Heroes (formerly Talisman of Troy) (6 page)

As they moved off, the king saw a man desperately swimming towards the ship in an attempt to reach it. Believing it was one of his comrades trying to escape the enemies, he had a rope lowered so the man could catch hold of it. As the ship finally drew away from the shore, the cries of the mob fading and the blaze of the fire dimming in the distance, the man was hoisted aboard. He was not one of their comrades; he must have been one of the inhabitants of the wasted village. Deprived of home and family, horrified by cruel enemies, he had chosen those who seemed less ferocious. He looked around bewildered and then, picking out the king, threw himself at his feet and embraced his knees. Diomedes had the men give him dry clothes and food and he returned to the bow. He would turn back now and again to watch the tremulous flames, and then scanned the open sea in search of the other ships. Myrsilus had the brazier lit at the fore so they could be seen, and other fires were soon lit on the waves. He counted them. ‘
Wanax
,’ he said, ‘they’re all there.’ The king had the ship stopped and looked back towards the shore. The column of enemies was on the march again and a long line of torches snaked along towards the south as the burning village offered up its last faint flashes of life.

‘They’re going south,’ said the king. ‘Towards our land.’

‘It is no longer our land,’ said Myrsilus.

‘You are wrong,’ said the king again. ‘It will be ours for ever, as a man’s father and mother will always be his father and mother, even if the son abandons them.’ He turned towards the foreigner and pointed at the torch lights heading south through the night. Who are they?’ he asked.

The foreigner shook his head and Diomedes repeated: ‘Who are they, who are those men?’

The man seemed to understand what he was being asked; he widened fear-filled eyes in the dark and in a whisper, as if fearful of his own voice, said: ‘
Dor
.’

‘I’ve never heard tell of these people, but I say that nothing will stop them if they have swords like the one I saw . . .’

His Hittite slave approached. ‘It was made of iron,’ he said.

‘Iron?’ said Diomedes. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a metal, like copper and bronze, but infinitely stronger. Fire cannot melt it, but only serves to make it softer. It is laid on burning coals and then shaped with a hammer on an anvil. All of our noblemen in the city of Hatti, the king and all the dignitaries, are armed with swords and axes made of that metal. They have conquered all Asia with them. No one believed me when I spoke of the existence of this metal. Now you know I was telling the truth.’

As they were speaking, one of the ships drew up and the pilot called out: ‘
Wanax
, are you safe?’

‘I am,’ replied Diomedes. ‘But we all risked death. Is that you, Anchialus?’

‘Yes,
wanax
. And I am happy to see you.’

‘Not for long. You must depart.’

‘Depart? I have departed, to stay with you. And I do not intend ever to leave you.’

‘You must go back, Anchialus. Have you seen that multitude of wild men? They are called . . .
Dor
. . . They are armed with a metal that can cut the best bronze, they ride the bare backs of their horses as if they were a single being, like centaurs. They are as numerous as ants and they are headed towards the land of the Achaeans. You must turn back, you must warn Nestor and Agamemnon; tell Menelaus, if he has returned, and Sthenelus at Argos, if he still lives. Tell them what you have seen. Tell them to ready their defences, to build a wall on the Isthmus, to send the black ships out to sea . . .’

‘What does it matter,
wanax
?’ replied Anchialus. ‘We have chosen to sail towards the night, towards the land of the Mountains of Ice and the Mountains of Fire. What happens beyond the horizon we leave at our backs no longer concerns us.’

‘I am your king. I want you to go. Now.’

Anchialus lowered his head, gripping the railing of his ship with his hands.

‘I will do as you say,’ he replied. ‘But then I shall return. They say that this sea is really a gulf. I will catch up with you, when I have done as you have ordered me. I will sail up the coast until I find you. Leave a sign on the beach that I can recognize.’

‘I will. Seeing you again will fill me with joy.’

The other three ships had joined them. The fires burning in the fore braziers cast a crimson halo on the waves, like a blood-stain.

‘But before you go, let us render our lost comrades their last honours, ship by ship.’

They all stood, gripping an oar in hand and, one ship after another, looking towards land, they shouted out the names of their lost comrades, massacred by the enemy, hacked to pieces, abandoned without burial on a wild and hostile shore. Then Anchialus raised his hand in salute and pushed his ship back, his oarsmen at their places. The night swallowed them up and the wind carried afar the names of their comrades.

Diomedes walked back to the stern and covered his head in mourning for the loss of such gallant men. Strange quivers of blood-coloured light shot through the clouds crossing the sky. Perhaps it was their souls, seeking the light of the stars one last time before plunging into Hades.

The foreigner that they had hoisted aboard followed Diomedes and went to sit at his feet. He had chosen him as his master and awaited his command. Myrsilus, at his side, had taken the helm, keeping his eye on the Little Bear whenever it appeared between one cloud and another. It was too dark to seek a safe landing place, for they risked being smashed to pieces against the rocks, nor could they remain still and allow the wind and the waves to set them adrift. They had to navigate, confiding in the help of the gods and in good fortune. Telephus, the Hittite, sat on a basket near Diomedes, sharpening his knife on a whetstone.

‘What land are you from?’ asked Myrsilus, to break the silence and fear.

‘You call us Chetaeans but we are Hittites. My native name is
Telepinu
and I come from a city of the interior called
Kussara
. I fought at length as the captain of a squadron of chariots in the army of our king Tudkhaliyas IV, may the gods preserve him, against the league of
Assuwa
, which we defeated. But when you arrived from the west, the league was reconstituted in support of Priam and his city
Vilusya
, which you
Ahhijawa
call Ilium. We were willing to help Priam at that point, setting aside our past conflicts with the league in order to repel our common enemy, but only a small contingent could be sent. Other peoples had come from the east, from the
Urartu
mountains, and invaded our land. Our king sent a legation to the king of the Egyptians but Egypt was being invaded as well, by multitudes from the desert and from the sea. If we had been able to draw up our whole army and all of our war chariots against you we would have chased you back into the sea! Nothing can withstand the charge of a battalion of Hittite chariots.’

Myrsilus smiled in the dark: ‘That’s what they all say.
Ahhijawa
. . . so that’s what you call us . . . it’s strange, a people do not exist because of who they are, but because of what others consider them to be. Have you seen Egypt as well?’

‘Oh, yes. I was sent to escort one of our princes who had gone to visit their king, who is called Pharaoh. Their kings know the secret of immortality, but reveal it to no one. Two thousand years ago, they were already building stone tombs as tall as mountains. Their priests know how to obscure the sun and make it reappear at will. And they have a gigantic river whose waters beget monsters with mouths full of teeth and backs covered by armour that no weapon can penetrate.’

Myrsilus smiled again. ‘What lovely stories you tell, Chetaean. By chance, do you know something of this land we are seeking?’

‘No. I’ve never heard speak of it. But all those people marching south worry me.’

The shrieks of a flock of cranes broke the silence of the night. The Hittite pulled his cloak close around his shoulders. ‘We’re heading where they’re escaping from. We’re going the opposite direction from the cranes, who are wise enough to abandon inhospitable places where the winters are too harsh . . . Have you noticed those strange lights behind the clouds? I’ve never seen anything like it in all my life. And never, as far back as man can remember, have so many peoples left their own lands and set off to cover such immense distances. Something has terrified them, or perhaps something urges them on without their knowing why . . . like when the locusts suddenly, for no reason, gather and begin to migrate, destroying everything along their path . . .’ He turned to look at the king, who stood still and silent by the railing, his cloak pulled up over his head. ‘You are all running as well . . . without knowing where. And I with you.’

He found a blanket and curled up between the baskets and ropes, seeking shelter from the damp night. Diomedes turned to the pilot then: ‘Are you well awake?’ he asked.

‘I’m awake,
wanax
, I’m holding the route and keeping windward. Sleep if you can.’

The king laid out a bear pelt and lay down upon it, covering himself with his cloak. He sighed, grieving for the comrades lost.

The Hittite slave waited until the king was asleep, then walked over to the pilot and pointed at a box tied to the mast. ‘Do you know what’s in there?’ he asked.

Myrsilus did not even turn towards him; his gaze was riveted to the sky. ‘In what?’ he asked.

‘You know. Inside that chest tied to the main mast.’

‘Ask me once more and I’ll chop off your head.’

‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’ insisted the slave. ‘Do you think you can treat me like a mouse just because I’ve fallen into servitude? I am a Hittite warrior. I was the commander of a squadron of chariots. And I wasn’t born yesterday. There’s something strange in that box.’

‘One more word and I’ll cut off your head,’ repeated Myrsilus. The Hittite slave said nothing. The other men were laid out on the bottom of the ship and were sleeping under their cloaks.

The foreigner who had been taken aboard was sitting against the ship’s railing with his legs close against his chest and his head leaning on his knees. The Hittite slave watched him for a while, then approached him. The glow of the brazier at the stern lit up his dark face. ‘What kind of a man are you?’ he asked him in his own language.

The foreigner raised his head and in the same language answered: ‘I am a
Chnan
.’

‘A
Chnan
. . . what are you doing here? And you speak Hittite . . . where did you learn it?’

‘The
Chnan
speak many languages because we take our wares to all the peoples of this earth.’

‘Then you’re not one of those wretches whose village they destroyed?’

‘No. We were pushed up here by a storm two months ago, at the end of the summer. My ship sank and I barely saved myself. They welcomed me, gave me food. They did not deserve to die.’

‘We do not deserve to die either. Do you know anyone who deserves to die? To sink into darkness, leaving behind forever the scent of the air and the sea, the colours of the sky, of the mountains and the meadows, the taste of bread and the love of women . . . is there someone who deserves such horror, just because he was born? Who were those . . .
Dor
. . . you were talking about?’

‘That’s what the people who took me in called them. They are a powerful, ferocious race. They live on a great inland river called the Ister, but for some time now they have been restless, and they make continuous raids towards the sea. Those whom you saw were but a small group of them; if some day all of them decide to move, no one will be able to stop them. They have weapons of iron, they ride the bare backs of their horses . . . did you see them?’

‘I did. Do you speak the language of the Achaeans as well?’

‘I can understand much more than I speak. But it is better they don’t learn that . . . until I know them well. But tell me, what men are these that sail in this sea, in this season and in this direction? They must be mad, or desperate.’

The Hittite looked into the sky again. The strange lights had been extinguished and the vault of the heavens was as grey and smooth as a leaden bowl.

‘They are both,’ he said.

*

At that same hour, Clytemnestra lay on her wedding bed alongside Aegisthus. She was not sleeping; she lay with her eyes open and the lamp lit. She had killed her husband without hesitation, as he returned after years of war, but she could not bear the visions that crowded round her head if she closed her eyes. She could not bear the hate of Electra, the daughter who remained to her. Since that murdering night, she had often gone up to the tower of the chasm at night, in the wind, and there she had remembered the days of her wedding, the night in which a choir of maidens with flaming torches had accompanied her to the wedding bed of the king of Mycenae, the king of the Achaean kings.

They had undressed her and perfumed her. They had combed her hair and loosened her belt, laying her on the bed. She remembered how the king had appeared, the copper reflections on the thick locks that shaded his forehead and cheeks, mixing in with his full beard. She remembered his chest and his arms shining with scented oil, and she remembered how she had done her duty. How she had pretended to cry out with pleasure when his scourge lacerated her womb.

She had used her allure wilfully but without abandon, without ever letting herself be moved.

Men have to submit or die. As when the great queen, the
Potinja
, once reigned. Once a year she chose her bedmate, the male who would render her fertile, the strongest and most fearless, the most vital. He who after having fought duel after duel with the others had earned himself the privilege of being king for one day and one night before dying.

Clytemnestra got up and went to the throne room. She sat on the seat that had belonged to the Atreides and waited there for the sun to rise.

Even before the maidservants had left their beds and lit the fire in the hearth, the man whom she had been expecting for days arrived. He entered and, seeing that the room was still dark, he sat on the floor near the wall to wait for someone in the household to awaken. The queen saw him and called to him.