Heroes (formerly Talisman of Troy) (34 page)

Orestes launched his chariots forward in attack; he deployed them in three lines across the entire plain, so that they would strike the enemy in waves. Aegisthus realized too late what was happening; he tried desperately to turn his front in the opposite direction, giving up on the ground battle with Pyrrhus’s men. He ordered his men to go back to their chariots and to retreat towards the sides, before Orestes’s chariots reached them, but the manoeuvre failed before it could begin. His warriors had just jumped into their chariots when they were hit by the first wave and decimated. Then came the second wave, and the third. Aegisthus’s chariot was overturned, and his driver was dragged away and trampled to death by the crazed horses, on the stones of a dry river bed. Aegisthus got to his feet and turned in confusion to seek a way to escape, but Pylades spotted him and shouted to Orestes, whose chariot was rushing past at a short distance: ‘On your left! Look to your left!’ Orestes enjoined his driver to hold the horses, and he spotted Aegisthus. He leapt from his chariot and ran straight at him.

‘You will pay for the blood of Agamemnon!’ he shouted in a rage. ‘You will appear before him this very day in Hades, with your nose and ears cut off!’

‘Then come and get me, you cur!’ shouted back Aegisthus, standing up to him. ‘I fucked your mother and butchered your father! Yes, that’s right, he was bleeding like a pig!’

Those words pierced through Orestes like a white-hot blade as he charged forward, and devastated his soul. A veil of blood dropped over the eyes of the prince. His fury vanished all at once and was replaced by an icy calm. Near his enemy now, he halted his charge and weighed his spear. Aegisthus’s sneering confidence disappeared all at once; he looked around wildly and spotted an abandoned shield. He dropped lightning quick to gather it, but Orestes was left-handed and threatened him now on his undefended side. Orestes heaved the ashen pike and it sank through his shoulder blades, between his neck and his back, where his breastplate gave no protection. It nailed his enemy to the ground in that position, on his knees; Orestes watched as a great stream of blood poured from the mouth of the retching, choking man. But before he died, he wrenched the spear from his body and knocked him over on to his back. He drew his sword and cut off his nose, his lips, his ears and his genitals, so thus he would appear to the shade of his father the Atreid in the house of Hades.

Aegisthus’s soul fled sighing into the cold wind that battered the countryside, and Orestes found himself face to face with Pyrrhus. He was spattered with blood from head to foot and he had bits of flesh and human brains on his shield and greaves. Orestes felt a cold chill at the sight of him. He was panting, and stank unbearably.

‘The Argive infantry is wiped out,’ he said. ‘I imagine I should thank you for getting the war chariots out of my way.’ And then, observing the desecrated corpse of Aegisthus: ‘By the gods, I didn’t think you were capable of it. I have to admit you’ve got it in you.’

Orestes was uneasy at this praise, and answered: ‘Pisistratus and King Menelaus may be in difficulty. We must return to Mycenae.’ He leapt on to his chariot, followed by Pylades and his squadron, and set off swiftly towards the city.

Pyrrhus turned back to his men and said: ‘Start marching and catch up with me as soon as you can. If you get there when the battle is over, there will be nothing left for you.’ Then he mounted the chariot that Automedon had just brought to his side, and hurled off after Orestes’s squadron.

‘Tonight you will be king,’ he said to Automedon, ‘as I have promised you.’

‘I didn’t do it for you,’ replied the charioteer. ‘I did it because you are the son of your father.’ He whipped on the horses.

*

Meanwhile, the commanders of the Mycenaean army had given orders to attack, sure that Aegisthus had by then got the better of Pyrrhus, and taking advantage of the fact that the chariot squadron commanded by Orestes had taken off to the north. The forces were balanced; they might even win.

Menelaus then joined forces with Pisistratus’s Pylians; he drew up at the centre, leaving the right wing to the son of Nestor. The enemy army were favoured by the slope and the direction of the wind; they had gained ground and were managing to push back their adversaries, even though Menelaus, at the centre, was fighting like a lion. The king felt that he was battling under the eyes of his brother; he could hear his cries roaring from the penetralia of the palace. He shouted to those he had before him: ‘Stop fighting! Accept the truce or you will be exterminated! Abandon the usurper!’

But few could hear him in the din of the battle, and those who heard him could not understand him. They continued fighting desperately because they had been told that the victors would exterminate them all and sell their families into slavery.

Pisistratus brandished his enormous two-edged axe on the right wing, toppling his enemies one after another, his men so close behind him that the entire formation was slowly rotating to the left. Thus, when the chariot squadron led by Orestes came into sight, Queen Clytemnestra’s army had their backs almost completely turned to him. Orestes did not slow his onward charge and mowed into the enemy, drawing all of his men behind him. Pylades returned to the head of his Phocians and led them into the attack. Pyrrhus, who had been following at a short distance, threw himself into the fray as well, as the sky was rent by blinding lightning and shaken by loud peals of thunder. Rain pelted down on the raging conflict, soon turning into hail, and the two armies were immersed in a magma of mud and blood, in a chaos of screaming and neighing, that completely obscured the minds of the warriors, plunging them into a blind frenzy, a delirium of destructive folly. Certainly, had the gods dissolved the thick mist that clouds the vision of mortals, Menelaus the Atreid, Pyrrhus, Orestes, Pylades and Pisistratus would have seen the bloody ghosts of Phobos and Deimos passing among the storm clouds, announcing the arrival of the god of war.

The Locrians and Epirotes had arrived and had drawn up in columns behind Pyrrhus’s war-car. The son of Achilles had pushed his way through the entire formation and was battling on the front line; since the terrain there was too rough for chariots, he had descended and was fighting on foot with such fury that the enemy line wavered and split, leaving an opening at the centre through which hundreds of warriors poured. The Mycenaean army was breaking ranks and retreating haphazardly towards the gate to seek haven within the city walls. Pisistratus cut them off and, finding themselves completely surrounded, they threw down their arms and pleaded for mercy. Menelaus saw this and stopped, ordering the heralds to have the fighting cease. The blasts of the horns sounded amid the claps of thunder and Pisistratus was the first to hear them and call off his warriors. Orestes heard them and he halted his chariots. Pylades heard them and he withdrew his Phocians on the left wing, but Pyrrhus continued the massacre, and he incited his Epirotes to attack the undefended quarter close to the walls.

*

Anchialus was alone at the centre of the camp, for the Epirotes who had been guarding him had taken to their heels when the storm broke, seeking refuge in a mountain cave. He waited until the rain had soaked the earth, then he propped his feet against the pole and pushed it back and forth until he had uprooted it. He freed himself of his bonds and ran back to his tent to recover his weapons. He approached one of the terrified horses who was trying to kick himself free of the reins that kept him tied to a tree at the edge of camp. He loosed the steed and jumped on to its back, riding off before his guards had realized a thing. He galloped over the plain lit by flashes of lightning and pelted by the wind and rain. When he reached Mycenae, his head was bleeding and his body ached from all the hailstones that had struck him, but he distinctly saw Menelaus’s army immobile under the downpour. At that very moment a young blond warrior passed on his battle chariot; he was heading towards Pyrrhus, who was continuing to advance towards the city. The youth cut in front of him and came to a halt, shouting: ‘Stop, and call off your men! The king has ordered that the fighting cease. The survivors have surrendered. Enough blood!’

‘I greatly regret it,’ replied Pyrrhus, ‘but I promised my men rich spoils, and that is why they followed me here. You stop them, if you’re capable of it.’

‘I will stop you, if you don’t order them to withdraw immediately,’ shouted Orestes. ‘Follow the king’s orders!’

‘I am the king,’ shouted Pyrrhus. ‘I am the strongest. Get out of here before I topple you into the mud. Do not defy fortune!’

Orestes took up his spear. ‘This is my city, for I am the legitimate heir of Agamemnon, and you are on my territory. Withdraw and call back your men. I am saying this for the last time.’

‘If you want me to go, you will have to kill me,’ said Pyrrhus. ‘There is no other way.’

Orestes jumped from the chariot, gripping his spear in his right hand. King Menelaus saw him and shouted: ‘No! Do not leave the chariot; he will kill you!’ But it was too late: the two warriors faced off, spears tight in fist, each seeking an opening in the defences of the other.

Pisistratus approached Menelaus. ‘You must stop him,’ he said, ‘or Pyrrhus will hack him to pieces. Look, he is a whole head taller. No one can resist against such might.’ But Pyrrhus had already thrown his spear, grazing his adversary on his right side. Blood spurted from the wound, staining the earth red. Orestes gritted his teeth. He knew that his spear was his last chance to end the encounter. If he missed, we would have to accept a swordfight and it would be all over for him. And that was why he had always held his spear in his right hand. He attempted a few feints to throw his adversary off balance, but Pyrrhus was as solid as a mountain, and the last drops of enemy blood slid down his armour like raindrops off a smooth cliff. But then he noticed that Pyrrhus was seeking a secure hold for his right foot, unsteady on a slippery stone. Lightning swift, he dropped his shield, passed the spear to his left hand and cast it. Pyrrhus reacted in the bat of an eye and raised his shield high to the right. The spear hit the rim of the great bronze and bounced off to his side. The Pelian shield thundered under the impact.

Pyrrhus burst into loud laughter as Orestes, deadly pale, bent to pick up his shield. ‘I knew you were left-handed! I saw you kill Aegisthus, remember? And now you’re dead, you stupid boy.’ He drew his sword and flew at him.

‘Stop!’ shouted Menelaus. ‘The bond of kinship joins you! Do not commit such a horrendous crime.’ But the son of Achilles was unstoppable, and struck with immense power. Orestes tried to surprise him with a lunge, but Pyrrhus responded with an awesome blow which shattered his sword.

Orestes felt death biting at his heart. Soaked in a cold sweat, he retreated, trying to raise his shield, but he knew that his end was near. He turned disheartened to the ranks of his men as if to seek help and in that moment a man slipped between the lines and shouted: ‘You’ll win with this! Catch it!’ And he threw him a sword. Orestes bounded backwards and caught the weapon, turning again to face his adversary. A flash lit up the sky and the great sword glittered with blue light in his hand, like a lightning bolt. It was not made of bronze, but of some metal he had never seen. Pyrrhus saw, and a shock of fear crossed his eyes. He had never seen anything like it either.

‘Strike!’ shouted Anchialus, who a moment before had pushed his way through the ranks. ‘Strike! It is hyperborean metal, nothing can defeat it!’

Orestes looked again at the sword. He drew up all his force behind his shield and began to advance. His eyes shone with the same reflections as the blade, his hand like a claw gripped the horn hilt tight. Pyrrhus reacted against the nameless fear that had wormed its way into him. ‘It’s another one of your tricks!’ he shouted. ‘You won’t fool me again!’ He lunged forward and rained down a rapid succession of hammering blows from above, aiming directly for his head. Orestes raised the sword to fend off the blows but, before the impetus of the assault was spent, Pyrrhus’s weapon was sheared off at the hilt. Pyrrhus’s astonishment lasted an instant and cost him his life. Orestes thrust the long blade deep into the side of his adversary, who dropped the stump and collapsed to his knees.

His gaze was already veiled with death and the heat of life was rapidly abandoning his limbs. He raised his head with great difficulty to meet the eyes of the victor who stood tall before him. ‘You are the king of Mycenae now,’ he said. ‘The king of the Achaean kings . . . and Hermione is yours as well. Have mercy, if you believe in the gods . . .’ His adolescent’s face, dripping with rain, was as white as wax.

‘What do you want from the king of Mycenae?’ asked Orestes, and his soul filled with vague dismay.

‘Have my body taken to old Peleus, in Phthia, among the Myrmidons. Ask him to accept me . . . I beg of you.’ He brought his hand to the wide wound and held it out to Orestes, full of blood. ‘This blood . . . he will have pity perhaps on this blood.’

He reclined his head on his chest and breathed his last breath. The evening wind gathered up his soul and carried it away down the valley of the tombs to the sea, to the promontory of Taenarum where the entrance to the world of the dead lies, and to the dark houses of Hades.

*

Menelaus and Pisistratus ran to embrace him, but Orestes trained his gaze towards the city and towards the tower of the chasm, where a figure cloaked in black stood out against the leaden sky.

‘Before nightfall,’ he said, ‘fate must be fulfilled.’

Menelaus bowed his head. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘your father has been avenged. You have slain Aegisthus. No one can blame you if you spare your mother.’

‘No,’ said Orestes. ‘Agamemnon’s shade will have no peace until the guilty have paid. And she is the most guilty of all.’

He walked towards the city while the last claps of thunder died out over the sea. The bastions were deserted and the Gate of Lions was wide open. He advanced along the great ramp, passed before the tombs of the Perseid kings topped by rainwashed steles, and reached the courtyard of the palace where he had played as a child, where he had watched his father mount his battle chariot and leave for war.