The surgeon arrived at that moment with his instruments in hand.
‘Take care of this man,’ said Dionysius, and left without waiting for Diocles’s orders. He soon reached his friend Iolaus at the guardhouse. ‘We’re leaving,’ he said.
‘When? Where for?’ asked the youth, alarmed.
‘At dawn, for Selinus. We’re the vanguard. The others will arrive with the fleet. I need five hundred men and they must all be members of the Company. Spread the word, immediately. I want them here, fully armed, with enough rations for five days. And an extra horse every three men. Within two hours, at the most.’
‘We’ll never pull that off! You know the Company holds you in great esteem, but . . .’
‘You tell them that now is the time to prove it. Move.’
‘As you wish,’ replied Iolaus. He whistled, and was answered by whinnying and the pounding of hooves. Iolaus jumped on to his horse and sped off into the darkness.
On the fourth day, one of the battering rams managed to open a breach in the walls of Selinus. The Campanian mercenaries hired by the Carthaginians rushed through the gap, driven by the desire to stand out in their commander’s eyes, but above all by their greed, since he had promised them the sack of the city.
The Selinuntians crowded around the breach to defend it, walling out the attackers with their shields and their chests. They succeeded in driving back their assailants and slew a great number of them; the rest of the barbarian troops made a disorderly retreat, trampling the bodies of their fellow soldiers.
The next day, Hannibal gave orders to remove the rubble and had protective roofing built so that his men could work to clear a passage. From up high on the assault towers, his archers continued to keep the defenders in their marks, forcing them away from the breach.
On the sixth day, the passage was clear; the rams further widened the gap, opening the way for the assault infantry of Libyan, Iberian and Campanian mercenaries, who poured into the city, howling fearsome war cries.
The Selinuntians were expecting them; they had worked all night to erect barricades at the entrances to each of their streets, isolating the districts behind them. From these shelters they counter-attacked ceaselessly, pushing back the enemy and killing off as many as they could. But although their valour was beyond any imagining, their strength was waning with every passing hour. The strain of building the barricades, their lack of sleep and the exertion of endless battle made them a poor match for the fresh hordes of rested enemy troops.
On the seventh day, the rams opened a second breach at another point of the walls, and the attackers flooded through, raising cries so loud that the city’s defenders felt the blood freeze in their veins. The second wave surged over the barricades like a river in full destroys a fragile bank. The obstacles were overrun and the Selinuntian warriors were forced back towards the market square, where they regrouped shoulder to shoulder in a last, desperate attempt to resist.
The bravery of their women was extraordinary. They climbed to the rooftops and threw everything they could get their hands on at the enemy: roof tiles, bricks and wooden beams. Even the children realized what fate they were in for, and did the same.
In this way, the Selinuntians managed to prolong the agony of their city for one more day, in the hopes that every hour won was an hour gained. The night before, light signals had been seen on the inland mountains, and they were convinced that their rescuers would soon appear. But the next day, their last attempts at resistance were overwhelmed. Exhausted by the strain of long days of combat, the men disbanded and the battle broke up into thousands of individual clashes. Many found themselves defending the doors of their own homes, and the shrieks of terror of their sons and daughters managed incredibly to squeeze a final spasm of energy from their worn bodies. But their obstinate resistance only served to increase the rage of the barbarians who, having finally gained the upper hand, abandoned themselves to the bloodiest massacre ever seen in the history of man. They mercilessly killed even the smallest children, slashed the throats of infants in their cradles. By that evening, many of them were proudly displaying dozens of severed hands, strung together as trophies, and spikes topped with the heads of their dead enemies.
Horror reigned. The cries and screams of the wounded and dying echoed everywhere.
But it was not over.
For two days and two nights the city was at the mercy of its pillagers. Women, girls and young boys were deliberately given over by Hannibal as prey to the violence and raping of the mobs of soldiers. What those wretches suffered was indescribable; the few who survived and were able to talk about what they had seen said that there was no prisoner who did not envy the fate of those who had died honourably with their swords in hand. There is nothing worse for a human being than to fall into the hands of another.
Selinus was destroyed two hundred and forty-two years after her founding.
Sixteen thousand people were killed.
Six thousand, nearly all women and children, were sold into slavery.
Two thousand six hundred survived by escaping through the eastern gate, because the barbarians were so glutted by their pillaging that they were oblivious of their flight.
Dionysius, at the head of a squad of fifty horsemen, met up with the straggling column in the dead of night. He was about an hour ahead of the rest of his contingent, while the bulk of the Syracusan troops would be landing at the mouth of the Hypsas river the following day.
Too late.
At the sight of the horsemen, the surviving warriors warily circled around the women and children, fearing that they had fallen into an ambush and that death had spared them only to reserve an even more bitter end. But when they heard them speaking Greek, they dropped their shields to the ground and fell to their knees sobbing. They had marched that far driven on by the sheer force of despair and now, finally saved, they were overcome by their memories of the disaster. The butchery, assaults and atrocities they had seen washed over them like the waves of a stormy sea.
Dionysius dismounted and inspected those sorry warriors. In the light of his torch, he could see that their shields and helmets were badly dented. The men were spattered with blood, dirt and sweat, their eyes were bloodshot with weeping and fatigue. They all wore the same haunted expression; more ghosts than men. ‘Which of you is the most highly ranked officer?’ he asked.
A man of about forty stepped forward. ‘Me. I am a battalion commander, my name is Eupites. Who are you?’
‘We are Syracusans,’ was the reply.
‘What took you so long? Our city has been destroyed—’
Dionysius raised his hand to interrupt him. ‘If it had been up to me, our army would have arrived two days ago. But a people’s assembly had to be called in Syracuse, and once they had come to a decision, our commanders had to discuss what line of action to take. I left alone, with this vanguard, as soon as your messenger reached us with the news that the city was about to fall. You’re not out of danger yet; we must get you to Acragas before the barbarians set off in pursuit. Bring forth your wounded now; I’ll have litters prepared for those who can’t walk. Line up the women and children in the middle, the warriors at the fore and rear. We’ll guard the sides.’
‘Wait,’ said Eupites.
‘What is it?’
‘Your name.’
‘Dionysius.’
‘Listen to me, Dionysius. We are grateful to you for being the first to come to our aid. We are humiliated and ashamed of the state we are in, but there is something I must tell you.’
As he spoke, the other Selinuntian warriors had picked up their shields and were crowding around him, their shoulders stiff and their hands gripping their spears.
‘As soon as we have garnered our strength, we will return to rebuild our houses and our city, and if anyone, whoever he may be, should ever want to wage war against the Carthaginians, we will be ready to march with him. Revenge is our only reason for living.’
Dionysius raised his torch to
illuminate the man’s face and his eyes. He saw more hate there than he had ever seen in the expression of any human being. He passed the torch under the faces of the others; in each one of them he saw the same fierce determination. ‘I’ll remember that,’ he said.
Dionysius sent a couple of men to signal to the rest of his contingent that they should turn back, for there was nothing more to be done for Selinus. They then resumed their march and walked the whole night long until they came upon a group of villages where they found some food. As the exhausted refugees stretched out under the trees of an olive grove, Dionysius rode back some distance to make sure they weren’t being followed. It was then that his attention was attracted by a splash of white in the middle of a field. He spurred on his horse and went closer. A girl was lying there, apparently lifeless, on the grass. Dionysius dismounted, raised her head and brought his flask to her lips. She seemed no older than sixteen. Her face was so smoke-blackened that he could barely make out her features. Except for her eyes: when she opened them, they shone with an amber light. She must have collapsed during the night-time march without anyone noticing. Who could say how many of those poor wretches had yielded to fatigue?
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
The girl took a sip of water and said: ‘You think I tell my name to just anyone who happens to come along?’
‘Just anyone; me! You dolt, I’m the one who’s saved your life. The mongrels would have started in on you in no time. Come on, get up. I’ll take you back to the others.’
The girl struggled to her feet. ‘Get on that horse with you? I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Stay here then. And when the Campanian mercenaries catch up with you, they’ll make you wish you’d been a little less stubborn.’
‘My name is Arete. Help me up.’
Dionysius helped her on to his horse and jumped on behind her, spurring him into a trot. ‘Do you have family among the refugees?’
‘No,’ replied Arete. ‘My family are all . . . gone.’ She spoke in an absent tone, as if she were referring to someone she didn’t know.
Dionysius fell silent. He handed her his flask again. She drank, then spilled a little water on to her hands and washed her face, drying it with the hem of her dress.
A youth on horseback rode by at a clip, then pulled up short. Light eyes, balding at the temples. His receding hairline and well-trimmed beard made him look older than his years. He gave the girl a look over and then turned to Dionysius. ‘So here you are!’ he exclaimed. ‘You could have said something. We thought you’d vanished into thin air.’
‘Everything’s all right, Philistus,’ replied Dionysius. ‘I found this girl who had fallen by the wayside. Go back to the village and fetch some food for her. She probably hasn’t eaten anything for days. She’s skin and bones.’
The girl glared at him and Dionysius was struck by the beauty of her dirt-streaked face and her lovely amber eyes, framed by long dark lashes. The horrors she had lived through had left her weary and bewildered, but she was still quite graceful, her fingers were long and slender and her hair preserved its violet highlights and its scent. After a while, Dionysius felt her adolescent’s body shaking with sobs. She was weeping in silence.
‘Cry,’ he said. ‘It will help you to get over the memories. But try not to dwell on them. Your pain will not bring the loved ones you’ve lost back to life.’
She said nothing, but Dionysius felt her leaning her head back on to his shoulder in a kind of grievous abandon.
Arete started as they came into view of the villages where the other refugees were eating and resting.
Dionysius slipped his hands under her arms and lifted her, setting her down effortlessly as if she were a feather. ‘They are giving out food down there,’ he said. ‘Go now, before it’s all gone.’ But the girl did not move, and he gestured to Philistus to bring her something as he had asked.
He arrived with a piece of bread and a slice of sheep’s cheese and handed them to the girl, who began to eat. She must have been starving.
And yet, as soon as she had swallowed a mouthful, her attention was drawn to a child who sat alone crying under an olive tree. She went over and offered him the bread. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked. ‘Have some of this.’
But the little boy shook his head and continued to weep his heart out. He covered his face with his hands as if he could not bear to see such a horrible world.
A group of refugees who had lagged behind the others appeared. One of them particularly struck Arete: a young warrior struggled forward under the weight of an emaciated old man who must have been his father; with his other hand he pulled along a child of seven or eight who stumbled behind him, whimpering.
Arete drew closer to the little boy under the olive tree and pointed to the group of three. ‘Look at them, over there. Don’t you think they look like Aeneas with his father Anchises and his little son Iulus?’
The boy stopped crying to take a look at the youth, the old man and the child who were just then walking in front of him.
‘Do you know the story of Aeneas? Have something to eat, come on, I’ll tell you the story . . .’ she began. ‘Aeneas, the Trojan prince, remained alone to defend the walls of his city after the death of Hector. But Troy fell as he slept, just like all the others. He had no choice but to go into exile. Someone must have taken note of him just then, as he was leaving his city, and we shall always remember him thus: leading a child by the hand and carrying an old man, paralysed, on his back. A defeated man forced to flee with the only treasure left to him: his hope.
‘And so Aeneas has come to symbolize the refugee, for thousands, millions of people who have shared in his fate, under every sky, in every land, among peoples whose existence he could have never even imagined . . .’
The little boy seemed to calm as he listened to her words, and he began reluctantly to chew a bit of bread. Arete continued her story, as though she were thinking out loud: ‘Camped out in the dust, or in the mud, fleeing on their carts, with their asses and oxen, refugees like these are the very image of Aeneas, who lives still and will live in eternity. Troy burns, burns now and for ever . . .’
‘Heavy going for such a little boy, wouldn’t you say?’ Dionysius’s voice rang behind her.
‘You’re right,’ replied Arete without turning. ‘I guess I was talking to myself. I’m so tired I don’t know what I’m saying.’
‘What you said was beautiful,’ replied Dionysius. ‘Heartbreaking. I cannot resign myself to this disgrace. I can’t bear it. I’m ashamed of my fellow citizens, who lost precious time in useless discussions, in endless tirades, while you were fighting against such cruel enemies and trusting in our help until the very end. Seventy years ago, when Himera was besieged by the Carthaginians, just one man was in charge in Syracuse. Our army marched to Himera in three days and three nights and defeated the enemy in a memorable battle. That same day the Athenians defeated the Persians at Salamina.’
‘That man was a tyrant,’ objected Arete.
‘That man was a man!’ roared Dionysius. ‘And he did what had to be done.’
He strode off, and Arete watched as he stopped to give orders to his comrades. He mustered the Selinuntian warriors and urged them not to lose heart and to continue their march.
The refugees hadn’t rested for more than an hour when they rose to their feet, collected their things and resumed their procession. Many of them had lost their sandals and they stumbled over the stones on their path, leaving bloody footsteps in their wake. What kept them going? Dionysius knew, and that was why he had convinced them to persevere in their journey: he knew that no one is stronger than a man who no longer has anything to lose.
They went on for hours, stopping only to drink when they found a spring, or to pick some green fruit along the road to calm their hunger pangs. The children no longer even had the strength to cry, but they gave a show of incredible courage; they took example from their parents and companions and trudged along, desperate not
to cut a sorry figure.
It wasn’t until evening of the next day that aid arrived: carts drawn by oxen, donkeys and mules, loaded down with abundant provisions. The old and the invalid, the women and the children were helped to climb on to the carts, and the warriors were able to unburden themselves of their shields.
After three more days of journeying, they arrived within sight of Acragas as dusk was descending.
The magnificent city, illuminated by the setting sun, seemed a vision of wonder. Built up high on a hill, circled by a mighty ring of walls ten stadia long, she proudly displayed multicoloured temples, statues and monuments. Acragas’s city sanctuary stood up at the very top of the acropolis, its gilded acroteria shining like gems.
A trumpet blared loud and long through the valley and the gates opened. The refugees filed between the monuments of the necropolis and made their way towards the western gate. They entered the city amidst a stunned, silent throng. The signs of the disaster they had survived were evident: thin and wasted they were, with wounds, bruises and burns covering their bodies, filthy, ripped clothing, bleeding feet, hair clotted with blood and dust. As they proceeded through the most beautiful city that had ever been built in the West, emotion coursed through the surrounding crowd and many of them could not hold back their tears at such a miserable sight. Those unfortunates were the living proof of the vicious cruelty of their enemies.
Aware of the devastating effect that the sight of the refugees had had on the townspeople, the city authorities ordered that they be brought to the market square, near the big artificial pond, so their wounds could be seen to. There they were given food, water and clean clothing; lots were drawn using shards of pottery with numbers scratched on to them so each of the survivors would be assigned a family with which to stay until homes could be found.
Tyrant Page 2
