But The Gods Willed Otherwise, And You May Read Of His Death
In The Waters, And The Laceration Of His Body By The Lucanians, In
Livy's History.
It is a strange caprice that we should now possess what is in every
probability the very breastplate worn by the heroic monarch on that
occasion.
It was found in 1820, and thereafter sold - some fragments of
it, at least - to the British Museum, where under the name of "Bronze of
Siris" it may still be admired: a marvellous piece of repoussee work, in
the style of Lysippus, depicting the combat of Ajax and the Amazons. . . .
The streamlet Trionto, my companion to Longobucco, glides along between
stretches of flowery meadow-land - fit emblem of placid rural
contentment. But soon this lyric mood is spent. It enters a winding
gorge that shuts out the sunlight and the landscape abruptly assumes an
epic note; the water tumbles wildly downward, hemmed in by mountains
whose slopes are shrouded in dusky pines wherever a particle of soil
affords them foothold. The scenery in this valley is as romantic as any
in the Sila. Affluents descend on either side, while the swollen rivulet
writhes and screeches in its narrow bed, churning the boulders with
hideous din. The track, meanwhile, continues to run beside the water
till the passage becomes too difficult; it must perforce attack the
hill-side. Up it climbs, therefore, in never-ending ascension, and then
meanders at a great height above the valley, in and out of its tributary
glens.
I was vastly enjoying this promenade - the shady pines, whose fragrance
mingled with that of a legion of tall aromatic plants in full
blossom - the views upon the river, shining far below me like the thread
of silver - when I observed with surprise that the whole mountain-side
which the track must manifestly cross had lately slipped down into the
abyss. A cloud-burst two or three days ago, as I afterwards learned, had
done the mischief. On arrival at the spot, the path was seen to be
interrupted - clean gone, in fact, and not a shred of earth or trees
left; there confronted me a bare scar, a wall of naked rock which not
even a chamois could negotiate. Here was a dilemma. I must either
retrace my steps along the weary road to Verace and there seek a night's
shelter with the gentle hay-makers, or clamber down into the ravine,
follow the river and - chance it! After anxious deliberation, the latter
alternative was chosen.
But the Trionto was now grown into a formidable torrent of surging waves
and eddies, with a perverse inclination to dash from one side to the
other of its prison, so as to necessitate frequent fordings on my part.
These watery passages, which I shall long remember, were not without a
certain danger. The stream was still swollen with the recent rains, and
its bed, invisible under the discoloured element, sufficiently deep to
inspire respect and studded, furthermore, with slippery boulders of
every size, concealing insidious gulfs. Having only a short
walking-stick to support me through this raging flood, I could not but
picture to myself the surprise of the village maidens of Crepolati,
lower down, on returning to their laundry work by the river-side next
morning and discovering the battered anatomy of an Englishman - a rare
fish, in these waters - stranded upon their familiar beach. Murdered, of
course. What a galaxy of brigand legends would have clustered round my
memory!
Evening was closing in, and I had traversed the stream so often and
stumbled so long amid this chaos of roaring waters and weirdly-tinted
rocks, that I began to wonder whether the existence of Longobucco was
not a myth. But suddenly, at a bend of the river, the whole town, still
distant, was revealed, upraised on high and framed in the yawning mouth
of the valley. After the solitary ramble of that afternoon, my eyes
familiarized to nothing save the wild things of nature, this unexpected
glimpse of complicated, civilized structures had all the improbability
of a mirage. Longo-bucco, at that moment, arose before me like those
dream-cities in the Arabian tale, conjured by enchantment out of the
desert waste.
The vision, though it swiftly vanished again, cheered me on till after a
good deal more scrambling and wading, with boots torn to rags, lame,
famished and drenched to the skin, I reached the bridge of the Rossano
highway and limped upwards, in the twilight, to the far-famed "Hotel
Vittoria."
Soon enough, be sure, I was enquiring as to supper. But the manageress
met my suggestions about eatables with a look of blank astonishment.
Was there nothing in the house, then? No cheese, or meat, or maccheroni,
or eggs - no wine to drink?
"Nothing!" she replied. "Why should you eat things at this hour? You
must find them yourself, if you really want them. I might perhaps
procure you some bread."
Avis aux voyageurs, as the French say.
Undaunted, I went forth and threw myself upon the mercy of a citizen of
promising exterior, who listened attentively to my case. Though far too
polite to contradict, I could see that nothing in the world would induce
him to credit the tale of my walking from San Demetrio that day - it was
tacitly relegated to the regions of fable. With considerable tact, so as
not to wound my feelings, he avoided expressing any opinion on so
frivolous a topic; nor did the reason of his reluctance to discuss my
exploit dawn upon me till I realized, later on, that like many of the
inhabitants he had never heard of the track over Acri, and consequently
disbelieved its existence. They reach San Demetrio by a two or even
three days' drive over Rossano, Corigliano, and Vaccarizza. He became
convinced, however, that for some reason or other I was hungry, and
thereupon good-naturedly conducted me to various places where wine and
other necessities of life were procured.
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