Текст книги "Heroes"

Автор книги: Valerio Massimo Manfredi

Соавторы: Valerio Massimo Manfredi
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

‘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.

‘It will be dark soon,’ said Myrsilus, ‘the wolves will come.’

‘I know,’ said the king. ‘And so does he. But nothing will separate him from his lost companion. He’ll wait to gallop with him again in the Asphodel fields.’ Large tears lined his bristly cheeks. ‘It’s never cold there; there is no snow, or frost. It’s never dark and night never comes. A divine light shines endlessly over meadows blooming with white lilies and scarlet poppies. .’ He pulled close the cloak that the icy wind snapped like a tired banner. ‘It’s never cold there, never cold. .’

In that moment, the darkness was animated by yellow eyes, by rustling noises, by dull snarling, while a shrill whinny broke the silence, raising a challenge as clear as the sounding of a trumpet.

Myrsilus drew closer to Diomedes and fixed him with a firm gaze: ‘You’ll conquer others no worse than these,’ he said. ‘And you will harness them to your chariot. Let us go now, wanax, the night is upon us.’

At that moment, under another sky, Anchialus jerked awake abruptly and left his tent, searching the darkness in the direction of the mountains and then, opposite them, the beach glittering in the moonlight. He thought he had heard a strange sound, like distant galloping. He approached a guard on watch near the fire, one of the Epirotes marching with Pyrrhus.

‘Did you hear that?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Someone. . someone approaching on horseback.’

‘You’re dreaming,’ said the guard. All he heard was the sound of the lapping waves, the sleepless motion of the sea. But Anchialus was certain of the sound in his ears and, unsheathing his sword, strode through the camp immersed in sleep. The plain stretched between the mountains and the sea, extending at the end into a narrow sandy strip between the high promontories.

The waves of the sea glistened in a silver wake that led, like a path, to the horizon. To the pale face of the moon. And the sound of the galloping was always closer, more powerful. He heard it, here, and there, striking the hard rocks which rang crackling under the pounding bronze hooves and then beating the compact earth with a dull roar. It came from the right, no, perhaps from the left. He couldn’t say. Suddenly, out of nowhere, it was on him. He heard shrill whinnying, he felt panting, snorting breath steaming from quivering nostrils, he smelled the sharp odour of sweat and then it was behind him, towards the sea. He turned and he heard it pounding the sand and whipping the waves of the sea until the sound died off, amidst the billows, towards the pale light of the moon.

He saw nothing, but remained at length to watch the swells, white with foam like flowing manes tossed by the wind, to watch the shivering silver wake stretching infinitely to the shores of distant Asia and the deserted fields of Ida.

He retraced his steps and sat down on a stone covered with fragrant moss. Whose wild galloping had that been, bursting upon him from the west and fading off over the sea towards Asia? What message were the gods sending him? He closed his eyes and tried to crush an ominous premonition.

The next day Pyrrhus gave orders to turn south along the coast. And thus the son of Achilles left behind the vast plains of Thessaly and Phthia, his birthright, which he had been allowed to see for so brief a time. He was reminded of the suspicion with which old Peleus had questioned him upon his return, and how he had enjoined him to leave his land, his ships and his Myrmidon warriors, whom he was not worthy of. The old man had driven him off, banished him to the sea, forced him to take up his journey again.

But the day would come when he would return, and it was close now. The old man would die, and he would become the most powerful sovereign in the land of the Achaeans.

They marched all that day and all the next, following the coast of Boeotia, the cursed land of Oedipus, of Eteocles and of Polynices, and they reached the borders of Phocis and Locris. There they united with the Locrians, the warriors of Ajax Oileus who had survived the waves of the sea. Many of them could no longer enjoy the peace they had longed for during years of war. The clang of weapons and the sound of bugles had them rushing to join. Pyrrhus’s savage vitality and untiring fervour reminded them of his father, and they would follow him, enthralled, even to the gates of the underworld.

A few days later, they were camped on the Isthmus. No one remembered to offer sacrifice to the sea and to Poseidon, so Anchialus did so, alone. He sacrificed a lamb, thinking of his comrades who perhaps still wandered the seas, and of those who perhaps had not yet found the road of return.

The army soon found itself on the road that ran between the dominion of Argos and of Mycenae. They could see sentinels in the distance, posted on the mountain tops. Smoke signals rose at night, as their passage threw the entire land into confusion and dread. The ferocity of Achilles’s son was legendary; the survivors of the long war in Asia had told many a tale during the long winter nights, to their wives and children gathered around the hearth. They knew that war and slaughter were his reason for living, that he feared neither gods nor men, that the odour of blood filled him with an accursed, inexhaustible energy, sated only by the destruction of his very last enemy. Anchialus asked himself whether Menelaus, having unleashed such an annihilator, would ever succeed in containing him or inspiring him to peace. Anchialus felt such loathing towards him that he had even considered doing away with the monster in his sleep after the war was over, but the possibility of succeeding was remote. He was always guarded by Automedon, his father’s charioteer, and by the bronze-covered giant Periphantes, armed with two double-edged axes.

They finally reached the plain of Argolis one evening as the sun was setting. On one side, to the left, they could see the lights of Mycenae and the citadel, still reddened by the last light of dusk. Beyond Mycenae, still hidden from sight, was Argos, and Anchialus imagined the city immersed in the peace that precedes the evening.

They pitched camp, but suddenly, in the dead of night, the sentinels roused the king who was sleeping in his tent next to his dog. Pyrrhus threw a cloak over his naked body and peered out at the mountains that closed off the Argive plain to the west. On the summit blazed a gigantic fire, spreading its glow over a vast area. Menelaus’s army had reached the mountain top and was ready to descend into the plain. The pincers were about to close.

‘Light a fire,’ said Pyrrhus, and he went back to sleep under his tent.

15

The war council was held shortly before dawn in a farmer’s house near Nemea; Hippasus’s sons had secretly made all the arrangements several days earlier. King Menelaus entered first, followed by his nephew Orestes and by Prince Pylades who commanded the Phocian warriors. Shortly thereafter Pisistratus arrived, accompanied by his charioteer; he was covered with bronze and an enormous double-edged axe hung from his belt. He lay it on the table, took off his helmet and kissed Menelaus on both cheeks.

‘My father the king sends his greetings,’ he said, ‘and has told me to tell you that, starting today, one bull from his herds will be immolated to Zeus every day so he may grant victory to our armies. Naturally, he did not fail to say that were he not so old, he would be leading the army himself, and that men today are not made of the same wood they used to be, and we should have seen him that time that the Arcadians invaded his territory to raid his cattle. .’

Menelaus smiled: ‘I know that story. I think I heard it told one hundred times when we were fighting in Asia. But trust me, there’s much truth in what your father says. They say that when he was young, he was a formidable combatant. I’m sorry he did not come: Nestor’s counsel would have been precious.’

The owner of the house brought a basket of fragrant bread, just baked. Menelaus broke it and distributed it to everyone. Pisistratus gulped down a few pieces, then said: ‘It took quite some effort, from my brothers and me, to convince him to stay home. He wanted to come at any cost. But he is very old now, and weakened by the strain of war. Bringing him with us would have been too risky.’

The noise of a chariot and the pawing of horses came from outside, then the sound of footsteps.

‘It’s Pyrrhus,’ said the king, rising to welcome the guest.

The son of Achilles, decked in his father’s armour, stood for a moment at the open door, filling the space completely with his bulk. His adolescent’s face contrasted strangely with his wide shoulders, his powerful muscles, his disquieting gaze. There was something unnatural about him, as though he had not been born of woman. As though the god Hephaestus had fashioned a soulless exterminator in his forge.

Menelaus greeted him and broke some bread for him as well. ‘We are all here now,’ he said then. ‘The council may begin.’ A pale reflection entering the window at that moment announced the birth of a new day.

Pyrrhus spoke immediately, before the king had invited him to do so. ‘Why do we need a battle plan? We will wait for them to come out and annihilate the lot. If they don’t come out, we’ll scale the walls and burn down the city.’ Orestes looked at him and was gripped by a feeling of deep aversion, almost repugnance, for that creature capable only of blind violence, but he said nothing.

‘It’s not so simple,’ said Menelaus. ‘We know that there’s an Argive contingent marching towards us, and we cannot rule out Cretan ships landing at some hidden spot. As far as the city is concerned, I don’t want to destroy it. Hippasus has told me that many of the inhabitants have remained faithful to the memory of my brother. I believe we should detach a contingent to cover us from behind in case the Argive army should turn up unexpectedly as we are attacking Aegisthus’s forces. I was thinking that Prince Orestes could command it.’

Pyrrhus laughed derisively. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘that way he can’t get into any trouble. I can handle the Mycenaeans alone. I have to earn your daughter’s bed somehow, don’t I?’

Orestes blazed with indignation and jumped to his feet, drawing his sword. ‘I fear no danger!’ he said. ‘And I don’t fear you, even if you are the bastard son of a demigod!’

Pyrrhus also rose to his feet. ‘Then come outside,’ he said, ‘and we can solve the matter immediately. We don’t need you anyway.’

Orestes was heading towards the door, but Menelaus barred their way. ‘That’s enough!’ he thundered. ‘Woe betide an army divided before its first battle! No matter how strong the heroes who lead it are, it is destined to be destroyed, and its leaders with it.’ The two princes stopped cold. ‘The Achaeans have suffered tremendous grief for the ire of your father, don’t you know that?’ he said to Pyrrhus. ‘Do you know how many generous young men were mown down in the fields of Ilium because of that murderous quarrel? How much remorse, how many tears were shed? When your father saw the mangled body of Patroclus, his corpse immobile in the stiffness of death, he would have given anything to have repressed his wrath while he was still in time, to have never abandoned the army to the fury of Hector. Now eat the bread that I have had baked in this house, so that the bond of hospitality, sacred in the eyes of the gods, may unite you!’

Pisistratus handed some bread to both. ‘The king is right,’ he said. ‘This challenge is ill-considered. There will be glory for everyone on the battlefield today. You, Pyrrhus, will be sufficiently rewarded by marrying the daughter of Helen, whom every Achaean prince would want as his bride. There will be no slaughter of the vanquished nor plunder, for this is a war between brothers, between people of the same blood. Thebes was cursed and then destroyed for having permitted the sacrilegious duel between Eteocles and Polynices, sons of the same mother and of the same father. If this were to happen here, the gods would curse us and there would be no more peace for our land.’

The two youths took the bread they had been given but barely touched it to their lips, and repressed their anger. It was clear to all that the challenge had only been deferred. The king allowed silence to fall over that gesture for several long moments, then began to speak again in a firm, commanding voice.

‘So, Pyrrhus will draw his phalanx up at the centre, in front of the city gates, while Orestes will remain at the rear with a squadron of chariots to prevent an attack from behind. I will draw up to the right, along with Pylades’s Phocians, and Pisistratus will position his men to the left. I believe that Aegisthus will come out to fight. Over these past years, the city has extended outside of the walls. Many of the elders have requested that these houses and properties not be abandoned to destruction. Hippasus’s sons will signal with the horns when I give the order to attack. Now return to your men, and may the gods assist us.’

Pyrrhus left first; he got into his chariot and raced off towards the north in the direction of the hills. Pisistratus followed soon after, but before stepping aboard his chariot next to the driver, he said: ‘Take care, Orestes. He provoked you deliberately, certain that you would react. That’s a very bad sign. But don’t think about it now. Today we must win.’ He rode off as a veiled sun rose over the mountains. Menelaus, behind them, heard those words with anguish, and his heart was sickened by dark foreboding. He feared that sooner or later Orestes would accept the challenge of the invincible son of Achilles and that he would succumb.

Prince Pylades approached Orestes and said: ‘Pisistratus is on your side. This is important. Whatever Pyrrhus has in mind, he knows that everyone will be against him. Stay away from him, do not let yourself be provoked. Do not play his game.’ And then, when they were in the middle of the courtyard, ready to take their separate ways, Pylades continued in a low voice: ‘It’s evident that the king is greatly afflicted by this; he thinks he made a grave mistake considering Pyrrhus indispensable for the success of this endeavour and asking for his alliance. Say something to hearten him: he must not have doubts and regrets passing through his thoughts today, as he does battle. He must have only revenge on his mind. Farewell, my friend. This evening it will all be done.’

Orestes turned then towards Menelaus and he smiled: ‘Do not worry yourself, uncle. He’s just a boastful boy, and we’re all excited at the eve of the battle. He has already been in combat, while for me this will be the first time on an open field. He merely wanted to lord it over me. That’s all.’

The king shook his head. ‘I am worried,’ he said, ‘I am afraid that this war will generate more bereavement, more sorrow without end. Blood will have blood.’

‘You are right there, uncle: the blood of my father and his comrades must be avenged. Remember that you are Menelaus the Atreid, shepherd of armies. No one can stand up to you in the land of the Achaeans.’ He jumped on to his chariot and flew off towards the south in a cloud of dust. Menelaus remained alone in the middle of the courtyard watching the sun rise slowly in the milky sky. The sheep bleated behind him as their keeper led them out of the fold. The king looked at him, and for a moment wished he were like him, a man of no import who thinks only of finding food for his dinner.

Pyrrhus assembled his Epirotes, lined them up in a column and began to descend towards the plain. Automedon held the reins of his war chariot. Anchialus approached him. ‘You will allow me to speak with King Menelaus? You promised me, remember?’

Pyrrhus regarded him with an ambiguous smile, then gestured to his guards. ‘Keep him here at camp until the battle is finished and you see me return. I don’t trust him; he might be spying for our enemies. No one has ever seen him before, no one knows where he comes from.’

Anchialus struggled as two of the guards led him away to tie him with a rope to a pole at the centre of the camp. He shouted: ‘Man of no honour and no word! You are not the son of Achilles, you are a bastard!’

Pyrrhus turned and shouted back: ‘Do not fear! When I return this evening I shall send you personally to say what you like to my father; you can tell him yourself that I didn’t keep my word!’ His laughter was lost in the pounding of his horses’ hooves and in the roar of the bronze wheels of his chariot.

In the meanwhile, a host of warriors had exited the gate of Mycenae, descended along the valley of the tombs and taken position on the slope that overlooked the plain. Menelaus saw them and signalled to Pisistratus and Pylades to draw up to the right and to the left while waiting for Pyrrhus to come and occupy the centre. As they had established, Orestes deployed his chariot squadron further south to intercept any Argive foray at their backs. Pisistratus, who was the closest to the walls of Mycenae, noticed that the ranks of the enemy were swelling; he whipped his horses and joined Menelaus. ‘There are a great many of them,’ he said. ‘Many more than I expected. What is Pyrrhus waiting for to take his place? I hope they do not attack now. They could put us in serious difficulty.’

‘No, I don’t think they will. And if they are as numerous as you say, that means we have all of Aegisthus’s forces lined up before us; all the better for us, we can keep a close watch on them. For the time being, we will only shorten the distance between the two arrays.’ Pisistratus obeyed, but Menelaus was mistaken about the strength of the force. Aegisthus was hidden to the north with a strong contingent of Argives and a selected group of Mycenaean chariots. His informers had been reporting on the advance of the Epirote army for some time, and he had been waiting for them since the night before in a well-sheltered valley. When Pyrrhus’s column passed in front of them, he had the attack signal raised in silence. The chariot squadron was arrayed in a wedge formation, and at his next signal they stormed full force at Pyrrhus’s column, still in marching order. The Argive infantry charged forward at a run.

By the time Pyrrhus realized what was happening, the head chariots were already upon them. They mowed through his marching column like a scythe cuts down stalks of ripe wheat, leaving the ground behind them red with blood and scattered with mangled limbs. The cries of the wounded tore through the heavy morning air, resounding over the nearby mountains, and the echo cast them down to the plain. But the armies of Menelaus and Pisistratus were too far away to hear them and Orestes, even more distant, had the neighing of his stallions in his ears, and the din of the chariots as they patrolled vast stretches of the territory all around.

The Locrians of Pyrrhus’s rear guard withdrew to the hills, and the concerted shouts of their commanders lined them up rapidly in combat order. In the immense confusion, the warriors who had fought at Ilium with Ajax Oileus exhorted their comrades to throw all the stones they could find on to the ground before them to hinder the charge of the enemy chariots, and their commanders had the archers advance on all sides. But the terrified Epirotes fled in every direction, falling in droves under the spears of the seasoned chariot-borne marksmen of Aegisthus. The Mycenaean had meanwhile identified Pyrrhus’s chariot and was loosing his squadron, widened into a pincer formation, upon it.

The sun, veiled since early that morning, was now hidden by a front of black clouds driven by a strong northern wind that made the dust swirl under the racing horses’ hooves and under the wheels of the chariots launched at full speed across the plain.

Pyrrhus saw the tips of the pincer closing in on him from the right and from the left, and he felt that all was lost. He turned his eyes towards the hills and saw the barricaded Locrian contingent shooting swarms of arrows at the assailants, decimating the warriors on the enemy war chariots.

‘There!’ shouted Pyrrhus at his charioteer. ‘You must get us there before they close us off. Save me, Automedon, and I will make you king of Tiryns!’

But Automedon had already seen the only route of escape and was urging on his left horse, pulling at the reins with all the strength of the arms that had once prevailed over the gallop of Balius and Xanthus. His pursuers, intuiting the manoeuvre, whipped on their teams to cut off his path. Automedon shouted: ‘I will take you to safety, son of Achilles, but look out! The chariot there on our left will succeed in cutting us off unless you slay the driver.’

But Pyrrhus was not listening, and seemed to be out of his mind; ‘Faster, faster! Force over!’ he shouted.

Automedon could not complete the curve any more sharply without causing the chariot to overturn. He pulled a javelin onehanded from the quiver at his side and thrust it at Pyrrhus, shouting: ‘Strike the charioteer, now!’ Contact with the weapon seemed to rouse Pyrrhus; he grasped the massive ashwood pike in his fist and turned towards the closest chariot, where the enemy was already taking aim with his bow. He weighed the javelin and hurled it with all his might. The point of bronze tore through the charioteer’s cuirass at his waist, pierced through his belly and came out the other side. Without its driver, the chariot careened and overturned, dragging down the two chariots close behind it in a tangled mass of men and horses. Automedon urged his team onward, loosening the reins at their necks; they flew towards the line of the hills, to safety. Aegisthus and the others pulled up short, finding themselves on too wide a curve, and regrouped with the rest of the squadron confronting the Locrians.