Heroes

neighing horses. Myrsilus and his men did not hear and continued to strike out at the villagers.

Diomedes saw the invaders’ advance guard racing down from the mountains behind the village. They were wild and relentless, flying like shades from one hut to another, riding their horses barebacked. They carried off everything they could find, accumulating it in great heaps, and then set fire to the huts. The wind licked the flames high, lifting columns of smoke and sparks towards the sky. The native warriors, crushed between the two enemy formations, would be soon overcome, and once they had fallen, Myrsilus and his men would find themselves surrounded, with no hope of escape.

Diomedes donned his armour and ordered the rowers to direct the ships to the coast.

His ship was the first to enter into the circle of light which the flames cast towards the sea, and he stood tall at the bow, clad in blinding bronze, under the standard of the kings of Argos. He threw out his arms, gripping his spear in his right hand and his shield in his left, and he let out the war cry. The cry that had terrified the Trojans, throwing their ranks into disorder and panicking their horses. Diomedes’s war cry echoed again and again, and the din on the beach ceased. The invaders turned and were struck dumb by the sudden apparition. Behind them the long column continued to descend the mountain, massing inland with great commotion. Myrsilus and his men took advantage of the moment to retreat with their backs to the sea. They pressed close, side by side, shoulder to shoulder and shield to shield.

One of the invaders strode towards the beach and let out a cry of his own, waving his weapons in the air and gesturing for his men to fall back. It was evident that he wanted to take up Diomedes’s challenge to single combat. The royal ship advanced until it was nearly at the beach and Diomedes leapt into the water fully armed and advanced towards his adversary. Myrsilus’s men opened their ranks to let him pass, closing tight once again behind him. The waves lapped calmly at the pebbles along the shore but on the western horizon a long rip in the clouds revealed a strip of crimson as if the sky, wounded, were bleeding into the sea.

The warrior who had come from the mountains was a shaggy giant. His head was protected by a leather helmet, his chest by a bronze plate held in place by chains crossed at his back. A loincloth covered his hairy groin.

He flung his spear first. It struck the centre of Diomedes’s shield but the metal boss deflected it. Tydeus’s son planted his left foot firmly forward, weighed the long, well-balanced spear in his hand, and then hurled it with enormous strength. The ashwood shot through the air like lightning, ran through the enemy’s shield and struck the bronze that protected his heart. It grazed the plate but did not pierce it. A shout arose from the men gathered behind him. The warrior tossed the shield that would no longer serve him and unsheathed his sword.

Diomedes drew his sword as well and he advanced, glaring at his enemy from the rim of his shield; his eyes behind the visor were burning with ire as the mighty crest of his helmet fluttered in the evening breeze.

The hero then delivered a violent downward blow on his enemy’s head, but the other succeeded in fending it off with his own sword. Diomedes struck another even stronger blow, but the blade which had once torn through the belly of the god of war fell to the ground shorn in two as if it had been made of wood! A chill seeped into the hero’s bones. His adversary yelled out a wild threat, and the words sounded strangely familiar even though he did not understand them.

His outburst reminded the Achaeans lined up on the shore of a language once common but long forgotten. Myrsilus tried to toss his sword to the disarmed king, but Diomedes did not see him; he could not tear his eyes from the enemy, who advanced jeering and brandishing his sword. It was made of a shiny metal which glittered with blue and scarlet sparks; its surface was not smooth and perfect like their blades of bronze but rough rather, as though it had suffered innumerable blows. The vault of the heavens must be made of that metal; perhaps this man had received the sword from a god and nothing could defeat it! The warrior suddenly leapt forward and dealt a daunting blow. Diomedes raised his shield, but the blows came faster and stronger. Sparks sprayed out at each strike; the polished rim was breaking up, the fast-joined studs falling off. He would soon find himself with no means of defence. But then his Hittite slave, Telephus, shouted behind him:

‘Wanax! His spear is stuck in the sand just three paces behind you!’

Diomedes understood. He backed up slowly at first, then, in a flash, hurled his shield at his adversary and spun around like lightning. He pulled the spear out of the ground and as his foe flung out his arm to deflect the shield that had been thrown at him, Diomedes threw the spear straight at his chest. The point pierced the plate, cleaved his heart and came out of his back. The warrior swayed for a moment like an oak whose roots have been chopped off by woodsmen, black blood pouring from his mouth. Then he crashed face first into the sand.

A long groan sounded from the ranks of the invaders, a wail of lament that swiftly became a howl of fury as they all lunged forward at once.

They were hundreds of times more numerous than the Achaeans, even now that all the comrades on board the ships had come to their aid. Diomedes saw that opposing them was futile, and ordered his men to toss their shields on their backs and run towards the ships. They obeyed, but many of them were struck and killed as they ran towards the sea and scrambled up the sides of the ships. Others were wounded and fell into the hands of their enemies; they were cut to pieces, their heads stuck on pikes and hurled back at the ships. The men all rushed to the thwarts and began to row as fast as they could to escape, as a band of enemies seized the anchor cable of the royal vessel and attempted to hold it back. Others rushed upon the ship and clusters of them hung on to the sides so that the rowers, no matter how mightily they arched their backs, could not overcome the increasing weight and resistance of the enemy. The sea boiled all around but the ship could not haul off.

The glow of the fires lit up the ever-growing host of men tugging on the cable. Diomedes realized that they were pulling the ship back to shore; his comrades at the oars were failing to get the better of the hundreds of enemies dragging them towards land. The other ships were already far off at sea; their pilots had not realized in the pitch dark that the king’s ship was not among them.

Diomedes ordered all the men not at the oars to take their bows and let fly at the mob pulling on the anchor cable. He himself seized a two-edged axe and leaned out over the prow to chop off the cable. The enemies were quick to realize what was happening and their archers advanced as well, shooting swarms of arrows at the ship. Myrsilus ran to protect the king with his shield. In mere moments, the shield became so heavy with the great number of arrows stuck in it that Myrsilus could no longer hold it alone. He gasped: ‘Wanax! Hurry, or we’ll all die!’ Diomedes once again raised the axe over the rope at the point in which it sat on the railing and swung down with all his strength. The axe sliced through the cable and stuck deep in the wood. Suddenly free, the ship shoved off, urged on by the oars. The hull groaned as the stern sunk into the waves but Myrsilus tenaciously shouted out the tempo for the oarsmen, and the ship finally wheeled around and set its bow to sea.

As they moved off, the king saw a man desperately swimming towards the ship in an attempt to reach it. Believing it was one of his comrades trying to escape the enemies, he had a rope lowered so the man could catch hold of it. As the ship finally drew away from the shore, the cries of the mob fading and the blaze of the fire dimming in the distance, the man was hoisted aboard. He was not one of their comrades; he must have been one of the inhabitants of the wasted village. Deprived of home and family, horrified by cruel enemies, he had chosen those who seemed less ferocious. He looked around bewildered and then, picking out the king, threw himself at his feet and embraced his knees. Diomedes had the men give him dry clothes and food and he returned to the bow. He would turn back now and again to watch the tremulous flames, and then scanned the open sea in search of the other ships. Myrsilus had the brazier lit at the fore so they could be seen, and other fires were soon lit on the waves. He counted them. ‘Wanax,’ he said, ‘they’re all there.’ The king had the ship stopped and looked back towards the shore. The column of enemies was on the march again and a long line of torches snaked along towards the south as the burning village offered up its last faint flashes of life.

‘They’re going south,’ said the king. ‘Towards our land.’

‘It is no longer our land,’ said Myrsilus.

‘You are wrong,’ said the king again. ‘It will be ours for ever, as a man’s father and mother will always be his father and mother, even if the son abandons them.’ He turned towards the foreigner and pointed at the torch lights heading south through the night. Who are they?’ he asked.

The foreigner shook his head and Diomedes repeated: ‘Who are they, who are those men?’

The man seemed to understand what he was being asked; he widened fear-filled eyes in the dark and in a whisper, as if fearful of his own voice, said: ‘Dor.’

‘I’ve never heard tell of these people, but I say that nothing will stop them if they have swords like the one I saw. .’