Heroes (formerly Talisman of Troy) (36 page)

One evening towards dusk, Myrsilus saw Lamus and the
Chnan
riding towards camp on an ass. He raced to meet them.

‘Did you see him? Has he accepted?’

The
Chnan
halted the ass and slipped to the ground. Lamus said: ‘Yes, I saw him. He accepts. Take me to the king.’

Diomedes received him in his tent. He was pale, but his eyes shone with a feverish light. He did not move. He asked nothing. He waited for Lamus to speak.

‘Aeneas accepts the challenge. He will come on the first day of the new moon. Alone, except for his charioteer. You too must use your chariot alone. You will fight as you did in Ilium. Three javelins from the chariot and then, if you survive, on the ground with a spear, a sword and an axe. No respite. A duel to the death. These are the conditions I accepted in your name.’

Diomedes’s face lit up as though life once again flowed through his veins. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘I thank you. If I win, if I finally found my city . . .’

The
Chnan
interrupted. ‘That’s not all. The
Lat
fear him. At least a part of them, while others would be willing to accept him. When they learned of this challenge, they gave me a message for you. They ask you to join forces with all your warriors, to drive the Trojans into the sea. The
Teresh
are divided as well. Some of them are on the Trojans’ side and are ready to form an alliance in the name of their common Asian origin, but others want Aeneas, and all his people, dead.’

The king looked at him in surprise: ‘How did you discover all of these things?’

‘I can understand the
Teresh
well enough, and they understand the
Lat
. That’s all. What is your decision?’

‘No,’ said the king. ‘I will not drag my men into a war against the Trojans. They have already fought against them once, and it was a cursed war. It brought nothing but grief and endless pain.’

The
Chnan
shook his head: ‘I’ve yet to hear of a war that wasn’t cursed, that did not bring grief and endless pain.’

‘This is the war they have experienced; they have seen that the victors have suffered as much as, if not more than, the vanquished. With what spirit could they face another war against the same people? No. Tell the
Lat
that I will not make war at their side. Tell them, if you want, that we have already fought a long war that brought us every kind of misfortune. I will combat Aeneas alone. If I win, you will return to them and negotiate new conditions. From a stronger position. Perhaps this beautiful plain will soon be ours. Perhaps the day in which I will build my city is nearing.’

The
Chnan
smiled: ‘This land has much changed you, since I have known you. It is harsh and primitive and forgives nothing. It has made you lose your world, a little at a time. You’ve lost pieces on the road, in the swamps, on the mountains, in the valleys and the forests, as your comrades fell, when your immortal horses were devoured by the wolves. Perhaps it would have soon stripped you of everything. No longer a king, or a hero. Only a man. Like me.’

‘And that is a good thing?’

‘I don’t know. But it would certainly be the truth. Your truth. When someone has the truth in front of him, he knows what to do. If he likes it, he continues on his road. If he doesn’t, he kills himself. But now this Aeneas has ruined everything. He has pushed you back, revived the old ghosts. Now you have fooled yourself into thinking that nothing has changed. You prepare for a duel as if you were under the walls of Ilium. Even if you win, nothing will change. This land is made of hundreds of peoples, speaking many different languages, coming from no one knows where . . .’

Diomedes fell silent, thinking of the
Chnan
’s words. They seemed right. They seemed true even though they were so terribly simple. But was it all really so simple? So simple to live, or to die?

‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘And yet a particular vital force burns in some of them more than in others, and the others are slowly attracted to them like lamplight attracts moths. Like a small seed becomes a great tree, perhaps one day a new nation will grow here.’

He rose to his feet and went to the entrance of the tent, contemplating the green expanse at his feet which extended like a precious carpet under the golden light of the setting sun. ‘Look,’ he said then, ‘another day has passed in the land of Hesperia, but it has not passed in vain. Many seeds have fallen here, carried by the wind of fate. Some will grow roots, others will dry up and die. And tomorrow this land will be different than it is today. Something is born, something dies, but each thing must be true to itself. An oak seed cannot generate a rush, nor can an eagle give birth to a crow. I am Diomedes, son of Tydeus, destroyer of cities. Even if I were stripped of everything, I would still carry my world inside of me, whether right or wrong. I will combat so that my world may live. If I die, it will mean that my death was meant to happen. This is what the Land of Evening has taught me.’ The
Chnan
lowered his head and did not speak.

*

The next day, Diomedes summoned Myrsilus and said: ‘There are only four days to the new moon. Where are my arms?’

‘But
wanax
,’ said Myrsilus, astonished, ‘I have been doing nothing but taming your horses and preparing your chariot and you have never said a word to me. Your weapons will be ready very soon, if this is what you want.’

The king lay his hands on Myrsilus’s shoulders: ‘This is what I want. They must sparkle on the day of the duel like the day they were crafted.’

‘They will gleam,
wanax
. They will be ablaze like the noonday sun. You will look awesome and invincible, like that day a goddess took the reins of your chariot against the god of war before the Scaean Gates.’

Myrsilus took the king’s armour from his tent, the embossed greaves and breastplate, the shield and the helmet, adorned by a horsehair crest. He ordered a slave to shine them, to remove the patina that darkened them. He himself took a long ashwood stick from the forest; he removed the branches and the bark, polished it with a pumice stone, and shod it with the heavy, solid bronze head. He weighed it in his hand until it was perfect, and then fitted on the bronze socket at exactly the right point. He then took the baldric which was remarkably crafted in gold, enamel and silver and he cleaned it with his own hands, making it gleam. It had once belonged to Tydeus, when he fought under the walls of Thebes. Last of all, he took the great sword of solid bronze; he sharpened it with a whetstone, tested the long edge and the sharp tip and greased it with pork fat melted over the fire, until he saw it shine. The king had used it only once, when he had fought Nemro; never since had he found a worthy adversary.

When his work was finished, Myrsilus put the arms back into the king’s tent so he would see them and his courage would grow within his soul. His bride saw them as well, and her eyes filled with tears.

*

When the day of the new moon arrived, the king asked Myrsilus to be his charioteer. He awoke him when it was still dark and spoke to him: ‘If I should die, bring my body back to my bride so she can bathe it and prepare it for the funeral rites. You yourself will dress my body with this armour and bury it in front of the Achaeans. Raise a cairn and set a stele that I will be remembered by. Shout out my name ten times and then entrust it to the wind. And then depart; you will lead the comrades. No curse weighs upon you. Perhaps the gods will forget and you will succeed in beginning a new life in this land. Otherwise, if they so wish, take them back to Argos. The
Chnan
will know how to find you ships.’

‘None of this will ever happen,’ said Myrsilus. ‘It is as you say: the gods want this duel to be fought to its end, and then we will be able to live a new life and build our city. You will fight and you will win. As you always have.’

He shook the reins and urged on the horses, who took off at a gallop. Myrsilus drove the team up on to a small ridge of land near the great river, a softly sloping hill from which the valley and plain of the
Lat
could be seen.

The rising sun had just begun to lighten the horizon behind the mountains, but the plain was still in shadow. A slight mist covered it, like a light veil. Birds chirped their welcome to the morning. A large heron passed through the sky in slow, solemn flight. The king watched him at length as he vanished in the distance over the sea. He said: ‘Sometimes I dream that I am a bird, a great bird with white wings. I dream that I am flying over the foamy swells of the sea, my heart free of worry, of pain, of fear. It is a beautiful dream. When I awaken my heart is light.’

But Myrsilus’s eyes were fixed on the plain. ‘
Wanax!
’ he said, and the king turned that way as well. A chariot advanced through the mist, appearing and disappearing with the rippling of the ground. Then the light of the sun struck it in full and the point of a spear sparkled with dazzling fire, a white crest swayed in the morning breeze. Diomedes’s hand tightened on the shaft of his spear. At that moment, the chariot stopped and the blast of a horn sounded over the vast plain, struck the peaks of the mountains and echoed over the snow-covered summits. The son of Anchises was launching his challenge.

‘He has seen us,’ said the king. ‘Let us go.’ And Myrsilus drove on the horses.

They were face to face, after so many years, dressed in resplendent bronze, as they had been then. Diomedes shouted: ‘It’s you or me, son of Anchises! Only one of us will see the dawn tomorrow!’

Aeneas answered him: ‘It’s you or me, son of Tydeus!’

Myrsilus sent the team galloping over the plain. Aeneas’s charioteer shouted out and set the war-car racing off against his adversary of old. Diomedes took a javelin from the quiver; he weighed it in his hand and when Aeneas’s chariot was within range he hurled it with all his strength, aiming low, at the belt. The tip hit the parapet and shattered it into pieces. Aeneas flung his javelin as well; it struck the edge of the shield and rebounded to the right. For an instant, as the chariots flew past each other the hubs of the wheels were so close they nearly touched, the two warriors glared at each other and the ancient fury was rekindled. Aeneas saw in those eyes the sinister reflection of the flames that had burned his homeland, Diomedes saw the arrogant challenge of Hector and Deiphobus, the fire that had burned the rampart and the ships.

They reached the confines of the field and the charioteers took the reins and assumed their positions again. The warriors took a second javelin from their quivers.

‘There’s a strong cross wind,
wanax
, adjust your aim to the left.’

Diomedes nodded. ‘Go,’ he said.

Myrsilus whipped his stallions’ backs with the reins. The steeds raised a long whinny into the air, distantly echoed by Aeneas’s horses, then broke into a gallop. ‘I’ll take you right into him; you’ll have him directly in front of you, but just for an instant,’ shouted Myrsilus. ‘Careful! Weigh it both left and right before you throw!’ When he was at the calculated distance, he swerved violently with his right horse, widening and then narrowing on the left at the last moment while Diomedes crouched low, holding on to the rear handles and leaning in to the other side, to keep the wheels gripping the ground.

Aeneas’s charioteer was disoriented by the move and Diomedes re-emerged from behind the parapet with his javelin tight in his fist. He found Aeneas right in front of him then, for just an instant, and he hurled the weapon at his neck, at the collar bone. The javelin missed its target by a hairbreadth because Aeneas’s chariot gave a jolt, but the bronze still cut into his skin above the shoulder. And while his adversary rode off, Diomedes turned and shouted: ‘First blood, son of Anchises!’

But Aeneas’s charioteer took him by surprise: he did not halt the horses, but widened their path in a full curve without diminishing their speed. When Myrsilus had started his team running again after having stopped at the end of the field, they were already upon him, racing at full tilt. Just an instant before he let his javelin fly, Diomedes realized that Aeneas was aiming to strike his charioteer. He raised his shield to protect Myrsilus, but this threw him off balance and he missed his throw.

‘Thank you,
wanax
,’ said Myrsilus. ‘But you’ve lost your third javelin. Now you must do battle on the ground with your spear and sword.’

‘It would have been worse to lose my charioteer and end up in the dust,’ said Diomedes with a smile. ‘You were magnificent. Sthenelus could not have done any better.’

Myrsilus set the horses off at a trot and turned back, then stopped at a short distance from their adversary. Diomedes and Aeneas descended from the war-cars, and the charioteers handed them their spears. The sun was already high over the mountains and was turning south, sparkling on the waters of the great river.

The two heroes faced each other warily, protected by their shields, spears in hand. The speed of the horses could no longer be added to the force of their arms. Now ability counted as much as strength. Diomedes chose not to throw his spear from a distance, but engaged Aeneas in hand-to-hand combat, crossing his ashen shaft with his enemy’s. Wood and bronze crackled in the close assault, bronze points seeking out a gap in the other’s defences, a space between the joints of the breastplate, a brief opening between the edge of the shield and the visor of the helmet. The whole valley resounded at length with the din of the battle.

Myrsilus stood pale on the chariot while the horses tranquilly browsed on the grass. He abruptly started: with a sudden surge of energy, Aeneas had leapt backwards to dodge a blow, crouched down and hurled his spear from the ground, shearing off one of the shoulder plates on Diomedes’s armour. Blood reddened the chest of the son of Tydeus, who managed still to cast his own spear. The point of bronze struck the side of Aeneas’s helmet with such force that the Dardan hero wavered and nearly fell. Diomedes raised his sword to finish him off but Aeneas reacted, lifting his shield against the furious raining of blows. He moved backwards and, one step after another, he regained his composure, stood tall again and drew his own sword.