Heroes (formerly Talisman of Troy)

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘You don’t believe in invisible creatures and gods, then?’ the Chnan asked him one evening as they were roasting a wild pig they had snared in a trap.

  ‘I believe in the gods of my land when I am there, but here . . . who could ever desire to live in a place like this? There can be nothing but the spirits of animals or of trees here; nothing that can worry us. Stay within call and within reach, always, and no harm can come to you. I commanded a chariot squadron in the Hittite army, but I’ve had to patrol the mountains and forest of Toros and Katpatuka on foot, as well. Those places are crawling with fierce, treacherous savages. We simply watched each others’ backs; no one ever went out alone to look for water or forage for the pack animals.’

  As he was saying this a shrill sound whistled through the air and one of the sentinels on guard at a short distance collapsed with a sigh, run through by an arrow. The king was notified immediately, and he rode out on horseback with fifty armed men to encircle the area the arrow had come from, but the darkness and the rough terrain protected the aggressors. They never found a trace of them, as if they had never existed.

  The king returned to the camp in the middle of the night, full of impotent rage, and stopped beside the dying warrior: his name was Hippotous, from Lerna. He had been only sixteen when they left for the war. His father Phaillus had been among Tydeus’s most faithful friends and Diomedes had always loved him like a younger brother. His comrades had brought him close to the fire, and the Chnan was wetting his lips with a linen cloth. He was delirious.

  ‘They’re attacking!’ he would shout out, trembling and trying to lift up on his elbows. ‘Deiphobus and Aeneas, on the right! Beware, wanax! Watch your left side! The Maeonian chariots are upon us, those cursed bastard dogs . . .’

  The king knelt beside him and placed a hand on his burning forehead. The Chnan had managed to cut the arrow shaft with a knife blade, but he had not been able to extract the tip.

  ‘Rest now, my friend. The enemy has been routed. They’ve taken to their heels.’

  ‘Really, wanax? And what will I have? What spoils will be mine?’

  ‘A pair of horses: two superb sorrels, still be to broken in,’ said the king, stroking him tenderly. ‘A helmet; it’s beautiful, decorated in silver and . . . two spears . . .’

  But the god of eternal sleep opened the youth’s eyes for an instant and he saw the truth in his king’s mournful gaze. ‘I’m dying . . . wanax. To no purpose.’

  His head dropped back and his still eyes were filled with death. The fire was going out, and its bluish reflection made the pallor of his forehead look like marble. The king bit his lip and wept.

  *

  After that night, Diomedes tried to be even more prudent; he would send Myrsilus forward with a small group of his fastest men: Evenus, Agelaus, Krissus and even Lamus the Spartan, son of Onchestus. After long days of bewilderment, Lamus had finally recovered his spirit and determination. He seemed to feel that any moment in which the column was not moving was a waste. He was never ready to stop in the evening, and in the morning he was the first to awaken and to stir up the fire.

  At their sides, the king posted two small squads of Argive warriors from his personal guard. He himself marched in front of the main body of the column and posted a small rear guard behind, at a good distance. His wooden chest was at the centre of the column on a little cart pulled by a couple of mules. Alongside the chest, sitting on a bench and protected by a shelter of intertwined wicker, was the bride come from beyond the Mountains of Ice. She was as yet untouched by man.

  But even in this way, Diomedes continued to suffer losses: clusters of arrows would suddenly fall from the sky like hail, although the men could not understand where they were coming from. Or the earth would open beneath their feet, plunging the warriors into pits studded with sharp spikes which pierced them through like fish that a sharp-eyed fisherman runs through with his harpoon. Sometimes, as they slept, their entire camp was inundated with water, so that they had to abandon their sleeping mats, gather up the supplies and run to repel the danger that loomed in the shadows, spending nights awake, eyes stinging with fatigue, bowels gripped by cramps.

  The king always showed his men the same dauntless expression, the same imperious gaze, but those who were closest to him, Myrsilus and even the Chnan, often saw the muscles of his face quivering uncontrollably under his skin, his eyes blinking rapidly and a light sweat beading his forehead, whether it was hot or cold. The king was suffering and his pain worsened with every passing day.

  The bride would raise her head, sometimes, and the king exchanged glances with her, but that contact gave him no comfort or warmth. Her eyes were like a cold springtime sky, continually crossed by light and shadow, cloudy and clear practically at the same moment. The king could not speak to her. He tried, sometimes, in the intimacy that at night his men left to him in respect of his rank and because of their fondness for him, but he obtained no response. But the Chnan noticed that when Diomedes seemed most alone and despairing, when it seemed that fate and events did naught but torment him, then, it seemed to the Chnan, then her eyes would flicker a look like a furtive caress.

  And the Chnan would notice that the king would suddenly turn his head then, as if someone had touched him.

  ‘All they want is the girl,’ said Telephus, the Hittite, one night. ‘If we let her go, this persecution will stop. We can no longer bear up under this strain. If we go on like this, we will all die. Someone has to tell him,’ he said, nodding towards the king, who was standing alone near his horses. ‘We’ve been marching for days and days and we’ve never seen their faces, but they are murdering us. How many men have we lost? Ten, maybe fifteen, I’ve lost count. And how many of them have we killed? Not one. They’re different; they will never agree to face us on the open field, phalanx against phalanx. They don’t think there is anything shameful or wrong about attacking us in secret, at night.’

  ‘You don’t think he already knows?’ replied the Chnan, indicating the king as he advanced through the mud, leading the horses by their reins. ‘They say that he once wounded a god in battle, but here there is no one to cross swords with, not even a savage or a shepherd . . .’

  ‘Why is he doing it then? I know he is a generous man. How could he sacrifice his people this way?’

  The Chnan walked at length without answering. In the distance was a low line of bluish mountains.

  ‘See those mountains? Perhaps that is where this accursed land ends. The king believes that if we manage to leave this place, we’ll finally be able to build a city and raise a temple. He thinks we will be invincible then, and that this girl will give him sons, and a dynasty. And that he’ll get other women for his warriors; that’s what he’s thinking. He knows there is no alternative. We can’t turn back, and facing the enemy is impossible. We have no choice but to go onwards . . . hoping that some of us remain, in the end.’

  ‘But why won’t he give back the woman? He’ll find other women, more beautiful ones.’

  ‘He wants this one. If she was sent to regenerate the tribe of Nemro, she must bear a great life force within her. This is what he thinks. And perhaps he loves her. Have you seen how he looks at her?’

  ‘I have. But we will all die, this I know. Those mountains are still too far away; how many of us will fall before we get there?’

  The column had stopped because Myrsilus had found a dry clearing, a large grassy knoll protected on one side by a group of ash and oak trees, just turning green with new leaves, and on the other by a torrent that edged it on three sides like the ocean around a peninsula. Gigantic clouds were gathering over the mountain peaks, shot through by blazing bolts of lightning.

  ‘We must inflict heavy losses on them,’ said the Chnan, ‘and convince them to withdraw.’

  ‘Or resolve it by fighting a duel,’ said Telephus.

  The Chnan watched the big storm clouds clustering over the mountains: ‘The west wind is pushing them this way,’ he said. ‘They’ll be
here right after dark.’

  ‘Yes. And the rain as well.’

  ‘There will be lightning; these tall trees may very well attract the bolts.’

  ‘Do you mean to say we should camp elsewhere?’

  ‘On the contrary. Perhaps they’ll attack tonight, and we may manage to wipe them out, or at least to strike out hard. If the storms in this land move like the sea . . . and if the king will listen to me . . .’

  As he moved off the surrounding forests began to echo with calls, like animal cries.

  The Chnan went to the king: ‘Your men say you have armour of gold.’

  ‘They have told you the truth,’ said Diomedes without turning.

  ‘Is the shield made of gold too?’

  ‘Yes, the shield as well.’

  ‘Give it to me. If these cries from the forest are not night birds, as I don’t imagine they are, they will attack again tonight.’

  ‘Invisible and unfindable, as always.’

  ‘Not any more, wanax. Give me a man who can help me light a fire on the highest part of the hill. Telephus, the Chetaean, will do. And give me your shield, enclosed in its case. The storm will be here soon, just as darkness falls. Sit down and eat now. Rest and gather your forces because I will soon make your enemies visible. Order the archers to draw up and to be ready with their bows, for they will have to aim and shoot as swiftly as the blink of an eye. Order your warriors to remain in their armour and to keep their hands on the shafts of their spears.’

  The king gave him the shield and the Chnan went off with Telephus towards the top of the hill. Telephus held a burning firebrand, which he used to set a fire as soon as they had arrived. The men below lit fires as well and began to eat. The king ate, and offered some of his food to the girl. The storm was drawing nearer and the clouds galloped through the sky above the camp.

  The Hittite appeared just then. ‘Oh king,’ he said. ‘Rally your men. The storm is rushing towards us, and if the enemies attack, the Chnan will show you where they are, but only for a brief moment.’

  ‘That will be enough,’ said the king. He put on his helmet and fastened his cuirass.

  The wind had picked up and was stoking the fires in camp and on the hilltop. Diomedes called his men and had them take position behind a group of trees facing the forest. He told them to stay ready, although he knew not what to expect. Suddenly, a blinding light flashed, immediately followed by the roar of thunder, and in that instant the king saw the enemy advancing in open order across the plain, towards the hill. The Chnan saw them as well, and he turned the golden shield so that it would project the light of the large fire that Telephus had built upon them, as he continued to feed it with all the wood he could lay his hands on.

  ‘Now, wanax!’ shouted the Chnan, and Diomedes rushed forth, followed by his men. The enemies had stopped for a moment, stunned by the thunder and blinded by the lightning, but the light of the fire reflected off the golden shield of the king made them visible; shadowy, but distinguishable. It was enough. The Achaeans fanned out as they ran down the hill at great speed. Diomedes burst into the midst of his enemies, and his shout was more terrible that the roar of the thunder. He ran one man through with his spear and brought down the next ones with his dagger and sword. The javelins of Myrsilus, to the far left, hit their marks one after another. Taken by surprise for the first time, the assailants were bewildered, uncertain whether to continue fighting or to flee, and in that uncertainty the hard blows of the Achaeans rained down, enraged as they were and eager for revenge.

  It began just then to pour, and the bursts of heavy rain dampened the fires and extinguished them almost completely in just a few moments. The light of the golden shield went out as well and the battle ceased. Myrsilus took a burning brand and examined the dead, trying to recognize Nemro, but found no trace of him.

  They took shelter under their tents and waited for the rain to stop so they could continue their search. Quite some time passed before the sky cleared, revealing the stars and the full moon that was just rising over the crests of the Blue Mountains.

  The king scanned the fields to see if the dead were still there, and as the pale light of the moon freed itself of the mists of the storm, he saw a still, erect shadow among the lifeless bodies of the fallen. He was tall and powerful, and gripped a long narrow sword. It was Nemro!

  At a certain distance behind him, his men were lined up at the edge of the forest, their hands on the hilts of their swords. The Chnan approached the king and said: ‘It has happened sooner than I could have hoped: he is challenging you to single combat. Kill him, and we’ll no longer have these sneaking demons hounding us.’

  Myrsilus stepped forward: ‘Oh wanax, that savage who has hidden in the shadows until now is not worthy to cross swords with the king of Argos. You rest and watch: I’ll go.’

  The king looked back and he saw the blonde bride standing behind him, staring at the plains beyond him. She was looking at Nemro.

  ‘No,’ said the king. ‘I must fight him. Have the armour of Ilium brought to me.’

  Myrsilus obeyed and Diomedes was brought the armour that he had worn when he fought the sons of Priam between the Scamander and the Simois. He threw the leather cuirass he had donned for the night raid on to the ground, and covered himself with bronze. He slung on his shield and grasped the enormous ashwood spear. He tightened the baldric adorned with golden studs and stretched his right hand out towards his attendant to receive his sword.

  ‘The Pakana,’ said Myrsilus. And the attendant handed him the heavy sword, its silver hilt set with a piece of amber embossed with the figure of a lion chasing a roebuck, crafted by Traseus.

  The king hung it from his baldric and adjusted it on his side. Before donning the helmet, he turned to the bride and said: ‘I am facing death for you. Do not disdain me in your heart.’ He descended the slope with slow heavy steps until he was facing his adversary. The Achaean warriors, who had received no orders, all drew up into three long rows on the hillside, holding their shields and grasping their swords. When the king grasped his own and began to brandish it, looking for a gap in his enemy’s defences, they shouted: ‘ARGOS!’

  Nemro’s warriors shouted out something as well, but no one understood except the Chnan, whose eyes welled with tears in the darkness.

  They had yelled out: ‘LIFE!’

  Diomedes observed him carefully, exploring every detail of the gigantic figure. He wore a conical bronze helmet and a great shield which protected him from his chin to his knees. He gripped a javelin and a long sword hung at his side. He was readying for the battle as well, weighing the javelin to balance it before striking. The air had become much colder than the earth after the storm, and a light mist crept through the grass and covered the field until it lapped at the foot of the hill where the Achaean warriors were lined up. The combatants, under the glow of the moon, were waist deep in it now. Nemro swiftly hurled the javelin, aiming at his enemy’s forehead, but Diomedes saw the blow coming and raised his shield. The weapon penetrated the rim and its point stopped just a palm from his face, although the hero’s eyes never so much as blinked.

  A roar arose from the edge of the clearing. Diomedes dislodged the javelin from his shield by knocking it against the trunk of a tree, and he resumed his impenetrable stance. Nemro made to unsheathe his sword but just as he was lowering his arm to his belt, his shoulder was bared. Diomedes threw his spear, which ripped into his enemy’s shoulder-plate and lacerated his flesh. Blood gushed down the warrior’s arm but the blow had not severed his tendon; the muscle was intact, and he lunged forward, brandishing his sword.

  The utter silence of the little valley was rent by the din of hand-to-hand combat. The clang of bronze striking, suffocated cries, jagged breath. The two men faced off in fierce, incessant fighting, without a moment of respite.

  Diomedes suddenly delivered an unexpected blow from above, surprising Nemro’s arm in an awkward position; the warrior lost his sword. Diomedes reacted swiftly, forcing b
ack his unarmed opponent. Nemro turned and began to run, then stopped all at once and grabbed a tree trunk which was lying on the ground. He wheeled around and thrust it out like a battering ram towards his enemy, still in swift pursuit. As his men raised a cry of fear and surprise, Nemro charged forth holding the trunk in both hands and hit the running Diomedes full in the chest, knocking him to the ground. Cheers of joy came from the edge of the forest, while the rows of Achaeans on high seemed to dissolve like shadows in the fog which rose towards the summit.

  Nemro dropped the trunk and picked up a boulder emerging from the grass. He stood above his fallen enemy, raised the rock high above his head and crashed it down upon him with all his might. But Diomedes had come to his senses; he twisted his torso and dealt a deep upward thrust with his sword. The boulder fell at his side without harming him as Nemro dropped to his knees, holding both hands to his wound. Gritting his teeth, he wrenched the sword from his ribs and lunged forward to strike his enemy with the blade red with his own blood, but his strength abandoned him and he collapsed, dying.

  Diomedes rose to his feet and took off his helmet. Nemro raised a hand towards him and said something that the king could not understand, but the tone of that hoarse, sorrowful voice penetrated deep into his soul. He knelt over him, and when he had breathed his last, Diomedes closed his eyes.

  He did not strip him of his armour as was his right. He picked up the spear and returned to his own men, who awaited him in silence, drawn up, unmoving, on the hillside. As he advanced through the tall, damp grass he heard a song rise up behind him and he shuddered. It was the same lament he had heard in the swamp at the mouth of the Eridanus; an inconsolable weeping, an endless sighing. The voice of a dying people. He turned slowly towards the forest and in the moonlight he saw a group of men approaching the lifeless body of the fallen giant. They gathered him up gently and carried him in their arms to the torrent. They washed away his blood and sweat, recomposed his limbs and adjusted his weapons, before covering him with a cloak. They fashioned a stretcher out of supple hazelnut branches where they laid him and stood vigil over him all night.