Valerio Manfredi - Heroes

At times, in the dead of night, he would awaken suddenly when a wolf or a jackal howled from a mountain top or wood, because he had become convinced that in that land the gods made themselves heard through the voices of the animals. Why else had they so often found signs of animal worship and votive offerings?

One evening he returned to his tent after a raid, covered with dust and sweat. He lay down his weapons and poured a jug of water over his head. Just then his bride appeared, and he saw deep sadness in her eyes, or compassion perhaps. Or pity.

He had not seen himself in a mirror for years, but it was enough to see those eyes and that gaze to understand everything.

‘A goddess once mounted my chariot and fought at my side,’ he said. ‘Do you believe me?’

The girl came closer. ‘If you believe it then I believe you,’ she said.

‘No, you don’t believe me,’ said Diomedes. ‘For the man you see before you is not the same, and this land is not the same and not even the sky is the same. I feel the weight of the end. I passed between the severed heads: did you know that?’

‘Yes. But that will not be the cause of your death.’

‘My comrades follow me because I promised them a kingdom, a city with houses and families. And I’ve given them nothing but hardship, grief and death.’

‘Your comrades love you. They are ready to follow you anywhere. And after all, didn’t they suffer with you when you fought under the walls of that city so far away?’

‘Don’t you understand? This is why my heart aches! Then we knew what our sacrifices were for, then we lived in a world where we knew the rules and the confines. Not any more. I don’t know where to lead them. Years have passed since we reached the mouth of the Eridanus. We have crossed plains and mountains and forests, we have forded swamps and swirling rivers. We have fought with many peoples but we have conquered nothing. This land saps our strength from us day after day, robs me of my comrades, one after another. How many have I buried until now?’ Tears brimmed in his eyes but his voice was firm and strong. ‘I remember them all, each one of them. I remember their names, their families, their cities. But they no longer exist. No one will ever take an offering to their tombs, no one will pronounce their names on the anniversary of their deaths. I had hoped that one day, when I had built a city and a kingdom, I would be able to raise a lofty cairn to them, with many steles of stone, each one carved with a name. Every year I would have offered a sacrifice and celebrated funeral games. Even for the Chetaean slave who died as a warrior to save my life.

‘Perhaps I shall never succeed. One day my strength will abandon me and I too shall fall. Perhaps I will be left unburied. Another man will have you, just as I took you from the man who was destined to have you.’

‘That is not true,’ said the bride. ‘This land could welcome you, if you could only banish the ghosts of time past. One night, while you were sleeping and I was wakeful, I went to the campfire to warm myself. The small, dark man that you call the Chnan approached me, and he sat down in silence next to me. I asked him: “If you were certain that the king would listen to you, what would you ask him?”

‘He understood my sadness and he had many times seen the despair on your face. This is what he said: “I would tell him, go towards the sea and find a place which is big enough, near a little promontory and a source of fresh water. Build a village by cutting down the wood of the forest. Learn to extract salt from the water and to preserve fish, establish good relations with the nearby inhabitants, exchange gifts and swear to hold to agreements. Take women in marriage and bear children. Live off what the earth and the sea can give you. Sow the fields, graze flocks of goats and sheep, so you will have food in abundance in the winter, when the cold wind blows over the sea and the mountains. You will have wood to warm you, soft fleece on your beds. One day, perhaps, you will plant olive trees and grape vines and you will have oil to fortify your bodies and wine to warm your spirits. No one will ever know you exist, but you will live in peace and die one day, enfeebled by age, watching the sun set on the sea with clear eyes.”

‘This is what the small dark man that you call the Chnan told me, and I think he is right. Why don’t you listen to him? Perhaps you would find peace. You would see life flourish, instead of wandering aimlessly, pursued by death. Finally, I believe, you would become my husband, my man. I could bear you a child whom you would see growing strong as a colt, beautiful as a tree in bloom.’

The king looked at her without speaking, and for a moment, it seemed to the girl that she could see a serene light in his eyes, like a golden sunset, but only just for a moment. Myrsilus came running up, breathing hard. His weapons clanged against his shoulders and the crest swayed on his helmet, stirred by gusts of wind. She shuddered as if she had seen a starving wolf galloping towards her: Myrsilus was the only adviser Diomedes listened to.

‘ Wanax! ’ he was shouting. ‘ Wanax! ’ He stopped before his king with a mad gleam in his eye, like delirium. The king had him enter his tent.

‘ Wanax ,’ he said again when he had calmed down. ‘I was advancing westward with my men as you had advised me, to see if there was richer, more open land in that direction. We found villages populated by an unknown people and we attacked them to take their animals. The Chnan says that they are the Lat , and that they come from the north. They are tough, combative. They venerate a she-wolf as their god and are led by her.’

‘Is this why you are so excited?’ asked the king. ‘We already know that there are many unfamiliar peoples roaming this land.’

‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Myrsilus. ‘But when we burst into the largest house, belonging to their chief, perhaps, we found a prisoner, a man, bound. We’ve brought him here with us. You have to see him. Now.’

Diomedes followed him, directing a fleeting glance towards his bride, as if to ask her forgiveness for not having listened to her, and he went down the slope until he found his armed comrades thronging around someone or something. Myrsilus led him to the centre of the circle and showed him a man sitting on the ground at the foot of a tree. He was unbound, and when he saw Diomedes he leapt to his feet as if he had seen a ghost. He stood still and silent, staring at the king. He was a man of about thirty-five, tall and slim, well built. His face and body showed signs of hardship.

‘He’s a Trojan,’ said Myrsilus. ‘His name is Eurimachus.’

‘A Trojan,’ said the king, drawing closer. ‘A Trojan, here. .’ Then he turned to Myrsilus: ‘Have you done him harm?’

‘No, wanax .’

‘Have you interrogated him?’

‘Yes, but he hasn’t said much.’

The king turned to the prisoner: ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.

‘Your appearance tells me that the gods have justly punished you for what you did to us, but I recognize you nonetheless. You are Diomedes. You wander without a homeland or a family in foreign territory. Destiny has been no kinder with you than with the vanquished.’

Diomedes bit his lip. He was ashamed of his wretched semblance, of the dwindling ranks of his men. The last time that man had seen him he was flying over the plain of Ilium on his chariot in a cloud of dust, clad in shining bronze, followed by an army as numerous as the stalks of wheat in the fields. He felt stabbed by deep humiliation, and yet he understood that strange, giddy enthusiasm that had possessed Myrsilus: that man was a part of his lost world; he obeyed the same rules, spoke the same language.