Valerio Manfredi - Heroes

‘How did you get here?’ he asked, and hope seemed to quiver in his words.

‘From the sea. With Aeneas.’

Diomedes was struck dumb. He remembered the night that he had spent in the swamps near the banks of the Eridanus, the black mirror of water that swelled up under a mysterious force. There he had seen the Dardan prince, Aeneas! Covered with bronze, advancing towards him with a menacing air, brandishing his sword. This was the meaning of his vision! Only a final bout of single combat between the two races would satisfy the gods! Only thus would they be satisfied, and assign dominion over that land. The gods had led him here, through mud and dust, and they had led the son of Anchises to the same place. This was the reason, without a doubt! The gods were not content with the savage encounters that had bloodied the plains of the Hellespont for years; they demanded to watch the last duel, from up on the top of Mount Olympus, as they drank ambrosia from their golden cups. They could not be disappointed; if they were granted their pleasure, they would surely assign the prize. Perhaps Athena, who had once protected Diomedes’s father Tydeus, would appear to him again, a diaphanous figure in the mists of sunset. She would take up the reins at his side, on his war chariot.

‘Where is he?’ he asked. His voice had lost all uncertainty; it was metallic and hard, peremptory.

‘You will never know.’

‘There’s no place for both of us in this land. It must be either me, or him. You don’t have to tell me where he is; I’ll find him nevertheless, and I will challenge him to a duel. But if you do tell me, you can be certain I won’t attack him from behind, when he least expects it. I will send a herald, and you can accompany him yourself. If you accept, you can return to him and remain with him, if he wins. But if I win, this land will be mine, mine the people who populate it far and wide.’

‘Isn’t the blood you spilled for years and years enough? All those innocents, mown down by death, all those tears. .’ said the Trojan. ‘Isn’t it enough that your homeland has become a nest of vipers, cursed by the gods? Do you know what has become of the great master of deception? He who designed the trick that defeated us, do you know what fate has reserved for him?’ Eurimachus’s eyes blazed, the veins on his neck stood out.

‘Ulysses! What do you know? What do you know?’ shouted out Diomedes.

‘We met one of his comrades in the land of the Mountains of Fire, in the region of the giant cyclops. The poor wretch had been cast ashore and forgotten; for months he had been living like an animal, eating roots, worms and insects. He seemed crazed when he saw us, he threw himself weeping at Aeneas’s knees, he embraced his knees, do you understand that? He told us what happened to the great deceiver: Ulysses has lost all his ships and wanders the sea aimlessly, persecuted by implacable destiny.’ The Trojan’s eyes glittered with cruel, fearless joy. Diomedes lowered his head and felt anguish invading his soul: Ulysses. . had not returned. His faithful bride and the little prince still waited for him, gazing out over the distant waves day after day, in vain. Ulysses, the greatest sailor in the land of the Achaeans, had lost his way! Or perhaps he was so shattered by the loss of his ships and his comrades that he dare not return to his homeland to face the elders and the nobles.

‘Do not rejoice too soon, Trojan,’ he said, staring wildly into his eyes. ‘Ulysses will return. Ulysses always finds the way. His mind fears not even the gods; he can win any challenge. But consider now what I have told you. If you accept to take me to Aeneas, you will witness a fair duel. If you refuse, I’ll sell you as a slave, trade you for some food or animals.’

When Diomedes returned to his tent, his bride ran to him. ‘What did Myrsilus show you? There was a man down there; who is he?’ she asked, and her fear was plainly written in her eyes.

‘The past,’ said the king. ‘My past has returned. I must kill if I want to conquer the future. Only then shall we found a city for the living and raise a mound to the dead. Only then.’

The Trojan prisoner leading them to Aeneas had lost his way. Autumn was ending, and the weather worsened abruptly. Snow fell heavily on the mountains and covered the trails and the passes. Diomedes tried nonetheless to advance in the direction of the western sea, but peril abounded on the steep windswept summits and in the forests crawling with packs of starving wolves.

One day, as the sun was setting, as the column of warriors advanced along a steep, narrow path in the deep snow, one of Diomedes’s horses stumbled and fell. The steed tried to get back up by digging in his hooves, but the ground crumbled beneath them. He slipped further down, letting out shrill whinnies of pain. And his companion, erect on the rim of the precipice, answered, calling him desperately.

Diomedes plunged down the slope, nearly falling headlong himself, finally reaching him. The magnificent animal could no longer move: his spine was broken. He raised his head, snorting great clouds of steam from his nostrils, his huge eyes wide and full of terror.

Diomedes knelt before him: he couldn’t believe that this had happened. This was one of the divine horses that he had taken from Aeneas in battle after having defeated and nearly killed him.

They understood him, they understood human words, they understood, in the night, the mysterious voices carried by the wind and perhaps, when all other creatures had given themselves up to sleep they spoke to each other in a language that no one could understand. Diomedes pummelled the snow and wept as the horse whinnied weakly, his head falling backwards. The king stroked him gently, at length, then tore off a strip of his cloak and tied it over the horse’s eyes. From above, his comrades watched in silence, while the other horse called his companion frantically, rearing up and wildly kicking the air, whinnying sharply towards the grey, impassive sky.

Diomedes pulled out his dagger and struck the animal at the base of his head. A clean blow. The snow was stained by a scarlet stream and the horse surrendered his life.

The king trudged slowly towards the path. He reached his comrades and silently resumed the march. But the other horse would not follow them. The efforts of Myrsilus and the others to coax him on were futile: absolutely immobile, he stared at them with flaming eyes.

The king turned towards them: ‘Let him alone,’ he said. ‘He has reached the end of his road.’

As they began to march again, the horse turned towards the bottom of the escarpment and began, tentatively, to test the terrain with his hoof. Then, slowly, he began to make his way down. Myrsilus turned around and said, ‘ Wanax! ’ and the king stopped as well. He turned and watched with a swollen heart as the horse descended slowly in the snow up to his breast and finally reached his dead companion. He nudged him with his muzzle, neighing softly, trying to move him with his head, to make him stand up. In the end, he placed himself in front of the other, his head high, nostrils dilated, ears pointed, whipping the air with his tail, scraping the frozen earth with his hoof.

‘It will be dark soon,’ said Myrsilus, ‘the wolves will come.’

‘I know,’ said the king. ‘And so does he. But nothing will separate him from his lost companion. He’ll wait to gallop with him again in the Asphodel fields.’ Large tears lined his bristly cheeks. ‘It’s never cold there; there is no snow, or frost. It’s never dark and night never comes. A divine light shines endlessly over meadows blooming with white lilies and scarlet poppies. .’ He pulled close the cloak that the icy wind snapped like a tired banner. ‘It’s never cold there, never cold. .’