‘Perhaps I shall never succeed. One day my strength will abandon me and I too shall fall. Perhaps I will be left unburied. Another man will have you, just as I took you from the man who was destined to have you.’
‘That is not true,’ said the bride. ‘This land could welcome you, if you could only banish the ghosts of time past. One night, while you were sleeping and I was wakeful, I went to the campfire to warm myself. The small, dark man that you call the Chnan approached me, and he sat down in silence next to me. I asked him: “If you were certain that the king would listen to you, what would you ask him?”
‘He understood my sadness and he had many times seen the despair on your face. This is what he said: “I would tell him, go towards the sea and find a place which is big enough, near a little promontory and a source of fresh water. Build a village by cutting down the wood of the forest. Learn to extract salt from the water and to preserve fish, establish good relations with the nearby inhabitants, exchange gifts and swear to hold to agreements. Take women in marriage and bear children. Live off what the earth and the sea can give you. Sow the fields, graze flocks of goats and sheep, so you will have food in abundance in the winter, when the cold wind blows over the sea and the mountains. You will have wood to warm you, soft fleece on your beds. One day, perhaps, you will plant olive trees and grape vines and you will have oil to fortify your bodies and wine to warm your spirits. No one will ever know you exist, but you will live in peace and die one day, enfeebled by age, watching the sun set on the sea with clear eyes.”
‘This is what the small dark man that you call the Chnan told me, and I think he is right. Why don’t you listen to him? Perhaps you would find peace. You would see life flourish, instead of wandering aimlessly, pursued by death. Finally, I believe, you would become my husband, my man. I could bear you a child whom you would see growing strong as a colt, beautiful as a tree in bloom.’
The king looked at her without speaking, and for a moment, it seemed to the girl that she could see a serene light in his eyes, like a golden sunset, but only just for a moment. Myrsilus came running up, breathing hard. His weapons clanged against his shoulders and the crest swayed on his helmet, stirred by gusts of wind. She shuddered as if she had seen a starving wolf galloping towards her: Myrsilus was the only adviser Diomedes listened to.
‘Wanax!’ he was shouting. ‘Wanax!’ He stopped before his king with a mad gleam in his eye, like delirium. The king had him enter his tent.
‘Wanax,’ he said again when he had calmed down. ‘I was advancing westward with my men as you had advised me, to see if there was richer, more open land in that direction. We found villages populated by an unknown people and we attacked them to take their animals. The Chnan says that they are the Lat, and that they come from the north. They are tough, combative. They venerate a she-wolf as their god and are led by her.’
‘Is this why you are so excited?’ asked the king. ‘We already know that there are many unfamiliar peoples roaming this land.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Myrsilus. ‘But when we burst into the largest house, belonging to their chief, perhaps, we found a prisoner, a man, bound. We’ve brought him here with us. You have to see him. Now.’
Diomedes followed him, directing a fleeting glance towards his bride, as if to ask her forgiveness for not having listened to her, and he went down the slope until he found his armed comrades thronging around someone or something. Myrsilus led him to the centre of the circle and showed him a man sitting on the ground at the foot of a tree. He was unbound, and when he saw Diomedes he leapt to his feet as if he had seen a ghost. He stood still and silent, staring at the king. He was a man of about thirty-five, tall and slim, well built. His face and body showed signs of hardship.
‘He’s a Trojan,’ said Myrsilus. ‘His name is Eurimachus.’
‘A Trojan,’ said the king, drawing closer. ‘A Trojan, here. .’ Then he turned to Myrsilus: ‘Have you done him harm?’
‘No, wanax.’
‘Have you interrogated him?’
‘Yes, but he hasn’t said much.’
The king turned to the prisoner: ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.
‘Your appearance tells me that the gods have justly punished you for what you did to us, but I recognize you nonetheless. You are Diomedes. You wander without a homeland or a family in foreign territory. Destiny has been no kinder with you than with the vanquished.’
Diomedes bit his lip. He was ashamed of his wretched semblance, of the dwindling ranks of his men. The last time that man had seen him he was flying over the plain of Ilium on his chariot in a cloud of dust, clad in shining bronze, followed by an army as numerous as the stalks of wheat in the fields. He felt stabbed by deep humiliation, and yet he understood that strange, giddy enthusiasm that had possessed Myrsilus: that man was a part of his lost world; he obeyed the same rules, spoke the same language.
‘How did you get here?’ he asked, and hope seemed to quiver in his words.
‘From the sea. With Aeneas.’
Diomedes was struck dumb. He remembered the night that he had spent in the swamps near the banks of the Eridanus, the black mirror of water that swelled up under a mysterious force. There he had seen the Dardan prince, Aeneas! Covered with bronze, advancing towards him with a menacing air, brandishing his sword. This was the meaning of his vision! Only a final bout of single combat between the two races would satisfy the gods! Only thus would they be satisfied, and assign dominion over that land. The gods had led him here, through mud and dust, and they had led the son of Anchises to the same place. This was the reason, without a doubt! The gods were not content with the savage encounters that had bloodied the plains of the Hellespont for years; they demanded to watch the last duel, from up on the top of Mount Olympus, as they drank ambrosia from their golden cups. They could not be disappointed; if they were granted their pleasure, they would surely assign the prize. Perhaps Athena, who had once protected Diomedes’s father Tydeus, would appear to him again, a diaphanous figure in the mists of sunset. She would take up the reins at his side, on his war chariot.
‘Where is he?’ he asked. His voice had lost all uncertainty; it was metallic and hard, peremptory.
‘You will never know.’
‘There’s no place for both of us in this land. It must be either me, or him. You don’t have to tell me where he is; I’ll find him nevertheless, and I will challenge him to a duel. But if you do tell me, you can be certain I won’t attack him from behind, when he least expects it. I will send a herald, and you can accompany him yourself. If you accept, you can return to him and remain with him, if he wins. But if I win, this land will be mine, mine the people who populate it far and wide.’
‘Isn’t the blood you spilled for years and years enough? All those innocents, mown down by death, all those tears. .’ said the Trojan. ‘Isn’t it enough that your homeland has become a nest of vipers, cursed by the gods? Do you know what has become of the great master of deception? He who designed the trick that defeated us, do you know what fate has reserved for him?’ Eurimachus’s eyes blazed, the veins on his neck stood out.
‘Ulysses! What do you know? What do you know?’ shouted out Diomedes.
‘We met one of his comrades in the land of the Mountains of Fire, in the region of the giant cyclops. The poor wretch had been cast ashore and forgotten; for months he had been living like an animal, eating roots, worms and insects. He seemed crazed when he saw us, he threw himself weeping at Aeneas’s knees, he embraced his knees, do you understand that? He told us what happened to the great deceiver: Ulysses has lost all his ships and wanders the sea aimlessly, persecuted by implacable destiny.’ The Trojan’s eyes glittered with cruel, fearless joy. Diomedes lowered his head and felt anguish invading his souclass="underline" Ulysses. . had not returned. His faithful bride and the little prince still waited for him, gazing out over the distant waves day after day, in vain. Ulysses, the greatest sailor in the land of the Achaeans, had lost his way! Or perhaps he was so shattered by the loss of his ships and his comrades that he dare not return to his homeland to face the elders and the nobles.