Even the ruins have perished.
Lucan
He was lying on his stomach. Salt water filled his mouth. It should have been blood because the spear had pierced his neck before spurting out between his lips with a taste of bronze. He opened his eyes. Wet sand spread out before him. He felt the foam regularly pushing against his legs. Half-buried in the sand, his spear and shield lay not far from him. What was he doing on the shore? The battle had taken place in the plain, near the ramparts. The Phyléide must have taken his body and his weapons to bring them back to their ships. He rolled over onto his back and, incredulous, felt his intact face, his body and the breastplate which now felt like an incongruous weight on his chest. He was alive. Was this the work of a god?
He sat up. Where were those who, like him, should be lying side by side with their foreheads in the dust? Where was he? Everything here seemed desolate and a terrible smell assailed his nostrils. Fear gripped his soul. Was Illion burning? Had the Achaeans triumphed? He tried to catch sight of smoke above the pines that lined the beach until the prevailing stench made him wince again. Even the most ferocious mass graves did not dispense such an abomination. He felt his head grow dizzy, his heart grow heavier. He took a few steps before coming to a standstill. In the distance, two figures had appeared. He picked up his spear and shield. On these unknown shores, who could predict that the one who comes is a friend?
A man and a woman were approaching with hesitant steps. He saw that they were dressed like slaves. He tightened his grip on the spear. His chest felt as if it were filled with lead. It was getting harder and harder for him to breathe. The two slaves stopped not far from him. A painful hiccup forced him to kneel on the sand. He had to put down his shield. He would not be able to make it back to the city on his own. He ordered the man to go to Illion to fetch Antenor. He was to tell him that his son Pédaios was here. He was to send a chariot and servants because his strength was leaving him. Instead of obeying, the slave raised his hand as if declining an invitation and, grabbing the woman by the arm, went around Pédaios, uttering words that the latter did not understand. Close to fainting, he watched with rage as the two slaves walked away at a leisurely pace, their feet bathed by the ebb and flow of the sea. He didn’t have the strength to scream, his breath was leaving him. A black veil fell over his eyes.
Mandel had adopted his colonel tone, as he always did when he was annoyed. Yet we were sitting comfortably in the living room of his house in Le Pradet. He had served us wine from his precious cellar. Behind the picture windows, the Mediterranean was peacefully unfurling its fleece.
“If I were a poet,” he said, ”I would say that the man I autopsied was a hoplite. A brute straight out of the Iliad or some Spartan phalanx.
Thin and wiry, his hand rose in the calm air of the living room. He listed each of his assertions on his fingers.
“The shield, spear and breastplate were genuine antiques. He had muscles that couldn’t have been built in a gym and his body was covered in an impressive number of scars. I have never seen anyone who had been hit so many times and still be in such good health. This guy was made of granite!”
I put down my glass of wine.
“So what killed him?”
My host chuckled.
“Respiratory poisoning.”
I was surprised out loud. I knew the beach where the man had been discovered by two tourists.
“There’s nothing there, just a road and some villas!”
I saw Mandel’s eye light up. He looked fierce.
“I know that! Yet my hoplite showed all the symptoms of airborne poisoning.”
“You didn’t find any rubbish on the beach? A suspicious barrel? Green algae?”
He made an annoyed gesture. As if my questions were useless.
“But what killed him, then?”
“Nothing!” he roared. The tests have not detected any toxic substances in his body!
He left his chair to take a few steps in front of the bay window. It had been a long time since I had seen him so troubled. I waited for him to sit down again to tease him a little
“So, if the doctor concludes nothing, what would the poet say?”
He sighed before sinking back into his chair. His answer surprised me with its melancholy.
“The poet would say that a powerful warrior from the dark ages did not resist for a single second the stale atmosphere of our century.”
His words slowly faded away in the silence of the room. I stared silently at my glass until a strange feeling of sadness came over me.
“Poor us…” I finally murmured.
Mandel remained silent. His eyes had already lost themselves in the lapping of the waves.
Published with the agreement of Le Promeneur, my thanks to him!
Translated by TerKo with the help of a free translation tool.