Heroes

‘They will gleam, wanax. They will be ablaze like the noonday sun. You will look awesome and invincible, like that day a goddess took the reins of your chariot against the god of war before the Scaean Gates.’

Myrsilus took the king’s armour from his tent, the embossed greaves and breastplate, the shield and the helmet, adorned by a horsehair crest. He ordered a slave to shine them, to remove the patina that darkened them. He himself took a long ashwood stick from the forest; he removed the branches and the bark, polished it with a pumice stone, and shod it with the heavy, solid bronze head. He weighed it in his hand until it was perfect, and then fitted on the bronze socket at exactly the right point. He then took the baldric which was remarkably crafted in gold, enamel and silver and he cleaned it with his own hands, making it gleam. It had once belonged to Tydeus, when he fought under the walls of Thebes. Last of all, he took the great sword of solid bronze; he sharpened it with a whetstone, tested the long edge and the sharp tip and greased it with pork fat melted over the fire, until he saw it shine. The king had used it only once, when he had fought Nemro; never since had he found a worthy adversary.

When his work was finished, Myrsilus put the arms back into the king’s tent so he would see them and his courage would grow within his soul. His bride saw them as well, and her eyes filled with tears.

When the day of the new moon arrived, the king asked Myrsilus to be his charioteer. He awoke him when it was still dark and spoke to him: ‘If I should die, bring my body back to my bride so she can bathe it and prepare it for the funeral rites. You yourself will dress my body with this armour and bury it in front of the Achaeans. Raise a cairn and set a stele that I will be remembered by. Shout out my name ten times and then entrust it to the wind. And then depart; you will lead the comrades. No curse weighs upon you. Perhaps the gods will forget and you will succeed in beginning a new life in this land. Otherwise, if they so wish, take them back to Argos. The Chnan will know how to find you ships.’

‘None of this will ever happen,’ said Myrsilus. ‘It is as you say: the gods want this duel to be fought to its end, and then we will be able to live a new life and build our city. You will fight and you will win. As you always have.’

He shook the reins and urged on the horses, who took off at a gallop. Myrsilus drove the team up on to a small ridge of land near the great river, a softly sloping hill from which the valley and plain of the Lat could be seen.

The rising sun had just begun to lighten the horizon behind the mountains, but the plain was still in shadow. A slight mist covered it, like a light veil. Birds chirped their welcome to the morning. A large heron passed through the sky in slow, solemn flight. The king watched him at length as he vanished in the distance over the sea. He said: ‘Sometimes I dream that I am a bird, a great bird with white wings. I dream that I am flying over the foamy swells of the sea, my heart free of worry, of pain, of fear. It is a beautiful dream. When I awaken my heart is light.’

But Myrsilus’s eyes were fixed on the plain. ‘Wanax!’ he said, and the king turned that way as well. A chariot advanced through the mist, appearing and disappearing with the rippling of the ground. Then the light of the sun struck it in full and the point of a spear sparkled with dazzling fire, a white crest swayed in the morning breeze. Diomedes’s hand tightened on the shaft of his spear. At that moment, the chariot stopped and the blast of a horn sounded over the vast plain, struck the peaks of the mountains and echoed over the snow- covered summits. The son of Anchises was launching his challenge.

‘He has seen us,’ said the king. ‘Let us go.’ And Myrsilus drove on the horses.

They were face to face, after so many years, dressed in resplendent bronze, as they had been then. Diomedes shouted: ‘It’s you or me, son of Anchises! Only one of us will see the dawn tomorrow!’

Aeneas answered him: ‘It’s you or me, son of Tydeus!’

Myrsilus sent the team galloping over the plain. Aeneas’s charioteer shouted out and set the war-car racing off against his adversary of old. Diomedes took a javelin from the quiver; he weighed it in his hand and when Aeneas’s chariot was within range he hurled it with all his strength, aiming low, at the belt. The tip hit the parapet and shattered it into pieces. Aeneas flung his javelin as well; it struck the edge of the shield and rebounded to the right. For an instant, as the chariots flew past each other the hubs of the wheels were so close they nearly touched, the two warriors glared at each other and the ancient fury was rekindled. Aeneas saw in those eyes the sinister reflection of the flames that had burned his homeland, Diomedes saw the arrogant challenge of Hector and Deiphobus, the fire that had burned the rampart and the ships.

They reached the confines of the field and the charioteers took the reins and assumed their positions again. The warriors took a second javelin from their quivers.

‘There’s a strong cross wind, wanax, adjust your aim to the left.’

Diomedes nodded. ‘Go,’ he said.

Myrsilus whipped his stallions’ backs with the reins. The steeds raised a long whinny into the air, distantly echoed by Aeneas’s horses, then broke into a gallop. ‘I’ll take you right into him; you’ll have him directly in front of you, but just for an instant,’ shouted Myrsilus. ‘Careful! Weigh it both left and right before you throw!’ When he was at the calculated distance, he swerved violently with his right horse, widening and then narrowing on the left at the last moment while Diomedes crouched low, holding on to the rear handles and leaning in to the other side, to keep the wheels gripping the ground.

Aeneas’s charioteer was disoriented by the move and Diomedes re-emerged from behind the parapet with his javelin tight in his fist. He found Aeneas right in front of him then, for just an instant, and he hurled the weapon at his neck, at the collar bone. The javelin missed its target by a hairbreadth because Aeneas’s chariot gave a jolt, but the bronze still cut into his skin above the shoulder. And while his adversary rode off, Diomedes turned and shouted: ‘First blood, son of Anchises!’

But Aeneas’s charioteer took him by surprise: he did not halt the horses, but widened their path in a full curve without diminishing their speed. When Myrsilus had started his team running again after having stopped at the end of the field, they were already upon him, racing at full tilt. Just an instant before he let his javelin fly, Diomedes realized that Aeneas was aiming to strike his charioteer. He raised his shield to protect Myrsilus, but this threw him off balance and he missed his throw.

‘Thank you, wanax,’ said Myrsilus. ‘But you’ve lost your third javelin. Now you must do battle on the ground with your spear and sword.’

‘It would have been worse to lose my charioteer and end up in the dust,’ said Diomedes with a smile. ‘You were magnificent. Sthenelus could not have done any better.’

Myrsilus set the horses off at a trot and turned back, then stopped at a short distance from their adversary. Diomedes and Aeneas descended from the war-cars, and the charioteers handed them their spears. The sun was already high over the mountains and was turning south, sparkling on the waters of the great river.

The two heroes faced each other warily, protected by their shields, spears in hand. The speed of the horses could no longer be added to the force of their arms. Now ability counted as much as strength. Diomedes chose not to throw his spear from a distance, but engaged Aeneas in hand-to-hand combat, crossing his ashen shaft with his enemy’s. Wood and bronze crackled in the close assault, bronze points seeking out a gap in the other’s defences, a space between the joints of the breastplate, a brief opening between the edge of the shield and the visor of the helmet. The whole valley resounded at length with the din of the battle.

Myrsilus stood pale on the chariot while the horses tranquilly browsed on the grass. He abruptly started: with a sudden surge of energy, Aeneas had leapt backwards to dodge a blow, crouched down and hurled his spear from the ground, shearing off one of the shoulder plates on Diomedes’s armour. Blood reddened the chest of the son of Tydeus, who managed still to cast his own spear. The point of bronze struck the side of Aeneas’s helmet with such force that the Dardan hero wavered and nearly fell. Diomedes raised his sword to finish him off but Aeneas reacted, lifting his shield against the furious raining of blows. He moved backwards and, one step after another, he regained his composure, stood tall again and drew his own sword.

They stopped for an instant, panting heavily, then attacked each other with renewed violence.

Myrsilus was astonished: he could not understand what mysterious energy upheld Aeneas’s arm against Diomedes’s fury. He watched the sun as it continued to rise in the sky. Perhaps Aeneas was truly born of a goddess, as he had heard, and he prayed to Athena to hastily infuse new vigour in the arm of Diomedes.

The ferocious battle went on. It went on and on, until their swords were blunted and deformed by the blows. They were useless now. The charioteers approached them and offered the double-edged axes. The two combatants were disfigured by the tremendous struggle. Blood dripped from innumerable wounds; sweat blinded them and they