Tyrant

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  And he was writing about Dionysius.

  He had witnessed the destruction of splendid cities, the massacre of thousands of men, women and children, the deportation of entire peoples and, worst of all, the rape and murder of his beloved wife when she was still very young, killed by his own fellow citizens in a time of internal disorder. As most often occurs under such circumstances, two very strong concepts were branded into his mind: the first was that democracy is inefficient when it becomes necessary to make immediate decisions and conduct operations that involve radical choices; furthermore, a democracy is incapable of containing the excesses of either the lawless individual or the mob. The second was that any live Carthaginian in the land of Sicily was to be considered a threat for the existence of the Sicilian Greeks and therefore was better off dead. As far as the future of the Greeks was concerned, Dionysius was influenced by the disheartening example of the metropolises. Eighty years earlier, all of the main cities of Greece had allied and succeeded in defeating the empire of the Great King of the Persians, the largest that had ever existed on this earth, and yet now an endless struggle was going on among those very cities as they set themselves up for nothing but ruin. He was thus firmly committed to preventing this from happening in the West, and was sure that the only way of doing so was through the conquest and unification of the Greeks of Sicily and Italy in a single state. Autocracy, in his frame of mind, was the only way to achieve this. He was aware, I believe, of how much solitude a man who would govern on his own must face, how much danger and deceit. But – at least at first – he was able to count on the friends he had known since childhood and on his brother Leptines. They had lost their parents when Dionysius was but a boy.

  Doricus was the son of a grain merchant and his mother was Italian, from Medma. He was the same age as Dionysius, and showed great daring. He had participated in the Olympic games as a boxer when he was an adolescent and had won in his category. He had taken part in all the military campaigns, receiving many wounds, whose scars he was wont to show with great pride.

  Iolaus, just a bit older than they were, was attentive and reflective, virtues that he had developed by dedicating himself to his studies with a number of teachers. He was said to have attended Pitagoric schools in Italy, at Sybaris and Croton, where he had learned much about the secrets of the human body as well as the spirit.

  Biton had survived a twin brother whose name was Cleobis, a mythological name like his own, recalling the heroes who had dragged their mother’s chariot to the Temple of Hera, winning immortality. He was very strong, but quite calm-natured. Having lost his identical brother, he identified him with Dionysius and was completely devoted to him.

  Besides being a brother, Leptines was a friend, the most one could hope for from life, but his impulsive temperament, his fondness for wine and for women and his sudden rages made him unreliable in war, where the valour and bravery that he possessed in great quantity were not always enough to ensure the favourable outcome of the operations.

  In any case, this was the risk Dionysius took: founding his government on irreplaceable personal and family relationships. If they should fail him due to the whims of fortune or fall in battle or to disease, the solitude of the autocrat was destined to become greater and greater, and his soul ever more arid and similar to a desert . . .

  Himilco arrived at Syracuse in early autumn and set up camp in the swampy plains near the mouth of the Cyanes river, the only place which could accommodate so many thousands of men. He soon sent a herald to Syracuse proposing an armistice. It was thus evident that deploying the Carthaginian army outside the city was more a manifestation of power than an actual threat. They were meant to strike fear rather than produce a true attack.

  Dionysius received Himilco’s ambassador in Ortygia, in the mercenaries’ barracks. He had abandoned the house with the trellis in Achradina long before, and the grapevines had overrun the place, creeping even along the ground. They bore no fruit because there was no one left to prune them.

  He met with the messenger in the fencing chamber, a large, bare room, hung on all four walls with spears and swords. He received him seated on a solitary stool, barefoot but wearing a breastplate and greaves and carrying a sword. The Corinthian helmet on a hanger next to him seemed a cold, impassive mask of war. ‘What does your master want from me?’ he asked the ambassador, an African Greek from Cyrene, a short man with kinky hair who sold precious purple-dyed cloth for a living.

  ‘Noble Himilco,’ he began, ‘wants to show his generosity. He intends to spare your city, although he could conquer it swiftly, as he has all the others . . .’

  Dionysius said not a word, but stared at the man with a gaze as penetrating as the tip of his spear.

  ‘He is willing to allow the Sicilian Greeks to return to their cities, and to dedicate themselves to commerce and other activities. They must not rebuild the walls, however, and must pay taxes to Carthage.’

  ‘Fucking bastard,’ Dionysius thought. ‘You want to repopulate the cities because you need their money and their taxes.’ But he spoke with a detached tone, feigning indifference. ‘Are there other conditions?’

  ‘No,’ replied the ambassador. ‘Nothing else. But noble Himilco will also allow you to ransom the prisoners of war he has captured during the past campaigns.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dionysius.

  The ambassador seemed uncomfortable as he waited for an answer that was not forthcoming. Dionysius glared at him in silence, his stare so icy that the poor man’s blood ran cold. He felt that he should ask for a reply but he did not dare. He had the impression that if he broke the silence, the whole world would collapse. He finally gathered up his courage and said: ‘What . . . what must I tell noble Himilco?’

  Dionysius regarded him with the expression of a man who has suddenly awakened from a dream, and said: ‘Don’t you feel that I should have some time to think about it? It isn’t an easy decision, after all.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ mumbled the ambassador. ‘Of course.’

  Nearly an hour of total silence ensued, in which Dionysius did not reveal a single thought or move as much as a muscle on his face, as if he were a statue, while the ambassador nervously wiped his brow, shifting from one leg to the other, since there was no place for him to sit down.

  Dionysius finally let out a soft sigh and curled his index finger to invite the ambassador closer. He complied with light, cautious steps, and Dionysius said: ‘You can tell noble Himilco that I said . . .’

  ‘Yes, hegemon . . .’

  ‘If I could express myself as my soul suggests, I would tell him . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ prompted the ambassador encouragingly.

  ‘To go get fucked up the arse.’

  The ambassador rolled his eyes. ‘To go . . .?’

  ‘Get fucked up the arse,’ repeated Dionysius. ‘However,’ he continued, ‘my government responsibilities impose more conciliatory words. You will therefore tell him that for the moment I am willing to sign a peace treaty at his conditions and to ransom all possible prisoners, as soon as he has raised his siege and put an end to hostilities.’

  The ambassador nodded, relieved to have finally obtained an answer, then backed up one step at a time all the way to the door and slipped out.

  Himilco, who had expected an unconditional acceptance of his terms, decided to begin a military offensive without further delay. He was initially in doubt as to how to conduct the operations. The terrain was unfavourable, the massive walls intimidating and it was physically impossible to blockade the ports, both garrisoned by the toughest and most well-trained units of the Syracusan navy. A few aborted attempts to batter the walls with their siege engines led to naught, and the suffocating heat of the summer, which was obstinately persisting into the autumn, raised an unbearable humidity from the marshes which weakened and disheartened the men. The stench of the excrement of so many thousands of men saturated the swampy valley, making the air unbreathable, and before long plague broke out. Hundre
ds of bodies were laid on the pyre day after day as discontent grew among the troops, fomenting rebellion against the commander and his officers. Himilco kept hoping that something would occur – as it had at Acragas – to turn around the situation. He was convinced that the Syracusans might be tempted to attack frontally by land or sea, but the days passed and nothing happened.

  Dionysius remained within his formidable circle of walls. Supplies continued to come in from the Laccius port at the north, so the people did not go hungry.

  In the end, Himilco counted the dead and the survivors, and realized that his force was insufficient for an assault; he thus decided to raise the siege. He sent the Campanian mercenaries to the western part of the island to occupy the cities there, embarked the Africans and set sail for Carthage.

  Dionysius had also had news that in Thrace, the Spartan fleet commanded by Lysander had surprised the Athenian fleet practically unmanned in the shallows, and had neatly wiped them out in a place called ‘the rivers of the goat’, a name nearly as absurd as the event itself. Conon, the Athenian admiral, had managed to get away with eight ships and had fled to Piraeus. But Athens was now blocked by land and by sea, and her situation seemed hopeless.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Philistus.

  ‘Things don’t change much for us,’ replied Dionysius. ‘In theory, the Spartans should be freer to help us, but in reality, I’d rather they stayed away. We must settle our own affairs whenever we can.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. I meant to say what do you think will happen to Athens?’

  ‘You want to know what I’d do if I were Lysander?’

  ‘Yes, if you’d like to tell me.’

  ‘The Athenians are the best. They’ve taught the world to think, and for that reason alone they deserve to survive, no matter what offences they’ve committed over thirty years of war.’

  ‘It’s just the excellence of the mind that counts, then? Don’t actions mean anything?’

  ‘Is it a philosophical discussion you’re looking for? We’ve already spoken about these problems. Your question would have meaning if there were some supreme judge who absolves and condemns, some force who protects the innocent and punishes the evil. But there is no such judge, and no force except for blind, casual violence; like a hurricane or storm, it strikes at random, bringing death and destruction where it hits.’

  ‘But the judge you’re talking about does exist.’

  ‘Oh, really? And who would that be?’

  ‘History. History is the judge. It commemorates those who have done well by humankind, and condemns those who have oppressed or caused suffering without a reason.’

  ‘Ah, history . . .’ replied Dionysius. ‘Now I understand. So you’re saying that a man should regulate his actions in accordance with what history will have to say about him when he’s nothing but ashes and he doesn’t give a whit about anything any more? And who writes history, anyway? Certainly no one who is any better than I am . . .

  ‘I’m the one making history, my friend. Understand? I know for certain that I can bend events to my will, even though everything seems to demonstrate the opposite. Remember, in any case, that you haven’t seen anything yet. Nothing, understand? The best has yet to begin.’

  ‘You’re fooling yourself,’ protested Philistus. ‘History is the story of humanity, filtered by the intelligence of people who have the gift of understanding. And history goes where it wants, Dionysius, like an enormous river that sometimes flows with unstoppable strength, overwhelming everything in its path, and that sometimes advances slowly in lazy spirals waiting to be subdued and controlled by the most mediocre of men. History is a mystery, a mix of passion, horror, hope, enthusiasm, misery. It is both fate and chance, as it is also the product of the iron will of men like you, certainly. History is our desire to overcome our own unhappy existence; it is the only monument that will survive us. Even when our temples and our walls have crumbled into ruins, when our gods and our heroes are mere shadows, time-faded images, mutilated and corroded statues, history will remember what we’ve done. The record which survives us is the only immortality that we are granted.’

  ‘Fine,’ replied Dionysius. ‘Then take note, Philistus, because I know that you’ve been writing, for some time now. I’ve already made my choice. I’m ready to condemn my name for centuries to come and be remembered as a monster capable of any sort of foul deed, but also as a real man. A man capable of bending events to my own will. Only this type of man resembles the gods. Only if you are truly great will people forgive you for having limited their freedom; otherwise, they’ll tear you to pieces and trample you as soon as you’ve shown the slightest sign of weakness.’

  Philistus held his tongue. He was struck by those presumptuous, arrogant words, but also by the nearly blind faith in his destiny that Dionysius managed to project with his voice and with the feverish intensity of his gaze. ‘What are your intentions, then?’ he asked him after a little while.

  ‘I must enrol more mercenaries and build a fortress in Ortygia; it will be my residence, and will incorporate the dockyard so that I can never be blocked off from the sea. I will then raise a wall across the isthmus which will cut off the rest of the city on the mainland, so my enemies cannot reach me from any direction, neither from without nor from within. The enemies on the inside can be the worst, you know, and the most cruel: the ferocity of brothers knows no bounds.’

  Philistus looked at him in amazement. ‘That’s an enormous project. Where will you find the money?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t be asking you for it.’

  Offended, Philistus protested: ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever—’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that. You’ve already done too much for me. I don’t want to drag you down in my fall, if that is what happens. I want you to have a good life, as good as possible. In any case my friend, not even your wealth – not that I know how much you have – could suffice to cover a similar expense.’

  ‘What will you do, then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Dionysius. ‘But I’ll find a solution. There’s always a solution if you have the courage to think on a vast scale. Right now I need some fresh air. Sea air. Will you keep me company?’

  ‘With great pleasure,’ replied Philistus.

  ‘Then put up your hood; it’s best not to stir up idle curiosity in the city.’

  They left the barracks from a secret door, shoulders and heads covered by their hooded cloaks, and began to walk down the darkening streets of Ortygia.

  Dionysius headed towards the dockyard, where the huge combat vessels of his fleet had been pulled aground for autumn maintenance. From there they took the road that led north, towards the trade wharves.

  ‘Look at that, how strange!’ said Philistus at a certain point. ‘There, down by the second wharf.’

  A ship had managed to dock in the waning light of dusk and was putting a load of slaves ashore. They drew closer and Dionysius saw what Philistus had been referring to: one of the slaves had very blonde, almost white, hair. He was completely naked except for a small tattoo on his chest, and his skin was badly reddened and burned by the sun. The only thing he wore was a stiff neckband shaped like a rope with two small wooden snakes’ heads dangling from either end.

  Dionysius observed him for a few moments, then said to Philistus: ‘Find out how much he costs.’

  Philistus approached the merchant. ‘My friend wants to know how much the Celt with the burnt skin costs.’

  ‘Tell him to come by the market square tomorrow morning and get in line with everyone else to make his offer,’ replied the merchant without even turning around.

  Dionysius whispered something in his friend’s ear, nodded in agreement with his answer and walked off. Philistus approached the merchant again. ‘My friend is very interested in your slave and he’s willing to pay a fine price.’

  ‘I’ll bet he is. You know how many old queers will be lined up tomorrow morning at the market to fight over the pri
ck of that blonde northern Apollo? You don’t think your friend is the prettiest of them all, do you? I’ve already told you: if he wants to buy that magnificent specimen, tell him to get his silver staters ready so he can outbid the other customers.’

  Philistus lowered his hood and bared his face. ‘My friend’s name is Dionysius,’ he said. ‘Ever hear of him?’

  The merchant suddenly changed expression and attitude. ‘You mean that Dionysius?’ he asked, widening his bulging white eyes.

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Philistus, regarding him with a very significant look. ‘And if you want my advice, I’d offer him a very good price at this point, if I were you.’

  ‘So what’s a good price, in your opinion?’

  ‘Five minae seems honest.’

  ‘Five minae? He’s worth at least three times that much!’

  ‘True. That’s what I was planning to offer you, but you missed your chance. Now you’ll have to be content with that, unless you’re stupid enough to risk playing a dangerous loser’s game.’

  ‘How can I be sure you’re not tricking me?’

  ‘You can’t, actually. You can decide to trust me, or not to trust me. If you’re lucky, tomorrow you’ll get double the amount at the market. If you’re not, you won’t earn a thing tomorrow. What do you choose?’