Heroes

8

They advanced for several days until they found another of those strange square-shaped cities, surrounded by a canal, filled with huts of the same size. There were still some people left here, just a few families who survived by rearing a cow or two, or a small flock of sheep. They took fright at the Achaean warriors, but Diomedes ordered his men not to harm them and to take only the women they could convince with gifts or words. A pointless order; nearly all the remaining inhabitants were well on in years.

They decided to stop there nonetheless because the weather had changed again for the worst: first rain, then snow and intense cold. They found food there as well: wheat, barley, milk and cheese. And the forests were full of wood for lighting fires.

When the weather was fine, the king took his horses down to the plain, far away from the square city. He brought them there to graze, and the horses pawed the snow to find grass and scrub to feed on.

He would return in the evening with a look of melancholic peace in his eyes, and would go to his hut without speaking to anyone. If snow fell during the night he would come out wrapped in his cloak and linger there, watching the big flakes swirl through the air in silence, his eyes bright and feverish. Sometimes he wouldn’t go to rest until it was nearly dawn, falling then into a heavy, agitated sleep.

The men who stood guard outside his door said that they had heard him calling out the name of Queen Aigialeia, in his sleep, and that they had heard him weeping, but Myrsilus threatened to cut off their tongues if they ever dared speak of such a thing again. He said they had to stand guard and nothing else, putting the rest out of their minds.

One day the king took only one of his horses with him and when he was far from the camp, he tried to mount him barebacked, as he had seen the Dor do. The steed bucked and shook him off more than once, but in the end the king had the better of him and managed to stay on his back as he galloped through the snow-covered plain. It felt incredible, like flying, like squeezing an impetuous sea wave between his legs, and Diomedes felt as if he could feel the hot blood of that great animal flowing in his own veins.

The steed flew, flogging his flanks with his tail, blowing clouds of steam from his frost-whitened nostrils and letting out shrill whinnies. Diomedes let him run until he was exhausted, then dismounted, covered him with a blanket, and let him graze. Every now and then the horse would raise his proud head and shake his mane, seeming to stare at him with a troubled, intense gaze.

‘You’re thinking of your master, aren’t you? Are you thinking of Aeneas?’

The animal shook his head as if nodding. ‘He’s no longer with us. Aeneas is dead. I’m all you have left, and it’s me you must love. If we should ever meet up with him one day, I will challenge him, and if he wins you can return to him, if you wish, and carry him once again into battle. But until that day you must serve me, for I have won you in fair, honourable combat.’

He started back towards the village but a false trail brought him far from his path, very far, to the southernmost edge of the forest. Before exiting the thick of the woods, he saw a caravan advancing from the north through the deep snow. There was a small group of warriors armed with long swords and spears, clad in animal hides and wearing helmets of leather and bronze; behind them a pair of oxen were pulling a covered carriage.

When they were very close, a sudden wind blew at the mats covering the sides of the carriage. For a moment, a mere moment, the king saw a maiden of divine beauty, her blue eyes veiled by shadow, her forehead white and pure as ice, her hair like ripe wheat. She looked like Aigialeia, when he had seen her the first time! Her features were different, the slant of her eyes and the lines of her face, but her spirit and form were the same, as were the enticing ambiguity and directness of her gaze and, he imagined, the fire that blazed beneath her gown. Happy the man who would carry her to his wedding chamber.

He mounted his horse and followed the little cortege at a distance, at length, remaining within the forest so he would not be seen. He felt an invincible force pulling him towards that carriage that advanced, swaying, and leaving a deep trail in the snow. He realized some time later that the carriage was approaching one of those square cities surrounded by a moat and an embankment, but this one was much bigger, and could contain many people. Spirals of smoke rose slowly from the rooftops, towards the cloudy sky.

He came out into the open just as the carriage was stopping and a door was opened in the palisade to admit the new arrivals.

A man crossed the bridge at its centre, walking towards the carriage from which the girl was descending. The warriors also unloaded several wicker baskets, her dowry perhaps, and carried them towards the city.

Diomedes sank his heels into his horse’s belly and got so close that the girl could see him; she looked into his eyes and he returned her gaze and made a sweeping gesture with his hand as if inviting her to follow him. The men who had been accompanying her turned towards him in alarm, then took their bows and began shooting arrows at him. He was beyond their range and he shouted to her: ‘Come with me! No one is more beautiful than you on this earth! Come with me!’ He spoke from his heart; he felt that that woman could become the queen of the city that he would found. Only she, perhaps, could wipe the image of Aigialeia from his soul. He wanted to attack then, and carry her off, but as he was about to charge forward, a great number of men appeared from behind the palisade and drew up before the carriage.

The maiden entered the city behind the man who had come out to welcome her. Before the door closed behind her she turned towards the plain and looked back at that rash warrior who continued to call to her, prancing about on his bay horse and raising sparkling sprays of snow.

Diomedes understood what was happening. The chief of those people had had a bride brought to him from afar! A bride of another stock, who would ward off the fate of his dying race, inject new blood into a breed cursed by an obscure affliction.

And this made him want that woman even more, at any cost.

He returned to his village, following the prints left by his horse in the snow, and he called his warriors to assembly that very evening. He told them that he had discovered another one of those strange cities, large and prosperous, full of herds, of abundant food, of weapons and metal to be forged. This would mark the moment of the conquest of his new kingdom. By spring they would have land, women and riches enough to found a new city. The warriors pledged to assist him.

‘I thank you,’ said the king, ‘and if we win I will take a queen for myself from this city and I will take her into my bed as soon as the good weather returns.’ The warriors cheered and applauded and then they all sat on the ground for their meal. Telephus had roasted a goat and it was served to the king and his friends, but the wine had run out.

‘We will plant vines as well!’ said Diomedes. ‘I have seen wild shoots in the forest. We’ll cultivate them to produce fruit. We will drink wine together and make merry, just as we once did,’ he said. ‘Like in the old times,’ he promised, but having no wine saddened them nonetheless.

Two months passed, and in that time the Chnan managed to make good progress in learning the language of the inhabitants of that land. They did not fear him because he had no weapons and because he spoke as though they could understand him. When the weather started to improve and the days to lengthen, the Chnan knew more about those places and those people than all the Achaean warriors put together. One day, towards sunset, he asked to see the king. Diomedes was sitting on a stool in front of his hut watching the sun descend over the boughs of the trees which edged the horizon. The Chnan told him: ‘King, I come from a land of journeyers; we are always encountering different peoples, and thus is it easier for us to learn their languages. But this does not mean that we are not fond of our own land; when I saw the ships burning I felt like dying at the thought that I would never again see my land and my city. But if you promise me that one day you will find me a ship and you will let me depart, I will serve you faithfully and tell you everything I manage to learn.’

‘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.’

Myrsilus obeyed, and ordered his men to search the city house by house to flush out whoever was hiding there.

‘Who are you?’ asked the Chnan when he arrived.

‘Your chief is dead,’ answered the old man. ‘His head will burn like these!’

‘Our chief has already passed between the severed heads and he is still alive, as you can see.’

The man glanced furtively at Diomedes, and then glared at his questioner: ‘You lie. It is impossible.’

‘He is a great hero who has destroyed two immense cities enclosed in stone walls. He saw the place where the chariot of the Sun fell and he spent the night there.’ The old man’s eyes widened until they showed white all around, and his chin began to quiver. The words of the Chnan had filled him with dread.

‘Tell him I’ll drag him to the swamp where the chariot of the Sun fell,’ said Diomedes, when he realized the cause of the man’s terror. ‘I’ll tie him to a tree and leave him there to go mad.’

The old man shook his head, then flung himself to the ground with his face in the dirt. His body trembled uncontrollably. The Chnan helped him to his feet and tried to calm him. He promised that he would be allowed to go free if he told them where the others had gone.

‘They are safe by now,’ said the old man. ‘You will never catch up with them. Tomorrow they will cross the river and march towards the Great Lake of the Ancestors at the foot of the Mountains of Ice. There they will immerse themselves in the clear, pure waters to free themselves of the curse which brings death. They will build houses on the water that can not be touched by any sorcery. Our people will be reborn.’

Diomedes realized that Nemro was directed north, towards the shores of Eridanus. If they managed to cross the river, he would never see that woman again.

He called Myrsilus and ordered him to harness the horses to his war chariot. He told his comrades to hold the old man until he returned, then leapt into the chariot and passed the reins to Myrsilus. They rode to the north side of the city where they found evident traces of the migration. The king then urged on his horses like he had long ago on the plains of Ilium. He let out a long, high, warbling cry; the steeds pawed the ground and reared up, shaking the yoke, then hurled forward on the dirt trail, raising a cloud of dust. Myrsilus let out the reins at their necks and the divine animals picked up their pace, neck to neck, head to head, in a riot of shining muscles, manes billowing in the wind. The king was silent now. His right hand gripped the rail and his left the spear. The low sun cast a blazing reflection on his face and hair.

The chariot flew over the deserted trail in the last dim light of the sun and Myrsilus managed to keep up a steady gait until it was almost completely dark, accustoming his eyes to distinguish between the pale dust and the green fields. He was forced to slow down when the last reflection of light vanished, but just then the king pointed to a distant point: ‘Look,’ he said. ‘It must be them. Don’t stop, we’ll be upon them when they least suspect it.’

They saw lights in the middle of the plain, reflected like a mirror: the waters of the Eridanus! Dark figures were moving all around the fires. Myrsilus slowed the horses to a walk and continued to approach until, under the cover of darkness, they could see what was happening in the camp before them. The people were on their feet in a circle around several large fires. At their centre stood Nemro, wearing his armour and a cloak of dark wool. Facing him was the blonde maiden who had come from afar, her head covered in white bands that fell softly around her neck. They were about to celebrate their wedding.

A long-bearded old man held their hands, and an attendant poured white flour on their heads and milk at their feet.

Diomedes saw in an instant where his chariot would be able to slip in and how it could curve away in escape; he explained the manoeuvre to Myrsilus who nodded, clenching his jaw and twisting the reins around his wrists.

‘Now!’ shouted the king.

Myrsilus incited the horses and cracked the reins across their backs repeatedly. The steeds raced forward, directed at the only point of light in all that darkness. Their neighing and furious galloping, the thunder of the wheels and the shouts of the two warriors, threw the onlookers into a total panic, but Nemro turned and understood. He grabbed a spear and hurled it at the chariot that was advancing straight at him like a meteor. The point ripped through the shoulder of Myrsilus’s tunic; he had done nothing to dodge the blow. Nemro was forced to throw himself sideways, losing his grip on the hand of his bride, who stood petrified staring at the warrior on the chariot which was flying directly at her. The hand of Diomedes passed under her arm and lifted her as if she were a twig, over the red-hot rim of the chariot wheel; he delivered her gently inside like a dove in its nest. He stretched his left arm around her waist, clasping the parapet with his other hand. Myrsilus in the meantime was racing through the camp without so much as a backwards look; he curved near the bank of the river before hitting the sand that would have hindered his flight and urged on the divine horses once again with shrill cries until they reached the open plain.

He wheeled full around the camp and hurled back towards the point from which he had launched his attack.

Nemro had got to his feet in a fury and assembled all his men but Diomedes caught him off guard again by bursting through at the same point, where the men were now grouped around their chief. One was hit straight on and trampled under the horses’ hooves, while two more were maimed under the chariot wheels. Nemro himself was struck at his side by the left horse and thrown to the ground in a daze.

Then the chariot of bronze and fire disappeared into the night.

For three days, the woman refused to eat or sleep. She lay curled up on her mat with her knees drawn up and her hair completely covering her face. Sometimes towards evening she would let out a melancholy, quavering song like a lullaby crooned to rock a child to sleep. It seemed to be her way of soothing herself, of relieving her pain. She was rapidly wasting away; her face thinned and seemed even tinier than it was in reality. When she lifted her eyes they were puffy and red with tears.

‘Perhaps she loved him,’ said the Chnan to Diomedes. ‘Nemro was to be her husband, after all.’

‘She had never seen him before, I’m sure of it. Her family had sent her from a distant land, how could she have loved him?’

‘Maybe you left her too long with him: just a few days can be enough to win a woman’s heart, especially if she knows that the man she has been given to will be her husband for the rest of her life.’

‘Do you think she knows the language of the people of this land? There must be some ties between her people and these people if she was sent as a bride to a chief of this land. Perhaps she knows a few words. . You could try to talk with her.’

The Chnan shook his head. ‘One deaf person speaking to another: how could we understand each other? My knowledge of this language is so scarce; hers must be even less. She probably doesn’t know more than a few words, if any at all. Perhaps a caress would count more than any word. She’s only a frightened girl. She doesn’t know who you are, what you want from her. She is almost certainly a virgin, never touched by man.’

‘No one has harmed her! We have offered her food, a bed, we share with her what little we have.’

‘She’s afraid. She won’t eat because she fears you.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said the king.

‘It’s her only defence. By not eating, she’ll become ugly and thin, and you will no longer desire her. Perhaps, if you made her understand that you don’t want to hurt her. .’

‘You know many things, man of Chnan, things that I do not know. . or have never wanted to learn. I’ve been taught that all that matters in life is the honour and the glory that a man conquers in battle. Perhaps this is why I lost Aigialeia, my queen. Or perhaps it was Aphrodite’s revenge.’

‘We call her Isthar,’ said the Chnan. ‘And she can be a terrible goddess indeed. What did you do to anger her?’

‘I wounded her in battle, as she stretched out her delicate hand to shield her son who had fallen to the ground under my blows. Since then I have feared her revenge. The gods never forget. They can strike us whenever they want, in the most atrocious of ways. If the worst thing in the world for a man is to fall into the hands of another man, can you imagine what it means to fall into the hands of a god who hates you?’

‘But perhaps there is also a god who loves you. Or a goddess; you are a king and you are handsome and strong.’

‘The goddess who loved me has abandoned me. I haven’t seen her for a very long time, I haven’t felt her presence. . We are a cursed race: my father Tydeus devoured the brain of a man while it was still warm. But I admire him all the same. The greatest courage in life is embracing it all until the bitter end, until the last horror, if necessary. .’

The Chnan lowered his head and held his tongue. The king’s gaze was fixed on the sky, covered with black clouds frayed with white towards the bottom, towards the earth. A cold, damp wind penetrated their bones and shook the fragile walls of the reed and clay houses in the little dying city. The Chnan bounded across the road and entered the hut he had chosen as his dwelling.

The wind had begun to blow stronger and thunder exploded in the sky directly above the village, making the ground tremble. The rain pelted down, streaming over the road. The king had never felt time flowing away from him like this: fast, unstoppable, like the muddy water spilling into the moat from a thousand streams. He went out into the tempest that swept the village with its biting gusts of wind. The rain poured over his face and his chest and dripped down his back; his feet sank into the mud up to his ankles. He stood, head bent, in the downpour as if to purify himself, and then he went to the hut where Nemro’s woman was being held.

Two of his warriors stood guard, motionless, one in front and one in the back of the house, sheltering as they could under the overhanging roof. They were faithful, patient men, capable of enduring anything. Seeing them like that, immobile in the wind and water, in that wretched place, he felt compassion for them; he felt stronger and sharper than ever the desire to give them a life and a land, to give them women and herds of oxen and fat sheep. He ordered them to go and find a warm fire and some food. They obeyed with a nod, pulling their cloaks over their heads and running off. The king entered.

It was dark inside: a single earthenware lamp was smoking, burning sheep’s fat. In the corner was the food that had been brought to her and that she had refused to touch, left to be gnawed at by the mice. This was his wedding chamber? The perfumes and the scents? The wedding torches? He couldn’t even see the girl until his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom. And when he did see her his soul filled with despair: she was scrawny and pale and he could barely see her face behind a tangle of dirty hair. She startled at his entry, and began to whimper softly. Then she backed away, creeping, into a corner and hid her face.

Diomedes took off his cloak and began to approach her, but when he saw her shaking in fear, he stopped in the middle of the bare room. He brought his lamp close to his face: ‘Look at me,’ he said, ‘I need you too.’

At the sound of his voice, the girl turned slowly and the king could see her bewildered eyes, the pale flicker of her gaze. But he also perceived, greatly wounded and broken, that remarkable, ambiguous force of spirit that had struck him the first time he saw her.

The fire in the hearth had gone out; Diomedes put a little wood on top and lit it with his lamp. The flames licked up while outside the rain pelted down even harder.

‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he said, adding more wood to the fire. ‘I won’t hurt you,’ and he held his head low as if he, too, suffered from the same desolation as she.

The girl seemed to revive and moved slightly away from the wall.

‘Come closer,’ said the king. ‘Come warm yourself by the fire. Come; don’t be afraid.’

The girl raised her head and looked at him. Then she got to her feet and walked slowly towards the fire. She was trembling, and her step was uncertain after fasting for so long. She stumbled, but Diomedes, who had not taken his eyes off her, caught her in his arms before she could fall. He set her gently next to the fire, then removed his own wet clothing and took her delicately into his arms. She stirred and the king opened his arms so she could go. If she wanted to.

She didn’t go, and the king held her without speaking, listening together with her to the sound of the rain on the straw roof.

Time passed, so long that it stopped raining and the sun began to shine through the cracks in the door. The Chnan’s voice could be heard, saying: ‘The men have made bread, wanax.’ And the little hut was invaded by a ray of light and an intense aroma. The king got up, went to the door and took the bread, then went back to the girl and offered her a little piece. She opened her lips and ate it while the king lightly stroked her hair. He took some bread himself and ate it while looking into her eyes, without moving his other hand from her head. And in that moment, the beam of sun that entered through the door lit up his hair from behind, bathing it in blond light, like a god’s. He gave her more bread and she ate from his hand and accepted his caresses.

It didn’t take long for Nemro to learn where his enemy was hiding. The weather was bad and the incessant rain had wiped away the traces of Diomedes’s chariot and horses, but as soon as he could, Nemro had sent his men to search the land far and wide.

A group of them encountered the old priest who they had left behind when they had set off for the Lake of the Ancestors, to officiate the rite of the severed heads in the deserted city. He was wandering through the countryside with a satchel at his neck; he did not even seem to recognize them.

‘It is us, Oh Man of the Sun and of the Rain,’ they said. ‘Stop! We seek the blond foreigner who flies on a chariot. He has abducted the bride of Nemro and has kept her for himself. Without her, Nemro cannot guide his people to the Lake of the Ancestors and build a city on the water. She is our only hope; her blood is not contaminated by the Sun of the Swamp.’

The old man blinked repeatedly as if a violent light were wounding his eyes: ‘He has passed twice among the burnt heads and he is still alive,’ he said. ‘His flesh is harder than your bones. And he has spoken with the Sun of the Swamp: I saw it in his eyes. How can Nemro hope to combat him and win?’

‘You leave us no hope, then. But at least tell us where he is; we will do anything we can to have Nemro’s bride back. We fear nothing any more in this world.’

The old man pointed south towards the horizon and then set off again with his slow, shuffling step in the other direction. They would never see him again.

That evening they reached the city occupied by the invaders, and they slipped in during the night. They watched them from their hiding places for days and days. They watched the men train with their weapons, hurling their spears and shooting their bows, wielding sword and axe. They watched them fight each other, and stand guard at night with fine weather or with rain. They realized that their own forces could never defeat such warriors.

When they returned to report to Nemro, he listened to them in silence without a blink of his eye, then withdrew to his tent where he remained at length. He finally came out and assembled his men. He said: ‘We cannot go to the Lake of the Ancestors without my bride and we cannot fight our enemies alone; they are too strong and too fierce. We need help, and we will find it in all the surviving villages and among the other peoples. We shall ask the Kmun of the Mountains of Ice and the Ambron of the Mountains of Stone. We will tell them what has happened, and they will tell the other peoples who live near them: the Pica and the Ombro. We will say that the foreigners of the flaming hair have come to kill us and carry off our women. . that they have come to steal everything from us, even our hope. They will help us, and our enemies will find ambushes in every forest, traps in every valley. The water they drink will turn to poison, every birdsong or animal call will hide a signal for attack. They will die, one after another. . as we have been dying until now.’

Nemro lowered his head with a sigh and said: ‘Whoever survives, of the two of us, will have the bride for himself and will generate a new people with her. If I am the one who remains alive, I will take you to the Lake of the Ancestors, at the foot of the Mountains of Ice whence our forebears came. If it is he, the man who flies on the fire chariot. . if it is he who remains alive on the battlefield, then his seed will generate a new race of exterminators and there will no longer be any room for anyone else in this land. . for no one, between the mountains and the sea. We must destroy him, because he, perhaps, has come from the Sun of the Swamp himself! Perhaps he is the last and most terrible calamity.’

Nemro’s men took his message to the Kmun on the Mountains of Ice and the Ambron on the Mountains of Stone, and these warned their neighbours, the Pica and the Ombro, and these in turn told the Lat who had settled at that time in the plains of the western sea. Whatever path the invaders chose, they would find it fraught with mortal danger.

Meanwhile, the Man of the Sun and the Rain, the old priest, continued his solitary journey towards the place where none of his people had ever dared to venture. He knew that his energy would not suffice to follow Nemro in his quest for survival, but he thought that perhaps enough remained to discover where the poisonous seed of death had come from, when it fell from the sky like a globe of fire and sank its roots in to the swamp.

Although it was already late in the spring, it continued to rain hard and long every day. But he never stopped; he walked all the same through the tall grass and reeds that had overrun the fields once flourishing with crops and rich pastures for numerous flocks. He would rest now and then in a deserted village or an abandoned house when the inclemency of the elements prevented him from going on. And then he would take up his journey once again.

After seven days he reached the swamp where the seed of destruction had fallen. He was exhausted with fatigue, hunger and pain; his hands and feet were full of sores, his legs attacked by leeches. And yet he thought he heard the gentlest dirge, like the soft wailing of women grieving for their lost husbands. He followed that song, dragging himself to the shores of a large pool with a surface as smooth as a bronze mirror.

He leaned over to peer inside and saw his own image reflected in the shiny black water, nothing else. Only his own thin, dazed face. He moved all around the liquid mirror, forcing a passage between the thick reeds, the willows and millet stalks.

The wind rustled in the boughs of colossal poplars, filling the air with their white down, but not a bird took wing, not a chirp could be heard, nothing but the ancient lament that still echoed very faintly in the misty undergrowth.

Utterly disheartened and defeated, the old priest let himself slip to the ground and sat propped up against a big trunk, uprooted like a little twig by some immense force. He had hoped not to abandon life before learning the truth, but now he felt his energies forsaking him on the shores of that dead water, although nothing had happened. No vague idea had formed in his mind, no sign had appeared before his eyes. His weariness weighed so heavily upon his eyelids that sleep finally overcame him and he sank back, head lolling and arms outspread. In his uneasy sleep he saw the deserted cities of his people crumbling into ruins, one after another; the canals filling with reeds, the palisades rotting away, swarms of rats invading the roads. A turbid grey sky covered all, swollen with disease. His closed eyes filled with tears and his heart brimmed with anguish.

But then he saw the black lagoon fill slowly up with mud and sand, becoming a swamp, first, and then a marsh, until it became solid ground and was covered by a forest of aged oaks. And over that land he saw that the sky was blue again, and the sun shone, and a new people descended from the wooded mountains to occupy the deserted plain. Many, many years. . but one day life would flourish again in the great valley of the Eridanus; the newcomers would mix with the last descendants of his unlucky people.

He saw men tilling the earth, digging canals and building cabins. Ripe wheat rippled in the summer sun and exuberant grapevines stretched their cluster-heavy shoots towards the sun.

He did not see the warrior of the flaming hair who had passed twice between the severed heads without harm, but he felt his shadow vanishing beyond the wooded mountains, beyond the blue summits.

The old man never stirred again, and the wind covered his wasted body with white down, like a larva in its cocoon. But his spirit was soaring with great butterfly wings over the sea of swaying reeds, over the waters of the Eridanus, high above the swollen grey clouds, through the pure, transparent air, towards the infinite light.