Heroes Read online

‘I don’t want to stay here to wait for him,’ said the little prince. ‘Take me with you to search for him at sea. I’ll work for you, I’ll earn my bread as a servant. Please take me with you so I can find him.’

  The hero ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t, although I wish I could.’

  The boy stopped following him and sat on a stone to watch as he walked off in the direction of the port. A dog ran up to his young master and curled up at his feet. He stroked and hugged him tightly, calling him by name: ‘Argus, Argus.’

  Diomedes turned at the sound of that word. He looked at the boy and the dog and he said: ‘When your father comes back, never let him leave again.’

  He continued down the road and reached the port as night was falling. Some fishermen had approached the comrades he had left behind on the ship and were talking to them, trying to sell them the fish they had caught in exchange for resin and pitch, if they had any. Diomedes went aboard and had them cast off. His comrades began rowing and he steered towards Asteris, where the rest of the fleet was waiting. The men slept on their rowing benches and set off again at dawn. A southern wind had picked up and the ships hoisted their sails. The current carried them north as well, towards darkness and night.

  His pilot, Myrsilus, asked him: ‘Was there news of Ulysses? Did you see him?’

  ‘No,’ answered Diomedes. ‘He has not returned. I begged him not to go back to Ilium, remember? The weather was worsening. Perhaps the storm caught them as they were leaving and the wind cast them up on some unfamiliar beach. Ulysses is the best of us all on the sea. If he has not returned, who could have been saved? What have you learned of the route which awaits us?’

  ‘There is land before us, towards the west,’ replied the helmsman. ‘Some say it is an island, others a peninsula. Land lies to the east as well. Not one of these Ithacaeans has ever gone far enough north to find other lands in this direction. But they have heard tell that the winds are perilous and unpredictable, the reefs treacherous. The land which stretches out to the north is different from ours; it is low to the sea, often enveloped in mist and clouds. The sun’s rays don’t touch it for long periods of time, neither when it rises in the morn nor sets in the evening. The people who inhabit these lands are strangers to all and their language is incomprehensible.’

  ‘That is where we shall go,’ said the king. Then he went to the bow and stood there, motionless, his head in the wind and the sun on the blond hair that fell to his shoulders. He threw off the humble cloak that he had worn to Ithaca with a mind to surprise Ulysses. But Ulysses was not to be found. His voyage would lead him into the unknown, and only the memory of his friends could follow him there.

  They sailed for many days, and stopped every night on dry land, where a promontory stretched out from the continent into the sea or where an island offered shelter. A few of the men would go inland to look for food and water. They cast out their nets sometimes and caught fish or gathered up crabs, shellfish and other sea foods along the beaches.

  The coast did not change much; inlets and promontories, islands small and large. At the horizon, towards the east, a chain of mountains always followed them, some low and others tall, towering over the sea. They often saw men fishing near the coast, tossing their nets from small boats carved from a single tree trunk. Sometimes, at night, they would see lights twinkling in the dark, fires burning on the mountain tops. They would hear shrieks echoing amidst the craggy cliffs, sounding like the cries of eagles.

  The further north they travelled, the more the sky became grey and dark, mirrored by the sea.

  One day his comrades asked Diomedes to go ashore. They had seen the mouth of a river, with a small village. They wanted to take what food and women they could, before continuing their journey. Diomedes consented, although he was against the plan. Fierce people often inhabited such poor lands, and he was afraid they might be lying in wait behind the mountains looming nearby. They beached at a small cove and dropped their anchors. Myrsilus led a group of men to the top of a hill to observe the village. It was a cluster of huts standing along the banks of the river; each hut had a pen for animals. They heard bleating, the braying of donkeys and barking of dogs. But not a human voice.

  Evening fell, but the menfolk had not returned to their huts; they could sense the presence of the enemy. They sat all together out in the open, armed. They sniffed the air like sheepdogs guarding their flocks, lifting their snouts to pick out the scent of a wolf.

  3

  When darkness fell Myrsilus led the attack. Diomedes was against it and did not take part. He had agreed to them taking women and food, but he ordered the population to be spared, as much as possible. He remained on his ship with a few comrades as Myrsilus and his men charged forward shouting.

  Other shouts answered from the bottom of the valley and from the houses of the little village, and the skirmish began. These were poor men, bearing rough, primitive arms, but they fought furiously to save their wives and children.

  Their resistance did not last long. Their weapons broke as soon as the conflict started and they withdrew, continuing to throw stones, but they could not make a dent in their assailants’ large bronze shields and crested helmets. They would have been all slain then and there, had not something that terrified even their assailants occurred.

  A horn sounded shrill and long from the mountains, followed by shouting so loud it seemed to come from thousands of men yelling at once. A great multitude of warriors appeared at the pass that descended between the valley and the sea. The blazing torches they carried formed a river of light that ran down the wooded slopes of the mountain.

  The village men and the Achaean warriors fighting in the little field near the town took no heed at first, absorbed as they were in the brawl, but the women turned towards the mountain and then towards the sea, raising their arms in a gesture of despair. In just a few moments, their tranquil existence had been completely overturned; they were being attacked both by land and by sea, by strangers who knew nothing of each other.

  Diomedes saw what was happening from his ship and immediately realized the danger his comrades were in. He called his slave, a Hittite named Telephus whom he had taken prisoner in Ilium, and ordered him to sound the signal for retreat with his bugle, but the valley was already thick with battle cries, with clanging weapons and neighing horses. Myrsilus and his men did not hear and continued to strike out at the villagers.

  Diomedes saw the invaders’ advance guard racing down from the mountains behind the village. They were wild and relentless, flying like shades from one hut to another, riding their horses barebacked. They carried off everything they could find, accumulating it in great heaps, and then set fire to the huts. The wind licked the flames high, lifting columns of smoke and sparks towards the sky. The native warriors, crushed between the two enemy formations, would be soon overcome, and once they had fallen, Myrsilus and his men would find themselves surrounded, with no hope of escape.

  Diomedes donned his armour and ordered the rowers to direct the ships to the coast.

  His ship was the first to enter into the circle of light which the flames cast towards the sea, and he stood tall at the bow, clad in blinding bronze, under the standard of the kings of Argos. He threw out his arms, gripping his spear in his right hand and his shield in his left, and he let out the war cry. The cry that had terrified the Trojans, throwing their ranks into disorder and panicking their horses. Diomedes’s war cry echoed again and again, and the din on the beach ceased. The invaders turned and were struck dumb by the sudden apparition. Behind them the long column continued to descend the mountain, massing inland with great commotion. Myrsilus and his men took advantage of the moment to retreat with their backs to the sea. They pressed close, side by side, shoulder to shoulder and shield to shield.

  One of the invaders strode towards the beach and let out a cry of his own, waving his weapons in the air and gesturing for his men to fall back. It was evident that he wanted to take up Diomede
s’s challenge to single combat. The royal ship advanced until it was nearly at the beach and Diomedes leapt into the water fully armed and advanced towards his adversary. Myrsilus’s men opened their ranks to let him pass, closing tight once again behind him. The waves lapped calmly at the pebbles along the shore but on the western horizon a long rip in the clouds revealed a strip of crimson as if the sky, wounded, were bleeding into the sea.

  The warrior who had come from the mountains was a shaggy giant. His head was protected by a leather helmet, his chest by a bronze plate held in place by chains crossed at his back. A loincloth covered his hairy groin.

  He flung his spear first. It struck the centre of Diomedes’s shield but the metal boss deflected it. Tydeus’s son planted his left foot firmly forward, weighed the long, well-balanced spear in his hand, and then hurled it with enormous strength. The ashwood shot through the air like lightning, ran through the enemy’s shield and struck the bronze that protected his heart. It grazed the plate but did not pierce it. A shout arose from the men gathered behind him. The warrior tossed the shield that would no longer serve him and unsheathed his sword.

  Diomedes drew his sword as well and he advanced, glaring at his enemy from the rim of his shield; his eyes behind the visor were burning with ire as the mighty crest of his helmet fluttered in the evening breeze.

  The hero then delivered a violent downward blow on his enemy’s head, but the other succeeded in fending it off with his own sword. Diomedes struck another even stronger blow, but the blade which had once torn through the belly of the god of war fell to the ground shorn in two as if it had been made of wood! A chill seeped into the hero’s bones. His adversary yelled out a wild threat, and the words sounded strangely familiar even though he did not understand them.

  His outburst reminded the Achaeans lined up on the shore of a language once common but long forgotten. Myrsilus tried to toss his sword to the disarmed king, but Diomedes did not see him; he could not tear his eyes from the enemy, who advanced jeering and brandishing his sword. It was made of a shiny metal which glittered with blue and scarlet sparks; its surface was not smooth and perfect like their blades of bronze but rough rather, as though it had suffered innumerable blows. The vault of the heavens must be made of that metal; perhaps this man had received the sword from a god and nothing could defeat it! The warrior suddenly leapt forward and dealt a daunting blow. Diomedes raised his shield, but the blows came faster and stronger. Sparks sprayed out at each strike; the polished rim was breaking up, the fast-joined studs falling off. He would soon find himself with no means of defence. But then his Hittite slave, Telephus, shouted behind him:

  ‘Wanax! His spear is stuck in the sand just three paces behind you!’

  Diomedes understood. He backed up slowly at first, then, in a flash, hurled his shield at his adversary and spun around like lightning. He pulled the spear out of the ground and as his foe flung out his arm to deflect the shield that had been thrown at him, Diomedes threw the spear straight at his chest. The point pierced the plate, cleaved his heart and came out of his back. The warrior swayed for a moment like an oak whose roots have been chopped off by woodsmen, black blood pouring from his mouth. Then he crashed face first into the sand.

  A long groan sounded from the ranks of the invaders, a wail of lament that swiftly became a howl of fury as they all lunged forward at once.

  They were hundreds of times more numerous than the Achaeans, even now that all the comrades on board the ships had come to their aid. Diomedes saw that opposing them was futile, and ordered his men to toss their shields on their backs and run towards the ships. They obeyed, but many of them were struck and killed as they ran towards the sea and scrambled up the sides of the ships. Others were wounded and fell into the hands of their enemies; they were cut to pieces, their heads stuck on pikes and hurled back at the ships. The men all rushed to the thwarts and began to row as fast as they could to escape, as a band of enemies seized the anchor cable of the royal vessel and attempted to hold it back. Others rushed upon the ship and clusters of them hung on to the sides so that the rowers, no matter how mightily they arched their backs, could not overcome the increasing weight and resistance of the enemy. The sea boiled all around but the ship could not haul off.

  The glow of the fires lit up the ever-growing host of men tugging on the cable. Diomedes realized that they were pulling the ship back to shore; his comrades at the oars were failing to get the better of the hundreds of enemies dragging them towards land. The other ships were already far off at sea; their pilots had not realized in the pitch dark that the king’s ship was not among them.

  Diomedes ordered all the men not at the oars to take their bows and let fly at the mob pulling on the anchor cable. He himself seized a two-edged axe and leaned out over the prow to chop off the cable. The enemies were quick to realize what was happening and their archers advanced as well, shooting swarms of arrows at the ship. Myrsilus ran to protect the king with his shield. In mere moments, the shield became so heavy with the great number of arrows stuck in it that Myrsilus could no longer hold it alone. He gasped: ‘Wanax! Hurry, or we’ll all die!’ Diomedes once again raised the axe over the rope at the point in which it sat on the railing and swung down with all his strength. The axe sliced through the cable and stuck deep in the wood. Suddenly free, the ship shoved off, urged on by the oars. The hull groaned as the stern sunk into the waves but Myrsilus tenaciously shouted out the tempo for the oarsmen, and the ship finally wheeled around and set its bow to sea.

  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 e
xistence 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.’