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.
Diomedes sensed that there was someone at his back and he turned: he saw a warrior wrapped in a cloak advancing towards him from the depths of the darkness. A white crest swayed on his helmet, a Trojan sword gleamed in his hand. The warrior came closer, surrounded by silence and by a halo of fog, and he was enormous to see, much larger than a real man. Only when he came into the ray of light was his face recognizable. His eyes blazed with hate and revenge: it was Aeneas!
Diomedes drew his sword. ‘This is destiny, then! This is the future, the same as the past!’ he shouted and he hurled himself at his adversary, but the sword pierced an immaterial shape, an empty image. He spun around, still shouting: ‘Where are you? Fight and let’s finish this forever! It’s either me or you, son of Anchises! How many times did I force you to flee on the fields of Ilium? Show yourself! I’m not afraid of you!’
He dealt blow after blow, until he collapsed, exhausted, on to his knees in the damp grass.
The lights in the sky had gone out and the surface of the pond was once again still. A hand touched his shoulder: ‘Let’s go, wanax.. This land breeds nightmares. Let’s go back to the ships.’
‘Myrsilus! Why are you here? You shouldn’t have left the ship. The ship must always be guarded. With all it contains.’ He got to his feet and walked towards the river bank.
‘Our comrades are guarding the ship, wanax. You can trust them.’
They walked in silence, guided by the light of the camp fire that blazed far off in the night, and by the torch that Myrsilus held in his hand.
‘What did you see in that place, wanax? The others returned in a great fright. They said they saw you shout and wave your sword, chopping down swamp reeds, willow bushes and poplar saplings. They heard sounds and cries and moans but they did not know how to help you.’
‘I saw only what I carry within me,’ said the king.
‘What about the chariot of the Sun? Is it true that it fell into those waters?’
Diomedes did not answer. He was thinking of the arched surface of the water, of that thing that launched rays of light towards the sky and then sank back into the mud and silence.
‘I don’t know. But it is from there that the signs that cross the night sky come. The signs that have frightened so many peoples and scattered them in every direction like crazed ants. The sky should never touch the earth. The storm of the elements will not subside yet for a long, long time. Our suffering will continue.’
‘I know, wanax,’ said Myrsilus. ‘I saw it in your eyes. But let us rest now, for every day has its sorrow.’
7
Myrsilus went to rest under the ship’s stern, but he stayed awake for some time listening to the voice of the river. He thought of the lofty mountains of ice which must have generated such an enormous current. Perhaps the Hyperborean Mountains or the Rhipaean Mountains he’d heard tale of as a boy. It was there, in a deep grotto sustained by a thousand columns of ice, that the cold wind of the north was born, to upset the waves of the sea and bring snow to the earth during the winter.
He was thinking of what the king had seen in the swamp; something that had troubled his mind, moving him to rage against the swamp reeds and bushes. The same thing had happened to Ajax Telamon! He had slashed the throats of sheep and bulls, sure he was killing his enemies. But Myrsilus did not fear that the king had lost his mind. In his eyes he had seen suffering and terror, but not madness. Diomedes was still the strongest.
But Lamus the Spartan, son of Onchestus, crept close to the king: ‘Was the chariot of the Sun really there, wanax?’
The king was not sleeping. He was leaning against his shield. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘If it truly fell from the sky, it is trying to get free now, to return whence it came. Those flashes of light flung towards the sky are like a cry for help, cries that no one can understand, only fear. The earth no longer bears fruit, peoples are abandoning their homelands. .’
‘And you still want to proceed inland? Isn’t that cry — that lament — a sign from the gods to make us understand that we must stop challenging fortune? I beg of you, let us turn back. King Menelaus is alive, I’m sure of it, and so are nearly all my comrades. They are bound once again towards our homeland. I’ve heard that you lost your city, but if we return he can help you; he’ll ask Agamemnon, the great Atreid, to join forces with him to retake Argos and restore your command. This land is cold and deserted, not gracious and warm like our land on the banks of the Eurotas. Like your land, with abundant harvests and grazing flocks. Let us return, wanax, the kings will fight for you, and so will we. .’