Текст книги "Heroes"

Автор книги: Valerio Massimo Manfredi

Соавторы: Valerio Massimo Manfredi
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Pyrrhus meanwhile had penetrated behind the lines where many of his Epirotes had gathered, and he jumped to the ground, instantly regaining his composure. He reformed the lines into a close, compact array, shield against shield. He ordered the front line soldiers to kneel; each warrior planted the shaft of his weapon into the ground so that only the spearpoints emerged. That would do to hold back the chariots, while he had the rest of the army retreat to more uneven ground. There the enemy would be forced to attack them on foot; they would gain time and perhaps he would be able to open a passage through to Aegisthus. .

Menelaus was exceedingly worried. He could not imagine what could have happened to Pyrrhus, and the massive Mycenaean lineup was becoming more and more menacing. He ordered Pylades to join up with Orestes and head north with the chariot squadron to see what had happened. It was risky to leave the battlefield exposed in the direction of Argos, but an attempt had to be made. The sky was getting darker and flashes of lightning shot from peak to peak, while violent gusts of wind bent the tops of the poplars down in the valley and the crests of the warriors’ helmets. The horses quivered impatiently at their yokes, pawing the dirt with their hooves, as they felt the storm gathering in the sky and on the ground.

When Orestes had received Menelaus’s order, he left a small garrison to hold the position and he flew off, with Pylades and all of his squadron, towards the line of hills standing out to the north. It wasn’t long before he realized what must have happened, and he was about to stop his horses and turn back, abandoning Pyrrhus to his destiny, but Prince Pylades convinced him to advance. ‘There are Locrian troops with Pyrrhus,’ he shouted. ‘This is the best way to settle your score; the son of Achilles will be in your debt his whole life!’

Orestes launched his chariots forward in attack; he deployed them in three lines across the entire plain, so that they would strike the enemy in waves. Aegisthus realized too late what was happening; he tried desperately to turn his front in the opposite direction, giving up on the ground battle with Pyrrhus’s men. He ordered his men to go back to their chariots and to retreat towards the sides, before Orestes’s chariots reached them, but the manoeuvre failed before it could begin. His warriors had just jumped into their chariots when they were hit by the first wave and decimated. Then came the second wave, and the third. Aegisthus’s chariot was overturned, and his driver was dragged away and trampled to death by the crazed horses, on the stones of a dry river bed. Aegisthus got to his feet and turned in confusion to seek a way to escape, but Pylades spotted him and shouted to Orestes, whose chariot was rushing past at a short distance: ‘On your left! Look to your left!’ Orestes enjoined his driver to hold the horses, and he spotted Aegisthus. He leapt from his chariot and ran straight at him.

‘You will pay for the blood of Agamemnon!’ he shouted in a rage. ‘You will appear before him this very day in Hades, with your nose and ears cut off!’

‘Then come and get me, you cur!’ shouted back Aegisthus, standing up to him. ‘I fucked your mother and butchered your father! Yes, that’s right, he was bleeding like a pig!’

Those words pierced through Orestes like a white-hot blade as he charged forward, and devastated his soul. A veil of blood dropped over the eyes of the prince. His fury vanished all at once and was replaced by an icy calm. Near his enemy now, he halted his charge and weighed his spear. Aegisthus’s sneering confidence disappeared all at once; he looked around wildly and spotted an abandoned shield. He dropped lightning quick to gather it, but Orestes was left-handed and threatened him now on his undefended side. Orestes heaved the ashen pike and it sank through his shoulder blades, between his neck and his back, where his breastplate gave no protection. It nailed his enemy to the ground in that position, on his knees; Orestes watched as a great stream of blood poured from the mouth of the retching, choking man. But before he died, he wrenched the spear from his body and knocked him over on to his back. He drew his sword and cut off his nose, his lips, his ears and his genitals, so thus he would appear to the shade of his father the Atreid in the house of Hades.

Aegisthus’s soul fled sighing into the cold wind that battered the countryside, and Orestes found himself face to face with Pyrrhus. He was spattered with blood from head to foot and he had bits of flesh and human brains on his shield and greaves. Orestes felt a cold chill at the sight of him. He was panting, and stank unbearably.

‘The Argive infantry is wiped out,’ he said. ‘I imagine I should thank you for getting the war chariots out of my way.’ And then, observing the desecrated corpse of Aegisthus: ‘By the gods, I didn’t think you were capable of it. I have to admit you’ve got it in you.’

Orestes was uneasy at this praise, and answered: ‘Pisistratus and King Menelaus may be in difficulty. We must return to Mycenae.’ He leapt on to his chariot, followed by Pylades and his squadron, and set off swiftly towards the city.

Pyrrhus turned back to his men and said: ‘Start marching and catch up with me as soon as you can. If you get there when the battle is over, there will be nothing left for you.’ Then he mounted the chariot that Automedon had just brought to his side, and hurled off after Orestes’s squadron.

‘Tonight you will be king,’ he said to Automedon, ‘as I have promised you.’

‘I didn’t do it for you,’ replied the charioteer. ‘I did it because you are the son of your father.’ He whipped on the horses.

Meanwhile, the commanders of the Mycenaean army had given orders to attack, sure that Aegisthus had by then got the better of Pyrrhus, and taking advantage of the fact that the chariot squadron commanded by Orestes had taken off to the north. The forces were balanced; they might even win.

Menelaus then joined forces with Pisistratus’s Pylians; he drew up at the centre, leaving the right wing to the son of Nestor. The enemy army were favoured by the slope and the direction of the wind; they had gained ground and were managing to push back their adversaries, even though Menelaus, at the centre, was fighting like a lion. The king felt that he was battling under the eyes of his brother; he could hear his cries roaring from the penetralia of the palace. He shouted to those he had before him: ‘Stop fighting! Accept the truce or you will be exterminated! Abandon the usurper!’

But few could hear him in the din of the battle, and those who heard him could not understand him. They continued fighting desperately because they had been told that the victors would exterminate them all and sell their families into slavery.

Pisistratus brandished his enormous two-edged axe on the right wing, toppling his enemies one after another, his men so close behind him that the entire formation was slowly rotating to the left. Thus, when the chariot squadron led by Orestes came into sight, Queen Clytemnestra’s army had their backs almost completely turned to him. Orestes did not slow his onward charge and mowed into the enemy, drawing all of his men behind him. Pylades returned to the head of his Phocians and led them into the attack. Pyrrhus, who had been following at a short distance, threw himself into the fray as well, as the sky was rent by blinding lightning and shaken by loud peals of thunder. Rain pelted down on the raging conflict, soon turning into hail, and the two armies were immersed in a magma of mud and blood, in a chaos of screaming and neighing, that completely obscured the minds of the warriors, plunging them into a blind frenzy, a delirium of destructive folly. Certainly, had the gods dissolved the thick mist that clouds the vision of mortals, Menelaus the Atreid, Pyrrhus, Orestes, Pylades and Pisistratus would have seen the bloody ghosts of Phobos and Deimos passing among the storm clouds, announcing the arrival of the god of war.

The Locrians and Epirotes had arrived and had drawn up in columns behind Pyrrhus’s war-car. The son of Achilles had pushed his way through the entire formation and was battling on the front line; since the terrain there was too rough for chariots, he had descended and was fighting on foot with such fury that the enemy line wavered and split, leaving an opening at the centre through which hundreds of warriors poured. The Mycenaean army was breaking ranks and retreating haphazardly towards the gate to seek haven within the city walls. Pisistratus cut them off and, finding themselves completely surrounded, they threw down their arms and pleaded for mercy. Menelaus saw this and stopped, ordering the heralds to have the fighting cease. The blasts of the horns sounded amid the claps of thunder and Pisistratus was the first to hear them and call off his warriors. Orestes heard them and he halted his chariots. Pylades heard them and he withdrew his Phocians on the left wing, but Pyrrhus continued the massacre, and he incited his Epirotes to attack the undefended quarter close to the walls.

Anchialus was alone at the centre of the camp, for the Epirotes who had been guarding him had taken to their heels when the storm broke, seeking refuge in a mountain cave. He waited until the rain had soaked the earth, then he propped his feet against the pole and pushed it back and forth until he had uprooted it. He freed himself of his bonds and ran back to his tent to recover his weapons. He approached one of the terrified horses who was trying to kick himself free of the reins that kept him tied to a tree at the edge of camp. He loosed the steed and jumped on to its back, riding off before his guards had realized a thing. He galloped over the plain lit by flashes of lightning and pelted by the wind and rain. When he reached Mycenae, his head was bleeding and his body ached from all the hailstones that had struck him, but he distinctly saw Menelaus’s army immobile under the downpour. At that very moment a young blond warrior passed on his battle chariot; he was heading towards Pyrrhus, who was continuing to advance towards the city. The youth cut in front of him and came to a halt, shouting: ‘Stop, and call off your men! The king has ordered that the fighting cease. The survivors have surrendered. Enough blood!’

‘I greatly regret it,’ replied Pyrrhus, ‘but I promised my men rich spoils, and that is why they followed me here. You stop them, if you’re capable of it.’

‘I will stop you, if you don’t order them to withdraw immediately,’ shouted Orestes. ‘Follow the king’s orders!’

‘I am the king,’ shouted Pyrrhus. ‘I am the strongest. Get out of here before I topple you into the mud. Do not defy fortune!’

Orestes took up his spear. ‘This is my city, for I am the legitimate heir of Agamemnon, and you are on my territory. Withdraw and call back your men. I am saying this for the last time.’

‘If you want me to go, you will have to kill me,’ said Pyrrhus. ‘There is no other way.’

Orestes jumped from the chariot, gripping his spear in his right hand. King Menelaus saw him and shouted: ‘No! Do not leave the chariot; he will kill you!’ But it was too late: the two warriors faced off, spears tight in fist, each seeking an opening in the defences of the other.

Pisistratus approached Menelaus. ‘You must stop him,’ he said, ‘or Pyrrhus will hack him to pieces. Look, he is a whole head taller. No one can resist against such might.’ But Pyrrhus had already thrown his spear, grazing his adversary on his right side. Blood spurted from the wound, staining the earth red. Orestes gritted his teeth. He knew that his spear was his last chance to end the encounter. If he missed, we would have to accept a swordfight and it would be all over for him. And that was why he had always held his spear in his right hand. He attempted a few feints to throw his adversary off balance, but Pyrrhus was as solid as a mountain, and the last drops of enemy blood slid down his armour like raindrops off a smooth cliff. But then he noticed that Pyrrhus was seeking a secure hold for his right foot, unsteady on a slippery stone. Lightning swift, he dropped his shield, passed the spear to his left hand and cast it. Pyrrhus reacted in the bat of an eye and raised his shield high to the right. The spear hit the rim of the great bronze and bounced off to his side. The Pelian shield thundered under the impact.

Pyrrhus burst into loud laughter as Orestes, deadly pale, bent to pick up his shield. ‘I knew you were left-handed! I saw you kill Aegisthus, remember? And now you’re dead, you stupid boy.’ He drew his sword and flew at him.

‘Stop!’ shouted Menelaus. ‘The bond of kinship joins you! Do not commit such a horrendous crime.’ But the son of Achilles was unstoppable, and struck with immense power. Orestes tried to surprise him with a lunge, but Pyrrhus responded with an awesome blow which shattered his sword.

Orestes felt death biting at his heart. Soaked in a cold sweat, he retreated, trying to raise his shield, but he knew that his end was near. He turned disheartened to the ranks of his men as if to seek help and in that moment a man slipped between the lines and shouted: ‘You’ll win with this! Catch it!’ And he threw him a sword. Orestes bounded backwards and caught the weapon, turning again to face his adversary. A flash lit up the sky and the great sword glittered with blue light in his hand, like a lightning bolt. It was not made of bronze, but of some metal he had never seen. Pyrrhus saw, and a shock of fear crossed his eyes. He had never seen anything like it either.

‘Strike!’ shouted Anchialus, who a moment before had pushed his way through the ranks. ‘Strike! It is hyperborean metal, nothing can defeat it!’

Orestes looked again at the sword. He drew up all his force behind his shield and began to advance. His eyes shone with the same reflections as the blade, his hand like a claw gripped the horn hilt tight. Pyrrhus reacted against the nameless fear that had wormed its way into him. ‘It’s another one of your tricks!’ he shouted. ‘You won’t fool me again!’ He lunged forward and rained down a rapid succession of hammering blows from above, aiming directly for his head. Orestes raised the sword to fend off the blows but, before the impetus of the assault was spent, Pyrrhus’s weapon was sheared off at the hilt. Pyrrhus’s astonishment lasted an instant and cost him his life. Orestes thrust the long blade deep into the side of his adversary, who dropped the stump and collapsed to his knees.

His gaze was already veiled with death and the heat of life was rapidly abandoning his limbs. He raised his head with great difficulty to meet the eyes of the victor who stood tall before him. ‘You are the king of Mycenae now,’ he said. ‘The king of the Achaean kings. . and Hermione is yours as well. Have mercy, if you believe in the gods. .’ His adolescent’s face, dripping with rain, was as white as wax.

‘What do you want from the king of Mycenae?’ asked Orestes, and his soul filled with vague dismay.

‘Have my body taken to old Peleus, in Phthia, among the Myrmidons. Ask him to accept me. . I beg of you.’ He brought his hand to the wide wound and held it out to Orestes, full of blood. ‘This blood. . he will have pity perhaps on this blood.’

He reclined his head on his chest and breathed his last breath. The evening wind gathered up his soul and carried it away down the valley of the tombs to the sea, to the promontory of Taenarum where the entrance to the world of the dead lies, and to the dark houses of Hades.

Menelaus and Pisistratus ran to embrace him, but Orestes trained his gaze towards the city and towards the tower of the chasm, where a figure cloaked in black stood out against the leaden sky.

‘Before nightfall,’ he said, ‘fate must be fulfilled.’

Menelaus bowed his head. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘your father has been avenged. You have slain Aegisthus. No one can blame you if you spare your mother.’

‘No,’ said Orestes. ‘Agamemnon’s shade will have no peace until the guilty have paid. And she is the most guilty of all.’

He walked towards the city while the last claps of thunder died out over the sea. The bastions were deserted and the Gate of Lions was wide open. He advanced along the great ramp, passed before the tombs of the Perseid kings topped by rainwashed steles, and reached the courtyard of the palace where he had played as a child, where he had watched his father mount his battle chariot and leave for war.

There were neither servants nor handmaids in the courtyard or under the porticoes, nor guards posted in the atrium. The door yawned into the darkness. Orestes drew his sword and entered, and the silence immediately swallowed up the sound of his steps which faded away into the deserted house.

The clouds slowly parted at the horizon, towards the sea, revealing for a few moments the golden eye of the setting sun. Flocks of crows and of doves descended on to the walls and towers of the city to find shelter for the night. But just then a scream of pain from the depths of the palace rent the silence and made the birds take fright and scatter off with a swift beating of wings. They sailed round the bastions as the echo of that scream drifted off over the valley. But before it had faded completely, another cry, even louder, more crazed and desperate, rose towards the dark sky; it pursued the first and joined with it like some mournful choir, and then the two voices plunged together into the chasm, dying on the bottom like a hollow lament.

The doves settled then, one by one, on the walls and rooftops of the city, looking for their nests. Only the crows remained aloft, flying in wide circles over the palace, filling the sky with their shrieks.

16

Anchialus wasn’t brought into the presence of King Menelaus until two days after the great battle of Mycenae. That same night, the king had sent word that Anchialus should remain his guest in the tent he had had prepared for him until he was summoned. And then the king had gone in the dead of night to the palace of Mycenae: Orestes had not returned.

There was no trace of the prince in the palace; when Menelaus entered all he found was Clytemnestra’s body. She was wearing the gown of the ancient queens that bared her breasts: a deep wound lay between them. Her blood had flowed so copiously that it stained the steps before the throne. It was said that the queen had dressed in that way to welcome her son, certain that he would not dare to sink his blade into the breasts that had nursed him as a baby.

Menelaus’s men toiled until late that night to put out the fire that the Epirotes had set in the quarter of Mycenae that rose outside the walls. Everything had been destroyed, and the houses had been reduced to ashes by the flames.

The king waited at length for Orestes, in vain. He finally asked Prince Pylades to send his Phocians to search for him. They looked high and low, guided by the light of the fire that had devastated the undefended quarter of the city. They carried torches into the corridors and underground rooms of the palace, searched the city’s houses one by one and inspected the valley of the tombs as well.

That was where they found Electra, sitting in silence on the stone that covered the grave of her father. They brought her to Menelaus, who held her long in his arms as she cried all her tears. When she finally found the strength to speak, she told him that her brother had left; she said that the execution of their mother had ravaged his mind and his heart. Pursued by her restless shade, he had gone to a distant sanctuary to seek purification for the blood he had shed. Only when he was healed would he return.

Prince Pylades slept in the palace, on the floor outside of Electra’s room on a bearskin, to assist her if she needed help that dreadful night. Menelaus departed immediately, for that city called up only bitter memories for him. He ordered that the body of his brother Agamemnon be exhumed and buried in the grandiose tomb excavated in the valley, after dressing his body in his armour and his golden mask, as befitted a great king. He ordered that a tomb be reserved for queen Clytemnestra as well. He knew that no matter how evil men seem to be, they are still subject to the inescapable will of Fate, and he knew that death unites all men, and makes them all the same. Thus he also ordered that the body of Pyrrhus be bathed and embalmed and transported by ship to Phthia and the land of the Myrmidons, so he could receive funeral rites from Peleus.

The next day Menelaus marched towards Argos, where he arranged for the city to be blockaded on the west and the north, while Pisistratus set sail with his fleet; that evening, he landed his warriors at the bay of Temenium, closing the city off to the south. It was there that Anchialus was summoned to the king’s presence.

As soon as he saw Menelaus, he threw himself at his feet and kissed his hand: ‘Do you recognize me, wanax?’

‘I do,’ said the king, considering the pale bristly-bearded man before him. ‘You are the man who threw the sword to Prince Orestes that saved his life. I am in your debt. Ask and I shall give you everything I can.’

‘No, wanax, before then, in the fields of Ilium, don’t you remember? In Diomedes’s tent. I am Anchialus, son of Iasus. It was there that we met.’

The king stood and held out his hand, helping Anchialus to his feet. He felt like weeping, and his voice trembled. ‘That cursed war,’ he said. ‘What grief! And yet now that I see you I am cheered to recall those times, the comfort and warmth of friendship. Tell me, of what was that awesome sword crafted? How did you get it?’

‘Oh wanax, this is the reason I’ve come here. When King Diomedes realized that the queen had taken power in the city and was plotting to kill him, he decided to take to the seas and seek a new kingdom for himself, instead of unleashing a new war. Many of us followed him and we sailed the western sea at the height of winter towards the Land of Evening. But one day, as we were attacking a village to carry off food and women, we saw an immense horde descending from the mountains. There were thousands and thousands of them, and they brought their women and children and their old people with them. An entire people, in migration. We barely managed to survive their attack, and many of our comrades were lost. King Diomedes confronted their chieftain in single combat and risked his life; the man was armed with a sword similar to the one I gave Prince Orestes, and like him all the other warriors of his race. Their weapons are made of a formidable metal, as tough as bronze but as hard as stone; nothing can withstand it.

‘The king managed to win the duel by hurling his spear from a distance, but he realized that no army could resist these invaders drawn up on an open field. They have thousands of horses, as well, but they are not harnessed to chariots, like ours are. Those men ride their animals bare-backed, forming a single creature with the power of a horse and the craft and cunning of a man. Like centaurs they fly over fields and mountains, swift as the wind. They can run in circles and jump over obstacles. This I know, because they later took me prisoner, and I spent nearly three years with them.

‘We managed to escape with great difficulty, fleeing away over the sea, but Diomedes summoned me and ordered me to turn back, although I was loath to do so. He said: “You must return, you must warn Nestor and Agamemnon, and Menelaus, if he has returned, and Sthenelus at Argos, if he has survived. Tell them what you have seen, tell them to prepare their defences, to raise a wall on the Isthmus, to launch the black ships. .” ’

Menelaus was dumbfounded by Anchialus’s words. He could still hear the voice of the Old Man of the Sea sounding within him; he could see the great cavern and the visions of his comrades: Ulysses prisoner on an enchanted island, Diomedes, in the swamps of a remote land.

‘I obeyed with a heavy heart,’ continued Anchialus, ‘and I turned my prow south, but no more than several days had passed when I fell prey to Shekeleshpirates. We fought with all our might, but we were completely overwhelmed. I was the only one of us to survive, but I still have in my ears the screams of pain of my comrades as they were tortured to death. I swam ashore and began to march to the land of the Achaeans, although I had no idea of how far it was. I was twice made prisoner, and I ended up once again in the hands of those invaders, who kept me as a slave until I managed to escape again. After long wanderings and much suffering, I reached Buthrotum and the house of Pyrrhus. The son of Achilles had already departed for the war, but I met Andromache who told me how I could reach him. I crossed the mountains with his army and have at long last arrived here.’

The king fell still in meditation, then asked: ‘How far are they?’

‘It is difficult to say, wanax. They don’t seem to have a destination in mind. They sometimes stop in a single place for years, but they do not know how to build cities and so they must keep moving in search of new pastures for their herds. When they do move, they head south and so, sooner or later, they will reach this land. I could not say when, maybe in a year’s time, or two, or ten, but you can be certain that they will arrive. Oh wanax, heed the words of King Diomedes, who is bound to you through deep friendship. Build a wall on the Isthmus, ready the defences, launch the black ships to sea! This is what I had to tell you; now my mission is finished. If you are still willing to offer me a reward. .’

‘Anything I can,’ said the king. ‘Ask me for anything.’

‘Give me a ship, so I can return to my king. I don’t desire anything else.’

‘You will have it tomorrow if you want. But I would ask you to wait until Argos has fallen! Wait to take to the sea, so that when you see your lord, King Diomedes, you can tell him that Argos is his. That he must return. We will make a pact of eternal friendship and alliance that no one will be able to sunder, and we will grow old together watching our children’s children grow. If he will not return, tell him that he shall remain forever in my heart, like all the friends and comrades who suffered with me in the bloody fields of Asia.’

‘I will do as you advise,’ said Anchialus. ‘If you like, I will fight alongside your warriors, as I once did.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said Menelaus. ‘Argos will fall without a fight. The army that was sent out with Aegisthus’s forces has been destroyed. The survivors have come over to our side. The city cannot resist.’

‘Aigialeia. . what will become of her?’

‘The war council will decide. But the queen of Argos is a proud woman. Perhaps she will take things into her own hands. But go now and take your rest. We all need to rest.’ The king took his leave, kissing Anchialus on both cheeks.

Anchialus started to leave, but before crossing the threshold he turned back: ‘There’s something I have not told you.’

‘What is it?’

‘That people. . speaks a language like our own. Different. And yet very similar. I have always wondered why.’

He went out into the night and the king remained alone in his tent with those words. ‘A language similar to ours,’ he kept repeating to himself. He lifted his hands to his face and closed his eyes. ‘Oh gods,’ he said, ‘gods of the heavens. Destiny is fulfilled. The sons of Hercules are about to return. If you are just, allow me, please, to live until the moment in which I will know if the war in Asia was fought for the salvation of our people or if so much blood and so many tears were shed for nothing.’

A month later, Argos surrendered. Menelaus and Pisistratus entered the city, welcomed by the rejoicing inhabitants. Queen Aigialeia killed herself.

Anchialus was given his ship and he left one day at the end of winter, sailing north towards the mouth of the Eridanus. He remembered Diomedes’s promise: when they had come to a suitable place, he would found a city on the coast and would place a signal on the beach so that Anchialus could find them. The king never broke his word.

Meanwhile, in the land of Hesperia, Diomedes had crossed the snow-covered Blue Mountains and had descended a great river until he reached the confines of a plain which extended all the way to the western sea. It was inhabited by the Latwho had settled there not long ago, having crossed the Mountains of Ice, some said, or perhaps the eastern sea. Eurimachus the Trojan told them the Tereshlived north of that land, and that Aeneas had occupied a territory on the coast that he had won from the Latin battle.

If nothing had changed during his absence, the Dardan prince could be found at no more than two days’ journey along the shores of the great river. Diomedes decided to set up camp there. The climate was mild and the pastures were lush. One night he summoned Eurimachus and said: ‘Tomorrow you will leave.’ Then he called Lamus, son of Onchestus, and ordered him to accompany the Trojan as his herald. ‘When you see Aeneas, you shall say: “Diomedes, son of Tydeus, who has already defeated you on the fields of Ilium, is here. He thinks that there is not room for both of you in this land, and that the quarrel that set our peoples one against the other for long years must be settled once and for all. Why else would the gods have made us wander at length over land and sea only to find each other here in this far land? He awaits you in a valley along the great river, and he challenges you to this duel. He who wins will certainly have the favour of the gods and the dominion over this land.” ’

‘I will do so,’ said Lamus.

They left the next day, and the Chnandeparted with them. And thus the wait began. Myrsilus raided a village in the mountains and carried off some fine horses. He assembled the king’s war chariot, greased the hubs and fixed the shaft on to the wagon. He shined every decoration until they gleamed like they once had. He chose the two proudest stallions and had them run every day from dawn to dusk along the shores of the river. He accustomed them to the harness and reins and trained them well in every manoeuvre. They were very different from Asian horses, and from Argive horses as well. They were tall and slender, not as fast, perhaps, but more powerful, with a fiery temper. Diomedes spent most of his time alone and took little interest in the training; the great effort that Myrsilus was making to provide him with a chariot worthy of a king, worthy of a hero, a chariot that would raise his fame to the skies, seemed not to matter at all to the king.