The ship began to sail up the river; it was immense, so wide that the banks could barely be seen from the centre of the current, and the tallest oaks seemed mere shrubs.
‘A river like this receives many rivers, and descends from mountains as high as the sky, always covered with ice, in the winter and in the summer, higher than the mountains of
‘You are right,’ said the king. ‘And perhaps one day we shall see them.’ The wind picked up from the west and north, and the ships had to counter its thrust with their helms, so as not to run aground on the river’s southern shore. They crossed a dense forest from which immense flocks of birds would suddenly rise, blocking out the pale autumn sun like a cloud, and then finally entered the open plain. Every so often they would meet with big wooded islands whose gigantic trees stretched out their branches to touch the surface of the water. Every puff of wind snatched a host of brightly coloured leaves from those branches; yellow, red and ochre, they whirled through the air before alighting on the current.
To their left and right, instead, the land was bare, with scattered groups of trees here and there. The Spartan pointed to a place in which a branch of the river broke off from the main current, crossed a large pool and then headed south towards the sea. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘this is the place the old man told us about; where the pond water is sparkling.’
Diomedes ordered them to stop the ships. One after another they furled the sails and cast anchor. The king armed himself with only a sword and set off on foot, taking a small group of warriors inland with him: Licus, Eumelus, Driop and Evenus, all from Argos, as well as Crissus and Dius of Tiryns.
The sun was already low, and transformed the still water of the marshes into mirrors of gold. They would stop every so often and listen: silence, everywhere, wringing their hearts and chilling their souls. They had never felt anything similar, not even in the midst of the fiercest fray on the field of battle. Even the birds were still and all they could hear were the small sudden thuds of the frogs jumping into the water.
They advanced as far as the shore of the pond and Diomedes signalled for his men to wait under an oak that stretched its bare branches towards the water. He went on alone, as the dusky light dimmed and the sun sank into the mist that veiled the horizon.
He stopped all at once, vaguely sensing that the place was infested by a powerful, dark presence; he glanced back at his men, who had so often faced death on the open field. They were glancing about helplessly, seized with dismay.
Just then he thought he heard something: a sound, or a moan, perhaps, was that the voice that Lamus, son of Onchestus, had spoken of? The cry of wailing women? He looked at the surface of the waves and heard the sound even more distinctly. It was a wail, yes, a chorus of weeping as if many women were grieving over the slain bodies of their sons or brothers or husbands. Diomedes the hero sought the voice of his own mother in that chorus, the voice of Aigialeia, his lost bride, but he could not hear them. He drew even closer to the pond which had swallowed up the chariot of the Sun and he saw a shiver run over the water although the wind had calmed and the air was still and stagnant. And as the sky darkened the surface of the pool stretched and curved as if pushed upward by the back of a monster. To his left the sun disappeared with a last tremor of light and the sky suddenly blackened above the pale layer of fog. A gurgling rose from the pool and beneath the surface, deprived of its golden reflection, Diomedes could see a shape, like a wheel. . the wheel of the chariot of the Sun? The water gurgled again and the wheel dissolved in the rippling waves. Diomedes turned towards his companions: ‘I don’t need you any longer,’ he said. ‘But I’m going to stay here, I want more time.’
‘Come back to camp with us,
‘Go,’ repeated Diomedes. ‘This place is deserted, can’t you feel that? Nothing can harm me, and the goddess Athena will watch over me.’
The men departed and the rustling of their passage through the swamp reeds could be heard for a while, until silence descended once again over the pond. The hero leaned against the trunk of a colossal willow that wet its branches in the water. The ground had become as dark as the sky.
Time passed and the cold become pungent but he continued to stare at the surface of the water, black as a burnished mirror. He had nearly decided to return to the ships when he saw a pale flash of light animate the bottom of the swamp. He turned his eyes to the sky, thinking that the moon had emerged from behind a bank of clouds, but he saw nothing. The light was emanating from the bottom of the pool. The surface of the water arched again, becoming a dark globe which covered something that continued to remain invisible. The hero could not believe his eyes. The water did not fall; it adhered to the bulging beneath like a fluttering cloak. The light flashed again, stronger and brighter, and struck the clouds of the sky which quivered as if pervaded by lightning in a storm. These were the lights that had accompanied them since they had left the land of the Achaeans, sailing over the sea, these were the unexplainable flashes that had frightened the men at the oars and filled the helmsmen with wonder. He was afraid to stare at the light, which now seemed directed towards him. How could his body resist a bolt that could penetrate the clouds of the sky? The light darted now from the hub of the wheel like a sunburst, and when the ray struck him, the veils that prevent us from seeing that which has existed before us and that which will exist after us, fell suddenly from his eyelids. The hero saw, as if in a dream, the origin of his life and of his human adventure.
He saw the war of the Seven against Thebes; he could distinctly hear the neighing of the horses and the cries of the warriors. It was there, in that blind massacre, that everything began. War of brother against brother, blood of the same father and of the same mother. He saw his own father, Tydeus, scaling the walls and hurling the defenders down from the bastions, one after another. Shouting, shouting louder and louder for his comrades to join him and follow him. It was at that moment that the spear of Melanippus, flung with great force, stuck into his belly. And his father, Tydeus the hero, ripped the spear from his flesh, holding the bowels that burst from the wide wound with his left hand, while with the other he whirled the mighty two-edged axe. Melanippus took no care — how could a dying man find the strength to harm him? — and the great axe was whirled and then flew through the air. It fell on his neck, cleanly chopping his head off.
His mutilated body collapsed to the ground shaking and kicking but his head rolled away, far from the bastions, and ended up between the feet of the warriors facing off in frenzied battle. Diomedes’s father, Tydeus, dragged himself over the stone, leaving a long wake of blood; he reached the severed head of Melanippus, seized it and bashed it on the stone with both his hands, forcefully, until he split open the robust skull. He neared his mouth and devoured the still warm brain. And the goddess Athena who had rushed to aid him, to heal his wound, turned away in horror, closing her eyes so she would not see. Tydeus died alone, breathing the last breath of life on that stone, far from his bride and his son. The goddess shouted out with her eyes closed and full of tears: ‘This is your stock, Diomedes! This is your race and your blood!’
Diomedes turned and shouted out himself: ‘Did you see that? Did you hear?’ But he had forgotten that his companions had all gone. He himself had ordered them to go.
The mysterious power that loomed in those waters forced him to look again into the rays of light. And he saw Amphiaraus, the father of his friend Sthenelus, fleeing on his chariot, fleeing over the plains in a cloud of dust, whipping his horses cruelly, fleeing Thebes to flee the Fate of death.
But the earth suddenly opened beneath the hooves of the horses and the infernal Furies emerged, spouting flames from their mouths; their hair was woven with poisonous serpents, their eyes veined with blood, their skin red and scaly. They grabbed the reins of his fiery horses — who tried desperately to get free, rearing up and neighing wildly — but the Furies dragged them under the ground, and Amphiaraus with them. The voice said: ‘And this is the race of Sthenelus, the blood of your faithful friend!’
‘Sthenelus!’ shouted Diomedes. ‘Where is he? Where is he?’
But there was no answer. He knew in the bottom of his heart that Sthenelus was dead, long dead; he had felt his vital force vanish from the world like smoke, like the vapour of the morning mist is dispersed by the sun.
He collapsed against the tree and said: ‘Oh god, you who inhabit these waters and make the clouds throb with your gaze, I have seen what was. I have seen that the blood of my race is like poison. Now let me see what will be. If there is still a way to bend a bitter destiny.’
He mustered up his courage and advanced to the edge of the pond. He stood still in its blinding light. The globe trembled and the water which covered it began slowly to drip and then to pour downward, raising splashes from the surface of the pool. The light quivered, the wheel turned and he could once again hear the chorus of laments.
