Valerio Manfredi - Heroes

Orestes took up his spear. ‘This is my city, for I am the legitimate heir of Agamemnon, and you are on my territory. Withdraw and call back your men. I am saying this for the last time.’

‘If you want me to go, you will have to kill me,’ said Pyrrhus. ‘There is no other way.’

Orestes jumped from the chariot, gripping his spear in his right hand. King Menelaus saw him and shouted: ‘No! Do not leave the chariot; he will kill you!’ But it was too late: the two warriors faced off, spears tight in fist, each seeking an opening in the defences of the other.

Pisistratus approached Menelaus. ‘You must stop him,’ he said, ‘or Pyrrhus will hack him to pieces. Look, he is a whole head taller. No one can resist against such might.’ But Pyrrhus had already thrown his spear, grazing his adversary on his right side. Blood spurted from the wound, staining the earth red. Orestes gritted his teeth. He knew that his spear was his last chance to end the encounter. If he missed, we would have to accept a swordfight and it would be all over for him. And that was why he had always held his spear in his right hand. He attempted a few feints to throw his adversary off balance, but Pyrrhus was as solid as a mountain, and the last drops of enemy blood slid down his armour like raindrops off a smooth cliff. But then he noticed that Pyrrhus was seeking a secure hold for his right foot, unsteady on a slippery stone. Lightning swift, he dropped his shield, passed the spear to his left hand and cast it. Pyrrhus reacted in the bat of an eye and raised his shield high to the right. The spear hit the rim of the great bronze and bounced off to his side. The Pelian shield thundered under the impact.

Pyrrhus burst into loud laughter as Orestes, deadly pale, bent to pick up his shield. ‘I knew you were left-handed! I saw you kill Aegisthus, remember? And now you’re dead, you stupid boy.’ He drew his sword and flew at him.

‘Stop!’ shouted Menelaus. ‘The bond of kinship joins you! Do not commit such a horrendous crime.’ But the son of Achilles was unstoppable, and struck with immense power. Orestes tried to surprise him with a lunge, but Pyrrhus responded with an awesome blow which shattered his sword.

Orestes felt death biting at his heart. Soaked in a cold sweat, he retreated, trying to raise his shield, but he knew that his end was near. He turned disheartened to the ranks of his men as if to seek help and in that moment a man slipped between the lines and shouted: ‘You’ll win with this! Catch it!’ And he threw him a sword. Orestes bounded backwards and caught the weapon, turning again to face his adversary. A flash lit up the sky and the great sword glittered with blue light in his hand, like a lightning bolt. It was not made of bronze, but of some metal he had never seen. Pyrrhus saw, and a shock of fear crossed his eyes. He had never seen anything like it either.

‘Strike!’ shouted Anchialus, who a moment before had pushed his way through the ranks. ‘Strike! It is hyperborean metal, nothing can defeat it!’

Orestes looked again at the sword. He drew up all his force behind his shield and began to advance. His eyes shone with the same reflections as the blade, his hand like a claw gripped the horn hilt tight. Pyrrhus reacted against the nameless fear that had wormed its way into him. ‘It’s another one of your tricks!’ he shouted. ‘You won’t fool me again!’ He lunged forward and rained down a rapid succession of hammering blows from above, aiming directly for his head. Orestes raised the sword to fend off the blows but, before the impetus of the assault was spent, Pyrrhus’s weapon was sheared off at the hilt. Pyrrhus’s astonishment lasted an instant and cost him his life. Orestes thrust the long blade deep into the side of his adversary, who dropped the stump and collapsed to his knees.

His gaze was already veiled with death and the heat of life was rapidly abandoning his limbs. He raised his head with great difficulty to meet the eyes of the victor who stood tall before him. ‘You are the king of Mycenae now,’ he said. ‘The king of the Achaean kings. . and Hermione is yours as well. Have mercy, if you believe in the gods. .’ His adolescent’s face, dripping with rain, was as white as wax.

‘What do you want from the king of Mycenae?’ asked Orestes, and his soul filled with vague dismay.

‘Have my body taken to old Peleus, in Phthia, among the Myrmidons. Ask him to accept me. . I beg of you.’ He brought his hand to the wide wound and held it out to Orestes, full of blood. ‘This blood. . he will have pity perhaps on this blood.’

He reclined his head on his chest and breathed his last breath. The evening wind gathered up his soul and carried it away down the valley of the tombs to the sea, to the promontory of Taenarum where the entrance to the world of the dead lies, and to the dark houses of Hades.

Menelaus and Pisistratus ran to embrace him, but Orestes trained his gaze towards the city and towards the tower of the chasm, where a figure cloaked in black stood out against the leaden sky.

‘Before nightfall,’ he said, ‘fate must be fulfilled.’

Menelaus bowed his head. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘your father has been avenged. You have slain Aegisthus. No one can blame you if you spare your mother.’

‘No,’ said Orestes. ‘Agamemnon’s shade will have no peace until the guilty have paid. And she is the most guilty of all.’

He walked towards the city while the last claps of thunder died out over the sea. The bastions were deserted and the Gate of Lions was wide open. He advanced along the great ramp, passed before the tombs of the Perseid kings topped by rainwashed steles, and reached the courtyard of the palace where he had played as a child, where he had watched his father mount his battle chariot and leave for war.

There were neither servants nor handmaids in the courtyard or under the porticoes, nor guards posted in the atrium. The door yawned into the darkness. Orestes drew his sword and entered, and the silence immediately swallowed up the sound of his steps which faded away into the deserted house.

The clouds slowly parted at the horizon, towards the sea, revealing for a few moments the golden eye of the setting sun. Flocks of crows and of doves descended on to the walls and towers of the city to find shelter for the night. But just then a scream of pain from the depths of the palace rent the silence and made the birds take fright and scatter off with a swift beating of wings. They sailed round the bastions as the echo of that scream drifted off over the valley. But before it had faded completely, another cry, even louder, more crazed and desperate, rose towards the dark sky; it pursued the first and joined with it like some mournful choir, and then the two voices plunged together into the chasm, dying on the bottom like a hollow lament.

The doves settled then, one by one, on the walls and rooftops of the city, looking for their nests. Only the crows remained aloft, flying in wide circles over the palace, filling the sky with their shrieks.

Anchialus wasn’t brought into the presence of King Menelaus until two days after the great battle of Mycenae. That same night, the king had sent word that Anchialus should remain his guest in the tent he had had prepared for him until he was summoned. And then the king had gone in the dead of night to the palace of Mycenae: Orestes had not returned.

There was no trace of the prince in the palace; when Menelaus entered all he found was Clytemnestra’s body. She was wearing the gown of the ancient queens that bared her breasts: a deep wound lay between them. Her blood had flowed so copiously that it stained the steps before the throne. It was said that the queen had dressed in that way to welcome her son, certain that he would not dare to sink his blade into the breasts that had nursed him as a baby.