Текст книги "Heroes"

Автор книги: Valerio Massimo Manfredi

Соавторы: Valerio Massimo Manfredi
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

To the west, the sun was emerging from a dense bank of clouds just before setting, and it cast its last light on to the village and the fields, scoring the earth with the long shadows of the Achaean warriors on the march.

Diomedes signalled for them to stop and he advanced with two or three men, those closest to him, towards the bridge. He called out but there was no answer, only the barking of a dog that sounded after a while from behind the palisade. He advanced cautiously over the bridge and entered the village. The dog they had heard, which was gnawing on the fleshless bones of a carcass, growled, then slunk away whining, and the whole place fell into the most profound silence. Diomedes called out again, and still receiving no response, began to advance along the road that crossed the village from one side to the other. As they moved forward, his warriors patrolled the side roads that divided the town into regular districts.

He sought the residence of the chief, but could not find it; all the dwellings were equal in size, made of gratings of intertwined branches coated with fire-hardened clay, and topped by straw and hay roofs.

‘All men seem equal in this city,’ said Evenus. ‘All of the houses have the same dimensions and are made in the same way. How can the people understand who is to command and who is to obey?’

‘There are no people here,’ said Diomedes. ‘Not any more. Something happened. Something that killed them or forced them to flee.’

‘What could it have been?’ asked Evenus. ‘In all my life I’ve never seen a similar thing. Could it have been. . the chariot of the Sun?’

‘We shall see,’ said the king. ‘Look inside the houses and tell me what you find.’ He himself entered one of the houses. There was only one room inside. Along the wall were a series of dusty mats topped with gleaming white skeletons. Their mouths were stretched wide in a spasm of agony, their arms curled on their bellies, backs bent as if cramping over a point of piercing pain. At the centre was a hearth with a thick layer of ash; dark jars of varying dimensions, carved with simple decorations, stood all around. Half-burnt animal bones were mixed with the ashes, fish bones, walnut shells and fruit pits. There were no lamps, nor were there tables or other furnishings. The only other thing Diomedes saw was a bronze horse’s bit hanging on the wall, still fitted with its reins.

One of his men was waiting for him when he walked out. He could read the fear in his eyes: ‘ Wanax, the houses are all empty. . we’ve found only corpses, what’s left of them. But in one of the houses, down there, we’ve found something strange.’

Diomedes followed him and entered a house located at the crossing of the two main roads. The door was open and the light of the setting sun poured in, striking an object lying on a sort of raised platform at the centre of the house, a bright disc that glittered like a little sun. The king approached it and saw that it was made of embossed gold with spiral decorations which looked as if they were moving; it sat on four little wheels. On the ground was a clay basin full of rainwater, adorned with bulls’ heads, with a little fragment of gold taken from the edge of the disc, at its bottom.

‘What is it, wanax?’ asked the warrior. ‘It seems like magic, like sorcery. . I don’t like this place. .’

The king stretched his hand towards the disc and suddenly the shimmer vanished. The sun had just descended below the horizon. He looked at the little wheels and at the fragment at the bottom of the basin.

‘A piece of the chariot of the Sun has fallen into the swamp. . that’s what it means.’ He said nothing else, so as not to frighten his men, but he realized that those people had wanted to leave a sign for those who would come, perhaps to warn them, or perhaps to leave a token in memory of their end.

‘Let us go now,’ he said. ‘Do not touch anything, because this place is like a sanctuary.’

They walked out through the southern door, opposite to where they had entered. They passed the bare bones of a calf; nothing was left but a few strips of dried skin around the horns and the ribs. The empty eye sockets seemed to stare with surprise at the line of crested warriors who advanced through the dead city.

There was a broken bridge at the southern door as well, which crossed the rushing waters of the canal, but what they found on the other side was much more sinister than what they’d seen within.

Two rows of scorched stakes crossed a recently ploughed field; at the top of each stake was the burned head of a ram with great twisted horns, with scraps of skin and scorched flesh still clinging to the skulls. At the end of these eerie rows was an even more disturbing scene: the skeletons of two oxen lay on the ground under the yoke of a plough still stuck in the ground. The remains of a man lay nearby. Dogs had ripped him apart, fighting over the pieces: the gnawed, fleshless arms and parts of the legs lay at some distance from the torso, which was still protected by a sort of large leather tunic. The satchel he wore around his neck was of leather as well.

The king neared the man, took the satchel and opened it: teeth, the large pointed fangs of unknown animals. Diomedes looked around and saw that more teeth had been tossed into the furrows that the plough had made.

Evenus approached: ‘ Wanax,what does all this mean? That man was sowing teeth. .’

‘Dragon’s teeth. . like Jason, in Colchis. Dragon’s teeth, to call a new race of warriors from the ground.’

‘And those rams’ heads!’ murmured Evenus, looking around as darkness descended over the valley behind him. A thin lick of fog was rising from the moat, creeping across the earth, lapping at the bases of the stakes, enveloping the bones of man and animal.

‘Perhaps this man was performing a ritual to propitiate the sowing; an ancient, sacred rite of his ancestors, called upon out of the deepest despair.’

‘Let us leave this place, wanax!It is inhabited by the shadows of the unburied, shades without peace. They’ll drag us down to Hades with them if we stay here. All of our comrades are afraid as well; we have faced many dangers, fought without sparing our strength, we fear no enemy! But this land populated only by shadows has filled us with dread. It is not in this land that you shall found your kingdom!’

The king paused to look at the blackened skulls driven into the stakes, and the fog which crept over the earth and submerged everything, the skeletons, the abandoned plough.

‘This is a land shrouded in the chill of winter. Springtime comes here as well, and the meadows are covered with flowers; the tall grass will hide the signs of death. You mustn’t be afraid. But now let us return to the village and prepare for the night. Tomorrow we will return to our camp.’

‘ Wanax,’ said Evenus, ‘no one will follow you over that moat and behind that palisade. If you order us to do so, no one will shut an eye. Allow us to turn back now! We can follow the banks of the canal. We have brought our fire with us; we can light torches. Heed my words, wanax, I beg of you.’

Diomedes saw the terror in his eyes, even though his gaze was steady and his hand firm on his sword’s hilt. If they were attacked during the night, anything might happen. He agreed to take them back to the camp they had left on the shores of the Eridanus.

They ate something so as not to march with hunger in their bellies, then gathered branches which they fashioned into torches, lighting them from the ash-covered embers that they had brought with them in a jar. They began their journey: Diomedes walked at the head of the line and Evenus was last. They marched on in silence, accompanied only by the screeching of the night birds. Weariness began to weigh upon them, and the men slowed their pace, but Diomedes urged them on as if suddenly he had a reason to hurry to the camp.

The sun had not yet risen when a bloody flash appeared at the horizon, a throbbing reddish light.

Evenus ran from the rear guard to the king’s side: ‘Do you see that, wanax? It looks like a fire.’

‘I see it. Fast, we must make haste. It could be our camp.’ The men took off at a run and covered the last stretch of road stumbling and falling, since they could not see the ground they were treading on. As they drew nearer, a confused uproar could be heard; swirling flames and sparks rose towards the sky. When they were finally close enough, they realized what had happened: the ships pulled aground had been spotted by the Pelesetfleet during the night, and set ablaze. Myrsilus and his men were engaging the enemy on the beach, while others tried to put out the fire.

Diomedes beheld that terrible spectacle and the flames consuming his ships set off another fire in his mind: that terrible day that Hector had overwhelmed the Achaean defences and put Protesilaus’s ship to the torch on the beach of Ilium. Fury raged through his veins and the strain of their endless march vanished all at once. He seized his sword and raised a great yell: ‘ARGOS!’ Just as he had when he ordered his men to attack on the battlefield in Ilium. He lunged forward, all the others close behind. He broke through the ranks of Myrsilus’s warriors, who were being overpowered by the crushing force of the enemy and he burst into the front line, throwing himself into the fray.

The king was out of his mind. The brawl raged around him like a dream of the past: the battle under the wall of Thebes, the duels fought to the death before the Scaean gates, the Trojan warriors mowed down as their women watched. The king was like the wind that bends the oaks on the mountainside, like the hail that destroys the harvest, like the bolt of lightning that first blinds, then kills.

His cleaving blow ripped open the belly of the Pelesetwarrior in front of him, making his bowels spill down to his knees. He decapitated the comrade who had come to his aid and he horribly disfigured the face of a third who had dared to creep up on his left.

The blood drove him wild with anger and yet filled his soul with deep sorrow, like the sea tousled on the surface by a storm remains dark and still down beneath. And thus the force of his blows was invincible.

Myrsilus and his men, eager to prove themselves worthy in the eyes of their king, counter-attacked vigorously, repulsing the enemies towards the shore of the river. The Pelesetchief realized that the situation had been completely reversed and that if the battle were to continue his men would be annihilated. Satisfied with the damage he had inflicted on his enemies, he shouted out that upon his signal, all his men should run to the ships and set sail.

Only Lamus, son of Onchestus, understood what he had said, but he was near the palisade and had no way of letting Diomedes know, as the king was in the thick of the battle and his ears were full of its din. He shouted: ‘Stop them, they want to escape! We must not let them get away, or we will have no ships for ourselves!’ But his cries went unheard. At their chief’s signal, the Pelesetturned and fled rapidly to their ships, setting off towards the centre of the river, where the current swiftly carried them out of sight, towards the sea.

The Achaeans remained on the gravelly shore of the river and not a one had the heart to raise the cry of victory although they had defeated a numerous, war-seasoned enemy. Almost all of their ships had been destroyed. Those which had not burned down were in such a sorry state that they could not imagine repairing them.

The king assembled them all near the palisade; he took off his helmet and, dishevelled and blood-spattered as he was, said: ‘We have won the battle but we have lost our ships. We have no choice now. Although the comrades who came with me last night asked me to leave this land which shows so many signs of unexplainable destruction, today it is no longer possible to do so. We will push on and find a place suitable for founding our new kingdom. Perhaps the destruction of the ships is a sign from the gods who want to make us understand that this is the place they have destined for us. Let us go forward; there is always a new land on the horizon. If we must, we shall go towards the Mountains of Ice or the Mountains of Fire, or even beyond. No one is stronger than a man who has nothing left to hope for from fate.’

The men listened to him in silence. Many of them, especially those who had accompanied him the day before and marched with him all night, were distressed thinking of the hardships and privations they would suffer in that deserted, cursed land. But among them the most afflicted was Lamus, the Spartan; he was certain then that he would never be able to see his home and his city again. If he had been free to go as he pleased, he would not have known where to turn. He kept at a distance, head low, choking back his tears.

‘Do not despair!’ said Diomedes to his men. ‘The enemy has deprived us of our ships, but they did not succeed in attacking the camp. What is most precious remains. Follow me,’ he said, heading towards the camp. ‘Since we have nothing left but our arms and our courage, it is time that you know the truth.’

He reached the centre of the camp, where alongside the pole with his standard was the chest that he had always kept tied to the main mast of his ship. He grabbed an axe and with a single stroke broke open the hinges. The lid fell to the ground and revealed what was within. A great silence fell over the camp and the men bowed their heads.

Myrsilus came forward and raised his spear towards the sun which was rising from the bare branches of the poplars and oaks to illuminate the waters of the Eridanus. ‘We will follow you, wanax, even to the Mountains of Ice, even to the Mountains of Fire!’

All the men raised their spears to the sun and shouted: ‘ Wanax!’

They were no longer afraid and they watched their ships sink under the river current, without tears. The ships that had brought war to Ilium, the ships that for years had been the hope for their return, the symbol of their homeland.

‘Now we can only go forward,’ said the king.

They loaded all they had on the backs of the horses. The chest was closed again and loaded on to the king’s chariot, to which the divine horses of Aeneas were harnessed. When they were all ready, he gave the signal to depart and the column began its westward march.

The Chnanwas one of the last, and he was distraught over seeing the ships destroyed. ‘Madmen and fools!’ he said. ‘They’ve lost their ships and it’s as if nothing had happened at all, just because they saw that thing in the box. Were you able to get a look at it, at least?’ he asked Telephus, the Hittite slave.

‘No,’ he answered. ‘They were all in front of me with those crested helmets. But I don’t think it makes much of a difference for us.’

‘Of course it does,’ said the Chnan.‘With a ship, I could have brought you anywhere: to the ends of the earth, to the shores of the Ocean, to the swamps of the icy Borysthenes, to the mouth of the Nile, or. . home. Even home. .’

For the first time, his eyes were full of dismay and of terror.

8

They advanced for several days until they found another of those strange square-shaped cities, surrounded by a canal, filled with huts of the same size. There were still some people left here, just a few families who survived by rearing a cow or two, or a small flock of sheep. They took fright at the Achaean warriors, but Diomedes ordered his men not to harm them and to take only the women they could convince with gifts or words. A pointless order; nearly all the remaining inhabitants were well on in years.

They decided to stop there nonetheless because the weather had changed again for the worst: first rain, then snow and intense cold. They found food there as well: wheat, barley, milk and cheese. And the forests were full of wood for lighting fires.

When the weather was fine, the king took his horses down to the plain, far away from the square city. He brought them there to graze, and the horses pawed the snow to find grass and scrub to feed on.

He would return in the evening with a look of melancholic peace in his eyes, and would go to his hut without speaking to anyone. If snow fell during the night he would come out wrapped in his cloak and linger there, watching the big flakes swirl through the air in silence, his eyes bright and feverish. Sometimes he wouldn’t go to rest until it was nearly dawn, falling then into a heavy, agitated sleep.

The men who stood guard outside his door said that they had heard him calling out the name of Queen Aigialeia, in his sleep, and that they had heard him weeping, but Myrsilus threatened to cut off their tongues if they ever dared speak of such a thing again. He said they had to stand guard and nothing else, putting the rest out of their minds.

One day the king took only one of his horses with him and when he was far from the camp, he tried to mount him barebacked, as he had seen the Dordo. The steed bucked and shook him off more than once, but in the end the king had the better of him and managed to stay on his back as he galloped through the snow-covered plain. It felt incredible, like flying, like squeezing an impetuous sea wave between his legs, and Diomedes felt as if he could feel the hot blood of that great animal flowing in his own veins.

The steed flew, flogging his flanks with his tail, blowing clouds of steam from his frost-whitened nostrils and letting out shrill whinnies. Diomedes let him run until he was exhausted, then dismounted, covered him with a blanket, and let him graze. Every now and then the horse would raise his proud head and shake his mane, seeming to stare at him with a troubled, intense gaze.

‘You’re thinking of your master, aren’t you? Are you thinking of Aeneas?’

The animal shook his head as if nodding. ‘He’s no longer with us. Aeneas is dead. I’m all you have left, and it’s me you must love. If we should ever meet up with him one day, I will challenge him, and if he wins you can return to him, if you wish, and carry him once again into battle. But until that day you must serve me, for I have won you in fair, honourable combat.’

He started back towards the village but a false trail brought him far from his path, very far, to the southernmost edge of the forest. Before exiting the thick of the woods, he saw a caravan advancing from the north through the deep snow. There was a small group of warriors armed with long swords and spears, clad in animal hides and wearing helmets of leather and bronze; behind them a pair of oxen were pulling a covered carriage.

When they were very close, a sudden wind blew at the mats covering the sides of the carriage. For a moment, a mere moment, the king saw a maiden of divine beauty, her blue eyes veiled by shadow, her forehead white and pure as ice, her hair like ripe wheat. She looked like Aigialeia, when he had seen her the first time! Her features were different, the slant of her eyes and the lines of her face, but her spirit and form were the same, as were the enticing ambiguity and directness of her gaze and, he imagined, the fire that blazed beneath her gown. Happy the man who would carry her to his wedding chamber.

He mounted his horse and followed the little cortege at a distance, at length, remaining within the forest so he would not be seen. He felt an invincible force pulling him towards that carriage that advanced, swaying, and leaving a deep trail in the snow. He realized some time later that the carriage was approaching one of those square cities surrounded by a moat and an embankment, but this one was much bigger, and could contain many people. Spirals of smoke rose slowly from the rooftops, towards the cloudy sky.

He came out into the open just as the carriage was stopping and a door was opened in the palisade to admit the new arrivals.

A man crossed the bridge at its centre, walking towards the carriage from which the girl was descending. The warriors also unloaded several wicker baskets, her dowry perhaps, and carried them towards the city.

Diomedes sank his heels into his horse’s belly and got so close that the girl could see him; she looked into his eyes and he returned her gaze and made a sweeping gesture with his hand as if inviting her to follow him. The men who had been accompanying her turned towards him in alarm, then took their bows and began shooting arrows at him. He was beyond their range and he shouted to her: ‘Come with me! No one is more beautiful than you on this earth! Come with me!’ He spoke from his heart; he felt that that woman could become the queen of the city that he would found. Only she, perhaps, could wipe the image of Aigialeia from his soul. He wanted to attack then, and carry her off, but as he was about to charge forward, a great number of men appeared from behind the palisade and drew up before the carriage.

The maiden entered the city behind the man who had come out to welcome her. Before the door closed behind her she turned towards the plain and looked back at that rash warrior who continued to call to her, prancing about on his bay horse and raising sparkling sprays of snow.

Diomedes understood what was happening. The chief of those people had had a bride brought to him from afar! A bride of another stock, who would ward off the fate of his dying race, inject new blood into a breed cursed by an obscure affliction.

And this made him want that woman even more, at any cost.

He returned to his village, following the prints left by his horse in the snow, and he called his warriors to assembly that very evening. He told them that he had discovered another one of those strange cities, large and prosperous, full of herds, of abundant food, of weapons and metal to be forged. This would mark the moment of the conquest of his new kingdom. By spring they would have land, women and riches enough to found a new city. The warriors pledged to assist him.

‘I thank you,’ said the king, ‘and if we win I will take a queen for myself from this city and I will take her into my bed as soon as the good weather returns.’ The warriors cheered and applauded and then they all sat on the ground for their meal. Telephus had roasted a goat and it was served to the king and his friends, but the wine had run out.

‘We will plant vines as well!’ said Diomedes. ‘I have seen wild shoots in the forest. We’ll cultivate them to produce fruit. We will drink wine together and make merry, just as we once did,’ he said. ‘Like in the old times,’ he promised, but having no wine saddened them nonetheless.

Two months passed, and in that time the Chnanmanaged to make good progress in learning the language of the inhabitants of that land. They did not fear him because he had no weapons and because he spoke as though they could understand him. When the weather started to improve and the days to lengthen, the Chnanknew more about those places and those people than all the Achaean warriors put together. One day, towards sunset, he asked to see the king. Diomedes was sitting on a stool in front of his hut watching the sun descend over the boughs of the trees which edged the horizon. The Chnantold him: ‘King, I come from a land of journeyers; we are always encountering different peoples, and thus is it easier for us to learn their languages. But this does not mean that we are not fond of our own land; when I saw the ships burning I felt like dying at the thought that I would never again see my land and my city. But if you promise me that one day you will find me a ship and you will let me depart, I will serve you faithfully and tell you everything I manage to learn.’

‘I give you my word as a king,’ replied Diomedes. ‘When we conquer a territory that faces the sea, I will find you a ship and you shall depart on it.’

‘And will you allow Telephus, the Chetaean, to depart with me?’

‘I had hoped that you would remain with us. . I would have given you a wife, and a house. But if this is what you want, I will let you go. And you can take the Spartan with you as well. His only dream is to return.’

‘I thank you and take you at your word,’ said the Chnan. ‘Do not be offended that we desire to go. We do not even know what we will find, whether our homes and families will still be there, whether our parents are still alive. The Chetaean commanded a squadron of war chariots and I a merchant fleet; all that unites us is our condition as foreigners and our desire to return, something that you no longer feel.’

‘You are wrong. I shall never forget Argos and my nest of stone on the rock of Tiryns, but I would have to slaughter my own people in battle to return. This is why I have chosen to seek a new land. .’

The Chnanfell silent for a while, sitting on the ground with his back against the wall of the hut, then began to speak: ‘The chief of the city you want to conquer is called Nemro. He is a valiant man, beloved by his people. He has lost two brothers and his first wife.’

‘Why are these people dying?’ asked the king. ‘Why are their cities empty?’

‘No one knows. But they say it began when the strange lights appeared in the sky. . and after the chariot of the Sun plunged into the swamp. If we remain here, I fear the same fate could befall us.’

The king held his tongue, thinking of what he had seen and imagined in the swamp, of the ghosts thronging his mind since that moment. He thought of the corpse of the man who had died sowing dragon’s teeth, of the skeletons of the oxen who collapsed at their yoke, of the rams’ heads impaled on stakes and burned. It was a sight he would never be able to forget.

‘When we explored the first city, the one we found completely deserted, we beheld a horrible scene,’ he said to the Chnan.

‘I know. Your men have spoken of it often sitting around the fire in the evenings. It frightened them greatly. .’

‘What do you think? Have you talked to these people about it? What does it mean?’

The Chnanseemed startled by a sudden thought: ‘Did you walk among those stakes?’ he asked. ‘The stakes with the rams’ heads?’

Diomedes did not take his eyes off the sun that was settling into the mist on the horizon. ‘Yes,’ he replied without batting an eye.

‘You shouldn’t have! They say that-’

But the king interrupted him, as if the answer to his questions no longer interested him: ‘The woman brought from far away. . do you know who she is? Did she come as his bride?’

‘She comes from the land beyond the Mountains of Ice and has journeyed through clouds and forests to come here. Nemro wants a son from her.’

The king lowered his head. He thought of the light, inviting glance of the girl who had come from the ends of the earth, and of the empty eye sockets and mocking grins of the rams’ heads perched on the blackened stakes. What did destiny have in store for him? In his heart he envied the comrades who had fallen under the walls of Ilium. But perhaps that woman could restore his desire to live.

‘I will attack that city and take that woman,’ he said.

The sun had set and a diaphanous fog rose from the forest, covering all the earth. From the thick of the forest came the defiant bellows of the wild bulls readying for their springtime battles, but there were other voices as well, cries not human and perhaps not even animal, whimpers of creatures no longer alive, not yet dead. Shades, they must be.

The Chnanstrained his ears as if trying to decipher those remote, bewildered cries. His features were drawn, his mouth twisted, his forehead moist.

‘You will attack a dying people? You will snatch the woman, and the last hope, of a man who has done nothing to you? On what pretext?’

‘No pretext,’ said the king. ‘A lion needs no pretext for killing a bull, and a wolf feels no remorse at slaughtering a ram. If I find a good reason for living, my people will find one as well. If I lose it there will be no hope for anyone.’

Myrsilus prepared the men and gave instructions for departure. He loaded the carts with whatever could be used to build shelters suitable for sustaining a siege, and all the food he could find. Very little remained to the inhabitants who still lived in the village, although their livestock would probably ensure their survival. The warriors offered no farewells, even though they had lived with that folk for many days, and when they walked off into the plain the people of the village crossed the moat and watched them in silence. Diomedes took a last look at them before mounting his horse; all old people, they were, with white hair and dead eyes. It was no life, what they were living.

The army proceeded in a column, the carts at the centre pulled by the oxen. They arrived within sight of Nemro’s city just before dusk, and the king ordered his men to take position on the access paths and around the two wells where the inhabitants were accustomed to draw water. Others unloaded the carts and made makeshift shelters for the night by covering them with hides and cloths. Myrsilus planned to make fixed shelters using the wood from the forest if their siege was prolonged. If it could be called a siege: two hundred warriors around a wooden palisade, a muddy moat, an assembly of straw-and-mud huts. Where were the proud walls of Troy built by Poseidon? Where was Thebes of the Seven Gates? Where were the shining phalanxes, the tens of thousands of fully armoured warriors? Diomedes felt a stab of pain in his heart, and he turned his gaze towards the deserted plains to hide his confusion and the tremor in his eyelids. But it was just a moment; the force of his spirit was still intact. Before his men could stop him, he mounted his horse and galloped on alone straight to the access bridge. His horse’s hooves pounded the wooden trunks and the sound filled the city walls. No one showed up to bar his way, no one stopped him from entering.

He advanced through the half-open door and looked around: the place seemed deserted. The doors of the houses were closed, the animals’ pens were empty; there was total peace and silence in the wavering twilight. He abruptly heard an odd sound; a crackling, like something catching fire.