Heroes

Diomedes realized that Nemro was directed north, towards the shores of Eridanus. If they managed to cross the river, he would never see that woman again.

He called Myrsilus and ordered him to harness the horses to his war chariot. He told his comrades to hold the old man until he returned, then leapt into the chariot and passed the reins to Myrsilus. They rode to the north side of the city where they found evident traces of the migration. The king then urged on his horses like he had long ago on the plains of Ilium. He let out a long, high, warbling cry; the steeds pawed the ground and reared up, shaking the yoke, then hurled forward on the dirt trail, raising a cloud of dust. Myrsilus let out the reins at their necks and the divine animals picked up their pace, neck to neck, head to head, in a riot of shining muscles, manes billowing in the wind. The king was silent now. His right hand gripped the rail and his left the spear. The low sun cast a blazing reflection on his face and hair.

The chariot flew over the deserted trail in the last dim light of the sun and Myrsilus managed to keep up a steady gait until it was almost completely dark, accustoming his eyes to distinguish between the pale dust and the green fields. He was forced to slow down when the last reflection of light vanished, but just then the king pointed to a distant point: ‘Look,’ he said. ‘It must be them. Don’t stop, we’ll be upon them when they least suspect it.’

They saw lights in the middle of the plain, reflected like a mirror: the waters of the Eridanus! Dark figures were moving all around the fires. Myrsilus slowed the horses to a walk and continued to approach until, under the cover of darkness, they could see what was happening in the camp before them. The people were on their feet in a circle around several large fires. At their centre stood Nemro, wearing his armour and a cloak of dark wool. Facing him was the blonde maiden who had come from afar, her head covered in white bands that fell softly around her neck. They were about to celebrate their wedding.

A long-bearded old man held their hands, and an attendant poured white flour on their heads and milk at their feet.

Diomedes saw in an instant where his chariot would be able to slip in and how it could curve away in escape; he explained the manoeuvre to Myrsilus who nodded, clenching his jaw and twisting the reins around his wrists.

‘Now!’ shouted the king.

Myrsilus incited the horses and cracked the reins across their backs repeatedly. The steeds raced forward, directed at the only point of light in all that darkness. Their neighing and furious galloping, the thunder of the wheels and the shouts of the two warriors, threw the onlookers into a total panic, but Nemro turned and understood. He grabbed a spear and hurled it at the chariot that was advancing straight at him like a meteor. The point ripped through the shoulder of Myrsilus’s tunic; he had done nothing to dodge the blow. Nemro was forced to throw himself sideways, losing his grip on the hand of his bride, who stood petrified staring at the warrior on the chariot which was flying directly at her. The hand of Diomedes passed under her arm and lifted her as if she were a twig, over the red-hot rim of the chariot wheel; he delivered her gently inside like a dove in its nest. He stretched his left arm around her waist, clasping the parapet with his other hand. Myrsilus in the meantime was racing through the camp without so much as a backwards look; he curved near the bank of the river before hitting the sand that would have hindered his flight and urged on the divine horses once again with shrill cries until they reached the open plain.

He wheeled full around the camp and hurled back towards the point from which he had launched his attack.

Nemro had got to his feet in a fury and assembled all his men but Diomedes caught him off guard again by bursting through at the same point, where the men were now grouped around their chief. One was hit straight on and trampled under the horses’ hooves, while two more were maimed under the chariot wheels. Nemro himself was struck at his side by the left horse and thrown to the ground in a daze.

Then the chariot of bronze and fire disappeared into the night.

For three days, the woman refused to eat or sleep. She lay curled up on her mat with her knees drawn up and her hair completely covering her face. Sometimes towards evening she would let out a melancholy, quavering song like a lullaby crooned to rock a child to sleep. It seemed to be her way of soothing herself, of relieving her pain. She was rapidly wasting away; her face thinned and seemed even tinier than it was in reality. When she lifted her eyes they were puffy and red with tears.

‘Perhaps she loved him,’ said the Chnan to Diomedes. ‘Nemro was to be her husband, after all.’

‘She had never seen him before, I’m sure of it. Her family had sent her from a distant land, how could she have loved him?’

‘Maybe you left her too long with him: just a few days can be enough to win a woman’s heart, especially if she knows that the man she has been given to will be her husband for the rest of her life.’

‘Do you think she knows the language of the people of this land? There must be some ties between her people and these people if she was sent as a bride to a chief of this land. Perhaps she knows a few words. . You could try to talk with her.’

The Chnan shook his head. ‘One deaf person speaking to another: how could we understand each other? My knowledge of this language is so scarce; hers must be even less. She probably doesn’t know more than a few words, if any at all. Perhaps a caress would count more than any word. She’s only a frightened girl. She doesn’t know who you are, what you want from her. She is almost certainly a virgin, never touched by man.’

‘No one has harmed her! We have offered her food, a bed, we share with her what little we have.’

‘She’s afraid. She won’t eat because she fears you.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said the king.

‘It’s her only defence. By not eating, she’ll become ugly and thin, and you will no longer desire her. Perhaps, if you made her understand that you don’t want to hurt her. .’

‘You know many things, man of Chnan, things that I do not know. . or have never wanted to learn. I’ve been taught that all that matters in life is the honour and the glory that a man conquers in battle. Perhaps this is why I lost Aigialeia, my queen. Or perhaps it was Aphrodite’s revenge.’

‘We call her Isthar,’ said the Chnan. ‘And she can be a terrible goddess indeed. What did you do to anger her?’

‘I wounded her in battle, as she stretched out her delicate hand to shield her son who had fallen to the ground under my blows. Since then I have feared her revenge. The gods never forget. They can strike us whenever they want, in the most atrocious of ways. If the worst thing in the world for a man is to fall into the hands of another man, can you imagine what it means to fall into the hands of a god who hates you?’

‘But perhaps there is also a god who loves you. Or a goddess; you are a king and you are handsome and strong.’

‘The goddess who loved me has abandoned me. I haven’t seen her for a very long time, I haven’t felt her presence. . We are a cursed race: my father Tydeus devoured the brain of a man while it was still warm. But I admire him all the same. The greatest courage in life is embracing it all until the bitter end, until the last horror, if necessary. .’

The Chnan lowered his head and held his tongue. The king’s gaze was fixed on the sky, covered with black clouds frayed with white towards the bottom, towards the earth. A cold, damp wind penetrated their bones and shook the fragile walls of the reed and clay houses in the little dying city. The Chnan bounded across the road and entered the hut he had chosen as his dwelling.

The wind had begun to blow stronger and thunder exploded in the sky directly above the village, making the ground tremble. The rain pelted down, streaming over the road. The king had never felt time flowing away from him like this: fast, unstoppable, like the muddy water spilling into the moat from a thousand streams. He went out into the tempest that swept the village with its biting gusts of wind. The rain poured over his face and his chest and dripped down his back; his feet sank into the mud up to his ankles. He stood, head bent, in the downpour as if to purify himself, and then he went to the hut where Nemro’s woman was being held.

Two of his warriors stood guard, motionless, one in front and one in the back of the house, sheltering as they could under the overhanging roof. They were faithful, patient men, capable of enduring anything. Seeing them like that, immobile in the wind and water, in that wretched place, he felt compassion for them; he felt stronger and sharper than ever the desire to give them a life and a land, to give them women and herds of oxen and fat sheep.