‘You’re mad! What for?’ replied Daphnaeus.
‘Some friends of mine remained behind. I want to try to help them.’
‘There’s no one left to help, I’m afraid. You know the barbarians will have cleaned out the city. The able men they take as slaves to sell them off, the others they kill. Who were your friends?’
Dionysius shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He turned back down the column. He was struck by the sight of a shivering, mud-splattered young woman who was holding a little boy and girl by the hand, perhaps her younger siblings. She reminded him somehow of Arete and of the similar situation in which he had met her; he suddenly felt that the gods had given him another chance to help her, to soothe the pain that must still afflict her in Hades.
He approached the young woman, got off his horse and handed her his cloak. ‘Take this,’ he said, ‘I don’t need it.’
The girl replied with a wan smile, and continued walking under the rain.
The Carthaginian army was installed in Acragas after having amassed the huge amount of booty taken from a city which in the two hundred years since its founding had never been defeated or sacked. They had been careful not to damage the houses so they could occupy them for the rest of the winter. In doing so they showed their manifest intention of continuing their campaign of conquest. They would not stop as long as a single Greek city remained in Sicily.
The new frontier was Gela, the city where Aeschylus, the great tragedian, had died. The epigraph on his tomb in the necropolis said not a word about his glory as a poet, but commemorated him as a warrior, fighting at Marathon against the Persians, words that sounded now like a warning of imminent grief. The Acragantine refugees were settled in Leontini, where they would stay until the situation allowed their return.
Daphnaeus held council in Gela with his officers, including Spartan commander Dexippus, and the Geloan generals. ‘What do you think should be done?’ he asked the Geloans. ‘What are your intentions?’
‘We want to stay,’ replied their chief commander, a man of about fifty named Nicandrus. He was an aristocrat, old-fashioned and inflexible, and he seemed absolutely determined, even though every feature of his face and every wrinkle of his brow betrayed his distress.
‘If this is your decision,’ replied Daphnaeus, ‘we shall help you. We will do everything in our power to drive away the barbarians and prevent another catastrophe. What happened at Acragas will not repeat itself. Events somehow took an unforeseeable turn there, I suspect as the result of betrayal. We were taken by surprise when we were already sure of victory.’
‘Never say the word victory until the enemy is annihilated,’
retorted Nicandrus dryly. ‘I thank you, nonetheless, in the name of my city for your willingness to draw up at our side.’
‘Dexippus will remain here,’ said Daphnaeus, ‘together with his mercenaries, until operations resume.’
‘Dexippus is an idiot,’ thought Dionysius, ‘if not a traitor.’ But he didn’t say a word. He stood at the back of the Council room, leaning against the door jamb, with his arms folded like a caryatid’s; his face showed no emotion, as if it were made of marble. He thought of Tellias and his wife, who he had loved deeply and would never see again, and of the suffering they must have borne before dying. He thought of Acragas, lost and violated, of the girl he had given his cloak to; perhaps by now she’d fallen exhausted into the mud, leaving the two little ones to weep under the lashing rain. He too wanted to weep, to yell, to curse.
He left instead, after fulfilling all his duties, along a dark road that led to the western gate. Absorbed in thought, he was sure deep down that Gela would fall, as Selinus, Himera and Acragas had fallen, because of the incompetence of the commanders, the cowardice of Daphnaeus, the stupidity of Dexippus.
The Geloan authorities had arranged for the command to be hosted in the prytaneum, but Dionysius had preferred to rent an anonymous little house for himself near the walls. He had no esteem for the other officers, and no desire to stay with them. He entered the house and went up to the terrace to contemplate the view of the city and the sea.
He knew what needed to be done! A commander had to observe, analyse, study every detail of the territory, all the roads of access and escape, the weak spots in the walls, the fastest ways to get provisions, the play of currents in the sea, the winds in the sky, the passageways both inside the city and along the coast. And then come to a decision, grit his teeth and get on with it, at any cost, without listening to anyone. Overwhelm, wipe out, annihilate. That’s what it meant to command an army and lead it to victory! What did those faint-hearted windbags know about it? All they were capable of doing was filling their mouths with high-sounding promises they’d never be able to keep.
The sun emerged from behind the thick bank of clouds for a few moments, shedding its last red and purple light before vanishing behind the horizon. The sea turned to liquid lead, swollen by the powerful push of the south-west wind. The billows, edged with grey foam, surged, roaring, all the way to the hill of Gela. Lamps were lit in the houses, smoke curled out of the chimneys and the moon was a pale ghost behind a frayed curtain of clouds. Dionysius sighed.
He was startled by the sudden noise of someone knocking insistently at the door downstairs. His thoughts interrupted, Dionysius went down to the ground floor and said: ‘Who’s there?’
‘It’s me, open up,’ replied Philistus’s voice.
‘Look at you!’ said Dionysius, opening the door. ‘You’re soaked, give me your cloak.’
Philistus came in, pale, his teeth chattering with the cold.
‘Wait, let me start the fire,’ Dionysius said, lighting a torch from the lamp burning in front of an image painted on the wall. He set aflame a little pile of runners on the hearthstone at the centre of the bare room. The crackling of the pine branches filled the room as they burned, diffusing a cosy warmth. ‘I don’t have much to eat,’ he said. ‘A chunk of bread, I think, and a little cheese. And there’s only water to drink.’
‘I’m not here to eat or to drink,’ replied Philistus. ‘I bring you the greetings of your brother Leptines, your adoptive father Heloris and the chiefs of the Company. The news of the defeat of Acragas has already reached Syracuse and the city is in an uproar. What have they decided, here in Gela?’
‘To resist,’ replied Dionysius, setting the bread and cheese to warm on the hearthstone and adding a little wood to the pile.
Philistus shrugged. ‘Like Acragas, like Himera, like Selinus.’
‘Yes.’
‘We can’t wait and watch another disaster without doing anything.’
‘There’s only one way to prevent it,’ said Dionysius, staring into his friend’s eyes in the glow of the flames.
‘I feel the same way. Are you ready?’
‘I am,’ replied Dionysius.
‘So are we.’
‘Proceed. I’ll reach you in Syracuse.’
‘When?’
‘With the army, when we return.’
‘Too late. We’ll act at the next Assembly; everything is ready. In seven days’ time.’
‘I can’t just go off. Daphnaeus is just waiting for the chance to accuse me of desertion. He’d love to see me with my hands tied behind my back in front of a squad of archers.’
‘I’ll take care of that. Tomorrow at dawn you’ll receive an order from the Council that demands your immediate return for reasons of State. False, obviously. You try to object, as if you were displeased with the order. Not too strenuously, of course.’
‘I understand.’
‘Fine. I’ll be waiting for you in Camarina, at the house of Proxenus, the shield-maker. We’ll continue the journey together.’
Dionysius nodded in silence. His gaze was fixed on the flames in the hearth. ‘Have you heard about Tellias?’ he asked suddenly.
‘What?’
‘He remained at Acragas, with his wife.’
‘I wouldn’t
have imagined otherwise. You know that Tellias would never have left his city. He could never have accepted the humiliation of defeat and deportation.’
‘I’ve lost them. They were very dear to me.’
‘I know. They loved you as well, like the son they’d always dreamed of and never had.’
‘A lot of people are going to pay for this. Both Greeks and barbarians.’
Philistus did not answer. He picked up the cloak that had been drying near the fire.
‘It’s still wet,’ protested Dionysius.
‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t have time to wait for it to dry. I must go back.’
‘It’s dark out. Sleep here and leave first thing in the morning.’
‘It’s always dark, lately. What difference does it make?’ He threw the cloak over his shoulders and went out.
Dionysius stood at the threshold, watching the hooded figure as he walked away and listening to the thunder rumbling in the distance on the crests of the Hyblaean Mountains.
The next day he was summoned by Daphnaeus shortly after dawn.
‘You must leave immediately for Syracuse,’ he told him. ‘You must report to the Council within three days at the most. You’ll be able to change horses at our garrisons along the way.’
‘Why must I leave? I’m much more useful here.’
‘You must leave because I’ve ordered you to do so. We’ll do fine here without you.’
Dionysius feigned disappointment. Before departing, he took a glance at the missive on Daphnaeus’s table, the fragments of the wax seal still scattered around it. He then cast a last look into his commander’s eyes; his expression was difficult for Daphnaeus to decipher but promised no good.
Dionysius tore through the countryside on his horse and arrived at Camarina before evening. He found Philistus already at Proxenus’s house, where they would be spending the night.
The news of the fall of Acragas had spread panic through the city; some were already preparing to leave for destinations inland, particularly those who had estates and farms, but both the government of the city and the Assembly of Warriors had decided to send reinforcements to Gela, if she were attacked, and to defend her at any cost.
‘They’ve finally understood that no city can suffice unto herself,’ concluded Philistus.
‘No, I think they’ve always known that,’ objected Dionysius. ‘And the army at Acragas was twice as strong as the force that the Athenians attacked us with during the war. What’s been missing is a hand capable of guiding them.’
‘That’s true,’ commented Proxenus. ‘Look what’s happening now in Athens. I was there three months ago selling weapons.
They’ve never recovered from the setback they suffered here in Sicily, and now they’ve driven off the only man who could still win a naval battle: Alcibiades, Pericles’s nephew. They said he’d gone off whoring while his fleet engaged Lysander in battle; it may very well be true, but now who are they going to get to command them? Conon, can you imagine? The poor idiot has never won a battle in his life. In fact, the first thing he did was to get himself stuck in the port of Mitilene—’
‘Did you go to the theatre in Athens?’ interrupted Philistus, changing the subject.
‘Yes, but there’s very little left to see any more. Tragic theatre died with Euripides and Sophocles. But comedy, now that’s another matter. I went to a comedy by Aristophanes and let me tell you, I nearly died laughing. There’s never been anyone like him – he insults politicians, lawyers, philosophers, even the people in the audience, calls them assholes, and yet everyone in the theatre is rocking with laughter.’
‘If the Spartans won,’ broke in Dionysius, bringing the conversation back to their prior topic, ‘they’d be free to send the army and fleet to Sicily to help us.’
‘Don’t count on it,’ replied Proxenus. ‘They’ve had enough of all these wars themselves. Hostilities have been going on for almost thirty years. No matter how things end up, there will be no winners or losers. They’re all grieving over their best young men lost on the battlefield, their scorched fields, their destroyed crops. Tens of cities have been razed, entire populations sold into slavery. Without even considering trade, which has practically disappeared; prices are sky high. When you can find something to buy, that is. Even the essentials are hard to come by.’
‘It’s different here,’ insisted Dionysius. ‘It’s our very existence that’s at risk. But it doesn’t matter, we’ll handle this on our own if we have to.’ He paused. ‘On our own,’ he growled.
A few days later, Philistus and Dionysius arrived in Syracuse, in time to participate in the plenary Assembly. Dionysius had registered to speak and was number twelve on the list. Leptines was at his side, and every now and then he would exchange glances and imperceptible signals with other friends from the Company scattered throughout the Assembly. When the moment came, the registrar raised a placard with the letter ‘M’ which meant that the twelfth person was authorized to speak. Dionysius took the floor.
Heedless of the winter’s chill, he was wearing only his short military tunic as he took his place at the podium; he wore the recent wounds he had suffered on the battlefield to his arms, his thighs, his shoulders, as decorations. He was greeted by a roar of approval and applause. He raised his muscular arms to thank the Assembly and to ask for silence, and then began to speak.
‘Citizens and authorities of Syracuse! I have come to denounce a new catastrophe. I know that you’ve already learned of the fall of Acragas and of the end of this glorious city, which has always been our ally and our sister. But believe me, no one better than I can describe the true extent of this disaster, the worst that we have experienced in all these years. This tragedy was entirely attributable to the injudicious behaviour of the officers who commanded our troops . . .’
The registrar rose and called the Assembly to order. ‘Beware of how you speak!’ he warned Dionysius. ‘You will not be allowed to offend men who still enjoy the trust of the city as the high commanders of our army.’
‘Then I will be more precise,’ continued Dionysius and, raising his voice, thundered: ‘I accuse, before all of you gathered here today, commander Daphnaeus and his entire staff of generals of high treason and collusion with the enemy!’
The registrar interrupted him again. ‘An accusation of such magnitude, formulated using such inflammatory language, is an offence. You are hereby fined ten minae. Guards!’
The two mercenaries on duty went to Dionysius to exact the sum that he most certainly did not possess; if he were unable to pay, they would arrest him.
Philistus stood immediately, raised his arm and shouted: ‘I’ll pay! Continue.’ He sent his servant to pay the ten minae under the registrar’s astonished eyes.
‘I accuse them of treason,’ continued Dionysius, ‘because although definitive victory over the enemy was close at hand, they stopped us as we charged forward and enjoined us to fall back. They betrayed with intent to deceive, taking advantage of our sense of discipline and our obedience to our homeland and our commanders, in order to open an escape route for the barbarians!’
Shouts, applause and cries of indignation burst out all over the Assembly, where numerous groups of Company members made public display of their enthusiasm or disapproval, communicating their feelings energetically to those alongside them.
In the meantime, the registrar, speechless at Dionysius’s unstoppable oration and at the unprecedented break with procedure, anxiously watched the sand shift through the hourglass, waiting for the moment at which regulations allowed him to impose an even greater fine. ‘Twenty minae!’ he shouted, as soon as he saw the top bowl empty, without even taking notice of what Dionysius was saying.
‘Paid,’ shouted Philistus, raising his arm.
Another roar exploded, as though people were at the stadium urging on their favourite champion, and Dionysius continued with his unrestrained harangue. He vividly evoked the significant moments of the battle, the senseless decisions, the
dramatic meeting with the city’s representatives, the absurd order to evacuate. He also told of how they had been deceived into believing that the Punic ships had already been pulled aground in Panormus, while in truth they were waiting to swoop down unawares on the Syracusan fleet. He attributed this false account without a qualm to Daphnaeus and his cohorts, convinced as he was deep down that it was the truth; the fact that it was not provable at the moment was a matter of little or no importance.
The increasingly querulous voice of the registrar continued to announce higher and higher fines, all of which were promptly covered by Philistus’s apparently bottomless fortune, so that the spectators were not certain at times whether they were at the height of the most dramatic of assemblies, or at an auction where the commodity for sale was nothing less than the truth.
The registrar gave up in the end and let Dionysius’s sweeping eloquence flow without restraint. His words inflamed the crowd, the scenes he recalled moved them to tears, made them tremble with indignation and shout out their rage, their disappointment, their shock.
When he realized that he had the Assembly just where he wanted them, he concluded his speech, certain that nothing would be denied him.
‘Citizens!’ he roared. ‘The barbarians will uproot our city, glorious victor of Athens, as well. You will see your wives raped, your children enslaved! They will string you up on their swords and torture you to death. I’ve seen them, I’ve fought them, I’ve killed hundreds of them to save our brothers in Selinus, in Himera and in Acragas, but the love or the valour of one man alone cannot suffice to deliver our threatened homeland. You who risk your lives on the line of combat, you who carry a shield and wield a spear, you must elect your generals not on the basis of their wealth and social standing, but on the basis of your own personal esteem! You must condemn these faithless officers who have betrayed you and sold themselves to the enemy, sentence them to perpetual exile, or even to death, if they dare to enter the city again without your permission. And then you must put those you do esteem in their places: those who you have always seen battling with honour and with passion, those who have never tossed aside their shields and taken to their heels. They must be the men who will lead you in battle and guide our allies. Let us put an end once and for all to this shameful sequence of defeats and massacres! How can barbarian mercenaries get the better of disciplined, courageous citizens, if not aided by betrayal? Let me say more: those who govern us are incapable and undeserving of the offices they hold. We must drive them out once and for all and elect men who are worthy of our trust!’
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