‘The Hittite is right, king. Listen to him,’ said the Chnan. ‘He has fought many times in the mountains. Heed him, for he has already saved you once.’

Their words sent the king into a rage; although living so closely with his men had diminished his manifestations of rank, the Chnan’s advice stung like a whiplash. He could not tolerate a couple of slaves reminding him that he owed them his life. He dismissed them with a sharp gesture that did not permit further insistence.

‘Stay back here with the women if that’s the way you feel,’ he said. ‘I don’t need you.’

He called Myrsilus and indicated the enemy assembled at the crest. ‘This is the only place we can cross,’ he said. ‘We must take that pass. Draw up the men in four files and make sure the formation is as tight as possible: those savages will see a wall of shields bearing down upon them. They can’t have weapons capable of piercing our bronze. Have the bugles ready. I will lead you myself.’

The wood thinned out a little past the foot of the slope, leaving sufficient space to form the array, although the mountain meadow beyond was still dotted with trees here and there.

Myrsilus drew up his men, and when the formation was complete the king took his place on the right side and had the battle notes sounded.

The bugles blared and the noise echoed through the valleys and the rocky mountain walls. The king shouted: ‘ARGOS!’

The men echoed: ‘ARGOS!’

And the army moved forward at a measured step in closed formation towards the pass. Myrsilus noticed a certain wavering of the enemy lines at the crest and said to Diomedes: ‘We have frightened them; they will flee before we reach the top.’

In fact, many of them seemed to scatter and disappear. The Chnanthought that they were fleeing as well, and said to Telephus: ‘This time you were mistaken, Hittite, look at them sneaking off!’ But the words were not out of his mouth when the crest became crowded with men once again. The Achaeans were close enough to see that many of them were armed with axes. These rushed towards certain points of the pass where dense bushes hid the terrain. They gave violent blows with their axes. A sharp rattling could be heard at first, and then a noise like thunder, and hundreds of stones were liberated all at once from some casing that held them, and plunged downhill.

Telephus, who had not even answered so as not to miss an instant of what was happening under his eyes, shouted out: ‘Behind the trees! Wanax!Behind the trees! Or on the ground, under the shields!’ And as he shouted, he ran forward.

Diomedes realized that the men who had followed him all this way were about to be destroyed by his foolishness and he cried out in unison: ‘Behind the trees, men, seek cover behind the trees! Drop to the ground, under your shields!’

The front dispersed, the men dashing for the nearest tree or reversing at a run to find one. Those who were too far flattened on to the ground, covering themselves with their shields. Those who were not fast enough were mown down and mangled. Others were wounded despite the cover provided by the trees; still others were hit on the rebound by the enormous boulders and were smashed under their shields, like when a tortoise is crushed in his shell by the wheel of a cart and his blood and guts squirt out on to the dusty road.

When the avalanche had passed, the king gave orders to retreat towards the wood and to carry along the wounded. The men obeyed, but the enemy targeted them with a hail of slingshot stones and of arrows. More men were struck, and they hobbled to find shelter as they could, bruised and losing blood. As Diomedes withdrew, he saw Telephus, the Hittite slave, lying on the ground and bleeding from the mouth. He had rushed forward to help the king and his warriors, but one of the boulders loosed by the Ambronhad hit him full in the chest. Heedless of the arrows and other projectiles raining around him, Diomedes bent over him and gathered him into his arms, but the man groaned in pain.

‘I’m done for. .’ he said, ‘fucked to save a handful of desperate Ahhijawa. . stupid. . stupid. .’ His breath was a rattle.

The king raised his head: ‘Forgive me, friend. I am the stupid one. Stupid and blind.’

‘Commander. .’ said the Hittite. ‘I am the commander of a squadron of Hittite chariots. Call me commander. .’

‘Yes, commander,’ said the king. Myrsilus had arrived at his side and was protecting him from the enemy’s shots.

‘Do what I tell you to do, Ahhijawa, or they’ll tear you to pieces, and even that god that you’re carrying with you won’t be enough to save you.’ Every word raised his chest and delivered stabbing pain. ‘I’m dying, Ahhijawa, and you must do as I say. I don’t want to die for nothing.’

‘You are the commander,’ said Diomedes. And he paid no mind to Myrsilus, who was saying: ‘Let’s go, wanax! If we don’t go, we’ll die ourselves!’

The Hittite pushed up on his elbows: ‘Call back all your men and pretend to flee, to rout. Make a lot of noise, as if you were marching back down to the valley. .’

‘I will,’ said the king. Myrsilus’s shield popped under the slingshots as if hail were rattling down on it.

‘Wait until night, and divide up into small groups, then make your way up. . go up towards the pass from every direction towards two. . towards two or three rallying points. . in silence. Observe how the enemy is laid out, and then. . and then. .’

‘I understand,’ said the king. ‘I understand. Do not tire yourself, say no more.’ With the hem of his tunic he dried the sweat that dripped down the dying man’s forehead.

‘If we had been able to draw up all our chariot squadrons at Vilusya. . we would have chased you back into the sea. . Ahhijawa. .’ he said, wheezing.

‘Yes,’ said Diomedes, ‘perhaps you are right, my friend.’

The Hittite stared at him and a strange smile formed on his face: ‘Your world no longer exists. . Ahhijawa. . do you understand? You must change, or you will perish. . and I will have died for nothing. . I. . I. .’ and he gave himself up to death.

‘Let’s go, wanax!’ Myrsilus shouted again. ‘They’ll be upon us.’

‘No!’ shouted the king. ‘I will not let the enemies take his body and strip him!’

‘Didn’t you understand what he said as he was dying?’ Myrsilus shouted back. ‘Our world is done with! Gone! We have to save ourselves, king, that’s all that is left to us!’ Diomedes saw his eyes filled with despair, for the first time ever. ‘He would tell you to abandon him, if he could, because there’s nothing left to save but your own life, for your men’s sake. We must go, wanax! Now!’

Diomedes stood and ran for the forest and Myrsilus followed, raising his shield so that the king of Argos would not be struck down, would not breathe his last in a desolate field of stones at the hand of nameless savages.

The king ordered all his men to hide and then to feign leaving; they shook the bushes along the trail leading down to the valley, to convince the enemy that they were retreating.

When night fell, the king divided the remaining men into three groups: one under his command, another commanded by Myrsilus and a third under the command of Evenus. They took off their heavy armour and kept only their swords, daggers and bows, with quivers full of arrows. They crept up separately amidst the trees in the forest until the point where it began to thin out. From there they crawled their way up, covering small stretches of ground at a time. They ran when they could, hiding behind a tree or a boulder, always careful not to be spotted, not to make the slightest noise.

Myrsilus was the first to arrive at the top, followed by Diomedes and then Evenus. When Myrsilus peered over the crest, he saw that they had left ten or so guards at the pass, while the others slept under a big rocky shelter. He motioned to his men and they crawled up behind the guards who were dozing, leaning up against the stone wall. At his signal, each of his men leapt out of the darkness brandishing his dagger; none of the guards survived, not one had the time to let out a groan. Diomedes led his men to the top of the rocky shelter, Evenus shut out the front and Myrsilus posted his men to the sides, to cut off any escape route. At Diomedes’s signal, they all nocked their arrows and let fly into the heap of sleeping men.