‘Shekelesh,’ said a voice behind him. The Chnan had followed him.
‘You recognize them?’ asked Myrsilus.
‘Yes. But I can’t understand what they’re doing here. This is not their land. They live in Libya, although many of them have migrated to a large island with three promontories and attempted to drive away the native inhabitants, the Sikanie.’
‘You know the world and many of its peoples. .’ said Myrsilus, without taking his eyes off the marching column. ‘I’ve never left Argos, except to go to war. And once I was there, I never left the camp.’
As they were still speaking, he noticed that the column was slowing its pace and had stopped. They were bustling about the carts and preparing to set up camp for the night. Small groups positioned themselves on the hills surrounding the valley to head off any perils, protecting that main part of their forces, who were pitching their tents in the wider part of the valley near the banks of a torrent.
‘They are on the same road as we are,’ said Myrsilus. ‘We must tell the king and ask him what must be done.’
‘It seems strange to me that they have come so far inland,’ replied the Chnan. ‘Perhaps they’ve settled on the coast, some place with too few resources for them to live on. They may have sent this group towards the interior to seize livestock or women, or both. Look, see there at the end,’ he continued, pointing, ‘there are flocks of sheep, and what look like cattle as well.’
‘I think you may be right,’ said Myrsilus. ‘Perhaps tomorrow they’ll turn back, and never give us any trouble.’
‘But they might go on. And in that case, we’ll have to decide whether to attack them or let them go by. Or change our own itinerary.’
Myrsilus pondered his words for a while, then said: ‘If we capture one or two of them, we can make them talk and learn their intentions. I don’t want the king to send men out in an attack, we’ve lost far too many as it is.’
‘You are becoming wiser,’ said the Chnan. ‘Perhaps there’s hope we’ll be saved.’
‘Wait for me here,’ said Myrsilus. ‘I’ll be back soon. Do not let yourself be seen and don’t move.’ He crept off, low to the ground, and reached his comrades. He chose three of them, Eupites, Evenus and Crissus, and told each of them to pick out one of the Shekelesh and follow him in secret, carrying only a bow and dagger.
They advanced separately, shifting from one cover to another with rapid, silent moves. Myrsilus thought of how that strange land had changed them; how long it had been since they had drawn up in the open field, shield to shield and helmet to helmet, awaiting an encounter with the enemy who faced them drawn up in the same formation!
The Chnan pointed to a spot at mid-slope, in front of them: ‘See them? There are three of them, and they’re stretching out under that jutting rock. Do you want one or all three?’
‘One is enough, I think.’
‘Fine. As soon as it is dark, send a man back to camp to get some fire.’
Myrsilus gave an order for the Chnan’s plan to be carried out, and remained at his side to observe the three Shekelesh who were sitting in their shelter and speaking among themselves. Every so often one of them would stand up and walk around, checking the area. As soon as darkness fell, they stopped moving altogether and their shapes could barely be made out against the whitish rock.
The Chnan explained to Myrsilus what he planned to do; he took the embers that one of the men had brought in a clay jar and started up a fire. Just a few moments passed before the Shekelesh noticed the bivouac. They got to their feet and consulted amongst themselves, then one of them started creeping cautiously towards the fire. Myrsilus never took his eyes off him and strained his ears to hear the little noises brought about by his movements. When he was rather close to the fire, Myrsilus put several men at his back to prevent any possibility of escape. When the intruder was about to turn back, they jumped at him and immobilized him with a dagger to his throat. He did not move nor breathe, aware that any resistance on his part would result in the blade slitting his neck open.
They dragged him off to a solitary place, not within view of his companions or the Achaean camp.
‘Do you understand my language?’ asked the Chnan in Canaanite. The prisoner nodded his head.
‘Good,’ continued the Chnan. ‘I know that you understand us, even if you sometimes pretend not to. You will have realized that these friends of mine will cut your throat if you try to make yourself heard by the others. But if you tell us what we want to know, we’ll keep you with us for a while and then we’ll set you free. We don’t want your sorry bones.’ The prisoner let out a sigh of relief.
‘Well then, where do you come from? Libya, or the island of the three promontories?’
‘From Libya. We fought under King Mauroy against the king of Egypt but we were defeated and the wind pushed us to the northern gulf.’
The Chnan gestured to the man holding the dagger to ease up so that the prisoner could speak a little more freely.
‘Where are you headed now?’
The Shekelesh seemed to hesitate a moment, but as soon as he saw the Chnan gesturing to the man with the knife, he hurried his reply: ‘We have built a city on the coast, near a place called “the Elbow” but our chief wants to know if the island of the three promontories can be reached from the interior.’
‘The island of the three promontories? But it is very far from here, very far south!’
‘Perhaps not so far. .’ said the Shekelesh, twisting his neck a little.
‘And why do you want to reach the island of the three promontories?’
‘Because our people are there. Here we don’t know if we can manage to survive. But we had no choice. We had crossed the sea when we ran into a storm; almost all of our ships were destroyed on the shoals and the rocks. We lost all our tools, our provisions. We could not rebuild the ships, or even repair them.’
‘The Borrha,’ said the Chnan, as if speaking to himself; it almost seemed as though the thought gave him a strange satisfaction.
‘What were you doing in the northern gulf in the first place?’ he insisted.
‘I told you; the wind pushed us there after the great battle, and we were sailing up the eastern coast looking for food.’
‘Did you find any?’
The Shekelesh shook his head: ‘Nothing. Only empty villages inhabited by shepherds who ran off to the mountains with their sheep as soon as they saw us. The only ship we met before the storm was nearly empty as well; only water, dried fish and a little wheat.’
‘I understand, my friend,’ said the Chnan with a confidential tone, aiming to put his guest at ease. The man looked relieved, and cracked a half smile. ‘Peleset, I imagine. We met some of them ourselves around those parts.’
‘No. Ahhijawa,’ he said, still smiling. Myrsilus quivered at the word but the Chnan grabbed his arm to warn him not to speak or make a move.
‘Ah,’ said the Chnan, ‘those bastards. We ran into some of them too and they tried to attack us. They must have been famished. I hope you gave them a good lesson. Were there many of them?’
‘You’d better believe that we gave them a good thrashing! No, it was just one ship alone; they tried to slip off to the south, but we caught up with them. Not a single one of them survived, if I remember correctly. But they put us to a lot of trouble, for nothing. They put up quite a fight. Good at using their fists, too. Warriors, that’s what they were, and tough ones at that, no merchants, that’s for sure.’