‘Oh, sod the world, dammit!’ exclaimed Leptines, using the same slang expression they would use as boys when they had stone-throwing fights with their adversaries from the well-to-do side of town.
‘Sod the world,’ agreed Dionysius. ‘And now piss off.’ He himself cast off the mooring line. The trireme slipped towards the centre of the harbour, then turned slowly around, driven by the oarsmen, and stood out to sea.
Philistus left the next day on a little trading vessel, carrying enough silver coins in the hold to pay for the enrolment of five thousand men.
Just in time: the joint Messanian and Rhegine fleet appeared soon thereafter, drawing up their battleships to blockade the Great Harbour and the small harbour.
Nicoteles’s army entered the next day from the Catane gate, amidst an exulting crowd, and took up position on the isthmus midway between the city and Ortygia.
Dionysius was alone. Biton and Iolaus had been sent inland to keep the situation under control there. Heloris no longer enjoyed his esteem, and the young officers of the Company did not have enough experience or nerve to speak with him as an equal. He roamed the dark halls and corridors of the fort at every hour, and often went to check the warehouses down at the port and measure the stores, which were diminishing at a frightening rate, day after day, while the besiegers never let up, launching continuous waves of attacks from dawn to dusk.
His mercenaries began to desert, one at a time at first and then in small groups. Dionysius managed to catch two of them in the act, with Aksal’s help. He had the fall-in sounded, illuminated the inner courtyard with dozens of torches, and had them crucified before the arrayed troops. But he realized that he could no longer hold them there by terrorizing them, that any little thing would likely provoke the dissolution of his army. And then they would tear him apart. He – the tyrant – would be killed and dragged out by the feet as Heloris had predicted, butchered like an animal, exposed to the scorn of the people, left unburied, prey to dogs and crows . . .
As he spent one long night up on the walls of the isthmus, wrapped in a heavy woollen cloak, he thought he saw a stocky, bald-headed man walking hurriedly in the direction of the port and he startled. ‘Hey, you!’ he shouted. ‘Stop!’ But the man continued walking as though he hadn’t heard him and vanished into the darkness. He vanished completely, as if he had never existed. Dionysius thought he was seeing things; exhaustion, tension and lack of sleep were playing mean tricks on him. He thought of Arete, of Tellias, of Doricus and the people he had loved. All dead. It was his turn now. He thought of the wild girl who had perhaps returned to her shelter up there, at the source of the Anapus; she certainly had no memory of him. Or perhaps she’d lost her way, or been captured and sold as a slave . . .
His mind was straying, seeking distraction from an increasingly hostile reality that would have been best faced head-on. The Knights on the other side of the wall continued to garrison the isthmus, certain that it was only a question of time . . . and time was passing, without any sign of relief. Time was running out for Dionysius, day after day, hour after hour . . .
One morning as day was breaking, he received a message from Philistus, attached to the shaft of an arrow. He recognized his friend’s handwriting immediately from the flounces on his sigmas and gammas. It began: ‘You must let the Knights think that you are ready to surrender . . .’ He was about to rip it up, but he went on reading, with growing interest in the mad plan it proposed . . . absolutely mad.
And yet . . . it might just work. What did he have to lose, after all? He called a herald and instructed him to take a proposal to the Knights. ‘Tell them that I am ready to discuss surrender.’
‘Surrender, hegemon? Have I understood well?’
‘Perfectly well: you must negotiate the terms of surrender. Say that I’m willing to leave the city. All I want is five ships and five hundred men as my escort. No inspection on board.’
‘I will do as you say, hegemon,’ replied the herald. The gate was opened for him and he exited, holding the flag of truce, headed towards the guard post on the isthmus. The officer on duty met him, and he was soon brought before his commanders.
The negotiations thus began and went on for many days, as fatigue began to make itself felt in the besiegers’ camp as well. The weather was particularly foul: it often rained, with even a dusting of snow at night. The hardships of the prolonged siege, and the continuous loss of men, began to sow tension and discontent among the members of the high command. In particular, the aristocratic haughtiness of the Knights was beginning to wear thin with the other officers, who were mostly middle-class small-property owners, merchants and port contractors. They finally went to Nicoteles, the Corinthian general, and demanded that the cavalry be discharged, claiming that horsemen were more useful on the open field and that they could be called back if and when they were needed.
Nicoteles, unused to such immobility himself, had taken to drink again, and he promptly reported the request of the other Syracusan officers to the Knights without the benefit of tact.
Offended, they stalked off furiously down the road to Aetna, indignant over this latest outrage. Although the position of the remaining officers regarding negotiations was uncompromising, they were so convinced that Dionysius had decided to abandon the field that they relaxed their vigilance. After all, their commander from their metropolis was hardly providing them with a fine example of discipline or temperance.
With the last moon of winter, many hoplites asked to be permitted to leave so they could prepare their fields for sowing, and their requests were granted. The isthmus was so narrow that holding it did not require a great number of troops.
This was what Dionysius had been waiting for. The next morning, he sent one of his men, disguised as a fisherman, out of the harbour on a little boat. The Rhegine and Messanian sailors searched the small vessel and let him pass; he sailed all the way around the Plemmyrium promontory until he found a landing spot on the southern coast. From there he made his way to a nearby farm and spoke to the owner, a livestock breeder, who climbed on to his horse and rode off to the north.
Before evening, Philistus had been informed that the isthmus was poorly garrisoned and that the northern gate of the city was open every day until dusk. He also learned that, according to reliable information, dusk was the time that found Nicoteles most heavily under the influence.
Philistus summoned the commander of the newly hired Campanian mercenaries, a half Etruscan, half Neapolitan cut-throat whose left eye was covered by a leather patch, and he entered into action immediately. As Philistus had suggested, they left all of their carts and baggage at one of the small inland villages, and advanced at great speed with mostly cavalry soldiers.
They burst through the northern gate, achieving complete surprise. They crossed the city at a gallop and rammed the line of siege on the isthmus with such force that most of the combatants were hurled into the sea. Nicoteles was found in his quarters with his throat slit; his murderer was never identified.
Dionysius greeted Philistus in the fortress’s courtyard.
‘Everything went just as you had foreseen,’ said Philistus, hugging his friend. ‘Isn’t that incredible?’
‘Incredible?’ replied Dionysius. ‘I never had a doubt.’
‘I did,’ said Philistus.
‘I know. It was plain on your face . . . News from Leptines?’
‘He should be back any day.’
‘It won’t be easy to force the naval blockade.’
Philistus smiled. ‘I wouldn’t say that. I’ve heard say that he’s returning with Lysander in person.’
‘What?’
‘If my information is correct, that’s the story. That son of a bitch has done it! Lysander is coming here to cut a deal with you. And they’ll be followed by a thousand mercenaries, all Peloponnesians, the best. I don’t think the Rhegines and Messanians will be up to challenging the power of Sparta. We have the situation back in hand, my friend. We have won.’
> ‘I’ve won,’ repeated Dionysius, as if he could not believe those words. Gripped by irresistible enthusiasm, he threw down his cloak and ran up the stairs to the highest tower of the fortress.
From there, he yelled those words over and over again at the top of his lungs, with a voice as shrill as a hawk’s screeching and as thunderous as Achilles’s shouting from the Scean Gates.
He finally stopped, panting. He looked at the sky, darkening with the approaching night, and at the city which lay mute, stupefied, at his feet.
19
LYSANDER'S SMALL SQUADRON arrived with Leptines’s three warships a few days later, and entered the harbour with no problem because the Messanian and Rhegine fleets had already weighed anchor. No one wanted to face the Spartans, not even just a few of them, not even one of them, when that one was the winner of the great war.
Dionysius went to receive him at the wharf. Leptines was the first to come ashore, and Dionysius came forward to embrace him.
‘You’re back, finally!’ exclaimed Dionysius. ‘If I’d waited for you, I’d be dead and gone by now.’
‘I did everything as quickly as I could, but it wasn’t simple. And then I always knew that you would pull through.’
‘I almost didn’t . . . What’s he like then?’
‘Lysander? Don’t ask me; I can never understand what he’s thinking. He’s . . . wait, what’s the word? Evasive. He’s a great commander, but he’s not like any soldier I’ve ever met.’
‘A son of a bitch.’
‘Right, you’ve got it.’
‘Then we’ll get along just fine.’
‘Careful, there he is, getting off
Lysander was descending just then from the gangplank of his trireme. He looked about sixty, with grey-green eyes, more grey than green, salt-and-pepper hair thinning a bit at the temples but rather long at the collar, in the Spartan manner. He was unarmed and wearing civilian clothing, but the ring he wore on his finger was much too showy for a Spartan, most likely a souvenir of his Asiatic travels and a sign that he was strong enough to challenge the ire of the ephors, inflexible custodians of the rigid customs of Sparta, on his home ground.
‘Hegemon,’ Dionysius greeted him. ‘Welcome to Syracuse.’
‘Hegemon,’ reciprocated Lysander. ‘I’m happy to see you.’
Dionysius was gratified by his use of the title; it meant that his power was recognized by Sparta. He led the way to the fortress, where he had had dinner prepared. Aksal escorted them, armed to the teeth, completely similar by now to a Greek warrior. Lysander, instead, walked without a single bodyguard. Evidently he felt so strong that he did not need one.
Dionysius had him accompanied to his room so he could bathe and change, if he desired, but he returned wearing the same clothing he’d had on the ship. He had him sit at the head of the table and sat opposite him, at the other end. Leptines sat on the long side, equidistant between one and the other. There were no dining trays or couches. The table was a planed oak board, half a span thick; the seats were little more than stools.
‘It’s like Sparta, here,’ said Lysander at once, and it wasn’t clear whether his tone was congratulatory or hid a note of disappointment.
‘We are simple people,’ replied Dionysius, ‘and we live a simple life. In any case, your black broth is too much, even for us. We’ve prepared fish for you.’ He gestured at a serving platter which was just being brought in, along with some bread and a basin of warm water for rinsing their fingers.
‘That’s the way it should be for a true man-at-arms,’ Lysander observed, and again it wasn’t clear whether that was a compliment or a form of sarcasm.
‘Son of a bitch,’ thought Dionysius. Then, considering the civilities over and done with, he went straight to the core of the matter. ‘It would be very helpful for me to know the reason for your coming here to Syracuse.’
Lysander stared into his eyes, suddenly serious, almost cold. ‘Sparta has won the war, but that’s no cause for celebration. We have lost many men and undergone much damage, and our allies have suffered the same. We have now established garrisons in all the cities of the old Athenian league, commanded by our officers, who also enjoy political power, but we realize that it will not be easy to maintain order as it now stands. The Persians helped us only because Athens has always been a threat for them; they might easily change their stance at any time. We need friends and allies everywhere. Sparta has always been Syracuse’s friend; perhaps it is Syracuse to whom we owe our final victory. It was under these walls that the power of Athens was undermined in an irrevocable way. But on the other hand, you could never have managed it without our help.’
‘Here, however . . .’ replied Dionysius in a deliberately low tone of voice, ‘we’re not talking about the city as such. It is I who decide for Syracuse.’
Lysander cracked a grimace that might have been a smile. ‘Allow me to be frank with you, hegemon. Dealing with one man alone is much easier than dealing with an Assembly. Have I made myself clear?’
‘Perfectly so. And I obviously agree. My brother has said that we will be permitted to recruit mercenaries in the Peloponnese, and that the first contingent is already on its way.’
‘That is true, but the initiative was his alone. We had nothing to do with it, and we are keeping out of it.’
‘I fully understand,’ replied Dionysius. ‘And I ask for nothing more.’
‘We have helped you to stay in power because at this time, it is in our best interests. I hope that’s clear . . .’
‘Very clear.’
‘If things should change . . .’
‘I’m on my own.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And what can I do to make sure things don’t change?’
‘Stay in Sicily.’
‘I shall.’
Lysander gave a sigh as if all the weariness of his journey was suddenly upon him.
‘Would you like to retire?’ offered Dionysius.
‘Yes, I will, soon,’ replied the Spartan. His gaze fell on Aksal, who towered against the wall, immobile, at his master’s back. He wore Greek-style armour, with a breastplate and greaves, but he had refused to remove his neckband or cut his moustache.
‘What is that?’ he asked.
‘My bodyguard.’
‘Where on earth is he from? He looks Thracian, but he’s too big.’
‘He’s a Celt,’ Dionysius said. ‘I bought him at the market.’
‘A Celt, is he? Are they all like that?’
‘He says his brothers are even bigger.’
‘I’ve heard that they live on the shores of the northern Ocean and that when the high tide invades their villages on the coast, they enter the water and raise their shields against the billows as if they could hold them back! They must set great store by their strength. If they wake up one day and notice the beauty and wealth of our lands, they could turn into quite a problem. Difficult to keep in check . . .’ He eyed the Celt again. ‘By Zeus, he’s a real titan! Have you ever noticed a weak spot?’
‘Yes, the sun. He can’t stand the sun, and his skin burns. But my doctors have discovered that a mix of olive oil and walnut shells prevents this.’
‘Interesting,’ commented Lysander softly. ‘Truly interesting . . . Your fish was good. Now I’ll go to rest if I may. The strain of the war has left its mark on me. I’m not what I used to be.’
A servant came to take away the empty platter, which now revealed a brightly painted fish on the bottom, and another accompanied the guest to his bedroom. Dionysius nodded to Aksal and he left as well.
Only Leptines remained; he had said nothing all evening. He spoke now: ‘It went well, didn’t it? He was very clear: he said—’
‘He said nothing,’ Dionysius cut him off. ‘He came only to see what kind of a man I am.’
‘And do you think he knows now?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘But he’s interested in an alliance with us.’
‘Not
at all.’
‘Well then?’
‘There’s only one thing that interests him: undermining Corinth. She’s too powerful and unruly an ally. Corinth has taken a beating in this Sicilian venture and that is very convenient for them. That’s all. And if we help him get rid of a bunch of stragglers by enrolling them in our army, that’s even better. All things considered, the Spartans are folks that don’t like the unexpected. They don’t seek out adventure and above all, as true soldiers, they do not love war. Lysander came here to make sure that everything is under control and that I don’t have any funny ideas in my head. He’ll be leaving soon, you’ll see.’
He left three days later and never again set foot in Sicily.
Dionysius dedicated himself to the preparation of his true plan: to annihilate the Carthaginians in Sicily and to avenge the massacres of Selinus, Himera, Acragas and Gela. Before setting off on a similar endeavour, there was much to be done. For three consecutive years he conducted a series of campaigns employing both the city militia and the mercenaries, in appropriate proportions.
He took Aetna, stronghold of the Knights, his staunchest opponents, and razed it to the ground. From there he advanced inland to subjugate the Sicels. He occupied Herbita, then continued up to Henna, high on the mountains and surrounded by woods, at the very centre of the island.
There stood the most venerated sanctuary of all Sicily: the Temple of Demeter and her daughter Persephone, the maiden who was forced to wed Hades. The virgin had been carried off as she picked flowers with her friends on those meadows, and dragged down into the dark reign of shadows, into the desolate abode of the dead.
There was a spot that everyone avoided, even the shepherds, a cave that led to the underworld. It was the grotto where Hades’ chariot – drawn by black, flame-breathing stallions – had plunged into the ground with Persephone aboard and was swallowed up into the abyss. It was there that Orpheus had descended to seek Eurydice, his beloved bride. His song had so charmed the lady of the realm of shadows, the beautiful but sterile Persephone, that she had made a pact with him: Eurydice could follow Orpheus out to the kingdom of the living as long as she remained one step behind him and as long as he, the sublime poet, never turned around until they had reached the surface of the earth and seen the light of day. If he turned, she would vanish, for ever.
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