advance in the direction of the western sea, but peril abounded on the steep windswept summits and in the forests crawling with packs of starving wolves.

  One day, as the sun was setting, as the column of warriors advanced along a steep, narrow path in the deep snow, one of Diomedes’s horses stumbled and fell. The steed tried to get back up by digging in his hooves, but the ground
crumbled beneath them. He slipped further down, letting out shrill whinnies of pain. And his companion, erect on the rim of the precipice, answered, calling him desperately.

  Diomedes plunged down the slope, nearly falling headlong himself, finally reaching him. The magnificent animal could no longer move: his spine was broken. He raised his head, snorting great clouds of steam from his nostrils, his huge eyes wide and full of terror.

  Diomedes knelt before him: he couldn’t believe that this had happened. This was one of the divine horses that he had taken from Aeneas in battle after having defeated and nearly killed him.

  They understood him, they understood human words, they understood, in the night, the mysterious voices carried by the wind and perhaps, when all other creatures had given themselves up to sleep they spoke to each other in a language that no one could understand. Diomedes pummelled the snow and wept as the horse whinnied weakly, his head falling backwards. The king stroked him gently, at length, then tore off a strip of his cloak and tied it over the horse’s eyes. From above, his comrades watched in silence, while the other horse called his companion frantically, rearing up and wildly kicking the air, whinnying sharply towards the grey, impassive sky.

  Diomedes pulled out his dagger and struck the animal at the base of his head. A clean blow. The snow was stained by a scarlet stream and the horse surrendered his life.

  The king trudged slowly towards the path. He reached his comrades and silently resumed the march. But the other horse would not follow them. The efforts of Myrsilus and the others to coax him on were futile: absolutely immobile, he stared at them with flaming eyes.

  The king turned towards them: ‘Let him alone,’ he said. ‘He has reached the end of his road.’

  As they began to march again, the horse turned towards the bottom of the escarpment and began, tentatively, to test the terrain with his hoof. Then, slowly, he began to make his way down. Myrsilus turned around and said, ‘Wanax!’ and the king stopped as well. He turned and watched with a swollen heart as the horse descended slowly in the snow up to his breast and finally reached his dead companion. He nudged him with his muzzle, neighing softly, trying to move him with his head, to make him stand up. In the end, he placed himself in front of the other, his head high, nostrils dilated, ears pointed, whipping the air with his tail, scraping the frozen earth with his hoof.