‘I give you my word as a king,’ replied Diomedes. ‘When we conquer a territory that faces the sea, I will find you a ship and you shall depart on it.’
‘And will you allow Telephus, the Chetaean, to depart with me?’
‘I had hoped that you would remain with us. . I would have given you a wife, and a house. But if this is what you want, I will let you go. And you can take the Spartan with you as well. His only dream is to return.’
‘I thank you and take you at your word,’ said the Chnan. ‘Do not be offended that we desire to go. We do not even know what we will find, whether our homes and families will still be there, whether our parents are still alive. The Chetaean commanded a squadron of war chariots and I a merchant fleet; all that unites us is our condition as foreigners and our desire to return, something that you no longer feel.’
‘You are wrong. I shall never forget Argos and my nest of stone on the rock of Tiryns, but I would have to slaughter my own people in battle to return. This is why I have chosen to seek a new land. .’
The Chnan fell silent for a while, sitting on the ground with his back against the wall of the hut, then began to speak: ‘The chief of the city you want to conquer is called Nemro. He is a valiant man, beloved by his people. He has lost two brothers and his first wife.’
‘Why are these people dying?’ asked the king. ‘Why are their cities empty?’
‘No one knows. But they say it began when the strange lights appeared in the sky. . and after the chariot of the Sun plunged into the swamp. If we remain here, I fear the same fate could befall us.’
The king held his tongue, thinking of what he had seen and imagined in the swamp, of the ghosts thronging his mind since that moment. He thought of the corpse of the man who had died sowing dragon’s teeth, of the skeletons of the oxen who collapsed at their yoke, of the rams’ heads impaled on stakes and burned. It was a sight he would never be able to forget.
‘When we explored the first city, the one we found completely deserted, we beheld a horrible scene,’ he said to the Chnan.
‘I know. Your men have spoken of it often sitting around the fire in the evenings. It frightened them greatly. .’
‘What do you think? Have you talked to these people about it? What does it mean?’
The Chnan seemed startled by a sudden thought: ‘Did you walk among those stakes?’ he asked. ‘The stakes with the rams’ heads?’
Diomedes did not take his eyes off the sun that was settling into the mist on the horizon. ‘Yes,’ he replied without batting an eye.
‘You shouldn’t have! They say that-’
But the king interrupted him, as if the answer to his questions no longer interested him: ‘The woman brought from far away. . do you know who she is? Did she come as his bride?’
‘She comes from the land beyond the Mountains of Ice and has journeyed through clouds and forests to come here. Nemro wants a son from her.’
The king lowered his head. He thought of the light, inviting glance of the girl who had come from the ends of the earth, and of the empty eye sockets and mocking grins of the rams’ heads perched on the blackened stakes. What did destiny have in store for him? In his heart he envied the comrades who had fallen under the walls of Ilium. But perhaps that woman could restore his desire to live.
‘I will attack that city and take that woman,’ he said.
The sun had set and a diaphanous fog rose from the forest, covering all the earth. From the thick of the forest came the defiant bellows of the wild bulls readying for their springtime battles, but there were other voices as well, cries not human and perhaps not even animal, whimpers of creatures no longer alive, not yet dead. Shades, they must be.
The Chnan strained his ears as if trying to decipher those remote, bewildered cries. His features were drawn, his mouth twisted, his forehead moist.
‘You will attack a dying people? You will snatch the woman, and the last hope, of a man who has done nothing to you? On what pretext?’
‘No pretext,’ said the king. ‘A lion needs no pretext for killing a bull, and a wolf feels no remorse at slaughtering a ram. If I find a good reason for living, my people will find one as well. If I lose it there will be no hope for anyone.’
Myrsilus prepared the men and gave instructions for departure. He loaded the carts with whatever could be used to build shelters suitable for sustaining a siege, and all the food he could find. Very little remained to the inhabitants who still lived in the village, although their livestock would probably ensure their survival. The warriors offered no farewells, even though they had lived with that folk for many days, and when they walked off into the plain the people of the village crossed the moat and watched them in silence. Diomedes took a last look at them before mounting his horse; all old people, they were, with white hair and dead eyes. It was no life, what they were living.
The army proceeded in a column, the carts at the centre pulled by the oxen. They arrived within sight of Nemro’s city just before dusk, and the king ordered his men to take position on the access paths and around the two wells where the inhabitants were accustomed to draw water. Others unloaded the carts and made makeshift shelters for the night by covering them with hides and cloths. Myrsilus planned to make fixed shelters using the wood from the forest if their siege was prolonged. If it could be called a siege: two hundred warriors around a wooden palisade, a muddy moat, an assembly of straw-and-mud huts. Where were the proud walls of Troy built by Poseidon? Where was Thebes of the Seven Gates? Where were the shining phalanxes, the tens of thousands of fully armoured warriors? Diomedes felt a stab of pain in his heart, and he turned his gaze towards the deserted plains to hide his confusion and the tremor in his eyelids. But it was just a moment; the force of his spirit was still intact. Before his men could stop him, he mounted his horse and galloped on alone straight to the access bridge. His horse’s hooves pounded the wooden trunks and the sound filled the city walls. No one showed up to bar his way, no one stopped him from entering.
He advanced through the half-open door and looked around: the place seemed deserted. The doors of the houses were closed, the animals’ pens were empty; there was total peace and silence in the wavering twilight. He abruptly heard an odd sound; a crackling, like something catching fire.
He pressed his horse on to the centre of the city, where the two main roads crossed. He turned to his right and then to his left, and his eyes filled with horror: twenty rams’ heads stuck on sharp stakes were enveloped by flames. A sharp, repugnant odour, a dense, pungent smoke, filled the air. For a moment, he saw a figure wrapped in a cloak of black wool, who set fire with a torch to the last stake and vanished down a side road. Myrsilus’s voice rang out behind him: ‘Stop, wanax! It could be a trap! Wait until the other comrades arrive!’ But the king, after a moment’s hesitation, lunged forward on his horse and wove his way through the rams’ heads. He caught up with the man before he could slip into one of the houses; he blocked him off and thrust his spear at his throat. It was a bony old man with deep, dark rings under his eyes; he backed up against the wall and waited without blinking for the bronze blade to pierce through his flesh. The king lowered his spear and got off his horse and when Myrsilus reached him, panting, he said: ‘Call the Chnan. I want this man to answer my questions.’