Tyrant

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ responded the other, ‘because I don’t think any more help is on the way.’ He walked off into the darkness.

  Diocles held council in the agora with the Himeran officers. ‘I will take supreme command, if you have nothing against that,’ he began.

  No one spoke.

  ‘How many men can you draw up?’ asked Diocles then.

  ‘Seven thousand,’ was the answer. ‘Counting youths of eighteen to men of fifty.’

  ‘There are three thousand of us. That makes ten; ten will be enough. Tomorrow we’ll leave the city in combat formation. A two-thousand-man front, five deep. A long line, but it’ll hold. We’ll be on the front line, because we’re fresh and none of my men are older than thirty. Each one of them has sufficient rations for four days; you’ll only need to supply water.’

  The most highly ranked Himeran officer stepped forward. ‘I want to thank you and your men for having come to our aid. Tomorrow we’ll show you that you won’t regret it.’

  ‘I know,’ answered Diocles. ‘Let us get some rest now. We’ll attack tomorrow at dawn, in silence, without bugles. We’ll wake them up in person.’

  The warriors settled down under the porticoes where hay had been laid out, and soon the whole city plunged into silence. Diocles checked that everything was under control, and then got ready for the night himself.

  Dionysius appeared just then, as if from out of nowhere. ‘It’s all gone smoothly, I see.’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Diocles, ‘and tomorrow we’ll settle our score with those barbarians down there on the plain.’

  ‘There are more of them on the hills. You know that, surely?’ retorted Dionysius.

  ‘I don’t need you to tell me anything.’

  ‘That’s a relief. Yet I don’t understand all this hurry to attack.’

  ‘It’s evident, isn’t it? The less time we stay away from home, the better for us.’

  ‘Haste is a poor counsellor. I would have tried to understand the situation better, the placement of the enemy forces. Hidden traps.’

  ‘You’re not in charge here.’

  ‘No, unfortunately,’ replied Dionysius, and walked away.

  They left at dawn, as Diocles had ordained. Rested and refreshed, they marched for nearly a stadium before the war horns echoed from the enemy camp. The Punic army soon appeared on the open field: there were Libyans wearing light-coloured tunics with iron plates on their chests defending their hearts, their bronze helmets and shields painted with their tribal colours, Sicels donning long, ochre-tinted garments of raw wool with leather helmets and cuirasses, Sicans bearing wooden shields adorned with images of their totemic animals, Iberians wearing white tunics edged in red and embossed greaves decorated with tin; their leather helmets had neckguards which extended over their shoulders and were topped with a red tin crest to give them the look of magical creatures. Then there were the Balearics who whipped their slings, whistling them through the air, and the Mauritanian horsemen with their dark, shiny skin and thick heads of curly hair. They rode fiery steeds from the Atlas mountains barebacked, and carried long spears and antelope- and zebra-hide shields. Infantry and cavalry from many nations, all obedient to a few Carthaginian officers, were fitted out in the Oriental style with conical helmets, heavy leather cuirasses decorated with vivid colours, and green and ochre tunics with red and yellow fringes.

  All of those warriors must have joined the ranks with empty stomachs, but they let out loud war cries nonetheless, jumping about and waving their weapons with threatening gestures. Their excitement grew visibly as the ranks swelled; it was their way of winning over the fear that grips a combatant before the moment of the attack. They filled their bellies with ferocity in anticipation of the clash.

  The Greeks instead marched in absolute silence and perfect order, and when the sun rose, their mirror-polished shields flashed with blinding light and the ground trembled under their heavy cadenced steps.

  The Balearics let loose with their deadly slings, but the hail of shots crashed against the wall of shields without doing any damage. They were too close for the archers now, for Diocles had ordered the Greek phalanx to close the gap between the opposing fronts at a run. The two formations collided with such violence that the shouts of the Punic mercenaries turned into screams of agony. The pressure from the enemy’s back lines had pushed the men in front, mostly Libyans, Sicels and Mauritanians, against the levelled spears of the Greeks, and they were mowed down in great numbers. The light arms of the mercenaries were a poor match for the heavy shields and thick metallic breastplates of their adversaries.

  Dionysius, drawn up on the left flank with his soldiers from the Company, drove his spear into the chest of the Mauritanian chieftain he found before him – a Berber from the Atlas mountains with reddish hair and brilliant blue eyes – and ran his sword through the comrade who had lunged forward to avenge him. Even though the forces they were facing seemed to be wavering, he continued to shout out to his men: ‘Hold the line, men! Stay together!’ He used the tip of his sword to strike the shields of those who were pushing too far forward, to remind them to remain within the ranks.

  The resistance of the Punic army, who had thought they would be fighting the desperate, battle-weary Himerans, was quickly worn down in the prolonged clash with the rock-solid Syracusan hoplites; when their commander fell and was trampled under the hobnailed boots of the enemy, the Carthaginians fled in utter disarray.

  Diocles, sure of victory now, launched his men after them in pursuit without worrying about keeping them in formation. For the Himerans above all – for whom every dead Carthaginian meant a greater hope for the survival of their city – this was a licence for slaughter, with no thought to maintaining discipline. Drunk on the carnage, they did not see Hannibal loosing his troops to their right, down the side of the hill.

  Dionysius saw, and ordered a bugler to sound the retreat. Diocles, who imagined that victory over the enemy camp was already in hand, fell upon him furiously, shouting: ‘Who told you to sound a retreat? I’ll have you arrested for insubordination, I’ll have you thrown . . .’

  Dionysius did not allow him to finish the phrase: he punched him full in the face and sent him rolling to the ground. He put his sword to the throat of the bugler who had stopped blowing, and calmly gestured for him to put the instrument back to his lips.

  The horn blared out the order to retreat, as more buglers fell in to echo the first. The warriors attempted to reform under the standards that Dionysius had had amassed at the centre of the field under the protection of the members of the Company, but many of the men were surrounded and slain before they could get safely back into their ranks. Even Diocles, realizing the extent of the disaster, did everything in his power to save what he could of the situation, and in an hour’s time had succeeded in drawing up his formation and retreating towards the city.

  The people of Himera, ecstatic at first over the supposed victory, were forced to watch helplessly from the towers and bastions of the city as Hannibal ambushed and decimated their sons. When the army re-entered through the eastern gate, the sad spectacle that always accompanied the return of soldiers from the battlefield was repeated: fathers, mothers, wives and sweethearts thronged along the road trying anxiously to pick out their own loved ones. It was terrible to see hope snuffed out on those faces little by little as the survivors filed past them, without their helmets so as to be more easily recognized. Their despair contrasted with the joy of those who had spotted a son or husband safe from harm.

  The battalion commanders read off the roll in the agora. At the end, the city magistrates counted three thousand fallen on the field of battle. The best of their youth had been wiped out and the bodies of these their sons lay scattered over the plains at the mercy of the barbarians and the dogs. Every name called without an answer met with a shrill wail, and the weeping of the mothers grew until it became a mournful chorus. In many cases, both father and sons had been lost, and entire families
were forever deprived of descendants. Three hundred and fifty men of the Syracusan expeditionary force were also missing at the roll-call.

  Dionysius volunteered to go in person and negotiate the restitution of the prisoners, had any been taken, and the truce that would allow them to collect their dead. Diocles had to swallow his pride and admire the man’s courage; he consented to Dionysius’s request.

  He left through the eastern gate between two magistrates on horseback, unarmed and bare-headed, although he still wore his breastplate and greaves. He advanced to where Hannibal had had a pavilion built for himself in the middle of the plain. Perched on a high seat, he was distributing awards to those among his mercenaries who had most distinguished themselves in battle.

  The Carthaginian general received him with an air of contempt, and, before Dionysius could open his mouth, had an interpreter tell him that he would not grant any truce; that he was there to avenge the memory of his ancestor Hamilcar and that there would be no peace until the entire race of the Himerans was totally annihilated.

  Dionysius got as close as he could and pointed in the direction of the battlefield, saying, ‘Down there among the dead lie four of my friends, members of my Company. I must reclaim their bodies: we are sworn to do so. If you allow me this, I shall spare your life when the moment comes.’

  Hannibal couldn’t believe his ears when the interpreter had finished translating. ‘You . . . you will spare my life!’ he exclaimed, bursting into laughter.

  ‘I shall,’ confirmed Dionysius without batting an eye.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he answered, ‘but I will make no exceptions. Be content to return safe and sound to the city. I want them to hear from your lips what awaits them.’

  ‘So be it,’ said Dionysius. ‘Know that you will meet a disgraceful end. He who has no mercy for the dead does not deserve the mercy of the living. Farewell.’ He mounted his horse and returned to report the unhappy outcome of his mission.

  He found the city in an uproar, seized by extreme agitation. Some of the passers-by even railed against him, shouting, ‘Traitors! Cowards!’

  ‘What are they saying?’ Dionysius asked the two magistrates at his sides, but they could only shrug, unable to explain such an attitude.

  ‘Pay no attention,’ said one of them. ‘They’ve lost their minds. War is a terrible thing.’

  Dionysius did not answer, but he was sure that something strange had happened. He had his explanation when he arrived at the Syracusan headquarters near the agora. The Himeran commanders were just leaving, cursing furiously.

  ‘What has happened? Speak!’ demanded Dionysius.

  ‘Ask your commander!’ replied one of them before walking off in disgust. They were so angry that they hadn’t even asked him about the outcome of his mission.

  He found Diocles surrounded by the city elders, who were crowding around him, shouting and beseeching. ‘What is happening?’ asked Dionysius loudly. ‘Will someone tell me what is going on?’

  The shouting died down a little; one of the old men recognized him and said: ‘Your commander has ordered the evacuation of the city!’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Dionysius in amazement. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You heard him,’ broke in Diocles. ‘The city must be evacuated.’

  ‘You’re crazy. You can’t do that.’

  ‘I’m your commander, I demand respect!’ shouted Diocles in a fit. His right cheek was clearly swollen with the punch he had received that morning.

  ‘You have to deserve respect,’ retorted Dionysius. ‘These people have fought with superhuman courage: they deserve our support and we’re still capable of winning. Hannibal lost twice as many men as we did. We can call in the navy infantry and . . .’

  ‘You just don’t understand, do you? Hannibal’s fleet is heading for Syracuse. We have to return immediately after having secured whatever we can here.’

  Diocles stared at him with an incredulous expression. ‘Who told you such a thing? Who?’

  Dionysius seemed to hesitate, then said: ‘Someone who arrived after you had gone.’

  ‘Someone? What does that mean: “someone”? Did you see him? Did you talk to him? Do you know his name? Does anyone in the city know him?’

  Diocles snapped at his insistent questions. ‘I’m not obliged to account to you for my decisions. You are my subordinate,’ he shouted, ‘and you must only obey my orders!’

  Dionysius got even closer. ‘Yes, I’m your subordinate, here, in time of war and under wartime laws, but once we get back to Syracuse I become a citizen again, and while you can accuse me of punching you in the face, I can have the Assembly incriminate you for high treason. I assure you that all my friends in the Company will uphold the charge.’

  Diocles struggled to curb his anger: ‘The city has become indefensible, understand? We’ve lost a third of our forces, and it’s more than likely that Hannibal’s fleet is sailing towards Syracuse, taking advantage of our absence. Everyone is saying so; it must be true.’

  ‘You are taking on an enormous responsibility,’ replied Dionysius. ‘The fate of this city and the blood of this people will be on your hands.’ He turned and made to leave, but Diocles stopped him.

  ‘Wait! Stop, I say! And the rest of you as well, listen to me. Call back your commanders, convince them to listen to my plan. You’ll realize yourselves that it’s the only sensible way to proceed.’

  It took hours before the Himeran commanders could be convinced to return. Dionysius and the other Syracusan officers were present as well when Diocles began to speak.

  ‘I know what you’re feeling. I know that you’ve sworn to defend the city to the very end, but think about it: what good will this sacrifice do? Why give up your lives if you cannot save those of your wives and your children? What solace will you have, dying, to know that they will be enslaved and at the mercy of a cruel enemy? Heed my words; listen to the plan I’ve prepared. We will evacuate the city in three stages. There will be a new moon tonight; the darkness will allow us to take the women and children aboard the fleet. Our ships will take them to Messana, where they will be protected by a navy infantry unit.

  ‘Phase two: another group will follow us to Syracuse by land, along the coastal dune that hid our approach.

  ‘Phase three: the fleet will return before dawn and take aboard anyone still in the city. If there is not enough room on the ships for everyone, those remaining can scatter through the countryside or try to reach us in Syracuse, where we will provide them with help. When Hannibal orders the attack, he’ll find the city deserted.’

  A deadly silence fell over the council hall, and no one dared speak: the mere thought of abandoning the city where they were born and had lived was more terrible than death. After a while, one of the Himerans arose and spoke for all of them.

  ‘Listen to us now, Syracusan. We’ve decided to resist at any cost because that barbarian out there is a bloodthirsty beast and he has sworn to exterminate us for offences we are not to blame for. We readied for combat because you had promised to help us, whereas now you force us to surrender, for we both know full well that we could never succeed alone. This plan of yours is folly, and you are well aware of that. You have twenty-five ships out there, but they are certainly not merchant ships. They are war vessels. How can you think of transporting so many people? You know full well that many of us will be left behind, defenceless, to await a horrible death.

  ‘We are asking you, Syracusans, to reconsider. Remain here with your soldiers and fight at our sides! We will repair the breach, and we will resist until the very last drop of sweat and blood. You will not regret it if you decide to stay. We implore you to remain. Do not abandon us, in the name of the gods!’

  ‘I am sorry,’ replied Diocles. ‘The city is indefensible. Return to your homes, gather together your women and children. Your time is running out; dusk is upon us.’

  ‘Traitors!’ shouted out a voice.

  ‘Cowards!’ shouted another.

 
But Diocles did not blink an eye; he walked off in the direction of the eastern gate. Dionysius felt those invectives branding his skin like fire, but he could neither do nor say anything.

  The sad exodus began as soon as night fell. The women could not bear to let their arms fall from their husbands’ necks, the children wept pitifully, calling out their fathers’ names. They had to be compelled to leave the city by sheer force. Dionysius’s task was to accompany them to the beach and see to it that they boarded the ships. The rest of the Syracusan army, escorting about one thousand people, began their march along the coastal dune, trying to distance themselves as quickly as possible from the walls of the condemned city. The soldiers marched in silence and their ears were filled, all night long, with the soft, harrowing laments of the women and children who were abandoning their homeland.

  The fleet reached the confines of Messanian territory at the third hour that night. Dionysius disembarked the refugees along with about fifty of his soldiers who would escort them to Messana. He turned back with just a few of his men, who grimly took up the oars at the rowers’ sides, in an attempt to reach Himera before dawn.

  An unfortunate westerly wind greatly delayed their return, despite the concerted efforts of the crews, and when they finally came within sight of Himera, they were forced to witness a horrifying spectacle.

  Hannibal, in utmost secrecy, had had a second mine dug under the city walls. A vast stretch of the walls came crashing down just as the Syracusan sailors were approaching the bay. The Punic mercenaries raged through the city, massacring all those they found and capturing a great number of others.

  Dionysius, on board the flagship, was devastated; he ran to the navarch, who stood at the stern. ‘Quickly, put ashore,’ he said, ‘we’ll land all the available forces. The barbarians are scattered and intent on their plunder: if we fall upon them in a compact attack, we can turn around the situation and . . .’