Tyrant

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  The view was even more glorious from the ship, as it began to pull away from the coast. The temples on the hill, and the Temple of Athena on the acropolis, rose up over the city as if the hand of a god were lifting them up to the sky. On the west side, they could clearly see the still unfinished sanctuary of Zeus: the grandiose pediment crowded with despairing figures, the giants bearing the immense rooftop on their shoulders.

  ‘Do you really think the city is in danger?’ asked Arete.

  ‘No, I really don’t think so,’ replied Philistus. ‘Acragas is invincible.’

  ‘Then why is Tellias so stricken?’

  Philistus looked away for a moment so she would not notice his apprehension. ‘He was sad about you going away, that’s all. And a little worried, too: a voyage by sea is always risky.’

  Arete fell silent, watching as the most beautiful city that man had ever built slowly faded into the distance and vanished over the ridge of the waves that washed against the ship as the wind carried it away. She suddenly said, as if speaking to herself, ‘Will we ever see her again?’

  Philistus pretended he hadn’t heard, this time.

  They reached Gela as night was coming on and they dropped anchor at the mouth of the river from which the city took her name, represented on her silver coins as a bull with a human face. The city had been built on a rocky cliff which stretched out both to the east and to the west and was defended by formidable walls made of huge blocks of grey stone. Gela was the metropolis of Acragas, and had been founded by colonists from Rhodes and Crete nearly three centuries earlier. The city had also been the birthplace of Gelon, he who had won over the Carthaginians at Himera, unleashing such undying hate and thirst for vengeance in Carthage that three generations later she had struck back.

  There in the city of Gela slept Aeschylus, the great tragic poet, and Arete wanted to visit his grave before darkness fell. It was a modest tomb, topped by a slab bearing a brief epigraph:

  Here lies Aeschylus, son of Euphorion of Athens,

  having died at Gela of the rich harvests.

  His valour can be vouched for by those who beheld it:

  the Mede of the flowing tresses

  and the Sacred Forest of Marathon.

  Arete was moved as she read the inscription. ‘Not a word about his glory as a poet!’ she commented. ‘Only about his valour in war.’

  ‘They don’t make his kind any more these days,’ observed Philistus.

  They set off again the following morning before dawn, after having refurbished their water supply, and sailed towards Camarina, where early that afternoon they spotted the Temple of Athena emerging from the red rooftops of the city.

  ‘Camarina has always been hostile to Syracuse, even during the war against the Athenians,’ Philistus explained to Arete. She was leaning against the ship’s railing, watching the city sparkle in the bright sun.

  ‘The cities of the Greeks are like seagulls’ nests perched on the cliffs along the coast,’ observed Arete, ‘surrounded by lands inhabited by barbarians who do not understand our language or worship our gods. We should unite and help each other in time of need, and yet our cities are often at odds. Sometimes we even act as mortal enemies! We consume all our energies in continual conflicts, while the true enemy is looming at the horizon and there’s no one capable of stopping him . . .’

  Philistus was once again impressed and surprised by the girl’s observations. It was unusual for a woman to be on such familiar terms with political topics. Perhaps that was the aspect of her personality that had won Dionysius’s heart. He answered: ‘It’s their very nature that makes it difficult for them to understand each other, much less to form a true alliance. You said it well: they are scattered settlements, established by communities who have come from many different places. They only unite when they are forced to do so by a danger so great that it threatens their very existence. But by then it’s often too late. It’s a pity, because when the Greeks of Sicily have joined together they have achieved great victories.’

  ‘Do you think unity is still possible?’

  ‘Perhaps. But what we need is a man who is capable of convincing all these cities that unity is essential for survival. Using every means possible, even force, if necessary.’

  ‘Such a man would be a tyrant in his own city, and would be seen as such by all the others,’ objected Arete staunchly.

  ‘There are times in which people must give up a part of their own freedom if life itself is at stake, and the survival of entire communities. Can’t you see that? There are situations in which the people themselves are willing to grant exceptional powers to a man who is truly worthy.’

  ‘You seem to be thinking of someone in particular as you’re saying those words,’ said Arete, without looking away from the little city that was disappearing amidst the foaming waves.

  ‘I am. That man is already among us, and you have met him.’

  ‘Dionysius! Are you thinking of Dionysius?’ exclaimed Arete, finally turning to face him. ‘But that’s absurd. He’s only a boy.’

  ‘Age doesn’t mean anything. What counts is courage, intelligence and determination, and those are qualities he possesses to the highest degree. You can’t even imagine the enormous sway he holds over people, and how many men not only admire him but would be willing to do anything for him.’

  ‘I can imagine it very well, actually,’ replied Arete with a smile.

  It took them two more days to reach Syracuse, where they docked on the southern shore of the Great Harbour. Philistus sent a couple of men into the city to buy food at the market and get water. He himself stayed on board with the girl, knowing that Dionysius expected constant and prudent attention on his part. He noticed that Arete seemed unnerved when she first saw the city, and could not hide a marked agitation.

  ‘Do you know someone here?’ Philistus asked her.

  ‘I spent my childhood here,’ replied Arete, trying to control herself.

  ‘Really? Then perhaps I know your parents.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ replied the girl, and went to sit at the aft deck to put an end to the conversation.

  Philistus said nothing else, and occupied himself with the provisions. He gave orders for dinner to be eaten on board; no one was to go ashore.

  Before the sun set, she sought out her escort again. ‘Can you see his house from here?’ she asked.

  Philistus smiled and pointed at a spot in front of him. ‘Look straight up there, above Achradina, where the theatre is. Now follow an imaginary line to the causeway of Ortygia. See the terraced house with the trellis, about halfway down the road?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Well, that’s where Dionysius lives.’

  ‘Are his parents there?’

  ‘They’re gone. His father, Hermocritus, died during the Great War, when the Athenians were laying siege to Syracuse. His mother followed him to the tomb just a short time later; she died of an incurable illness. At sixteen he found himself having to care for his little sisters, who are all now married in other cities, and his brother Leptines.’

  Arete asked nothing more, but never took her eyes off the red roof tiles and the trellis until the sun vanished over the horizon.

  Two more days passed before they came within sight of Mount Aetna, still hooded with snow. So tall, with its curl of smoke. The gulf was a wonder, set against a coastal plain full of olive trees and grapevines that were just starting to sprout tender springtime leaves.

  Naxos stretched out along the coast. The first colony of the Greeks in Sicily, her biggest temple still stood on the spot near the beach where the city’s fathers had touched land, led by Tucles, her founder. Philistus explained that an altar to Apollo, Leader of Men, stood in the agora; he was the god said to guide colonists leaving their homeland in search of fortune on distant shores. All of the delegations sent to Greece to consult the Oracle of Delphi set off from that very altar, the oldest sacred place on the entire island.

  ‘No one woul
d ever attempt to migrate,’ pointed out Philistus, ‘without the assistance of the Oracle. The voice of the Oracle indicates the place where the emigrants should found a new homeland, and the best time to take to sea. That’s why you’ll find an altar to Apollo in many colonies; sometimes even a temple, like at Cyrene in Africa . . .’

  ‘Have you ever visited Cyrene?’ asked Arete, her curiosity piqued.

  ‘Certainly. It’s a marvellous city. There’s a huge inscription, right in the main square, that reproduces the oath of the colonists. Do you know the story of the founding of Cyrene? One day I’ll tell you all about it; it’s a fabulous adventure, full of extraordinary happenings.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me the story now?’ asked Arete.

  ‘No, another time,’ replied Philistus. ‘The closer we get to our destination, the more I can tell that your mind is occupied by other thoughts. It’s only right, and I can imagine why.’

  ‘It’s not easy to keep anything hidden from you,’ said Arete.

  ‘I’ve dedicated my life to studying man’s nature and actions, and I hope I’ve learned something. And yet I can tell that you’re going to surprise me, sooner or later. There are many things in you that I still can’t understand.’

  ‘When will we get to Messana?’ asked Arete, changing the subject.

  ‘This evening, if the weather stays good. Our journey is almost over.’

  They entered the great sickle-shaped harbour of Messana at sunset and Arete was as excited as a little girl to see the Straits that divided Sicily from Italy. Rhegium, on the other side, seemed close enough to touch with a hand. ‘What a magnificent place!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s hard to imagine that Scylla and Charybdis were here.’

  ‘What seems like such a marvellous place to you now, with beautiful cities on both sides, looked wild and treacherous to the first navigators that ventured into these waters. The strong current of the Straits tossed their fragile vessels against the rocks this way and that. The sight of Mount Aetna with its rivers of fire, the rumbling that shook the earth, the cliffs towering on the east, the dark forests . . . it all seemed monstrous and threatening. And so they imagined that Odysseus, the wandering hero, had ploughed these turbulent waters long before they had, managing to defeat the monsters, overcome the Cyclops, trick the sirens, elude Circe’s sorcery . . .’

  Arete turned towards the Sicilian shore and gazed at the beautiful harbour swarming with vessels; the sea had turned the colour of lead and the distant clouds were reddened by the last rays of the sun. Even the plume of Mount Aetna was tinged with unreal colours, and she understood what Philistus’s words meant. ‘I could listen to you for days and days,’ she said. ‘It’s been a privilege to spend this time with you.’

  ‘As it has been for me,’ replied Philistus.

  Arete dropped her eyes and asked with a blush: ‘How do I look to you? I mean . . . don’t you think I look too skinny?’

  Philistus smiled. ‘You look beautiful to me. But look, there’s someone coming this way, and I’d say he can’t wait to get you into his arms.’

  Arete glanced over at the dockyard and was struck dumb: Dionysius was running towards her like a young god, dressed only in a light chlamys, his hair curling over his shoulders. He was shouting out her name.

  She would have wanted to run and shout as well, or maybe break down in tears, but she could do nothing. Still and silent, she gripped the ship’s railing and looked at him as if he were a vision from a dream.

  Dionysius sprang from the edge of the wharf and grabbed the ship’s railing from the other side. He hoisted himself up on his arms and pushed himself clear over the railing. She found him standing in front of her.

  She could only gasp: ‘How did you know that . . . ?’

  ‘Every evening I watch the mouth of the harbour hoping to see you arrive.’

  ‘You haven’t changed your mind? Are you sure that . . .’

  Dionysius cut off her words with a kiss as he pulled her close. Arete threw her arms around him and felt herself melt in the heat of his embrace as she abandoned herself to the fiery words he whispered in her ear.

  Dionysius stepped back and said to her, smiling: ‘Now we have to respect tradition. Come on, I’ve got to ask for your hand in marriage.’

  ‘What do you mean . . . ask for my hand? Ask who? I’m all alone, I’m . . .’

  ‘Ask your father, little girl. Hermocrates is here.’

  Arete looked at Philistus and then again at Dionysius, saying: ‘My father? Oh gods in heaven, my father?’ Her eyes welled up with tears.

  6

  HERMOCRATES HAD BEEN told only that Dionysius had asked to be received and that he would have a person with him who wanted to see him. He suddenly found the daughter he had thought dead standing in front of him.

  He was a hard man, tempered by the vicissitudes of an adventurous life, a proud, austere aristocrat, but he was thoroughly shaken by the sight of her. Arete did not dare run to him, in keeping with the respect she’d been taught to have for her father since she was young. She took a few timid steps in his direction, without daring to look him in the eye. He had always been more of an image, an idol, for her than a real parent, and the sudden, dramatic intimacy of such an extreme situation made her feel panicky and light-headed. Her heart was beating so hard she thought she would suffocate. But her father rose to his feet as soon as he had got over his shock and he ran to her, holding her close in a long, emotional hug. She burst into tears as all her tension dissolved and she clung to his neck. She stood there without moving, in the middle of that plain, bare room, wrapped in the warmth of an embrace that she had always desired.

  It was Dionysius’s voice that shook her to her senses: ‘Hegemon

  Hermocrates seemed only then to notice his presence. He looked at him with a quizzical expression, not understanding how that young warrior could have brought him the daughter that he had thought lost to him forever.

  ‘Father,’ said Arete, ‘it’s to him I owe my life. He found me nearly unconscious along the road. He helped me up, he comforted me, protected me . . .’

  Hermocrates shot a suddenly dark, suspicious look at the young man he had in front of him.

  ‘. . . and respected me,’ concluded Arete.

  Hermocrates released her and turned to Dionysius. ‘I thank you for what you have done. Tell me how I can reward you.’

  ‘I’ve already had my reward, hegemon. Meeting your daughter was the greatest fortune that has ever befallen me. The privilege of talking to her and listening to her words has changed me profoundly—’

  ‘It’s all ended up well,’ Hermocrates cut him off. ‘I’m very grateful to you, boy, more than you can imagine. When I learned about the fall of Selinus and found no way to have news of my daughter, I was tortured by the thought that she might be a prisoner, dragged who knows where in slavery, exposed to brutality and violence of every sort . . . The uncertainty of her fate was even more painful for me than if I had learned of her death. There is no worse torture for a father than not knowing the destiny of his daughter. My properties and my wealth have been confiscated, but I still have something hidden away. Let me pay you back.’

  ‘There’s no price for what I’m about to ask you, hegemon,’ said Dionysius with a firm voice, looking him straight in the eyes, ‘because I intend to ask you to give me the daughter I’ve just returned to you.’

  ‘But . . . what are you saying . . .’ stuttered Hermocrates.

  ‘I’ve fallen in love with him, father,’ Arete broke in. ‘As soon as I saw him, as soon as I opened my eyes. And from that moment I’ve wanted nothing but to be his bride and live with him every day that the gods shall grant us.’

  Hermocrates looked like he’d been struck by lightning, and couldn’t say a word.

  ‘I know, I’m a man of humble birth,’ continued Dionysius, ‘and I should never have even raised my eyes to her, but the love I feel for her gives me the courage to dare so much. I will prove myself worthy of your daughte
r and of you, hegemon. You will not regret having granted me so great a treasure. I’m not asking for her hand because I want to have a family and ensure my progeny, nor in order to bind myself to one of the most illustrious houses of my city, and certainly not to take the credit for having brought her back to you. I would have tried to save anyone I found in those conditions. I’m asking you for her hand because without her there would be no joy in my life, because I want to love her and protect her against any harm or danger, even at the cost of my own life.’

  Hermocrates nodded solemnly without saying a word, and Arete, realizing that he had consented, hugged him tightly, whispering in his ear: ‘Thank you, father, thank you . . . I’m happy because I’m with the only people in the world who mean something to me.’

  Their marriage was celebrated the following day. Since Arete had no friends who could accompany her to her husband’s house, and since her husband had no house of his own in Messana, the noblest families of the city offered Dionysius a home, and their virgin daughters accompanied the bride to her wedding chamber to loosen the belt of her gown. Arete thought of the fires of Acragas and of the solitary song of the poet on the hill of the temples as she made her way to the house where Dionysius was waiting for her. He was a hero to her; the man who most resembled her father, the love she’d dreamt of since she was a child, when she would listen to fanciful stories on her mother’s knee.

  The procession was festive, the young people along the way shouted and teased, the children chanted the traditional nursery rhyme that wished offspring of both sexes upon the couple.