Текст книги "Heroes"

Автор книги: Valerio Massimo Manfredi

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

17

Diomedes felt like dying. He fell on to his knees and wept, as Aeneas mounted his chariot and disappeared over the plains of the Lat.

Myrsilus brought him back to the camp by force and there he lay for three days and three nights, devoured by fever, touching neither food nor drink. Myrsilus had all his weapons taken away, for he feared the king would take his own life.

On the fourth day he spoke to him: ‘Oh king, I and my companions know the truth now and yet, although we are sick at heart, we have not given ourselves up to despair. All these years we have followed you and we have fought with you so that your dream and ours might become reality. The gods have willed differently, and we mortals can do nothing against Fate. But we love you, and we want to live with you or to die with you.

‘I saw you fight with spear, sword and axe against the son of Anchises, and I heard your words. There is no man on the face of the earth who can match you. We have come to a decision, and we want you to know this: if you live, we will live; if you die, we will die.’ He stretched out his arm: ‘This is the sword I have borne with honour. Take it. If you use it against yourself, I will take my life with the same blade, and our comrades will do the same and we will sleep here together, under this sky, lulled by the voice of this great river. If you eat and drink with us, we will be happy and we will follow you until we find a place to live in peace in this land and together we will await the end that the gods have reserved for us.’

Upon hearing those words, the king wearily got up from his pallet and showed his pale face, his blood-matted hair, his unkempt beard, his eyes red behind dark rings, and he burst into bitter tears. His back was shaken by sobs and big drops coursed down his hollow cheeks. Myrsilus stood before him unmoving until he saw him begin to calm, to wipe his eyes with the edge of his tunic. He nodded then to the bride, to long-haired Ros, who crouched in silence in a dark corner of the tent, and she took a jug of spring water and gave it to him so he could drink. She touched his face, then got up and had some water heated. When it was ready, she removed his clothes and bathed him, she poured scented oil over his head and then she lay down beside him, under a warm sheep’s fleece. She embraced him, caressing his tortured body with light fingers, passing on the warmth of her body until sleep descended on his eyes.

They departed at the beginning of spring and headed eastward until the Blue Mountains stood between them and the people of Aeneas, and after wandering at length they found the sea that they had long ago crossed in search of the mouth of the Eridanus.

A people called the Messapians lived on that land, ruled over by a king called Daunus. The Chnannegotiated a treaty with him, and obtained a small territory on the shores of a lake to found a small city. They called it Helpie, which in the Achaean language means ‘hope’.

It was a long time before the threat announced by Anchialus came to pass in the land of the Achaeans. King Menelaus had had a wall raised on the Isthmus and he built new bulwarks in Mycenae and other cities; cisterns were dug and stores assembled. But what truly gave the king hope for the survival of his people was his certainty that he possessed the talisman of the Trojans. He had placed it in a temple on the citadel of Argos, for that was the highest site on the whole plain; from there, one could see Tyrinth and Temenium and, at night, the fires of Mycenae. In Argos, to keep the memory of Diomedes alive.

One day, Orestes returned to Sparta and Menelaus granted him the hand of his daughter Hermione, who had long awaited him, so that they might reign over Mycenae together and generate many descendants to carry on the line of the Atreides.

Ulysses returned as well, as Prince Telemachus had hoped: one day he showed up at the palace in disguise, dressed as a beggar, and for days he observed all that went on without revealing his identity to anyone, not even his bride. When he suddenly made himself known, he appeared as he truly was to the eyes of all; he grasped his bow and shot down the suitors who were banqueting in the great hall as Prince Telemachus and his servants barred the doors and prevented them from fleeing. He slaughtered them all, one after another, he hanged the maidservants who had betrayed him and then he finally revealed himself to his wife.

And yet his homecoming was bitter: he returned on a foreign vessel, having lost his ships and his comrades, and he had to shed much blood to reassert his authority. The massacre never ceased to weigh upon him. He left his throne to his son and departed once again in a final quest for peace. They say he was seeking a distant, solitary land in which he could immolate a sacrifice that would free him from the persecution of the gods and allow him to live the last days of his life in serenity on his rocky island. No one knows whether he succeeded, and no one knows what end he met. The twilight of the last heroes has faded into confused, uncertain accounts for which there have been no witnesses.

I’ve often asked myself who the serene woman was who welcomed Telemachus to Sparta when he went to ask King Menelaus for news of his father; she showered him with gifts and gave him a beautiful peplum for his bride to wear on the day when he would chose a maiden for himself among the daughters of the Achaeans. I’ve wondered whether this happy, gracious queen who was always seen thereafter in Sparta was the same woman who had screamed with horror over the corpse of her sister Clytemnestra, rent by the blade of her son. On the day of her sister’s funeral Helen was said to have gouged her face and wept inconsolably, cursing the atrocious destiny of the Atreides. I know nothing else.

I know that, for a very long time, threat seemed to disperse without harm over the land of the Achaeans, like when clouds gather and thunder booms in the sky but then the wind scatters the storm without a drop of rain or hail. But the will of the gods is always difficult for men to discover.

One day a ship reached Pylus with terrible news: a horde of invaders was descending from the north, burning and destroying everything in their wake. Nothing seemed capable of stopping them. Pisistratus, who now reigned in the palace after the death of old Nestor, immediately issued the alarm, sending messengers to Sparta and Argos; he summoned the scribes and instructed them to contact all the garrisons on the coast and relay orders to send their warriors into the field and their ships to sea. But as the scribes were still engraving the fresh clay with their styles, the palace was already ringing with cries, the rooms filling with smoke and flames. Pisistratus ran into the armoury and took down his enormous double-bladed axe. .

The echo of that devastation spread everywhere; it crossed the sea and lapped at the coast of Hesperia, where for years Diomedes had been leading an obscure life in the poor village he had built. His bride was long dead, along with the child she had tried to bear him.

One evening, at the end of the summer, a boat laden with refugees came ashore near Helpie. They were Achaeans who had fled their invaded homeland with their wives and children. Nothing was left to them; their houses had been destroyed, their cities burned to the ground. As soon as he heard of them, Diomedes hastened to greet them, bringing them dry clothing and food.

When they had eaten their fill, when they had finished telling their stories, the hero asked them: ‘Do you know who they are? Do they rule over the entire land of the Achaeans?’

‘They are called Dor,’ replied the eldest among them, ‘and they are invincible. They form a single, dreadful animal with their horses by mounting them bare-backed. They have weapons stronger than the best bronze; not a shield can withstand them, nor a cuirass or helmet. Our warriors never had a chance against them, and yet they never gave up the fight. Only Mycenae has resisted, and Argos; their walls still protect them, but their destiny is in the hands of the gods, if they still think of us.’

Diomedes turned to Myrsilus, who sat next to him, bouncing on his knee the small son he had generated with a native woman. He had a strange light in his eyes, a light that Myrsilus had thought gone for ever. The king said: ‘Argos is holding out. Did you hear that? Argos resists!’

Myrsilus regarded him with bewilderment: their days of weapons and blood were so far away, now. Every evening he sat with his son on the shores of the sea to watch the waves changing colour. Sometimes Malech, the Chnan, who had never taken to the seas after all, came to sit with them as well. Myrsilus told his boy the story of their king, who had once lain siege to a great city in a far-off land; he told him of the gods who had fought at their side and of the endeavours of the heroes: Ulysses master of deceit, Great Ajax, big-voiced Menelaus and Diomedes son of Tydeus, victor of Thebes of the Seven Gates. But the stories he told were like fables of a remote time, as enchanting as they were no longer true.

But suddenly, looking into Diomedes’s eyes, he realized that time had never killed the spirit of the Argive hero; the fire was still burning after so many years under the ashes.

‘I’m leaving,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a ship can still land at Temenium. Perhaps the fortress of Tiryns still defends the road from the sea.’

Myrsilus felt his heart plummet. He looked at his son and then said: ‘What you are thinking is pure folly. Those cities will have fallen by now. Thank the gods that they have reserved this place for us, where we can live in peace. Look at those wretches: they are miserable, they have nothing.’

Diomedes smiled: ‘Do not fear. You men will stay here and live in peace. You have your children, and your wives. It is right for you to stay. But I have nothing, only my memories. I lost my bride and the child who was about to be born, but Argos is still alive at the bottom of my heart. She is the beloved homeland I have never forgotten. Listen to me: an oak cannot generate a rush, nor can an eagle give birth to a crow. Now I know what I must do. I will die with my sword in my fist, but I will see the sun shine on the towers of Argos, one last time.’

It was impossible to dissuade him, and for the first time after years and years his comrades saw him as he once was. He seemed reborn to a new life, not a man rushing towards death.

He asked King Daunus for a ship but the man burst out laughing and said: ‘With what will you pay me? A handful of sea salt, and the wool of your sheep?’ The king was coarse and greedy.

But Diomedes did not react. ‘With this,’ he said calmly.

He lifted the blanket that covered the pack on his mule’s back. Sparkling gold wounded the eyes of the native king, who was struck speechless. A suit of armour of dazzling beauty, all gold, gleaming in the sun. The armour once worn by Glaucus, the Lycian hero. He had given it to Diomedes on the field of battle as a hospitable gift, exchanging it with his own copper armour.

‘Will you give me a ship and oarsmen?’ he asked again. Daunus drew closer, his hand hovering over that wonder as if he were afraid that he would burn himself by touching it.

‘Yes. . yes. .’ he whispered, still not believing his eyes.

‘Good,’ said Diomedes. And he covered the armour and led off his mule. ‘I want it to be ready as soon as possible,’ he said as he left the courtyard. ‘The sooner it is ready, the sooner you will have what I’ve shown you.’

He walked off to return to his city. Daunus started, as if awaking suddenly from a dream: ‘Who are you anyway?’ he shouted, as the other walked away. But Diomedes did not answer, nor did he turn.

‘Who are you really?’ repeated Daunus, more softly now, as if speaking to himself. He watched as the man walked towards the sea with long strides, his wide arms alongside his body, as if the suit of armour still weighed on his shoulders.

‘But then it’s true,’ said Daunus again. ‘You truly are Diomedes, the king of Argos.’

As soon as the ship was ready and the crew enlisted, Diomedes went to the sea to board, bringing with him only his clothing and his weapons. He wanted to leave immediately, although the weather was not good and a cold wind blew over the sea, agitating the waves. But when he arrived he saw the ship empty and his comrades drawn up on the beach. With them were Malech, the Chnan, and Lamus, son of Onchestus. They had never had the heart to abandon him.

‘Where is my crew?’ he asked in surprise.

Myrsilus stepped forward: ‘We’re here. Remember, wanax? If you live, we shall live. If you die, we will die with you. You were right: an eagle cannot become a crow. Let us set sail.’

‘No,’ said Diomedes. ‘No. I will go alone. Return to your city. I command you to do so, if I am still your king.’

Myrsilus smiled: ‘If we obey, will this be the last order you give us in this land?’

‘The last,’ nodded Diomedes. And his voice was veiled with sadness.

‘Very well,’ said Myrsilus. ‘All aboard then,’ he shouted to his comrades. ‘Argos is our city!’

The comrades shouted: ‘ARGOS!’

Diomedes watched as they took their places at the thwarts and cast off the moorings and his eyes brimmed over. As the ship began moving, he leapt up to grab the rail and vaulted aboard. He stood beside Myrsilus at the helm.

The men hoisted the sail and the ship gained speed, bound towards the open sea. Diomedes’s plan was to head east towards a small group of rocky islands and then to turn south and sail steadily in that direction.

The wind was picking up, but no one thought of turning back. The Chnanglanced nervously up at the darkening sky. A shout suddenly echoed from the bow: ‘Ship starboard!’

Diomedes ran to the ship’s side and scanned the sea; a vessel was approaching them from the north. The insignia of the Spartan Atreides stood out on the faded sail.

‘Strike the sails!’ shouted Diomedes. ‘It’s a Spartan ship!’ The crew furled the sails and the oarsmen manoeuvred to maintain their position.

When the ship was within eyeshot, an incredulous expression came over the king’s face, as if a ghost had suddenly appeared before him.

‘Anchialus!’ he shouted out. From the ship a voice even louder than his own answered: ‘Wanax!’

In a few moments, the two vessels were side by side. Anchialus jumped on board and embraced the king with tears in his eyes. ‘I’ve been searching so long,’ he gasped between sobs, ‘so long!’ All of the comrades gathered round and embraced him. Only the Chnanremained at the helm and gravely watched the white seafoam that frothed leeward, pounding the ever-nearing islands.

‘Where are you headed?’ asked Anchialus when he had calmed a little.

The king raised flaming eyes. ‘To Argos,’ he said.

Anchialus looked at him in dismay. ‘To Argos?’ he said with a broken voice. ‘Oh, unhappy wretches! Don’t you know? I met refugees on the sea just yesterday, fleeing the city. Argos no longer exists.’

A stony silence fell over the ship, broken only by the sharp whistle of the wind.

‘To the oars!’ shouted the Chnan. ‘Men, to the oars! Reefs ahead!’

Myrsilus turned towards the little rocky islands, beaten now by huge billows rimmed with white foam, and then towards the cloud-dark sky. He shouted, as if out of his mind: ‘You gods have betrayed us! You will have no more suffering from us! You will have no more tears! To the oars, men! To the oars!’

The comrades exchanged glances and understood; they looked at the sky and at the boiling surf and they threw themselves at the oars, rowing with savage energy as Myrsilus gripped the helm forcefully, guiding them straight into the rocks. Diomedes understood as well and stood tall at the side of his pilot, firm against the fury of the storm.

Myrsilus yelled out at the top of his lungs to overcome the roar of thunder. He cried: ‘ARGOS!’ And his comrades echoed him, shouting with everything they had in them and making the surface of the sea boil with their oars.

The stern dipped down, pushed by the aft wind and by the force of one hundred arms and the ship rammed straight into the reefs. The keel crashed into the rocks and shattered; the ship rolled like a wounded whale, its stern shooting up and its bow going under. A gigantic wave smashed into the hull, already nearly dismembered by the terrible impact, and dragged it down into the abyss.

The storm raged on for many hours with huge billows, and the sky became blacker than night. It ceased only towards evening, when a cold ray of sun pierced through the grey clouds. A flock of seabirds rose up then from those desolate rocks. Among them was a great white-winged albatross which lifted above all the rest, higher and higher, letting out shrill shrieks of grief. He sailed through a rift in the clouds and was swallowed up by the darkness.

The foreigner finished his story thus, one evening at the end of winter. He left the day after, and we were never to hear of him again.

I’ve often asked myself who he was, really. Of all those who lived through those events, who could have had complete knowledge of all the facts? I have never been able to find an answer. Or perhaps I have never wanted to find one. Whoever he was, he had the right to oblivion, for destiny had forced him to live despite himself.

The last thing I remember about him were his eyes, when he turned to look at me before disappearing behind a curve in the road. They were no longer the eyes of a man. They were as empty and black as the circle of the new moon. There was nothing left inside of them, for he had given everything over to us: memories, pain, regrets, everything. Now he could finally look at the world as if he were no longer a part of it, as if he had long crossed the last horizon.