Here and there, marshes glimmered on the ground, and the land would suddenly become soft and spongy under their feet. Thick oak groves sheltered groups of boars rooting about in search of acorns and tubers. Deer with majestic horns would stop suddenly at the edge of a wood and stare at the intruders, blowing little clouds of steam from moist nostrils.
They walked and walked until they could see a wisp of smoke rising in the distance, as the western sky began to redden in a muted sunset. There was a little town of grass-roofed wooden huts covered with mud. There also seemed to be a camp at a short distance from the settlement.
‘If we had brought our arms we could have had food and women!’ said Myrsilus.
‘Instead, we’ll go to them and ask for their hospitality; that way we’ll find out where we are. You don’t say a word. I know better how to deal with them.’
They got closer and saw that around the little town were droves of small, black swine and flocks of sheep. Ducks and geese dipped their bills into the mud on the shores of a little marsh. A group of children swarmed towards them and a dog started barking, soon joined by others. Several men came forward then as well; the Chnan raised his hand and told Myrsilus to do the same. The men got closer and were staring at them. Their legs were covered with tanned skins and they wore long-sleeved tunics of thick wool, belted at the waist with a strip of leather decorated with carved pieces of bone. They carried no arms, at least, none that could be seen. They spoke among themselves for awhile and then one approached and said something.
‘What did he say?’ asked Myrsilus.
‘I don’t know. I’ve never been around these parts before.’ The Chnan loosened his belt, raised his tunic and slipped out something he wore against his skin: a long string wound several times around his waist, strung with brightly coloured glass beads and bronze clasps adorned with amber or glass.
Myrsilus looked at him in surprise: ‘Where did you find all that?’ he asked.
‘This is my personal treasure; I always carry it with me. I was wearing it when you pulled me from the sea.’
The men instantly drew closer and behind them, Myrsilus noticed some women as well. They raised up on tiptoe to admire the wares that sparkled in the hands of the Chnan. Soon they were all chattering away, each in his own language, and it seemed that they could all understand each other well enough. The Chnan moved his hands with the skill of a juggler as his face assumed a great variety of expressions; he soon was directing all his attention towards the women and ignoring the men. He would place the shining clasps on their rough-hewn woollen clothing, and those little trinkets seemed to light up the beauty of those coarse, wild women, much as a bare stone is brightened by the colours of a little springtime flower.
The Chnan gave up a couple of the clasps and a few beads in exchange for hospitality for the two of them and for the comrades who were waiting just outside the village, in addition to a sack of barley bread and five whole cheeses for their return journey.
He and Myrsilus ate in the house of the man who seemed their chief, the only one who had bought ornaments for himself, his wife and his eldest daughter. His arms hung on the walls of the only room that made up the house: a long bronze sword, a studded shield and a dagger. The floor was made of flame-hardened dirt.
The Chnan spoke during the whole dinner and it was evident that as time passed, he was rapidly learning to understand them and make himself understood. At times he accompanied his words by drawing signs with his knife in the barley loaf in front of him or on the curdled milk in a bowl in the centre of the table. The dogs lay near the entrance, waiting to lick the bowls once the meal was finished.
After a while, they heard low noises outside the door, the sound of hushed words; the reflection of flames flashed under the door. The door then opened and a man entered, to speak with his chieftain.
‘Could you understand what they were saying?’ Myrsilus asked the Chnan.
‘Not much of it. But I think I’ve convinced him that I understand much more than I really do; that’s what’s important. No one would talk to a man who understood nothing.’
Myrsilus shook his head: ‘So what’s happening now?’
‘Someone has just arrived. Perhaps from the camp we saw as we were approaching.’
The Chnan followed the chieftain out of the house and saw a group of men gathered in a nearby field. They were carrying lit torches and were dressed in a style he did not recognize. He turned to ask Myrsilus whether he had ever seen similar people, but his companion had drawn back, into the shadows behind the door. The Chnan turned back. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t you coming to see the new arrivals?’
‘Trojans,’ said Myrsilus in a low voice, his head down. ‘They’re Trojans and we are unarmed.’
5
The night that Menelaus disappeared, many wondered how such a thing could have happened. Some said that a sudden wind had pushed him south, sweeping him away for days and days, until he was cast ashore in Egypt, or at the mouths of the Nile. But on the other hand, at that very same time, at the end of the summer, Nestor had reached Pylus safely and without difficulty, Diomedes had landed on the beaches of Argos and even Agamemnon had seen Mycenae again, although it would have been better for him to have died in Ilium.
It is hard to believe that only Menelaus met with hostile winds. And it is difficult to believe that none of the sixty ships that accompanied him found their way home. An entire fleet does not disappear like that unless preordained by the gods. Things went quite differently, I believe.
Those years were cursed. Something unknown and relentless, perhaps the will of the gods, perhaps some other obscure force, drove many peoples from their homes. In some places, the land grew dry and the sprouts were scorched by drought before they could ripen, while oxen collapsed all at once under their yokes, dying of hunger and strain. Other animals became sterile or stopped reproducing; if they did bear young, the monstrous creatures they engendered were hurriedly buried at night by terror-stricken farmers and peasants.
Elsewhere, the earth was scourged by storms of wind and rain, flooded by torrents and rivers that overflowed their banks, inundating the countryside with mud that rotted when the sun rose over the horizon. That decay generated an endless number of repugnant creatures: toads, salamanders and serpents that spread everywhere, infesting the fields, the pathways and the dwellings of men. Animal carcasses were abandoned by the rivers to rot along the shore as the waters subsided, attracting crows and vultures which filled the sky with their shrieking by day and jackals which let out their mournful howls by night.
Only the sea seem to be spared these disasters: her clear waters continued to nurture every kind of fish, as well as the gigantic creatures of the abyss. And trade continued as well on the paths of the sea, albeit greatly diminished. Thus, many peoples entrusted their destinies to the sea, preferring to face the unknown rather than wait in their own lands to die of starvation, hardship and disease. Others, who already inhabited the seas, gave themselves over to raiding and piracy.