‘Himilco will be forced to split up his forces to face the double threat: Heloris from the north and the Italians from the south. That will be my moment. I will be at the western gate, ready to launch the attack. I’ll plough into the enemy lines with my assault troops and skirmishers, and the Geloan heavy infantry will come up from behind to support our assault.
‘Heloris’s cavalry will be circling around the Carthaginian contingent out on the field, while his heavy infantry, led by Biton and Iolaus, are engaging them frontally. In less than an hour, the joint manoeuvres of my troops and of the Italian allies will have won the upper hand over the camp’s defenders. Himilco will be crushed between my contingent – united with the Geloans and the Italians – and Heloris’s forces. There will be no way out.
‘Spare those who surrender en masse; we can sell them to pay off some of the war expenses. The Carthaginian officers will be executed immediately, without torture. We’ll take in the mercenaries if they decide to desert. I want Himilco alive, if possible. If there’s someone here who feels differently, please speak up. Good advice is always welcome.’
No one spoke. The audacity of the plan had taken them all by surprise and no one seemed to have any objections. It was all so clear, the movements on the ground so evident, the various divisions so perfectly coordinated.
‘I have a question,’ said Dexippus all at once.
‘Speak,’ replied Dionysius.
‘Why are you starting off from the eastern side of Gela with your contingent? You’ll be forced to cross the entire city to reach the western gate from where you plan to attack.’
‘If I moved from any other direction, I’d be seen. Mine will be the final hammer blow. I’ll come out of the Acragantine Gate like an actor emerging from behind the stage and then the show will begin! What do you say?’
Several interminable moments of silence followed instead of the acclamation which Dionysius had expected, but then a Locrian officer named Cleonimus said: ‘Brilliant. Worthy of a great strategist. Who did you learn from, hegemon?’
‘From a master. My wife’s father, Hermocrates. And from the mistakes of others.’
‘In any case,’ replied Cleonimus, ‘we’ll still need luck. Let’s not forget that at Acragas we’d already won.’
Philistus went to visit him late that night. ‘Worried?’ he asked.
‘No. We’ll triumph.’
‘I hope so.’
‘And yet . . .’
‘And yet you don’t feel right and you can’t get to sleep. Do you know why? Because it’s your turn now. The other commanders always had some excuse: limited powers, quarrelsome staff officers, internal dissent . . . You have full powers and the greatest army ever assembled in Sicily in at least fifty years. If you do lose, it will be your fault alone, and this is what frightens you.’
‘I won’t lose.’
‘That’s what we all hope. Your plan is very interesting.’
‘Interesting? It’s a masterpiece of strategic art.’
‘Yes, but it has a defect.’
‘What?’
‘It’s like a table game. On the battlefield things will be different; the unexpected always comes up. Linking the forces, enemy response, timing . . . Timing, above all. How will you manage to coordinate the manoeuvres of a military initiative on the battlefield, a contingent to be disembarked, a citizens’ army making a sortie and a battalion of assault troops which has to cross the entire city?’
Dionysius smirked. ‘Another armchair strategist! I didn’t know you were such an expert on the ways of war! It will work, I’m telling you. I’ve already arranged for all the signalling points and for dispatch riders as well. It has to work.’
Dionysius raised his eyes to the mask of Gorgon displayed on the eastern tympanum of the Temple of Athena Lindos and leaned over the battlements to scan the countryside to the north of the city: Heloris’s army was advancing with the Sicilian contingent, twenty battalions spread out over a wide front in two long lines. He could even make out the commander, riding ahead of all the rest.
He waved a red cloth from the roof of the Athenaion and waited for a like signal from the head of the advancing army confirming that the order had been received. He crossed to the opposite side of the walls, towards the south, where the fleet was rocking at anchor in front of the mouth of the Gela river. He signalled three times using a polished shield that reflected the light of the newly risen sun. The flagship responded immediately, hoisting a red flag on to the stern staff. He soon could see the oars dipping into the water, and the large battle vessel began moving slowly westward, hugging the coast, followed by the other ships four-across.
Dionysius pounded his fist on the parapet and shouted to his officers: ‘Perfect! Everything’s going according to plan! It’s our turn to move now: we’ll cross the city in the same amount of time that it will take the fleet to cover the stretch of coast between the mouth of the river and the Carthaginian camp. The coordination of all the subsequent operations depends on us. All right men, let’s go!’
They marched along the southern side of the temple, down towards the centre of the city, setting off through the maze of alleyways that crossed the city in a more or less parallel design. But they soon met with trouble.
Dionysius had ordered the townspeople to remain in their homes until his contingent had passed, but instead his column found itself at the head of a street packed with people making their way with carts and assorted goods towards the eastern gate, that is, heading in the opposite direction to which the troops were marching. Clearly a good number of citizens did not believe that the confederate army would manage to win. The rumour had in fact spread that the high command was held by a twenty-four-year-old youth who had never had experience commanding a battalion, much less a division.
Dionysius was seized by a dizzying sense of anguish: the risk that Philistus had warned him about. Tyche. Fickle, evil fortune, already acting to interfere with the perfect mechanism he had conceived. He immediately had the heralds shout out orders to clear the road and let the column through, but many did not hear and those that did hear could not turn around, since they were being pushed from behind by those who had heard nothing. The troops could certainly not clear the way using their weapons; the crowd was defenceless, the city Syracuse’s sister and friend . . .
Heloris meanwhile continued to advance, but the recently ploughed fields, the burnt stumps of the olive trees and rubble of various nature obstructed their march and delayed the army’s progress. Much of the element of surprise was thwarted; when the Sicilians were finally ready to draw up in battle array, they had already been spotted, and Himilco’s army charged into combat with great impetus.
On the opposite side of the camp, the Italians had landed and were regrouping according to their cities of origin. They took position behind the cliffs of the southern promontory so as not to be seen, but a dispatch rider soon galloped up and reported that the Carthaginian camp was unprotected on that side, since the heavy infantry were all out fighting Heloris’s army corps. He urged them to attack immediately, before their presence was noted.
‘No,’ replied Cleonimus, the Locrian commander, ‘we’ve agreed to wait for Dionysius’s signal from the western gate! Let no one move without a direct order from me!’
The troops were held in check, but their commanders realized that the men were already pervaded by the excitement of the attack, by what the veterans call orgasmo` s: that frenetic congestion of mind and muscle that precedes a battle, compressing all the combatant’s energy into his body as he readies to enter the fray, a tension that cannot be sustained at length without gravely damaging both physical strength and morale.
‘By all the gods! We have to do something here!’ exclaimed a battalion commander by name of Carilaus.
‘No,’ replied the Locrian officer obstinately. ‘I promised I would wait for the signal.’
Carilaus turned and gave an odd look to a comrade, who shouted at once: ‘The signal! I se
e the signal! Look!’
‘I see nothing,’ replied the Locrian commander.
‘I’m telling you I saw it, up there. There, look! Those are Dionysius’s troops!’
They could indeed see a heavy infantry contingent exiting the gate and drawing up at the top of the hill.
It was not Dionysius. They were Geloan warriors who, nervous at not seeing their commander arrive, had taken position overlooking the camp so they would be ready to intervene if necessary.
Finally convinced, the Locrian commander imagined that Carilaus’s comrade must have actually spotted the signal; even if that were not the case, they couldn’t wait much longer. He gave the order to attack. The Italian allies bellowed their war cry and, shields held high, came out of hiding and rushed towards the camp. They covered the brief distance in no time and fiercely engaged the Carthaginians who were thronging towards the threatened sector to keep them out.
At first they managed to force the defenders back and to break into the camp but, once inside, they soon found themselves greatly outnumbered by the well-equipped contingent of Iberian and Campanian infantry left by Himilco to defend the camp.
Surrounded on all sides, the Italians fought it out hand to hand until they were driven back and pushed out towards the coast. The Geloans charged down the hill then to come to the assistance of their routed allies, who were already at the water-line at this point and seemed to be in serious difficulty. Fortunately, someone on the ships ordered the archers to let loose, and swarms of arrows struck the Iberian and Campanian pursuers, decimating them. The defenders finally retired back into the encampment.
Their attempt having failed, the Italian Greeks scrambled on to their ships and set sail, while the Geloans, who were loath to abandon the defence of their walls, disengaged with the enemy and poured back into their city.
When Dionysius finally emerged from the western gate, he saw Heloris retreating towards the north; now that Himilco had staved off the other attacks, he was fighting the Sicilian contingent in full force, with greatly superior numbers. Dionysius managed to pull back into the city just in time to avoid a catastrophe. The Italian allies had lost six hundred men and Heloris more than one thousand, although they had also inflicted heavy losses on the enemy.
Dionysius’s careful, long-studied plans had failed. No one believed any more that he was capable of leading a second operation against the Carthaginians. The city was doomed.
15
DIONYSIUS CALLED A Council of War that same night, in a climate poisoned by protests, recriminations and accusations. He himself was overwhelmed at such a crushing and totally unexpected defeat, but he realized that he had everything at stake here and that he must not defend himself, but attack. He began immediately to speak in a very loud voice to be heard over the grumbling of the officers present. They fell silent.
‘Friends!’ he began. ‘The plan which I proposed to you and which you approved on the eve of this unfortunate battle was a perfect one. What occurred cannot be explained except by treason!’
Prolonged muttering from the generals met his words, joined by sneers from the commanders of the Syracusan cavalry, all aristocrats.
‘I’m not accusing any of you present here,’ he continued, ‘but how can you explain what happened this morning? How else can you explain those throngs of people along the only road that we could traverse in time to reach the western gate? My brother Leptines covered the route at least five times with a squad of armed men to calculate how long it would take to get to the appointed rallying point. And yet, my fellow commanders, this morning it took us five times longer than it had taken him! I measured it myself, by the length of the shadow of my spear!’
‘It’s true!’ confirmed Leptines. ‘I myself issued the order to keep the road clear!’
‘What were all those panic-stricken people doing there at that time, in that place? Who told them to get ready to flee from the Camarina gate?’ The protests ceased. ‘Who gave the order to attack the camp? Certainly not I, because when I arrived, our Italian allies were already withdrawing.’
Cleonimus instinctively glanced over at the officer who had claimed to have seen the signal from the western gate, but the man avoided his eyes. He had noticed him shortly beforehand exchanging words with one of the Syracusan cavalry commanders, and that had seemed strange to him. But he called out loudly: ‘It was I who gave the order! One of my men said they’d spotted the signal and immediately thereafter we saw armed men exiting the gate. It was the Geloan infantry, but at such a distance, how could we tell?’
‘I’m not accusing you, Cleonimus,’ replied Dionysius. ‘But have the man who claimed to have seen the signal investigated; you may be surprised by what you find.’
‘It’s useless to return one accusation with another!’ began an officer of the Syracusan cavalry, a certain Elorus, a member of one of the oldest families of the city, a direct descendent of the founder himself, or so he claimed. ‘What’s done is done. We’ve been defeated, and—’
‘That’s not true!’ exclaimed Dionysius. ‘We had our losses, you all know that, but the losses we inflicted were much worse. In all fairness, if you look at the battle from this point of view, we are the victors. But that’s not what I’m here to talk about. I’m ready to attack again as soon as tomorrow. This time, men, we’ll strike with two corps: assault troops from the sea, and the bulk of our ground forces from land. We’ll crush those bastards and then we’ll see whose cock is harder!’
His ploy did not work. No one responded to his impromptu call to arms.
‘It’s not the right place,’ said Cleonimus. ‘We saw that today. We Italians have already held a council. This whole campaign has got off to too late a start. If the weather worsens, we won’t be able to cross the Straits. Our cities will be undefended. We have our own barbarians to watch out for, as you all know.’
‘I agree with him,’ nodded Elorus, the Syracusan cavalry commander. ‘Many of our horses went lame in the middle of those blasted olive stumps and we had to bring them down. The terrain is no good for cavalry.’
Dionysius felt the ground suddenly collapsing beneath his feet. He turned to his adoptive father, Heloris. ‘And you? Do you feel the same way?’
‘It’s not a question of courage here, boy; we have to consider all the elements at hand, the risks we’re facing and the situation we find ourselves in. Let’s say that bastard down there,’ he said, pointing his thumb towards the sea, ‘decides to close himself in and refuse to do battle. Why should he? But we have fifty thousand men here, and the population of this city to feed: if the weather changes, we’re headed for disaster.’
‘That’s certain,’ nodded Carilaus.
‘If you want to attack, I’m with you,’ protested Leptines.
‘So am I, by Zeus!’ exclaimed Doricus.
‘As are we,’ seconded Biton and Iolaus, the Syracusan infantry battalion commanders.
But Dionysius had to admit to himself that there was no morale or fighting spirit left among the men. The problem was that they no longer believed in him. They didn’t feel that he could lead them to victory.
They had fought and he hadn’t; they had faced the enemy, not him. They had risked their lives with their swords in hand and he had not. And when they had needed leadership and support, he wasn’t around. He had never felt more alone and distressed.
Leptines must have realized his state of mind, given away by the sweat suddenly beading his forehead and his upper lip, because he drew close to his brother and murmured in the abstruse slang of the district they had grown up in: ‘Careful, don’t let them see your uncertainty or they’ll tear you apart.’
Dionysius noticed the dismayed expression of Philistus, who stood aside by the doorway. He knew he had no choice, and the realization of what he had to do made him burn with shame, rage and frustration. He was about to perpetrate the same disgrace as Diocles and Daphnaeus had. He was about to flood the city streets with desperate refugees, with women and children i
n tears. He was about to abandon the temples and the houses of a centuries-old city, founded in fulfilment of a sacred oracle, to violence and plunder. He knew that the only honourable gesture would be for him to find some excuse to leave the meeting and take his life with his own sword. An honourable solution, beyond reproach.
But Leptines sunk dagger-sharp fingers into his arm and hissed: ‘React, for the sake of the gods!’
Dionysius started and spoke. His features were contorted but his voice was firm and hard. He said: ‘Listen to me. A commander must foresee everything. Even treason, which is part of war. This is where I made my mistake, because I love my city – and all the Hellenic cities in Sicily and Italy – so much that I could never imagine betraying them, for any reason or any price. And so now I must make an unavoidable decision, the most bitter of my life. I will empty this city of her inhabitants and take them away, to safety.
‘Yes, I’m speaking to you, valiant Geloan generals: you will see your people teeming down the road to exile this very night.
‘I’m speaking to you as well, you valiant commanders who have come from Italy to help us, to offer the lives of the best of your youth, and I’m speaking to you, Syracusan friends. I swear to you now, upon all the gods and all the demons, that the barbarian will not triumph! I swear that I will drive him out of our cities; I will win them back one after another. I swear that I will bring you back to your homes and that the mere name of the Greeks of Sicily and Italy will strike such terror into the barbarians that they will never even dream of opposing us again.’
A deep silence fell on the hall. The Geloan officers seemed struck by lightning; they could not say a word. A low buzz arose from the Italians, but no one could certainly reproach them; they had shown exceptional bravery in their assault on the Carthaginian camp, paying a terrible cost in human lives. The Syracusans felt most directly responsible for the announced decision; they also knew that they would be the imminent target of the next Carthaginian move. They looked like people living in a nightmare they cannot awaken from.
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