Heroes (formerly Talisman of Troy) (28 page)

‘Well then, where do you come from? Libya, or the island of the three promontories?’

‘From Libya. We fought under King Mauroy against the king of Egypt but we were defeated and the wind pushed us to the northern gulf.’

The
Chnan
gestured to the man holding the dagger to ease up so that the prisoner could speak a little more freely.

‘Where are you headed now?’

The
Shekelesh
seemed to hesitate a moment, but as soon as he saw the
Chnan
gesturing to the man with the knife, he hurried his reply: ‘We have built a city on the coast, near a place called “the Elbow” but our chief wants to know if the island of the three promontories can be reached from the interior.’

‘The island of the three promontories? But it is very far from here, very far south!’

‘Perhaps not so far . . .’ said the
Shekelesh
, twisting his neck a little.

‘And why do you want to reach the island of the three promontories?’

‘Because our people are there. Here we don’t know if we can manage to survive. But we had no choice. We had crossed the sea when we ran into a storm; almost all of our ships were destroyed on the shoals and the rocks. We lost all our tools, our provisions. We could not rebuild the ships, or even repair them.’

‘The
Borrha
,’ said the
Chnan
, as if speaking to himself; it almost seemed as though the thought gave him a strange satisfaction.

‘What were you doing in the northern gulf in the first place?’ he insisted.

‘I told you; the wind pushed us there after the great battle, and we were sailing up the eastern coast looking for food.’

‘Did you find any?’

The
Shekelesh
shook his head: ‘Nothing. Only empty villages inhabited by shepherds who ran off to the mountains with their sheep as soon as they saw us. The only ship we met before the storm was nearly empty as well; only water, dried fish and a little wheat.’

‘I understand, my friend,’ said the
Chnan
with a confidential tone, aiming to put his guest at ease. The man looked relieved, and cracked a half smile. ‘
Peleset
, I imagine. We met some of them ourselves around those parts.’

‘No.
Ahhijawa
,’ he said, still smiling. Myrsilus quivered at the word but the
Chnan
grabbed his arm to warn him not to speak or make a move.

‘Ah,’ said the
Chnan
, ‘those bastards. We ran into some of them too and they tried to attack us. They must have been famished. I hope you gave them a good lesson. Were there many of them?’

‘You’d better believe that we gave them a good thrashing! No, it was just one ship alone; they tried to slip off to the south, but we caught up with them. Not a single one of them survived, if I remember correctly. But they put us to a lot of trouble, for nothing. They put up quite a fight. Good at using their fists, too. Warriors, that’s what they were, and tough ones at that, no merchants, that’s for sure.’

The
Chnan
turned towards Myrsilus and said something under his breath.

‘So, what do you know about the land that lies before us?’ asked the
Chnan
then, indicating the mountain chain that extended south as far as the eye could see.

‘Little or nothing. I think that further on there must be some
Teresh
, up ahead of us. We’ve run into them here and there in the villages. The inhabitants of these valleys captured some of them while they were out hunting or putting the horses to pasture, and they’ve kept them as slaves.’

‘
Teresh!
’ murmured the
Chnan
, astonished. ‘
Teresh
in the Land of Evening.’

The
Shekelesh
seemed relieved and looked at his questioner as though waiting for permission to return to his camp. ‘Why don’t you let me go?’ he said. ‘There’s nothing more to tell.’

‘No,’ said the
Chnan
. ‘I think not.’ He looked at Myrsilus. The eyes of the Achaean warrior were full of ire and his hand gripped the hilt of his sword. The
Chnan
turned away as Myrsilus’s sword cut the prisoner’s head clean off.

‘I had promised him that we would spare him,’ said the
Chnan
, getting to his feet.

‘I didn’t promise anything,’ said Myrsilus. ‘He killed our companions . . . he killed Anchialus! The king’s message will never reach our land. The invaders will arrive without forewarning . . . it will be a massacre. Our cities . . . our land . . .’

‘You can’t be sure,’ said the
Chnan
. ‘You can’t be certain. It might be an incredible trick of chance. Perhaps there were other Achaeans in the northern gulf . . . perhaps. You don’t think that there may be other madmen of your race wandering those inhospitable seas? There are
Teresh
here as well, can you believe it?
Teresh
in the Land of Evening.’

They walked slowly towards camp, still keeping an eye on the valley behind them.

When they were close, Myrsilus stopped. ‘They say that the Trojans even asked the
Teresh
for help when they were forming the great coalition of
Assuwa
.’

Evenus, who was right behind them, said: ‘But they refused. They feared that we would devastate their cities on the coast. That’s what I heard.’

The
Chnan
stopped as well and turned back in the direction of the valley, motioning for everyone to stay quiet. Not a sound was coming from the valley. ‘It’s true,’ he said after a while. ‘And yet they were forced to join a much bigger coalition, under King Mauroy of Libya, against Egypt. Hunger was their real enemy, a dearth of crops, one bad harvest after another. But the coalition lost, and the
Teresh
nation was destroyed. The group ahead of us are probably as desperate as we are . . . as the
Shekelesh
are. They say that after the defeat, when the king of the
Teresh
returned to his homeland in Asia, he found it ravaged by famine. He decided then that one of his two sons would leave with half of the surviving population. They drew lots, and his second-born, whose name was Tyrrhens and whom the king loved dearly, was chosen to go. That is what people were saying the last time I sailed from the port of Tyre with a favourable wind . . .’

‘Everyone is fleeing,’ said Myrsilus. ‘But from what? From what?’ He watched the pale clouds crossing the sky.

‘From death,’ said the
Chnan
. ‘What else?’

W
HEN NIGHT HAD FALLEN
, a chariot with the insignia of the Mycenaean Atreides stopped in front of the atrium of the king’s house and the grooms came forward at once to take the reins of the two Argive stallions. The horses pawed the ground, still excited over their long race through the dark, and the charioteer, noble Pylades, calmed them by stroking their muzzles. In the meantime, Orestes got out of the chariot and entered the vast dark courtyard surrounded by a great colonnade dimly illuminated by lamplight. His slight figure seemed swallowed up by the big empty space that echoed with his rapid steps.

At the entrance to the palace, Hippasus, the master of the house, awaited him, accompanied by one of his sons. The old man had been the
lawagetas
when Atreus reigned over Mycenae, and Menelaus had restored him to a place of dignity in his palace. Next to him was the king’s nurse, Marpessa. She was a woman of great age, but she had always run the household. She still had authority over the handmaids and the servants and she managed them with a steady hand.

‘Your uncle the king and the queen await you for dinner,’ said Hippasus and ordered that the youth’s spear and sword be put in the armoury. ‘They are impatient to see you and embrace you. But please follow the nurse first; she will take you to the bath chamber and give you fresh clothing.’

Marpessa kissed his forehead and eyes: ‘You are as beautiful as the sun, my boy,’ she said, ‘but you stink of sweat and you’re covered with dust. The water is perfectly hot; the maids have kept the fire going under the cauldron all day since we did not know when you would arrive. Come, the princess herself will help you wash and prepare for dinner.’ She was already striding down the dark corridor with a quicker step than one would expect for a woman her age, and the young prince followed her. ‘How long has it been since you saw your cousin?’ she asked. ‘Oh, I imagine she was still wetting her bed the last time you saw her. Much time has passed. You’ll see, she’s as lovely as the morning star, with skin as white as the moon, her mother’s deep black eyes and the flaming hair of her father the king.’

The youth entered the bath chamber and the handmaids approached immediately to undress him. As soon as he was immersed in the tub, Princess Hermione appeared. She was so beautiful she took his breath away and left him without words.

‘Welcome to our home,’ said the girl. ‘We have been waiting anxiously for you. I hope you are well and that your journey was a good one.’

‘I am well, Hermione,’ he said, ‘and happy to see you. I had been told that you were as beautiful as your mother, but now that I’ve seen you, I’d say you were beyond compare.’

The girl lowered her head with a little smile, then approached him; taking a sponge, she dipped it in the hot water and squeezed it over his head, his back and his shoulders, as he closed his eyes and stretched out his legs in the stone tub, savouring the pleasure of the water’s warm caress.

Hermione passed the sponge to one of the handmaids, who continued to wash the prince, and she sat down to supervise the guest’s bath, as befitted her rank.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘just a short time ago Telemachus, the son of Ulysses, bathed in that tub. It was a day of celebration; I was about to depart with my dowry, to become Pyrrhus’s bride at Phthia in Thessaly. Telemachus had arrived from Pylus together with Pisistratus and we offered him hospitality here at the palace; he was seeking news of Ulysses. But my father did not have much to tell him. He did offer to help throw out the suitors who invade his father’s house, but Telemachus refused. He said that he was sure that his father would return and annihilate them all. He is a nice boy, Telemachus, gentle and good. Pisistratus has become his good friend, and I hope that one day he will find a bride worthy of him.’

‘If you were about to go to Phthia that day, how is it that you are still here?’ asked Orestes with a certain anxiety.

‘Because Pyrrhus is no longer there. His grandfather Peleus refused to keep him in his house, and he left for Buthrotum in Epirus. It would have been too long and dangerous a journey for me. I will go later, if we win the war; he will come here to fetch me.’

Orestes couldn’t take his eyes off her as she was speaking. When he had finished, he stood up, and the handmaids covered him with a big linen cloth that Marpessa had taken from a chest. They dried him and dressed him with a fresh tunic, handsomely embroidered in bright colours at the hem. Helen’s brother Castor had worn it one day, before the gods had called him to their abode. Orestes turned towards the nurse and said: ‘Grandmother, prince Pylades will have unharnessed the horses by now and he will be entering the palace. Go receive him as well, please, and have a bath prepared for him.’

The old woman nodded and walked away down the corridor. Orestes drew close to Hermione as the handmaids were dressing him and pouring perfume on his hair. He touched her cheek with a light caress. ‘If you were not already promised,’ he said, ‘I’d ask for you myself.’

The girl started slightly. ‘Do you mean that?’ she asked.

The prince answered with a look worth more than many words. He remained silent, contemplating her, and then said: ‘Have you ever seen him?’

‘No,’ said the girl. ‘But if we want to win this war, his strength is indispensable. That’s what my father the king says.’

‘We’ll win in any case,’ said Orestes. ‘We have justice on our side.’

‘If Pyrrhus fights with us, the conflict will be shorter. The king believes that we can also thus prevent others from convincing him to join them against us. The scale will be tipped in favour of whoever he takes sides with. Those who have seen him fight say he is an invincible fury. Like his father,’ she said, her voice growing softer, ‘but . . . fiercer, more cruel.’

Orestes took her hand and clasped it between his own. ‘I would treasure you like a precious gem,’ he said, ‘like ripe grapes in the vineyard . . .’

Hermione’s gaze trembled, her dark, shiny eyes became moist. ‘If the war is shorter, there will be fewer losses, less blood spilt, understand? Too much has already been shed.’

Orestes tried to say something else, but his voice died in his throat. Hermione pulled back her hand, gently, and went towards the door that led to her apartments. Before disappearing, she turned back towards him and bade him farewell with a look. In the uncertain light of the lamps, the prince thought he saw a tear glittering on her ivory cheek.

‘He won’t have you,’ he said.

*

The king himself, Menelaus the Atreid, came to receive him at the door of the great hall. He was flanked by two warriors from the army of Ilium, for they were the only ones he trusted.

The king strode towards him and greeted him with a warm embrace, then preceded him into the banquet room. Marpessa reappeared and gave orders to bring tables and food, and the prince began to eat eagerly, because he hadn’t stopped during the day and the bath had made him hungry.

‘Prince Pylades is with me,’ he said. ‘He will lead the Phocian army at our side.’

‘Excellent,’ said the king. ‘He will be a welcome guest in Hippasus’s house tonight; they will see to the plan of battle. King Nestor of Pylus will be sending the warriors who fought at Ilium under the command of Pisistratus, the strongest of his sons. Another allied army is descending from Epirus; it is led by the son of Achilles, Pyrrhus, who has sworn to help us. You will lead the chariot charge with me, if they dare to challenge us on an open field.’ Orestes listened, but his eyes seemed to drift away at times. When they had finished dinner, the king had the tables cleared but had them leave the wine.