Текст книги "Heroes"

Автор книги: Valerio Massimo Manfredi

Соавторы: Valerio Massimo Manfredi
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

One day his comrades asked Diomedes to go ashore. They had seen the mouth of a river, with a small village. They wanted to take what food and women they could, before continuing their journey. Diomedes consented, although he was against the plan. Fierce people often inhabited such poor lands, and he was afraid they might be lying in wait behind the mountains looming nearby. They beached at a small cove and dropped their anchors. Myrsilus led a group of men to the top of a hill to observe the village. It was a cluster of huts standing along the banks of the river; each hut had a pen for animals. They heard bleating, the braying of donkeys and barking of dogs. But not a human voice.

Evening fell, but the menfolk had not returned to their huts; they could sense the presence of the enemy. They sat all together out in the open, armed. They sniffed the air like sheepdogs guarding their flocks, lifting their snouts to pick out the scent of a wolf.

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When darkness fell Myrsilus led the attack. Diomedes was against it and did not take part. He had agreed to them taking women and food, but he ordered the population to be spared, as much as possible. He remained on his ship with a few comrades as Myrsilus and his men charged forward shouting.

Other shouts answered from the bottom of the valley and from the houses of the little village, and the skirmish began. These were poor men, bearing rough, primitive arms, but they fought furiously to save their wives and children.

Their resistance did not last long. Their weapons broke as soon as the conflict started and they withdrew, continuing to throw stones, but they could not make a dent in their assailants’ large bronze shields and crested helmets. They would have been all slain then and there, had not something that terrified even their assailants occurred.

A horn sounded shrill and long from the mountains, followed by shouting so loud it seemed to come from thousands of men yelling at once. A great multitude of warriors appeared at the pass that descended between the valley and the sea. The blazing torches they carried formed a river of light that ran down the wooded slopes of the mountain.

The village men and the Achaean warriors fighting in the little field near the town took no heed at first, absorbed as they were in the brawl, but the women turned towards the mountain and then towards the sea, raising their arms in a gesture of despair. In just a few moments, their tranquil existence had been completely overturned; they were being attacked both by land and by sea, by strangers who knew nothing of each other.

Diomedes saw what was happening from his ship and immediately realized the danger his comrades were in. He called his slave, a Hittite named Telephus whom he had taken prisoner in Ilium, and ordered him to sound the signal for retreat with his bugle, but the valley was already thick with battle cries, with clanging weapons and neighing horses. Myrsilus and his men did not hear and continued to strike out at the villagers.

Diomedes saw the invaders’ advance guard racing down from the mountains behind the village. They were wild and relentless, flying like shades from one hut to another, riding their horses barebacked. They carried off everything they could find, accumulating it in great heaps, and then set fire to the huts. The wind licked the flames high, lifting columns of smoke and sparks towards the sky. The native warriors, crushed between the two enemy formations, would be soon overcome, and once they had fallen, Myrsilus and his men would find themselves surrounded, with no hope of escape.

Diomedes donned his armour and ordered the rowers to direct the ships to the coast.

His ship was the first to enter into the circle of light which the flames cast towards the sea, and he stood tall at the bow, clad in blinding bronze, under the standard of the kings of Argos. He threw out his arms, gripping his spear in his right hand and his shield in his left, and he let out the war cry. The cry that had terrified the Trojans, throwing their ranks into disorder and panicking their horses. Diomedes’s war cry echoed again and again, and the din on the beach ceased. The invaders turned and were struck dumb by the sudden apparition. Behind them the long column continued to descend the mountain, massing inland with great commotion. Myrsilus and his men took advantage of the moment to retreat with their backs to the sea. They pressed close, side by side, shoulder to shoulder and shield to shield.

One of the invaders strode towards the beach and let out a cry of his own, waving his weapons in the air and gesturing for his men to fall back. It was evident that he wanted to take up Diomedes’s challenge to single combat. The royal ship advanced until it was nearly at the beach and Diomedes leapt into the water fully armed and advanced towards his adversary. Myrsilus’s men opened their ranks to let him pass, closing tight once again behind him. The waves lapped calmly at the pebbles along the shore but on the western horizon a long rip in the clouds revealed a strip of crimson as if the sky, wounded, were bleeding into the sea.

The warrior who had come from the mountains was a shaggy giant. His head was protected by a leather helmet, his chest by a bronze plate held in place by chains crossed at his back. A loincloth covered his hairy groin.

He flung his spear first. It struck the centre of Diomedes’s shield but the metal boss deflected it. Tydeus’s son planted his left foot firmly forward, weighed the long, well-balanced spear in his hand, and then hurled it with enormous strength. The ashwood shot through the air like lightning, ran through the enemy’s shield and struck the bronze that protected his heart. It grazed the plate but did not pierce it. A shout arose from the men gathered behind him. The warrior tossed the shield that would no longer serve him and unsheathed his sword.

Diomedes drew his sword as well and he advanced, glaring at his enemy from the rim of his shield; his eyes behind the visor were burning with ire as the mighty crest of his helmet fluttered in the evening breeze.

The hero then delivered a violent downward blow on his enemy’s head, but the other succeeded in fending it off with his own sword. Diomedes struck another even stronger blow, but the blade which had once torn through the belly of the god of war fell to the ground shorn in two as if it had been made of wood! A chill seeped into the hero’s bones. His adversary yelled out a wild threat, and the words sounded strangely familiar even though he did not understand them.

His outburst reminded the Achaeans lined up on the shore of a language once common but long forgotten. Myrsilus tried to toss his sword to the disarmed king, but Diomedes did not see him; he could not tear his eyes from the enemy, who advanced jeering and brandishing his sword. It was made of a shiny metal which glittered with blue and scarlet sparks; its surface was not smooth and perfect like their blades of bronze but rough rather, as though it had suffered innumerable blows. The vault of the heavens must be made of that metal; perhaps this man had received the sword from a god and nothing could defeat it! The warrior suddenly leapt forward and dealt a daunting blow. Diomedes raised his shield, but the blows came faster and stronger. Sparks sprayed out at each strike; the polished rim was breaking up, the fast-joined studs falling off. He would soon find himself with no means of defence. But then his Hittite slave, Telephus, shouted behind him:

‘ Wanax!His spear is stuck in the sand just three paces behind you!’

Diomedes understood. He backed up slowly at first, then, in a flash, hurled his shield at his adversary and spun around like lightning. He pulled the spear out of the ground and as his foe flung out his arm to deflect the shield that had been thrown at him, Diomedes threw the spear straight at his chest. The point pierced the plate, cleaved his heart and came out of his back. The warrior swayed for a moment like an oak whose roots have been chopped off by woodsmen, black blood pouring from his mouth. Then he crashed face first into the sand.

A long groan sounded from the ranks of the invaders, a wail of lament that swiftly became a howl of fury as they all lunged forward at once.

They were hundreds of times more numerous than the Achaeans, even now that all the comrades on board the ships had come to their aid. Diomedes saw that opposing them was futile, and ordered his men to toss their shields on their backs and run towards the ships. They obeyed, but many of them were struck and killed as they ran towards the sea and scrambled up the sides of the ships. Others were wounded and fell into the hands of their enemies; they were cut to pieces, their heads stuck on pikes and hurled back at the ships. The men all rushed to the thwarts and began to row as fast as they could to escape, as a band of enemies seized the anchor cable of the royal vessel and attempted to hold it back. Others rushed upon the ship and clusters of them hung on to the sides so that the rowers, no matter how mightily they arched their backs, could not overcome the increasing weight and resistance of the enemy. The sea boiled all around but the ship could not haul off.

The glow of the fires lit up the ever-growing host of men tugging on the cable. Diomedes realized that they were pulling the ship back to shore; his comrades at the oars were failing to get the better of the hundreds of enemies dragging them towards land. The other ships were already far off at sea; their pilots had not realized in the pitch dark that the king’s ship was not among them.

Diomedes ordered all the men not at the oars to take their bows and let fly at the mob pulling on the anchor cable. He himself seized a two-edged axe and leaned out over the prow to chop off the cable. The enemies were quick to realize what was happening and their archers advanced as well, shooting swarms of arrows at the ship. Myrsilus ran to protect the king with his shield. In mere moments, the shield became so heavy with the great number of arrows stuck in it that Myrsilus could no longer hold it alone. He gasped: ‘ Wanax!Hurry, or we’ll all die!’ Diomedes once again raised the axe over the rope at the point in which it sat on the railing and swung down with all his strength. The axe sliced through the cable and stuck deep in the wood. Suddenly free, the ship shoved off, urged on by the oars. The hull groaned as the stern sunk into the waves but Myrsilus tenaciously shouted out the tempo for the oarsmen, and the ship finally wheeled around and set its bow to sea.

As they moved off, the king saw a man desperately swimming towards the ship in an attempt to reach it. Believing it was one of his comrades trying to escape the enemies, he had a rope lowered so the man could catch hold of it. As the ship finally drew away from the shore, the cries of the mob fading and the blaze of the fire dimming in the distance, the man was hoisted aboard. He was not one of their comrades; he must have been one of the inhabitants of the wasted village. Deprived of home and family, horrified by cruel enemies, he had chosen those who seemed less ferocious. He looked around bewildered and then, picking out the king, threw himself at his feet and embraced his knees. Diomedes had the men give him dry clothes and food and he returned to the bow. He would turn back now and again to watch the tremulous flames, and then scanned the open sea in search of the other ships. Myrsilus had the brazier lit at the fore so they could be seen, and other fires were soon lit on the waves. He counted them. ‘ Wanax,’ he said, ‘they’re all there.’ The king had the ship stopped and looked back towards the shore. The column of enemies was on the march again and a long line of torches snaked along towards the south as the burning village offered up its last faint flashes of life.

‘They’re going south,’ said the king. ‘Towards our land.’

‘It is no longer our land,’ said Myrsilus.

‘You are wrong,’ said the king again. ‘It will be ours for ever, as a man’s father and mother will always be his father and mother, even if the son abandons them.’ He turned towards the foreigner and pointed at the torch lights heading south through the night. Who are they?’ he asked.

The foreigner shook his head and Diomedes repeated: ‘Who are they, who are those men?’

The man seemed to understand what he was being asked; he widened fear-filled eyes in the dark and in a whisper, as if fearful of his own voice, said: ‘ Dor.’

‘I’ve never heard tell of these people, but I say that nothing will stop them if they have swords like the one I saw. .’

His Hittite slave approached. ‘It was made of iron,’ he said.

‘Iron?’ said Diomedes. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a metal, like copper and bronze, but infinitely stronger. Fire cannot melt it, but only serves to make it softer. It is laid on burning coals and then shaped with a hammer on an anvil. All of our noblemen in the city of Hatti, the king and all the dignitaries, are armed with swords and axes made of that metal. They have conquered all Asia with them. No one believed me when I spoke of the existence of this metal. Now you know I was telling the truth.’

As they were speaking, one of the ships drew up and the pilot called out: ‘ Wanax, are you safe?’

‘I am,’ replied Diomedes. ‘But we all risked death. Is that you, Anchialus?’

‘Yes, wanax. And I am happy to see you.’

‘Not for long. You must depart.’

‘Depart? I have departed, to stay with you. And I do not intend ever to leave you.’

‘You must go back, Anchialus. Have you seen that multitude of wild men? They are called. . Dor. . They are armed with a metal that can cut the best bronze, they ride the bare backs of their horses as if they were a single being, like centaurs. They are as numerous as ants and they are headed towards the land of the Achaeans. You must turn back, you must warn Nestor and Agamemnon; tell Menelaus, if he has returned, and Sthenelus at Argos, if he still lives. Tell them what you have seen. Tell them to ready their defences, to build a wall on the Isthmus, to send the black ships out to sea. .’

‘What does it matter, wanax?’ replied Anchialus. ‘We have chosen to sail towards the night, towards the land of the Mountains of Ice and the Mountains of Fire. What happens beyond the horizon we leave at our backs no longer concerns us.’

‘I am your king. I want you to go. Now.’

Anchialus lowered his head, gripping the railing of his ship with his hands.

‘I will do as you say,’ he replied. ‘But then I shall return. They say that this sea is really a gulf. I will catch up with you, when I have done as you have ordered me. I will sail up the coast until I find you. Leave a sign on the beach that I can recognize.’

‘I will. Seeing you again will fill me with joy.’

The other three ships had joined them. The fires burning in the fore braziers cast a crimson halo on the waves, like a blood-stain.

‘But before you go, let us render our lost comrades their last honours, ship by ship.’

They all stood, gripping an oar in hand and, one ship after another, looking towards land, they shouted out the names of their lost comrades, massacred by the enemy, hacked to pieces, abandoned without burial on a wild and hostile shore. Then Anchialus raised his hand in salute and pushed his ship back, his oarsmen at their places. The night swallowed them up and the wind carried afar the names of their comrades.

Diomedes walked back to the stern and covered his head in mourning for the loss of such gallant men. Strange quivers of blood-coloured light shot through the clouds crossing the sky. Perhaps it was their souls, seeking the light of the stars one last time before plunging into Hades.

The foreigner that they had hoisted aboard followed Diomedes and went to sit at his feet. He had chosen him as his master and awaited his command. Myrsilus, at his side, had taken the helm, keeping his eye on the Little Bear whenever it appeared between one cloud and another. It was too dark to seek a safe landing place, for they risked being smashed to pieces against the rocks, nor could they remain still and allow the wind and the waves to set them adrift. They had to navigate, confiding in the help of the gods and in good fortune. Telephus, the Hittite, sat on a basket near Diomedes, sharpening his knife on a whetstone.

‘What land are you from?’ asked Myrsilus, to break the silence and fear.

‘You call us Chetaeans but we are Hittites. My native name is Telepinuand I come from a city of the interior called Kussara. I fought at length as the captain of a squadron of chariots in the army of our king Tudkhaliyas IV, may the gods preserve him, against the league of Assuwa, which we defeated. But when you arrived from the west, the league was reconstituted in support of Priam and his city Vilusya, which you Ahhijawacall Ilium. We were willing to help Priam at that point, setting aside our past conflicts with the league in order to repel our common enemy, but only a small contingent could be sent. Other peoples had come from the east, from the Urartumountains, and invaded our land. Our king sent a legation to the king of the Egyptians but Egypt was being invaded as well, by multitudes from the desert and from the sea. If we had been able to draw up our whole army and all of our war chariots against you we would have chased you back into the sea! Nothing can withstand the charge of a battalion of Hittite chariots.’

Myrsilus smiled in the dark: ‘That’s what they all say. Ahhijawa. . so that’s what you call us. . it’s strange, a people do not exist because of who they are, but because of what others consider them to be. Have you seen Egypt as well?’

‘Oh, yes. I was sent to escort one of our princes who had gone to visit their king, who is called Pharaoh. Their kings know the secret of immortality, but reveal it to no one. Two thousand years ago, they were already building stone tombs as tall as mountains. Their priests know how to obscure the sun and make it reappear at will. And they have a gigantic river whose waters beget monsters with mouths full of teeth and backs covered by armour that no weapon can penetrate.’

Myrsilus smiled again. ‘What lovely stories you tell, Chetaean. By chance, do you know something of this land we are seeking?’

‘No. I’ve never heard speak of it. But all those people marching south worry me.’

The shrieks of a flock of cranes broke the silence of the night. The Hittite pulled his cloak close around his shoulders. ‘We’re heading where they’re escaping from. We’re going the opposite direction from the cranes, who are wise enough to abandon inhospitable places where the winters are too harsh. . Have you noticed those strange lights behind the clouds? I’ve never seen anything like it in all my life. And never, as far back as man can remember, have so many peoples left their own lands and set off to cover such immense distances. Something has terrified them, or perhaps something urges them on without their knowing why. . like when the locusts suddenly, for no reason, gather and begin to migrate, destroying everything along their path. .’ He turned to look at the king, who stood still and silent by the railing, his cloak pulled up over his head. ‘You are all running as well. . without knowing where. And I with you.’

He found a blanket and curled up between the baskets and ropes, seeking shelter from the damp night. Diomedes turned to the pilot then: ‘Are you well awake?’ he asked.

‘I’m awake, wanax, I’m holding the route and keeping windward. Sleep if you can.’

The king laid out a bear pelt and lay down upon it, covering himself with his cloak. He sighed, grieving for the comrades lost.

The Hittite slave waited until the king was asleep, then walked over to the pilot and pointed at a box tied to the mast. ‘Do you know what’s in there?’ he asked.

Myrsilus did not even turn towards him; his gaze was riveted to the sky. ‘In what?’ he asked.

‘You know. Inside that chest tied to the main mast.’

‘Ask me once more and I’ll chop off your head.’

‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’ insisted the slave. ‘Do you think you can treat me like a mouse just because I’ve fallen into servitude? I am a Hittite warrior. I was the commander of a squadron of chariots. And I wasn’t born yesterday. There’s something strange in that box.’

‘One more word and I’ll cut off your head,’ repeated Myrsilus. The Hittite slave said nothing. The other men were laid out on the bottom of the ship and were sleeping under their cloaks.

The foreigner who had been taken aboard was sitting against the ship’s railing with his legs close against his chest and his head leaning on his knees. The Hittite slave watched him for a while, then approached him. The glow of the brazier at the stern lit up his dark face. ‘What kind of a man are you?’ he asked him in his own language.

The foreigner raised his head and in the same language answered: ‘I am a Chnan.’

‘A Chnan. . what are you doing here? And you speak Hittite. . where did you learn it?’

‘The Chnanspeak many languages because we take our wares to all the peoples of this earth.’

‘Then you’re not one of those wretches whose village they destroyed?’

‘No. We were pushed up here by a storm two months ago, at the end of the summer. My ship sank and I barely saved myself. They welcomed me, gave me food. They did not deserve to die.’

‘We do not deserve to die either. Do you know anyone who deserves to die? To sink into darkness, leaving behind forever the scent of the air and the sea, the colours of the sky, of the mountains and the meadows, the taste of bread and the love of women. . is there someone who deserves such horror, just because he was born? Who were those. . Dor. . you were talking about?’

‘That’s what the people who took me in called them. They are a powerful, ferocious race. They live on a great inland river called the Ister, but for some time now they have been restless, and they make continuous raids towards the sea. Those whom you saw were but a small group of them; if some day all of them decide to move, no one will be able to stop them. They have weapons of iron, they ride the bare backs of their horses. . did you see them?’

‘I did. Do you speak the language of the Achaeans as well?’

‘I can understand much more than I speak. But it is better they don’t learn that. . until I know them well. But tell me, what men are these that sail in this sea, in this season and in this direction? They must be mad, or desperate.’

The Hittite looked into the sky again. The strange lights had been extinguished and the vault of the heavens was as grey and smooth as a leaden bowl.

‘They are both,’ he said.

At that same hour, Clytemnestra lay on her wedding bed alongside Aegisthus. She was not sleeping; she lay with her eyes open and the lamp lit. She had killed her husband without hesitation, as he returned after years of war, but she could not bear the visions that crowded round her head if she closed her eyes. She could not bear the hate of Electra, the daughter who remained to her. Since that murdering night, she had often gone up to the tower of the chasm at night, in the wind, and there she had remembered the days of her wedding, the night in which a choir of maidens with flaming torches had accompanied her to the wedding bed of the king of Mycenae, the king of the Achaean kings.

They had undressed her and perfumed her. They had combed her hair and loosened her belt, laying her on the bed. She remembered how the king had appeared, the copper reflections on the thick locks that shaded his forehead and cheeks, mixing in with his full beard. She remembered his chest and his arms shining with scented oil, and she remembered how she had done her duty. How she had pretended to cry out with pleasure when his scourge lacerated her womb.

She had used her allure wilfully but without abandon, without ever letting herself be moved.

Men have to submit or die. As when the great queen, the Potinja, once reigned. Once a year she chose her bedmate, the male who would render her fertile, the strongest and most fearless, the most vital. He who after having fought duel after duel with the others had earned himself the privilege of being king for one day and one night before dying.

Clytemnestra got up and went to the throne room. She sat on the seat that had belonged to the Atreides and waited there for the sun to rise.

Even before the maidservants had left their beds and lit the fire in the hearth, the man whom she had been expecting for days arrived. He entered and, seeing that the room was still dark, he sat on the floor near the wall to wait for someone in the household to awaken. The queen saw him and called to him.

‘Come forward,’ she said, ‘I’ve been waiting for you. Did you see my cousin, the queen of Ithaca?’

‘Yes, wanaxa, I have met with her.’

‘And what did she tell you? Has she agreed to our requests?’

‘Yes. All will be done when Ulysses returns.’

‘But. . how? Did she tell you how? The king of Ithaca is the most cunning man on earth.’

‘She is no less able than he. Ulysses will never suspect anything.’

‘What of him, did you see him? Why didn’t you wait for his destiny to be fulfilled?’

‘I waited, but king Ulysses did not return. He should have reached Ithaca no longer than three days after Agamemnon and Diomedes returned. But when I left, a month had passed and there was no word of him.’

‘A month is too long. It couldn’t have taken him so long.’

‘Perhaps his ship foundered. Perhaps he is already dead. While I was in Ithaca, a ship arrived at port and a man came ashore and spoke with the queen. I learned that they were Achaeans and that they had come from Argos, but I could find out no more.’

‘Argos?’ repeated the queen, getting to her feet. ‘Did you see that man in the face?’

‘For just a moment, at the port, as he was boarding the ship.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘He had long blond curls that fell to his shoulders. His eyes were dark, bright and watchful. His hands were strong and his gait was forceful, as if he were accustomed to carrying a weight on his shoulders.’

‘The weight of armour,’ said the queen. ‘Perhaps you saw a king escaping. . or preparing to return.’ The man shook his head without understanding. ‘My cousin is with us. I am sure of it. And when we have extinguished the mind of Ulysses, the last obstacle will have been brought down.’

The man left and the queen walked out on to the gallery of the tower of the chasm. The clouds were low on the mountains and swollen with rain. Suddenly, Clytemnestra saw a woman wrapped in a black cape leaving from one of the side gates below; she walked swiftly towards the bottom of the valley, and stopped at the old abandoned cistern. There she fell to her knees. She rocked back and forth, gripping her shoulders, and then she lay flat and placed her forehead against the bare stone that covered the opening. Electra. She mourned her father, contemptibly murdered and contemptibly buried, and the gusts of wind raised the soft echoes of her laments all the way up to the bastions of the tower.

Meanwhile, on the distant northern sea, Diomedes’s ships advanced in the light of dawn. Their beaked prows ploughed through the grey waves, passing between deserted islands and rugged promontories reaching out like hooked fingers into the sea. Little villages perched high above, surrounded by dry walls like nests of stone. They could see the inhabitants venturing out with their herds of goats, wild men these too, covered in fur like the animals they tended.

That night they found shelter near the mouth of a river, and the night after that as well. At dawn, Diomedes decided to walk upstream with Myrsilus and other companions in search of game. But they were soon to be confronted with the strangest of prodigies. Having gone round a hill and descending on the other side, they saw that the river had vanished. They searched and searched for it, but could find it nowhere. After a long stretch on foot they reached a place where the river reappeared but was immediately swallowed up into the ground, sucked into a sinkhole. Diomedes realized that the hole must lead to Hades and he sacrificed a black goat to Persephone so that she might propitiate his journey. The victim’s blood stained the river water red and disappeared into the ground.

They dared not draw water from the cursed river that fled the light of day like a creature of the night, and so they continued inland in search of game and water. The land opening up all around them was quite different from any Diomedes had ever seen; it was covered by stunted, twisted trees and furrowed by deep gorges and wild, overgrown ravines.

A little group of deer appeared and the hunters closed in. The Hittite and the foreigner were armed with bows and hid behind some brambles; Diomedes and Myrsilus took position opposite them with their javelins. A flock of birds took to the air with shrill cries, startling the deer. As they bolted, Myrsilus hurled his javelin but missed the mark, while the Hittite had had the time to take aim and he hit a large male which collapsed to the ground, dead. The others tied him by his legs to a branch and began to make their way back to the ship. Although the territory they crossed seemed deserted and uninhabited, the eyes of the foreigner kept darting here and there, as though he sensed some presence.

He was not mistaken. One of the men suddenly yelled out in pain and dropped to his knees; an arrow had pierced his thigh. They all turned; behind them, just topping a hill, were a mob of wild-haired savages with long beards, wearing goatskins. They were armed with bows and wielded heavy clubs with stone heads. They ran forward, shouting loudly and waving their bludgeons. Diomedes ordered his men to retreat to a gorge where they would have some hope of resisting, although they were so thoroughly outnumbered. Some of the attackers were letting out shrill, high-toned cries, like those of sea birds. Their cries echoed in the distance, bouncing off the rock walls, the precipices and the caverns; they must have been calls for reinforcement, because the enemy strength soon swelled to an enormous number of men.