Текст книги "Heroes"

Автор книги: Valerio Massimo Manfredi

Соавторы: Valerio Massimo Manfredi
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

9

Diomedes advanced westward with his warriors, journeying up a muddy little river in the hopes of finding more welcoming lands and less hostile skies, but as soon as he had left his refuge and ventured on to open land, he immediately felt the presence of a hidden enemy who seemed to be everywhere.

By day the men would hear distant sounds, like animal cries, in the midst of the plain or the deep of the forests. By night, fleet, faint shadows passed in the glimmer of the moon; shapes, similar to beasts or fantastic birds, appeared out of nowhere before the sentinels who stood watch in the darkness, only to vanish like the creatures of a dream.

Telephus, the Hittite slave, warned everyone to stay alert; to take care not to be lured away from the camp or guard post. He said that he wouldn’t be provoked by a shadow; crossing swords was the only way to challenge him. No flimsy shade could frighten him; he had never heard of anyone being killed by an apparition or a ghost. Only a good span of bronze or iron would do that job.

‘You don’t believe in invisible creatures and gods, then?’ the Chnanasked him one evening as they were roasting a wild pig they had snared in a trap.

‘I believe in the gods of my land when I am there, but here. . who could ever desire to live in a place like this? There can be nothing but the spirits of animals or of trees here; nothing that can worry us. Stay within call and within reach, always, and no harm can come to you. I commanded a chariot squadron in the Hittite army, but I’ve had to patrol the mountains and forest of Toros and Katpatuka on foot, as well. Those places are crawling with fierce, treacherous savages. We simply watched each others’ backs; no one ever went out alone to look for water or forage for the pack animals.’

As he was saying this a shrill sound whistled through the air and one of the sentinels on guard at a short distance collapsed with a sigh, run through by an arrow. The king was notified immediately, and he rode out on horseback with fifty armed men to encircle the area the arrow had come from, but the darkness and the rough terrain protected the aggressors. They never found a trace of them, as if they had never existed.

The king returned to the camp in the middle of the night, full of impotent rage, and stopped beside the dying warrior: his name was Hippotous, from Lerna. He had been only sixteen when they left for the war. His father Phaillus had been among Tydeus’s most faithful friends and Diomedes had always loved him like a younger brother. His comrades had brought him close to the fire, and the Chnanwas wetting his lips with a linen cloth. He was delirious.

‘They’re attacking!’ he would shout out, trembling and trying to lift up on his elbows. ‘Deiphobus and Aeneas, on the right! Beware, wanax! Watch your left side! The Maeonian chariots are upon us, those cursed bastard dogs. .’

The king knelt beside him and placed a hand on his burning forehead. The Chnanhad managed to cut the arrow shaft with a knife blade, but he had not been able to extract the tip.

‘Rest now, my friend. The enemy has been routed. They’ve taken to their heels.’

‘Really, wanax? And what will I have? What spoils will be mine?’

‘A pair of horses: two superb sorrels, still be to broken in,’ said the king, stroking him tenderly. ‘A helmet; it’s beautiful, decorated in silver and. . two spears. .’

But the god of eternal sleep opened the youth’s eyes for an instant and he saw the truth in his king’s mournful gaze. ‘I’m dying. . wanax. To no purpose.’

His head dropped back and his still eyes were filled with death. The fire was going out, and its bluish reflection made the pallor of his forehead look like marble. The king bit his lip and wept.

After that night, Diomedes tried to be even more prudent; he would send Myrsilus forward with a small group of his fastest men: Evenus, Agelaus, Krissus and even Lamus the Spartan, son of Onchestus. After long days of bewilderment, Lamus had finally recovered his spirit and determination. He seemed to feel that any moment in which the column was not moving was a waste. He was never ready to stop in the evening, and in the morning he was the first to awaken and to stir up the fire.

At their sides, the king posted two small squads of Argive warriors from his personal guard. He himself marched in front of the main body of the column and posted a small rear guard behind, at a good distance. His wooden chest was at the centre of the column on a little cart pulled by a couple of mules. Alongside the chest, sitting on a bench and protected by a shelter of intertwined wicker, was the bride come from beyond the Mountains of Ice. She was as yet untouched by man.

But even in this way, Diomedes continued to suffer losses: clusters of arrows would suddenly fall from the sky like hail, although the men could not understand where they were coming from. Or the earth would open beneath their feet, plunging the warriors into pits studded with sharp spikes which pierced them through like fish that a sharp-eyed fisherman runs through with his harpoon. Sometimes, as they slept, their entire camp was inundated with water, so that they had to abandon their sleeping mats, gather up the supplies and run to repel the danger that loomed in the shadows, spending nights awake, eyes stinging with fatigue, bowels gripped by cramps.

The king always showed his men the same dauntless expression, the same imperious gaze, but those who were closest to him, Myrsilus and even the Chnan, often saw the muscles of his face quivering uncontrollably under his skin, his eyes blinking rapidly and a light sweat beading his forehead, whether it was hot or cold. The king was suffering and his pain worsened with every passing day.

The bride would raise her head, sometimes, and the king exchanged glances with her, but that contact gave him no comfort or warmth. Her eyes were like a cold springtime sky, continually crossed by light and shadow, cloudy and clear practically at the same moment. The king could not speak to her. He tried, sometimes, in the intimacy that at night his men left to him in respect of his rank and because of their fondness for him, but he obtained no response. But the Chnannoticed that when Diomedes seemed most alone and despairing, when it seemed that fate and events did naught but torment him, then, it seemed to the Chnan, then her eyes would flicker a look like a furtive caress.

And the Chnanwould notice that the king would suddenly turn his head then, as if someone had touched him.

‘All they want is the girl,’ said Telephus, the Hittite, one night. ‘If we let her go, this persecution will stop. We can no longer bear up under this strain. If we go on like this, we will all die. Someone has to tell him,’ he said, nodding towards the king, who was standing alone near his horses. ‘We’ve been marching for days and days and we’ve never seen their faces, but they are murdering us. How many men have we lost? Ten, maybe fifteen, I’ve lost count. And how many of them have we killed? Not one. They’re different; they will never agree to face us on the open field, phalanx against phalanx. They don’t think there is anything shameful or wrong about attacking us in secret, at night.’

‘You don’t think he already knows?’ replied the Chnan, indicating the king as he advanced through the mud, leading the horses by their reins. ‘They say that he once wounded a god in battle, but here there is no one to cross swords with, not even a savage or a shepherd. .’

‘Why is he doing it then? I know he is a generous man. How could he sacrifice his people this way?’

The Chnanwalked at length without answering. In the distance was a low line of bluish mountains.

‘See those mountains? Perhaps that is where this accursed land ends. The king believes that if we manage to leave this place, we’ll finally be able to build a city and raise a temple. He thinks we will be invincible then, and that this girl will give him sons, and a dynasty. And that he’ll get other women for his warriors; that’s what he’s thinking. He knows there is no alternative. We can’t turn back, and facing the enemy is impossible. We have no choice but to go onwards. . hoping that some of us remain, in the end.’

‘But why won’t he give back the woman? He’ll find other women, more beautiful ones.’

‘He wants this one. If she was sent to regenerate the tribe of Nemro, she must bear a great life force within her. This is what he thinks. And perhaps he loves her. Have you seen how he looks at her?’

‘I have. But we will all die, this I know. Those mountains are still too far away; how many of us will fall before we get there?’

The column had stopped because Myrsilus had found a dry clearing, a large grassy knoll protected on one side by a group of ash and oak trees, just turning green with new leaves, and on the other by a torrent that edged it on three sides like the ocean around a peninsula. Gigantic clouds were gathering over the mountain peaks, shot through by blazing bolts of lightning.

‘We must inflict heavy losses on them,’ said the Chnan, ‘and convince them to withdraw.’

‘Or resolve it by fighting a duel,’ said Telephus.

The Chnanwatched the big storm clouds clustering over the mountains: ‘The west wind is pushing them this way,’ he said. ‘They’ll be here right after dark.’

‘Yes. And the rain as well.’

‘There will be lightning; these tall trees may very well attract the bolts.’

‘Do you mean to say we should camp elsewhere?’

‘On the contrary. Perhaps they’ll attack tonight, and we may manage to wipe them out, or at least to strike out hard. If the storms in this land move like the sea. . and if the king will listen to me. .’

As he moved off the surrounding forests began to echo with calls, like animal cries.

The Chnanwent to the king: ‘Your men say you have armour of gold.’

‘They have told you the truth,’ said Diomedes without turning.

‘Is the shield made of gold too?’

‘Yes, the shield as well.’

‘Give it to me. If these cries from the forest are not night birds, as I don’t imagine they are, they will attack again tonight.’

‘Invisible and unfindable, as always.’

‘Not any more, wanax. Give me a man who can help me light a fire on the highest part of the hill. Telephus, the Chetaean, will do. And give me your shield, enclosed in its case. The storm will be here soon, just as darkness falls. Sit down and eat now. Rest and gather your forces because I will soon make your enemies visible. Order the archers to draw up and to be ready with their bows, for they will have to aim and shoot as swiftly as the blink of an eye. Order your warriors to remain in their armour and to keep their hands on the shafts of their spears.’

The king gave him the shield and the Chnanwent off with Telephus towards the top of the hill. Telephus held a burning firebrand, which he used to set a fire as soon as they had arrived. The men below lit fires as well and began to eat. The king ate, and offered some of his food to the girl. The storm was drawing nearer and the clouds galloped through the sky above the camp.

The Hittite appeared just then. ‘Oh king,’ he said. ‘Rally your men. The storm is rushing towards us, and if the enemies attack, the Chnanwill show you where they are, but only for a brief moment.’

‘That will be enough,’ said the king. He put on his helmet and fastened his cuirass.

The wind had picked up and was stoking the fires in camp and on the hilltop. Diomedes called his men and had them take position behind a group of trees facing the forest. He told them to stay ready, although he knew not what to expect. Suddenly, a blinding light flashed, immediately followed by the roar of thunder, and in that instant the king saw the enemy advancing in open order across the plain, towards the hill. The Chnansaw them as well, and he turned the golden shield so that it would project the light of the large fire that Telephus had built upon them, as he continued to feed it with all the wood he could lay his hands on.

‘Now, wanax!’ shouted the Chnan, and Diomedes rushed forth, followed by his men. The enemies had stopped for a moment, stunned by the thunder and blinded by the lightning, but the light of the fire reflected off the golden shield of the king made them visible; shadowy, but distinguishable. It was enough. The Achaeans fanned out as they ran down the hill at great speed. Diomedes burst into the midst of his enemies, and his shout was more terrible that the roar of the thunder. He ran one man through with his spear and brought down the next ones with his dagger and sword. The javelins of Myrsilus, to the far left, hit their marks one after another. Taken by surprise for the first time, the assailants were bewildered, uncertain whether to continue fighting or to flee, and in that uncertainty the hard blows of the Achaeans rained down, enraged as they were and eager for revenge.

It began just then to pour, and the bursts of heavy rain dampened the fires and extinguished them almost completely in just a few moments. The light of the golden shield went out as well and the battle ceased. Myrsilus took a burning brand and examined the dead, trying to recognize Nemro, but found no trace of him.

They took shelter under their tents and waited for the rain to stop so they could continue their search. Quite some time passed before the sky cleared, revealing the stars and the full moon that was just rising over the crests of the Blue Mountains.

The king scanned the fields to see if the dead were still there, and as the pale light of the moon freed itself of the mists of the storm, he saw a still, erect shadow among the lifeless bodies of the fallen. He was tall and powerful, and gripped a long narrow sword. It was Nemro!

At a certain distance behind him, his men were lined up at the edge of the forest, their hands on the hilts of their swords. The Chnanapproached the king and said: ‘It has happened sooner than I could have hoped: he is challenging you to single combat. Kill him, and we’ll no longer have these sneaking demons hounding us.’

Myrsilus stepped forward: ‘Oh wanax, that savage who has hidden in the shadows until now is not worthy to cross swords with the king of Argos. You rest and watch: I’ll go.’

The king looked back and he saw the blonde bride standing behind him, staring at the plains beyond him. She was looking at Nemro.

‘No,’ said the king. ‘I must fight him. Have the armour of Ilium brought to me.’

Myrsilus obeyed and Diomedes was brought the armour that he had worn when he fought the sons of Priam between the Scamander and the Simois. He threw the leather cuirass he had donned for the night raid on to the ground, and covered himself with bronze. He slung on his shield and grasped the enormous ashwood spear. He tightened the baldric adorned with golden studs and stretched his right hand out towards his attendant to receive his sword.

‘The Pakana,’ said Myrsilus. And the attendant handed him the heavy sword, its silver hilt set with a piece of amber embossed with the figure of a lion chasing a roebuck, crafted by Traseus.

The king hung it from his baldric and adjusted it on his side. Before donning the helmet, he turned to the bride and said: ‘I am facing death for you. Do not disdain me in your heart.’ He descended the slope with slow heavy steps until he was facing his adversary. The Achaean warriors, who had received no orders, all drew up into three long rows on the hillside, holding their shields and grasping their swords. When the king grasped his own and began to brandish it, looking for a gap in his enemy’s defences, they shouted: ‘ARGOS!’

Nemro’s warriors shouted out something as well, but no one understood except the Chnan, whose eyes welled with tears in the darkness.

They had yelled out: ‘LIFE!’

Diomedes observed him carefully, exploring every detail of the gigantic figure. He wore a conical bronze helmet and a great shield which protected him from his chin to his knees. He gripped a javelin and a long sword hung at his side. He was readying for the battle as well, weighing the javelin to balance it before striking. The air had become much colder than the earth after the storm, and a light mist crept through the grass and covered the field until it lapped at the foot of the hill where the Achaean warriors were lined up. The combatants, under the glow of the moon, were waist deep in it now. Nemro swiftly hurled the javelin, aiming at his enemy’s forehead, but Diomedes saw the blow coming and raised his shield. The weapon penetrated the rim and its point stopped just a palm from his face, although the hero’s eyes never so much as blinked.

A roar arose from the edge of the clearing. Diomedes dislodged the javelin from his shield by knocking it against the trunk of a tree, and he resumed his impenetrable stance. Nemro made to unsheathe his sword but just as he was lowering his arm to his belt, his shoulder was bared. Diomedes threw his spear, which ripped into his enemy’s shoulder-plate and lacerated his flesh. Blood gushed down the warrior’s arm but the blow had not severed his tendon; the muscle was intact, and he lunged forward, brandishing his sword.

The utter silence of the little valley was rent by the din of hand-to-hand combat. The clang of bronze striking, suffocated cries, jagged breath. The two men faced off in fierce, incessant fighting, without a moment of respite.

Diomedes suddenly delivered an unexpected blow from above, surprising Nemro’s arm in an awkward position; the warrior lost his sword. Diomedes reacted swiftly, forcing back his unarmed opponent. Nemro turned and began to run, then stopped all at once and grabbed a tree trunk which was lying on the ground. He wheeled around and thrust it out like a battering ram towards his enemy, still in swift pursuit. As his men raised a cry of fear and surprise, Nemro charged forth holding the trunk in both hands and hit the running Diomedes full in the chest, knocking him to the ground. Cheers of joy came from the edge of the forest, while the rows of Achaeans on high seemed to dissolve like shadows in the fog which rose towards the summit.

Nemro dropped the trunk and picked up a boulder emerging from the grass. He stood above his fallen enemy, raised the rock high above his head and crashed it down upon him with all his might. But Diomedes had come to his senses; he twisted his torso and dealt a deep upward thrust with his sword. The boulder fell at his side without harming him as Nemro dropped to his knees, holding both hands to his wound. Gritting his teeth, he wrenched the sword from his ribs and lunged forward to strike his enemy with the blade red with his own blood, but his strength abandoned him and he collapsed, dying.

Diomedes rose to his feet and took off his helmet. Nemro raised a hand towards him and said something that the king could not understand, but the tone of that hoarse, sorrowful voice penetrated deep into his soul. He knelt over him, and when he had breathed his last, Diomedes closed his eyes.

He did not strip him of his armour as was his right. He picked up the spear and returned to his own men, who awaited him in silence, drawn up, unmoving, on the hillside. As he advanced through the tall, damp grass he heard a song rise up behind him and he shuddered. It was the same lament he had heard in the swamp at the mouth of the Eridanus; an inconsolable weeping, an endless sighing. The voice of a dying people. He turned slowly towards the forest and in the moonlight he saw a group of men approaching the lifeless body of the fallen giant. They gathered him up gently and carried him in their arms to the torrent. They washed away his blood and sweat, recomposed his limbs and adjusted his weapons, before covering him with a cloak. They fashioned a stretcher out of supple hazelnut branches where they laid him and stood vigil over him all night.

At the break of dawn they began walking. Diomedes stood on the hill and watched as they made their way with a slow step carrying the rough litter of their fallen king.

They soon disappeared from sight, but for a long time the funeral dirge could still be heard over the whole breadth of the plain, drifting towards the horizon, still oppressed by large black clouds.

They walked, stopping neither by day nor by night, until they reached the shores of the Eridanus and then beyond, until they reached the place where the rest of their people were camped. From there they proceeded to the Lake of the Ancestors, guided by the elders who had always known the way. When they reached its shores they laid Nemro’s body in a hollowed log and pushed him into the deep, in keeping with the ancient rite of their fathers. The Great Waters welcomed the son who had returned after so long a time and rocked him at length in the sun and wind before burying him in the liquid darkness of the abyss.

Diomedes resumed the march towards the Blue Mountains with a heavy heart. Victory had given him no joy, and the land they were passing offered no place suitable for founding a city. They saw more square villages surrounded by moats and cultivated fields, but they were naught but islands in a sea of wild nature that had taken possession of all the territory. Many of the villages appeared to be deserted, as if the inhabitants had left, taking their things with them.

Boundless cane groves marked the slow snaking of the water over the earth. It seemed that a number of frightful floods had devastated the work of men, and that immense, prolonged fatigue had finally crushed the will of the village communities to withstand the constant onslaught of the elements. Everywhere they found signs of work begun and abandoned half-way: embankments, dams, canals. .

The weather had begun to change and the high sun warmed the air and the earth. At first this brought welcome relief, but then the heat became intolerable because the water that flowed on the ground mixed with the air and produced a sense of suffocation and oppression. Only towards evening was there any respite. The land seemed to change; the sun setting behind the Blue Mountains enflamed the clouds in the sky and set alight the marshy expanses at their feet. The water glittered between the canes like molten gold and the wind rose to bend the grass on the plains and rustle the green foliage of the oak and ash trees. The poplars shivered silver at every breath of the wind and the new leaves of the beeches shone like polished copper. At the edges of the forests grazed great horned deer and does with their newly born young. Packs of boars snuffled under aged oaks, and the sows called to their striped-back little ones with soft, continuous grunts. Sometimes, in the thick of the wood, they would glimpse the shiny pelt of a huge bear.

When darkness fell, an incessant choir of frogs would rise from the waters, joined by the chirping of crickets in the meadows and the solitary warbling of the nightingale in the forest. At that hour, the king would go down towards a nearby river or stream to bathe; he would throw his chlamys over his shoulders and remain in silence to contemplate the evening. Memories would overwhelm him then, of the furious battles fought under the walls of the city of Priam. His companions: Achilles, Sthenelus, Ulysses, Ajax. . all dead. . or lost. How he would have liked to sit with them and speak of the toils of the day, drinking wine and eating roasted meat. .

For many years he had desired to return to the peace of his home and the love of his bride and now, incredibly, he regretted that the war had ever finished. Not the blind clashes he’d had in this land, but the loyal combat of the past, where two phalanxes would draw up in broad daylight on the open field, front to front. And where the gods could clearly choose whose side they were on, where a man could show what he was worth. He remembered the blinding glare of bronze, the din of the combat chariots launched in unrestrained attack against the barrier of the enemy infantry. He recalled deep sleep under his tent, and endless torpor. And he remembered how continuous familiarity with death made him appreciate enormously every aspect of life, no matter how humble or poor.

Now, for the first time in all his life, he was afraid. He was afraid of seeing his men die one by one, snared like animals in traps, betrayed at night, surprised in the shadows. He was afraid that he was marching, at the cost of great sacrifice and exhausting strain, towards nothing. This uninhabited wasteland was no land at all; it was a limitless, boundless magma that had already annihilated the people who had tried to settle it.

The bride who had come from the Mountains of Ice began to understand the language of the Achaeans, because Telephus and the Chnanspoke to her often and dedicated great attention to her, but she never spoke, never asked for anything and never even smiled, for she knew in her heart that she would never again see her land or her family.

One evening they camped along the river, which had become much more lovely and clear. The water ran sparkling over smooth pebbles and gravel of myriad colours. Long tongues of fine sand stretched into the bends, edged by little tufts of wicker which bowed in the evening breeze until they touched the current.

The girl descended towards a grove of willow trees, took off her clothing and walked into the water. It was still cold with the melting snow of the Blue Mountains, but very pleasant because it reminded her of the rivers in her native land. She let herself be carried by the current, she rolled and dipped, diving in where it was deepest until she could touch the sands at the bottom. She would turn on to her back and then on to her stomach, letting the water caress her hair.

When she got to her feet to return to the shore where she had left her clothing she found King Diomedes before her, sitting alone on a boulder.

The low sun struck him in full, setting his hair ablaze around his bronzed cheeks, mixing it with the curls of his beard like the waves of the river amid the willow bushes. He was wearing only his chlamys over his nude body, and his leg was propped up on a stone. She realized that he had been watching her for some time, without her knowing. She did not run away, because there was nowhere she could go. She was drawn towards him by the melancholy look in his eyes; the same that she had seen in Nemro’s black eyes, but without his gleam of hope. In those few steps that separated her from the king she realized that he was sadder, more alone, more desperate; she understood that Nemro’s death for him had been nothing more, nothing less than an unavoidable turn of fate.

She looked at his awesome hands, the hands of an annihilator. The strong fingers, the turgid veins under his skin. Hands that gave death or a caress without much difference. She looked into his eyes and laid her hands on his shoulders; they felt hard, and strong. She ran her fingers through his soft, smooth hair. She pressed his head to her bosom and he put his hands around her waist and kissed her breasts and her smooth stomach still dripping with river water. Without standing, he pulled her against him, pulled her into his lap and penetrated within her holding her in his arms like a child, letting her rest her head on his shoulder, as though she were sleeping. One drop of her virgin’s blood stained the white chlamys of the king and she pressed her lips together without a moan. She clasped the hard body of the king with her tender arms and with her long, slender legs. She thought of Nemro’s black eyes, dead, forever, she thought of her distant land, beyond the immaculate peaks of the Mountains of Ice, and she wept. She wept while the king laid her on the sand and unleashed all the power of his loins within her, gripping her by the shoulders, by her hair. . She wept because she felt the whole world stifled by sadness, in the murmur of the river and the woods, in the slow, opaque dusk, in the remote screeching of the scops owl, in the whisper of the wind.

The king cried out in the moment of supreme delirium, a cry as hoarse as the growl of a beast, then collapsed, exhausted, his fists clutching the river sand. The girl slipped away from under his heavy body and immersed herself again in the river to purify herself in its gelid waters. When she emerged, Diomedes had disappeared; there was nothing left of him but the footprints in the damp sand and his feral odour in the air, but as she was gathering up her clothing she found a flower resting on her gown, a wild melilot. She picked it up and brought it to her face, inhaling its scent. The moon was just rising between the boughs of the poplars and the day past was nothing but a thin vermilion strip on the mountain crest. She felt that the king had left her a kiss and a caress.