Tyrant

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  Doris and Aristomache both gasped.

  ‘Perhaps it is better that the ladies retire,’ suggested Philistus, who had not spoken until then. ‘I imagine that the story can only become more upsetting from this point on, and one of them is pregnant.’

  Aristomache, the one who wasn’t, lowered her head, then proudly said: ‘I can stay.’

  Dionysius nodded his agreement and Doris was taken to her apartments by a handmaid.

  Xenophon resumed his story, narrating the interminable retreat that he had led, in the middle of winter, through Armenia and the Caucasus.

  The mute listeners were treated to images of terrible and grandiose landscapes, dead cities, swirling rivers, lofty, snow-covered peaks that pierced the heavens, and then more combat to the death with ferocious savages, scenes of torture, pillaging, summary execution, hurried escapes . . .

  Xenophon was a formidable story teller, and as he spoke his eyes changed expression and colour, it seemed, as if he were reliving the experiences he told of. He described their endless wandering in a vast desert of snow, his men dying of frostbite, others blinded by the sun at that altitude, the dead left unburied, the wounded and sick abandoned.

  And he finally reached the epilogue of that desperate march. ‘I was bringing up the rear with my cavalry squad when I heard an uproar coming from the head of the column. I thought they’d been attacked and jumped on to my horse, spurring him on at full speed, followed by my men, and as we advanced we saw the most extraordinary scene: our comrades weeping, shouting, throwing their weapons into the air as if out of their minds with joy. And their cry was increasingly louder and closer, and it echoed through those snowy peaks: “The sea! The sea!”’ Xenophon sighed. ‘We were saved. Or at least that’s what we thought . . .’

  They listened to him until late that night, when they all finally retired, weary after such a long evening. Dionysius had his guest accompanied to his quarters and then went to Aristomache’s room. It was her turn.

  The next day, he dined with Xenophon and with Philistus.

  ‘I was told that you eat three times a day!’ said the guest. ‘But I thought it was just hearsay.’

  ‘And we never sleep alone,’ added Dionysius, smiling. ‘That’s how we do things here in the West. I know that in Sparta they’re happy with their black broth for dinner and nothing else. I wonder how they find the strength to march and to fight.’

  ‘Their bodies have been accustomed for years to squeeze all the energy from such a poor, simple food. It costs very little to maintain them. You know, no one knows the recipe for their black broth. No one knows what it contains.’

  ‘I’ve also heard that they only sleep with their wives a couple of times a month in all. Is that true?’

  ‘Perfectly true,’ confirmed Xenophon.

  ‘Ah! That’s no life! I have two wives, as you can see; I keep them both company, and no one’s complaining.’

  ‘It would be more correct to say that no one dares to complain,’ observed Philistus wryly.

  Xenophon made a face that could have been a smirk or a smile.

  ‘I know,’ Dionysius continued, ‘you from the metropolises consider us from the colonies to be half-barbarians. But you’re mistaken. This is the future of Hellenism. Here we have resources, men, innovative ideas. You should see our ships, our war machines. Today Philistus will show you our fortifications. When you go back to Sparta, you can tell them what you found here.’

  ‘I will certainly do so,’ replied Xenophon. ‘You know, your customs may be surprising for some, but not for me. I’ve seen so much you can barely imagine. The Mossinicians, for example, do in public what we do in private: they couple, they relieve their bowels . . . And they do in private what we do in public: they speak only when alone, for instance.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ commented Philistus.

  ‘What do you have to say about King Agesilaus?’ interrupted Dionysius, bringing the subject back to topics he was interested in.

  ‘He is a valiant, honest man who has the destiny of the Greeks at heart, wherever they may be found.’

  ‘Then he must surely appreciate my efforts against the western barbarians.’

  ‘Most certainly. I have no doubt about it.’

  ‘If I should need more mercenaries . . .’

  ‘There are many in the Peloponnese, men who can do naught else but fight. I know them well. They are the best, nevertheless: courageous to the point of temerity. They are tied to no one and are ready to follow whoever promises them money, adventure, risks. When a man has experienced such intense emotions, he can no longer adapt to a normal existence.’

  Philistus broke in. ‘What about you? Can you adapt to a normal existence?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ replied Xenophon after pondering his question for a few moments. ‘I didn’t go out looking for adventure. It was she who came seeking me. I’ve done my share. But now I want to devote myself to my studies, to my family, to hunting and farming. My dream is to return to my homeland as an honourable man, but at this moment that’s not possible. They have killed my master and they may want to kill me as well . . .’

  ‘Will you write an account of your expedition?’ asked Philistus.

  ‘I took many notes during our journeys. Who knows. Perhaps one day, when I have time . . .’

  ‘He’s asking you that because he’s writing a history of his own,’ intervened Dionysius. ‘Isn’t that so, Philistus? A history of Sicily, in which he even speaks of me. I still don’t know in what light.’

  ‘You’ll know in due time,’ promised Philistus.

  The Athenian guest stayed a few more days, during which he visited the marvels of the city. He was not shown the latomiae, the stone quarries where so many of his compatriots died. Although he lived in Sparta and was an exile, he still remained an Athenian.

  The rest of the winter passed tranquilly, marked by Leptines’s dispatches, rather bored in tone, which reported to Dionysius on the stagnant situation in western Sicily. There were no Carthaginians to be seen, and it was unlikely that any would turn up before summer, according to their spies.

  Dionysius’s informers kept him up on how Leptines spent his time amusing himself with beautiful women, refined wines and foods, parties and orgies. But that was just in his nature, after all.

  Doris had her baby at the end of spring.

  A boy.

  The wet nurses brought him to his father immediately. He was a beautiful baby, healthy, flawless.

  Dispatches were sent to Sparta, Corinth and Locri, Doris’s homeland. The world had to know that Dionysius had an heir that bore his name.

  Much discussion went on in Syracuse about the primacy of the Italian wife, who was now the mother of the heir and had thus become, by force of circumstance, the first bride. But much of the talk was criticism of her mother, Dionysius’s Italian mother-in-law. It was that witch who had intrigued to make sure that Aristomache would take second place! Perhaps she had even secretly given her potions that had prevented her from becoming pregnant. At least not right away, not before her own daughter.

  Then Aristomache also became pregnant and had a boy as well, who was called Hipparinus after her father.

  Leptines wrote a letter of congratulations from the headquarters of the fleet.

  Leptines to Dionysius, Hail!

  You are a father!

  Making me an uncle. Uncle Leptines!

  What will these tots have to say to me when they learn how to talk? ‘Uncle Leptines, bring me a present, Uncle Leptines, buy me this, buy me that! Take me to the races, take me fishing in your boat. Let me kill a Carthaginian.’

  I just can’t wait. So how are you feeling?

  You have heirs, descendants, by Heracles! Something of you will live on anyway, even if it’s not your fame.

  How will you bring up your first-born, the child who has your same name? Will you make him a warrior like us? An exterminator of enemies? I think not. It won’t be possible. Don’t delude yourself, i
t won’t ever be the same thing.

  We grew up in the middle of a street, brother, bare-footed and half naked. He won’t be able to.

  We threw stones and had fist-fights with the lads from Ortygia. We’d make our way back at night full of scars and bruises, and then we’d just get more at home. Remember? The street is a great teacher, there’s no doubt about it, but your boy is Dionysius II, by Zeus!

  He’ll be raised by a host of nurses and governesses, tutors, trainers, fencing masters, equitation experts, Greek and philosophy teachers.

  They will be the ones to encourage him, to punish him, to tell him what he must and must not do. You won’t have time. You’ll be too busy watching your arse here at home to protect it from our fellow citizens, and slaughtering those fuck-faced Carthaginians abroad.

  You’ll be getting statues raised to your left and right, making under-the-table deals with your allies and enemies, collecting taxes, recruiting mercenaries.

  But if you should ever find a little time, take him on your knees, your little boy. Even if he is not Arete’s child. Take him on your knees and tell him the story of another lad who believed in loyalty, in honour, in valour and in glory; a boy who hoped to achieve greatness by taking the most difficult path, and then mislaid his very soul in the intricacies of power, resentment and hate. He forgot all about what he believed, and he arrived at such a level of presumptuousness that he married two women, who managed, nonetheless, to be faithful and loving wives.

  Doris is the mother of the heir. Aristomache is not. And it is she who knows better than anyone that no woman will ever be able to oust the memory of Arete from your heart. Give her a little affection too.

  I’m just about soused and if I weren’t I wouldn’t be saying what I’m about to say: do you remember the apparition in the grotto at Henna? The girl with the peplum who was the same as the creature you saw at the spring of the Anapus?

  She is not Arete. She is the girl who impersonates Persephone every year at the rites of spring. The priests keep her hidden the rest of the year at the rock necropolis at the source of the river. When she gets old, they’ll replace her with a new one.

  Arete is dead.

  You have avenged her.

  Enough.

  Dedicate what is left of your mind or your soul, however you want to call it, to those who have remained to you.

  Many of our friends have died fighting your wars. More will die . . . think of them sometimes and you will be different. You will feel better surrounded by the memory of those who loved you, rather than by those ugly mugs of your Campanian lancers.

  If this letter ever arrives on your table, you’ll have my balls cut off by your thugs. That’s why I won’t be sending it. If you do receive it, it means that once I was sober, I felt exactly the same as when I was drunk.

  23

  THE APPOINTMENT WAS in Motya, at the house of Biton, the commander of the stronghold. Dionysius arrived from the causeway on horseback, the sea lapping at his steed’s shins; Leptines was brought to land on the Boubaris’s dinghy. The flagship was even more impressive than when Dionysius had last seen it. The prow had been sculpted into a silver-clad bull’s head, the sail was edged in purple, and painted at its centre was a gorgon’s head with fangs bloodied and tongue protruding in a fierce grimace. The rowlocks on each oar were covered with brightly polished bronze, the head of the mainmast with golden laminae. On either side, six greased ballistas were lined up, loaded with lethal darts.

  ‘Isn’t she stupendous?’ said Leptines, jumping to the ground opposite his brother and waving a hand at the massive vessel behind him.

  ‘No doubt about it. But isn’t she a little . . . ostentatious?’

  ‘Ah, I want those bastards to crap in their pants as soon as they see her. They must understand that there’s no place to run from the steel jaws of my Boubaris.’

  Biton arrived with a dozen mercenaries and welcomed both brothers.

  ‘News?’ asked Dionysius as they made their way towards the governor’s residence.

  ‘All is calm for the moment,’ replied Biton, ‘but I’m afraid it won’t last. I know that they’re up to something in Carthage. They’re said to have hundreds of warships, three or four hundred, some say five. The admiralty’s shipyard is full of them. And I’m told that there’s an even greater number of transports.’

  Leptines’s mood seemed to wane momentarily. ‘I need more quinqueremes,’ he said, ‘at least double the number I have now. How many are under construction?’

  ‘Ten,’ Dionysius replied curtly.

  ‘Ten? What am I supposed to do with ten?’

  ‘They’ll have to suffice. I can’t give you any more, for the time being. Where’s the rest of the fleet?’

  ‘At Lilybaeum,’ replied Leptines. ‘It’s a good spot to lay an ambush. As soon as those bastards show up, I’ll sink them to the bottom.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ commented Dionysius. ‘But stay on your guard. Himilco is crafty. He won’t attack until he’s sure of winning. Understand? Don’t let yourself get drawn into a trap.’

  ‘How are my sisters-in-law?’ asked Leptines.

  ‘Well. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason. The last time I saw Aristomache she seemed a little sad.’

  ‘Women’s affairs. No cause for worry.’

  ‘Little Dionysius? And the other little lad?’

  ‘They’re well, growing up fast.’ He changed the subject. ‘You, Biton, how are you planning to hold this place in case of attack?’

  ‘I’ve set up a signalling system from Lilybaeum that will warn me if there’s danger in sight. The breach has been repaired and there are enough stores in the warehouses for three months of siege.’

  ‘Good. This will be the greatest challenge of our lives. We cannot and must not lose. Do you both understand that well?’

  ‘Of course I understand,’ replied Leptines, ‘but if only you had sent me those quinqueremes I asked for . . .’

  ‘It’s useless to recriminate. Keep your eyes open. I must convince the native Sicans that we’re the strongest and that they had better stay on our side. So I’ll be going inland.’

  They had dinner together and then, as night was falling, Dionysius returned to the mainland and Leptines returned aboard the Boubaris.

  Himilco didn’t make a move until much later, when the summer was almost at an end. He put to sea under cover of darkness with the ships’ lights screened so they would not be seen. They sailed offshore and were effectively invisible from the coast.

  He then sent out his convoy of transport vessels, and Leptines took the bait. When he saw them, slow and heavy, parading at dawn in front of cape Lilybaeum, Leptines jumped on to the Boubaris like a horseman on his steed. He plunged forward at great speed, dragging along all the ships whose crews were ready at that hour of the morning. He sank about fifty enemy vessels, four of them rammed by the flagship herself, and captured twenty more, but the rest of that immense convoy managed to escape to Panormus undamaged and to join up there with the combat vessels which had followed a wider route on the open sea.

  When he learned about what had happened, Dionysius flew into a rage. ‘I had warned him, damnation! I told him to stay on his guard!’

  The messenger from Selinus who had brought the news was struck dumb, not knowing what to reply. ‘Hegemon,’ he started off weakly, but Dionysius silenced him.

  ‘That’s enough! And where is he now?’

  ‘Our navarch? At Lilybaeum.’

  ‘Too exposed. You’ll bring him this letter, immediately.’ Dionysius dictated a message which was promptly brought to destination. He then continued inland to wrap up his campaign against the Sicans.

  Himilco, who had recruited more mercenaries in the meantime, attacked by land and by sea. He took Drepanum and Eryx, where he installed, at the highest point of the mountain, a light signal that transmitted messages to Carthage at night; the signals were reflected by a couple of repeaters set up on floating platforms hi
ngeing around the island of Cossira.

  Just as Leptines was about to go out and engage the enemy fleet, he was fortunately reached by his brother’s coded message.

  Dionysius, Pan Hellenic hegemon of Sicily,

  to Leptines, supreme navarch, Hail!

  I congratulate you and your men for sinking fifty enemy vessels. I have first-hand information from Panormus. Him-ilco’s fleet has a crushing numerical superiority over us of at least three to one. You have no hope for success, and would only be uselessly risking our fleet.

  Retreat. I repeat: retreat.

  Go to Selinus, if you like; leave scouts behind to inform you of the moves of the Carthaginians.

  This is an order. You have no choice but to obey.

  Stay in good health.

  ‘Stay in good health?’ howled Leptines when he had read it. ‘Stay in good health? How in the name of Zeus can I stay in good health! He says we’re to sneak off like cowards and let that son of a bitch win without a fight? What about Biton? We’re to leave him here in the middle of the lagoon alone, like an idiot? What the fuck am I going to tell Biton? That I have to obey orders?’

  The messenger attempted to put in a word. ‘The commander told me it is essential that you carry out his orders, navarch, and—’

  ‘Shut up!’ shouted Leptines with such vehemence that the man didn’t dare open his mouth again. ‘And now get out!’ he yelled even louder. ‘Out of here, all of you!’

  He ate no food nor took a drop of wine that entire day. Then, after dark, he called an orderly. ‘Have the dinghy prepared. We’re going out.’

  ‘Going out? At this hour?’

  ‘Move. I don’t have much patience.’

  The man obeyed and, soon after, a hooded Leptines entered the dinghy and had the helmsman point the bow north.

  He landed at Motya in the middle of the night and got Biton out of bed.

  His friend came to receive him wrapped in the sheet he had been sleeping in. ‘You’re mad to go out so late at night in that walnut shell! You’d make a tasty morsel for a Carthaginian scout ship. What a lucky strike it would be to catch such a big fish in their net!’