Tyrant

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  The navarch cut him short. ‘Don’t even think of it. My orders are to bring the population to safety and return to Syracuse as soon as possible, not to engage in combat. There’s no one left here to save. Those poor souls are done for; there’s nothing we can do for them any more.’ He turned towards the helmsman. ‘Turn the bow east,’ he ordered, ‘and hoist the sails. We’ll head for the Straits.’

  The big trireme made a wide semicircle towards the north before sailing back in the direction of Messana; the others followed suit one by one, slipping off along the coast. The soldiers on board tried to turn their eyes away from land, but the wind carried to their ears the shrieks – muted by the distance – of the dying city.

  The three thousand prisoners taken were tortured one by one with the most atrocious of methods, with no regard for either age or sex, and then slaughtered on the stone where Hamilcar, the grandfather of the Carthaginian leader, was said to have died. The walls were demolished, the city destroyed, and the Temple of Nike, raised to commemorate the great battle won seventy-two years before against the Carthaginians, was razed to the ground.

  Himera perished two hundred and thirty-nine years after her founding. In the end, having satisfied his desire for vengeance and victory, Hannibal son of Gisco returned rich with plunder to Panormus where he boarded the ships that would take him back to Carthage. The threat of the fleet attacking Syracuse had never existed, except in the imagination and duplicity of the same high command which had allowed Selinus to perish, preparing the way for the barbarian to enter the very heart of Sicily.

  Philistus finished dictating, and the scribe placed the quill back into its case. ‘That’s enough for today,’ he said. ‘The story we’ve told is sad enough.’

  His servant bowed and left the room. Philistus neared the papyrus scroll, still wet with ink, and let his gaze fall on the few lines that summed up the martyrdom of one of the most beautiful and glorious Greek cities of the West. He sighed and put a hand on his forehead as if to suppress the destructive force of those images. From his window he could see a warship entering the northern harbour; the sailors were just dropping a rope for mooring. The sun was setting on the horizon, making the acroteria sparkle on the Temple of Athena in Ortygia. The cries of the gulls mixed with the calls of the swallows returning to their nests under the roof of the great sanctuary.

  He called a servant. ‘Run down to the port and see if the ship that’s just about to dock is carrying any news; come back and let me know immediately.’

  The servant hastened out and Philistus continued to pace back and forth in his study, wondering what had become of Dionysius, of whom he had heard nothing for quite some time. News of the massacre of Himera had shaken the city, and the arrival of Diocles with thousands of despairing refugees in his wake – added to the survivors of Selinus who had been evacuated to Acragas – filled the people with an oppressive sense of anguish. Until just a few months earlier, Carthage had been nothing more to them than a far-off city that maintained a small base in an island of western Sicily. Now Carthage was a looming threat, a monster that was gobbling up the Greek cities one after another, wiping out entire populations.

  Besides all this, the fact that Diocles had abandoned the fallen bodies of the Syracusan warriors and their allies, leaving them without burial under the walls of Himera, had caused deep pain and consternation to hundreds of families in the city, where just about everyone knew each other.

  Many other warriors were missing, and Philistus asked himself whether Dionysius was among them. He was one of the most fearless, one of the strongest, always the first to cross blades with the enemy and the last to leave the battlefield. Men like him were more prone to suffer the blows of fate.

  The servant returned after sunset with an important message. ‘One of the officers aboard the trireme is a member of the Company. He wants to meet you in private under the portico of the Temple of Apollo, at the sounding of the first guard shift.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Knowing you, master, I replied that you would be there. And that if you weren’t, you would send me to set up another appointment.’

  ‘Good man, I knew I could trust you. Now fetch me my cloak, and go have dinner in the kitchen.’

  ‘Don’t you want me to accompany you with my lantern, master? It will be dark soon.’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary. The light of the moon will be sufficient.’

  He set off as soon as he heard the bugle up on the bastions sounding the first change of the guard. He entered the maze of narrow curving roads of the old city. As he neared the square in front of the temple, he scanned the porticoes but saw no one. He waited a little before coming out into the open, then crossed the nearly deserted square and walked up the steps that led to the front portico.

  A man slipped out from behind a column almost immediately and approached him. ‘Are you Philistus?’ he asked.

  ‘I am. And who are you?’

  ‘My name is Chabrias. I’m from the Company and I know Dionysius,’ replied the man, showing him the leather bracelet wrapped around his wrist: it bore the figure of a dolphin.

  Philistus pulled back the sleeve of his tunic to show the same.

  ‘I have a message from Dionysius,’ said Chabrias.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘He says that he is well, but that he would rather have died than witness such an atrocity.’

  ‘I understand. What else?’

  ‘He is in Messana, but he has no intention to return to Syracuse. He wants your help.’

  ‘Speak.’

  ‘He needs money . . .’

  ‘I imagined as much. Here it is,’ said Philistus, laying his hand on a purse which hung from his belt.

  ‘He also wants you to deliver this letter to a girl named Arete who is living in Acragas as Tellias’s guest,’ the man added, passing him a small leather cylinder.

  ‘She will receive it within three days at the most.’

  ‘If the girl decides to remain at Acragas, you can return home without any further ado. If she decides to set off on a journey, Dionysius asks you, in the name of the friendship that binds you, to find her an escort so she runs no risks.’

  ‘Tell him not to worry; I shall see to the whole matter myself.’ He gave the man the money and turned to go.

  ‘There’s something else,’ said the man, beckoning with his finger.

  ‘I’m listening,’ replied Philistus, not without a certain apprehension.

  ‘Hermocrates landed in Messana the other night with ten warships and several hundred mercenaries.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ asked Philistus incredulously.

  ‘It’s the absolute truth. This is why Dionysius hasn’t returned. You must pass word on to everyone in the Company and tell them to stay on guard. They may need to use their fists.’

  ‘Their fists,’ nodded Philistus. He was thinking of how many young members of the secret society were raring to fight at Dionysius’s side. ‘Listen . . .’ he said then, but the man who called himself Chabrias had already vanished.

  5

  Dionysius to Arete, Hail!

  What I have seen and heard of late cannot be described. In part, you’ll be told what has happened by the person who brings you this letter, and the rest you will learn from my own words, I hope. I need only tell you that in my whole life I have never suffered such horror or felt such humiliation. The disaster of Selinus, which you lived through yourself, was repeated in an even more frightful and cruel way with the fall and destruction of Himera.

  In the midst of so much misfortune and shame, one reason for hope remains: ships and men have been gathering in Messana, all of us truly determined to avenge the massacre perpetrated by the barbarians. I’ve joined these men with a select group from the Company and I’ve declared my willingness to take on whatever mission they shall entrust me with.

  I know that by doing so I will be cutting off any chance I have of making a name for myself in my ow
n city, of building myself a future in politics or even as a simple citizen, and yet I am asking you to join me here, to unite your destiny with mine: to become my bride. As I’ve said, I have nothing to offer you but myself, and I think that a wise woman would refuse the offer of a man like me; I own no property and I have no prospects but that of becoming, perhaps, a bandit and an exile. But I hope that you will show no wisdom and that you will set off to meet with me. The person who has delivered this letter to you is willing to make your transfer as comfortable and as safe as possible, given the circumstances.

  If, on the other hand, you decide not to accept my proposal, I will not think ill of you and you should not consider yourself beholden to me for any reason. What I did for you, I would have done for anyone I found in your conditions.

  I want you to know that I have been thinking of you for all this time I’ve been away, and that I long to see you again.

  Arete folded the letter and looked the person she had in front of her in the eyes: ‘I’ve seen you before,’ she said.

  The man smiled. ‘Yes, in that village between Heraclea and Acragas. Dionysius had just found you. You were in a terrible state. You look much better now.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Philistus,’ replied the man.

  ‘And you’re a friend of Dionysius’s?’

  ‘More than a friend; I’d follow him to the underworld if necessary. Well, what have you decided?’

  ‘I will go to Messana.’

  ‘I hoped as much, and I’ve already prepared everything we’ll need for the journey. When do you want to leave?’

  ‘Now,’ replied the girl.

  ‘Now?’ repeated Philistus in surprise.

  ‘The man I’ve always dreamt of is waiting for me in Messana. Why should I wait?’

  ‘What about me?’ asked a voice behind her. ‘I don’t count for anything?’

  ‘Tellias!’ exclaimed the girl, spinning around. ‘You know how much I care about you, even though you’ve always kept me locked up in the women’s quarters!’

  ‘So that’s why you’re so eager to leave now!’ said Tellias, smiling. ‘Dionysius entrusted you to me and I’ve always kept an eye on you, like grapes when they are ripe.’

  ‘I think we’ll leave tomorrow,’ said Philistus. ‘We’ll go by sea, on the same boat that brought me here. It will be the safest way, but we have to wait for the morning’s light, and for a favourable wind.’

  ‘Do you know anything about what happened at Himera?’ asked Tellias.

  ‘I know what I’ve been told,’ replied Philistus. ‘And it’s enough to make the disaster of Selinus pale in comparison.’

  Arete bowed her head. She was ashamed of the joy she’d felt at the idea of joining Dionysius, thinking of all those poor wretches that the war had created, of the infinite grieving that so many people – close to her by way of blood, language, customs and traditions – would yet have to bear.

  Tellias fell silent as well, as the singing and teasing of a group of youths accompanying a bride to the house of her groom could be heard outside. Little street urchins ran after them, calling out gleeful obscenities.

  ‘There’s always someone celebrating in this city,’ commented Tellias with a sigh. ‘Celebrations for religious feast days, for good harvests and for bad ones as well, because they could have gone worse. We make merry when a child is born, or even a pony, for engagement parties and weddings, for victories in athletic contests, even for funerals: the living must be consoled for the loss of their loved ones!’

  ‘I don’t see anything wrong with that,’ said Philistus. ‘Acragas is a wealthy city: people feel that they can enjoy life.’

  ‘That may be so, but sometimes I have the impression there’s something else behind it. As if they knew their end was near.’

  ‘Oh, come now, Tellias!’ scolded the girl. ‘If the barbarians won, it’s only because they caught us by surprise. Now we’re all ready to defend ourselves . . .’

  Neither Philistus nor Tellias spoke, and in the silence of the night the wedding song could be heard – sung by a solitary voice now on the hill of the temples – spreading through the valley all the way to the agora, carried by the sea wind.

  Tellias’s wife appeared soon afterwards, descending the stair: ‘Come,’ she said, ‘you must see this spectacle!’

  They all got up and went up to the high terrace, from which almost the entire city could be seen, with the stunning temples that stood tall on the hill along the circle of walls. At that moment, midway up the slope, right in front of the groom’s house, a huge fire was being lit. And soon after, as if obeying a signal, other fires were lit at various spots, both on high and down in the valley, on the acropolis and at the base of the walls. It was a beautiful and moving sight. The bonfires continued to multiply until it seemed that the whole city were prey to the flames.

  ‘Phaillus of Megara, the father of the bride, gave every shopkeeper in the city a stack of wood,’ explained the woman, ‘with an order to light up at his signal, at the very moment in which the groom would be taking the bride to their wedding chamber. Those fires reflect his wishes for an ardent, everlasting love.’

  Arete took in the breathtaking scene and felt profoundly moved.

  Tellias looked at his wife, then at Arete: both had tears in their eyes. He shook his head, muttering: ‘Women!’ But despite his teasing banter, it was clear that his mind was occupied by distressing thoughts.

  Philistus took his arm and said: ‘I hear that the best wine in all of Acragas is to be had at your home, but I haven’t been offered a drop yet!’

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Tellias. ‘Let’s leave the women here to enjoy the celebration, and we’ll break out an amphora of the good stuff. We could have dinner in the garden. It’s quite pleasant to sit out, even this early in the season.’

  They sat under the portico and the host had a jug of his best wine brought to while away the time until dinner was served. Philistus watched him attentively as he appraised the colour and fragrance of the precious liquid, swirling it on the bottom of a finely crafted cup, a true jewel of antiquity decorated with black figures of dancing satyrs. And when Tellias raised his cup to toast his guest and put it to his lips, his every gesture showed just how much he appreciated all the fruits of civilization.

  The servants brought out the tables, with fresh bread, meat and legumes, and the two men began to eat.

  ‘There’s no need for you to worry,’ said Philistus, after he’d had a few sips of the wine himself.

  ‘No, I’m not worried at all, not at all. I’m just sorry about Arete leaving us: she’s a treasure, a true delight. I’ll miss her boldness, her spontaneity, her charm. Did you see how quick she was to speak her mind about a political issue, certainly not a suitable subject for a woman, let alone a young girl?’

  ‘You don’t have children, do you, Tellias?’

  ‘No, in fact. I have no children.’

  ‘It’s a pity. You would have been an excellent father.’

  ‘I would have been terrible! I’d have spoiled them as I have that cheeky little thing out there!’ He had another sip of wine and began to eat with quite an appetite. When they had finished, he had another platter brought out, with boiled eggs, cheese and olives. ‘I eat too much!’ he sighed. ‘And I keep getting fatter.’

  ‘That’s not what worries you, though, is it?’

  ‘The Carthaginians will be back.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Why should they? They’ve had their revenge, taken their plunder. They’re merchants, they want to return to their trading. They can’t wait to dismiss all those mercenaries. They’re costing them a mint!’

  ‘Acragas is the border city now,’ continued Tellias as if Philistus hadn’t spoken.

  ‘That does not mean they will attack.’

  ‘Yes, it does. Tell me: what do you think Dionysius is doing in Messana?’

  ‘He’s helping the refugees, as he always has done.’

&nb
sp; ‘Perhaps, but he’s certainly getting himself into trouble as well. Word has it that many of the survivors are regrouping for a counter-attack. If they manage it, you can be sure that Dionysius will be among them. He’s a hothead; he’s bold, he’s reckless, he’s not happy unless he’s picking a fight with someone . . .’

  ‘A man of courage, a dreamer, a patriot, perhaps . . . a hero?’ suggested Philistus.

  ‘The Carthaginians will certainly react if they are provoked.’

  ‘True enough; that can’t be excluded, but it’s not a foregone conclusion. Wars cost money, as I’ve already pointed out.’

  ‘What time will you be leaving tomorrow?’ asked Tellias.

  ‘Early, at daybreak.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll be there, even though I detest farewells. I’ve had a bed prepared for you. The servants will accompany you with a lantern. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Tellias,’ replied Philistus, getting to his feet and following one of the servants, who led him to his quarters.

  Tellias remained alone under the portico, watching in silence as the wedding fires went out one after another, until the city was totally in the dark.

  They said goodbye at the door. Arete threw her arms around Tellias’s neck and hugged his wife; she seemed loath to leave them. ‘If you could see what I feel in my heart right now,’ she said, ‘you would know how much I care for you and how grateful I am to you for having treated me like a daughter. I would give anything to be able to repay your generosity!’

  ‘Just getting rid of you will be a nice gift on its own: you are the most impertinent, petulant . . .’ grumbled Tellias in an effort not to break down.

  Arete went from tears to laughter. ‘That’s just why I’m going! Be good, my pot-bellied friend!’

  ‘You too, little one,’ replied Tellias, his eyes shining.

  ‘I’ll keep you informed,’ said Philistus in parting.

  He accompanied the girl to the southern gate, which was already open at that hour. They continued past the monumental tombs that flanked the street. Arete pointed them out to her companion, telling him about the famous athletes, philosophers and rulers who were buried there, all things she had learned during her stay in the city. Every now and then, they turned around to contemplate the acropolis, illuminated by the rays of dawn, and the acroteria of the temples that stood high above the walls. The shrill notes of a bugle on the tallest tower saluted the sun’s rising.