Heroes (formerly Talisman of Troy) (14 page)

‘Sthenelus!’ shouted Diomedes. ‘Where is he? Where is he?’

But there was no answer. He knew in the bottom of his heart that Sthenelus was dead, long dead; he had felt his vital force vanish from the world like smoke, like the vapour of the morning mist is dispersed by the sun.

He collapsed against the tree and said: ‘Oh god, you who inhabit these waters and make the clouds throb with your gaze, I have seen what was. I have seen that the blood of my race is like poison. Now let me see what will be. If there is still a way to bend a bitter destiny.’

He mustered up his courage and advanced to the edge of the pond. He stood still in its blinding light. The globe trembled and the water which covered it began slowly to drip and then to pour downward, raising splashes from the surface of the pool. The light quivered, the wheel turned and he could once again hear the chorus of laments.

Diomedes sensed that there was someone at his back and he turned: he saw a warrior wrapped in a cloak advancing towards him from the depths of the darkness. A white crest swayed on his helmet, a Trojan sword gleamed in his hand. The warrior came closer, surrounded by silence and by a halo of fog, and he was enormous to see, much larger than a real man. Only when he came into the ray of light was his face recognizable. His eyes blazed with hate and revenge: it was Aeneas!

Diomedes drew his sword. ‘This is destiny, then! This is the future, the same as the past!’ he shouted and he hurled himself at his adversary, but the sword pierced an immaterial shape, an empty image. He spun around, still shouting: ‘Where are you? Fight and let’s finish this forever! It’s either me or you, son of Anchises! How many times did I force you to flee on the fields of Ilium? Show yourself! I’m not afraid of you!’

He dealt blow after blow, until he collapsed, exhausted, on to his knees in the damp grass.

The lights in the sky had gone out and the surface of the pond was once again still. A hand touched his shoulder: ‘Let’s go,
wanax.
. This land breeds nightmares. Let’s go back to the ships.’

‘Myrsilus! Why are you here? You shouldn’t have left the ship. The ship must always be guarded. With all it contains.’ He got to his feet and walked towards the river bank.

‘Our comrades are guarding the ship,
wanax
. You can trust them.’

They walked in silence, guided by the light of the camp fire that blazed far off in the night, and by the torch that Myrsilus held in his hand.

‘What did you see in that place,
wanax
? The others returned in a great fright. They said they saw you shout and wave your sword, chopping down swamp reeds, willow bushes and poplar saplings. They heard sounds and cries and moans but they did not know how to help you.’

‘I saw only what I carry within me,’ said the king.

‘What about the chariot of the Sun? Is it true that it fell into those waters?’

Diomedes did not answer. He was thinking of the arched surface of the water, of that thing that launched rays of light towards the sky and then sank back into the mud and silence.

‘I don’t know. But it is from there that the signs that cross the night sky come. The signs that have frightened so many peoples and scattered them in every direction like crazed ants. The sky should never touch the earth. The storm of the elements will not subside yet for a long, long time. Our suffering will continue.’

‘I know,
wanax
,’ said Myrsilus. ‘I saw it in your eyes. But let us rest now, for every day has its sorrow.’

M
YRSILUS WENT TO REST
under the ship’s stern, but he stayed awake for some time listening to the voice of the river. He thought of the lofty mountains of ice which must have generated such an enormous current. Perhaps the Hyperborean Mountains or the Rhipaean Mountains he’d heard tale of as a boy. It was there, in a deep grotto sustained by a thousand columns of ice, that the cold wind of the north was born, to upset the waves of the sea and bring snow to the earth during the winter.

He was thinking of what the king had seen in the swamp; something that had troubled his mind, moving him to rage against the swamp reeds and bushes. The same thing had happened to Ajax Telamon! He had slashed the throats of sheep and bulls, sure he was killing his enemies. But Myrsilus did not fear that the king had lost his mind. In his eyes he had seen suffering and terror, but not madness. Diomedes was still the strongest.

But Lamus the Spartan, son of Onchestus, crept close to the king: ‘Was the chariot of the Sun really there,
wanax
?’

The king was not sleeping. He was leaning against his shield. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘If it truly fell from the sky, it is trying to get free now, to return whence it came. Those flashes of light flung towards the sky are like a cry for help, cries that no one can understand, only fear. The earth no longer bears fruit, peoples are abandoning their homelands . . .’

‘And you still want to proceed inland? Isn’t that cry – that lament – a sign from the gods to make us understand that we must stop challenging fortune? I beg of you, let us turn back. King Menelaus is alive, I’m sure of it, and so are nearly all my comrades. They are bound once again towards our homeland. I’ve heard that you lost your city, but if we return he can help you; he’ll ask Agamemnon, the great Atreid, to join forces with him to retake Argos and restore your command. This land is cold and deserted, not gracious and warm like our land on the banks of the Eurotas. Like your land, with abundant harvests and grazing flocks. Let us return,
wanax
, the kings will fight for you, and so will we . . .’

Diomedes turned towards him, but his eyes seemed to stare beyond, into the dark night. ‘Perhaps you should have stayed with the
Peleset
,’ he said. ‘We’ll go forward, as far as the Mountains of Ice if need be, or the Mountains of Fire, until we have found a place to establish a new city and a new kingdom. For years we suffered all the pain and fear of a cruel war. We have already gone beyond the bounds of fear. This land is worthy of us because it is unlike any other. It is barren, like our hearts, cold, like our solitude. It is austere and immense; we will conquer it and settle here, a new people.’

Lamus walked away, his soul heavy with sadness, fearing that he would never again see his city and his father, already so advanced in years. Diomedes called him back: ‘Spartan!’

‘Here I am,
wanax
.’

‘One day we will return to the sea, and you can decide then whether to leave us or stay with us. But for now you must do your part; we must be able to count on your help.’

‘You can be sure of it,’ said the Spartan. ‘My king loved you as a friend and honoured you as a god. What is right for him is right for me.’

‘Listen,’ said Diomedes again, ‘while we were navigating towards this land we met up with a savage people who were marching along the coast towards the south. I sent a ship to warn the kings of the threat to the Achaeans; the comrade piloting it was Anchialus, one of my best men, whom I would have wanted with me. It’s not I who have forgotten my homeland. It’s my land that has refused me. Understand?’ Tears quivered on his eyelids, but the ardour of his gaze dried them before they could descend to his cheeks.

‘I understand,’ said Lamus, and walked away.

King Diomedes thought of Anchialus and his ship; he imagined that it had already reached the land of the Achaeans and had cast its anchor in the sandy bay of Pylus. Anchialus would have made his way to the palace of Nestor and would be enjoying his hospitality. Diomedes would have liked to be in his place, warming himself before the blaze of a big fire, eating roasted meat sliced into big pieces by the carvers, drinking wine late into the night and then lying beside a white-necked, soft-eyed maiden. He imagined this to be the privilege that his companion Anchialus was enjoying in that moment, and he stretched out with a sigh.

But the immortal gods were otherwise inclined.

*

After Anchialus had brought the ship about as he had been ordered by his king, he did not go far forward, because the wind was against him and the night dark. Having reached the closest island, he had dropped anchor in the shelter of a small promontory. He thought he would wait in that place until the wind had changed direction and could push him south towards the land of the Achaeans. He had stretched out on the bottom of the ship to look at the sky and the stars that would guide him. His heart was assailed by conflicting feelings. He was sorry to leave his king, whom he had fought with for years, who had saved his life in battle time after time. But he was also filled with joy at the thought of seeing his land again, and his old mother and father, if they were still alive. He thought that Nestor and the other kings would thank him, and give him rich gifts in exchange; weapons, garments and perhaps a beautiful, high-flanked woman to take to his wedding chamber.

He waited ten days. On the eleventh the wind changed and began to blow from the north, violently, raising wild waves. Anchialus waited until it had expended its energy, then hoisted the sail and began his voyage. The wind had shifted direction and was blowing aport so that the pilot had to frequently compensate with oars and helm to keep from being dragged westward into the open sea.

They proceeded the whole day and stopped for the night near a promontory on the coast. The place was deserted; the only dim lights to be seen were a few isolated huts up on the mountains at quite a distance. He chose Frissus, a man from Abia, to stand guard, and told him to wake a companion, whoever he preferred, to relieve him when the stars had covered a quarter of their course across the sky. He himself went to rest.

But Frissus was deceived by the peace that reigned in that place and by his own weariness, and he fell fast asleep. He saw no danger gathering, he heard no sound, because the murmur of the wind and the splashing of the tide were like a soft, reassuring voice, like the lullaby that invites a child to sleep. He started awake shortly before dawn when the cold stung his limbs and the shrieks of the seagulls brought sudden anguish to his heart.

He got to his feet, but Anchialus was already standing opposite him, his sword in hand and a look of stupor in his eyes. He was not looking at him, but at something behind him. Frissus turned and saw a host of white wings in the sky and a host of black sails on the sea, barely distinguishable from the black of night by the pale glimmer of dawn.

The others awoke as well and ran to the ship’s side, looking at each other in silent dismay.

‘We must flee,’ said Anchialus. ‘If they reach us, it’s all over. No one journeys by sea in this season and at this time of day, with so many men and so many ships, unless he is forced to. They can only bring us harm.’

‘Hoist the sail!’ he shouted. ‘Man the oars!’ The crew swiftly obeyed, the ship left its mooring and thrust forward. Anchialus flanked the pilot aft, to aid him in governing the ship. But the bulk of the island had hidden part of the fleet from view, and no sooner had their ship left shore that they found four vessels bearing down on them at full tilt. One tried to bar their way, but Anchialus managed to dodge him by veering towards shore. The two ships were briefly side to side, so close that the Achaean warriors could see their adversaries in the face. They were dark-skinned, with black, tightly curled hair like the Ethiopians, armed with bronze swords and leather shields, and they wore leather helmets as well. Their commander spoke a rough Achaean. He yelled out: ‘Stop or we will sink you!’ But Anchialus only urged his men to row harder.

‘Who are they?’ asked the pilot.

The enemy commander leaned overboard, hanging from the stays by one hand and grasping a sabre in the other. ‘
Shekelesh
!’ he shouted. ‘And I’ll chop off your nose and your ears when I catch you!’

‘Siculians!’ said Anchialus to the pilot without losing sight of the enemy. ‘Oh gods . . . what are Siculians doing here? Put about!’ he ordered the pilot. ‘Put about, get the ship to the other side of that rock.’ The pilot obeyed and they pulled away from the
Shekelesh
ship, which disappeared from sight briefly behind a little rocky island.

‘I’ve been to their island, when I was once a ship-boy on a merchant vessel carrying wine. They were said to have come from nearby Libya, populating the island even before Minos ruled Crete. They are poor people, renowned for their fierceness; they will fight for anyone and against anyone. Their name itself sounds like the hissing of a snake! We must out-distance them. If they take us, they’ll sell us all as slaves in the nearest market.’

They rounded the island, but soon found two more ships on their left.

‘It’s a trap!’ shouted Anchialus. ‘If they wedge us between them, be ready to draw your arms.’ One of the light
Shekelesh
vessels had already caught up with them and was cutting them.

‘Ram it!’ shouted Anchialus. The crew struck the sail. ‘Now!’ he shouted again. The oarsmen increased their pace and the pilot veered left, colliding full force with the enemy vessel. The little ship was rent and foundered instantly, but the others had the time to draw up alongside and board the Achaean ship. The
Shekelesh
clambered over the sides of their ships, shouting and wielding swords and daggers. The Achaeans abandoned the oars and launched an armed assault on their enemies. Anchialus shouted ‘Argos!’ with all the breath he had, as they would once shout on the plain of Ilium at the moment of unleashing their attack. ‘Argos!’ he shouted. And the mêlée spread like wildfire, filling the ship with screams and blood. The Achaeans fought with desperate energy, killing many and throwing many overboard, but they were outnumbered when a third ship drew up to join the battle.

The pilot spotted Anchialus in the midst of a group of enemies; he swung his double-edged axe, chopping the head clean off one of the
Shekelesh
and shearing another’s arm, but it was evident that he would soon be overwhelmed. He burst into the circle, pushing them aside with great force, and hurled himself at Anchialus, shouting: ‘Save yourself! The king gave you an order!’ The pilot threw him into the sea, before he was surrounded and massacred by a swarm of assailants.