Heroes (formerly Talisman of Troy)

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  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 Dor do. 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 cortège 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 Chnan managed 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 Chnan knew 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 Chnan told 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 an
d 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 Chnan fell 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 Chnan seemed 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 Chnan strained 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.

  He pressed his horse on to the centre of the city, where the two main roads crossed. He turned to his right and then to his left, and his eyes filled with horror: twenty rams’ heads stuck on sharp stakes were enveloped by flames. A sharp, repugnant odour, a dense, pungent smoke, filled the air. For a moment, he saw a figure wrapped in a cloak of black wool, who set fire with a torch to the last stake and vanished down a side road. Myrsilus’s voice rang out behind him: ‘Stop, wanax! It could be a trap! Wait until the other comrades arrive!’ But the king, after a moment’s hesitation, lunged forward on his horse and wove his way through the rams’ heads. He caught up with the man before he could slip into one of the houses; he blocked him off and thrust his spear at his throat. It was a bony old man with deep, dark rings under his eyes; he backed up against the wall and waited without blinking for the bronze blade to pierce through his flesh. The king lowered his spear and got off his horse and when Myrsilus reached him, panting, he said: ‘Call the Chnan. I want this man to answer my questions.’

  Myrsilus obeyed, and ordered his men to search the city house by house to flush out whoever was hiding there.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the Chnan when he arrived.

  ‘Your chief is dead,’ answered the old man. ‘His head will burn like these!’

  ‘Our chief has already passed between the severed heads and he is still alive, as you can see.’

  The man glanced furtively at Diomedes, and then glared at his questioner: ‘You lie. It is impossible.’

  ‘He is a great hero who has destroyed two immense cities enclosed in stone walls. He saw the place where the chariot of the Sun fell and he spent the night there.’ The old man’s eyes widened until they showed white all around, and his chin began to quiver. The words of the Chnan had filled him with dread.

  ‘Tell him I’ll drag him to the swamp where the chariot of the Sun fell,’ said Diomedes, when he realized the cause of the man’s terror. ‘I’ll tie him to a tree and leave him there to go mad.’

  The old man shook his head, then flung himself to the ground with his face in the dirt. His body trembled uncontrollably. The Chnan helped him to his feet and tried to calm him. He promised that he would be allowed to go free if he told them where the others had gone.

  ‘They are safe by now,’ said the old man. ‘You will never catch up with them. Tomorrow they will cross the river and march towards the Great Lake of the Ancestors at the foot of the Mountains of Ice. There they will immerse themselves in the clear, pure waters to free themselves of the curse which brings death. They will build houses on the water that
can not be touched by any sorcery. Our people will be reborn.’

  Diomedes realized that Nemro was directed north, towards the shores of Eridanus. If they managed to cross the river, he would never see that woman again.

  He called Myrsilus and ordered him to harness the horses to his war chariot. He told his comrades to hold the old man until he returned, then leapt into the chariot and passed the reins to Myrsilus. They rode to the north side of the city where they found evident traces of the migration. The king then urged on his horses like he had long ago on the plains of Ilium. He let out a long, high, warbling cry; the steeds pawed the ground and reared up, shaking the yoke, then hurled forward on the dirt trail, raising a cloud of dust. Myrsilus let out the reins at their necks and the divine animals picked up their pace, neck to neck, head to head, in a riot of shining muscles, manes billowing in the wind. The king was silent now. His right hand gripped the rail and his left the spear. The low sun cast a blazing reflection on his face and hair.

  The chariot flew over the deserted trail in the last dim light of the sun and Myrsilus managed to keep up a steady gait until it was almost completely dark, accustoming his eyes to distinguish between the pale dust and the green fields. He was forced to slow down when the last reflection of light vanished, but just then the king pointed to a distant point: ‘Look,’ he said. ‘It must be them. Don’t stop, we’ll be upon them when they least suspect it.’

  They saw lights in the middle of the plain, reflected like a mirror: the waters of the Eridanus! Dark figures were moving all around the fires. Myrsilus slowed the horses to a walk and continued to approach until, under the cover of darkness, they could see what was happening in the camp before them. The people were on their feet in a circle around several large fires. At their centre stood Nemro, wearing his armour and a cloak of dark wool. Facing him was the blonde maiden who had come from afar, her head covered in white bands that fell softly around her neck. They were about to celebrate their wedding.