by Mika Waltari
But Dorieus commanded them to be silent about things of which they knew nothing. “Three hundred we were, three hundred we still are, and three hundred we shall always be no matter how many fall. But you will not fall, for from now on you are Dorieus’ three hundred. Let three hundred be our battle cry, and three hundred years from now people will still talk of our exploits.”
“Three hundred, three hundred!” shouted the men and beat their shields with their swords. Light-headed from hunger and thirst, we forgot our past miseries and impatiently ran to and fro on the deck.
The water murmured under our leaking prow and when we had passed the hump-necked mountain, there before us lay the harbor of Panormos with a few galleys and boats, a miserable wall and beyond, a fertile plain with fields and woods. But behind the plain rose the mountains of Eryx, steep and of a wondrous blue.
Book Six
Dorieus
1.
Surprise is the mother of victory. I doubt whether a single Carthaginian in Panormos could have believed it possible that the battered galley entering the harbor in bright daylight was the pirate ship which had fled Himera a month earlier. Lars Tular’s silver Gorgon head which dangled from our prow misled the patrols into believing us Etruscan, while the peaceful gestures of our men and the meaningless jargon they shouted in greeting contributed to the uncertainty. And so the patrols merely stared at us in wonder without sounding an alarm on their brass drums.
From a large round cargo vessel tied to the shore we heard cries of warning and injunctions not to row so rapidly. And when the men, peacefully dangling their feet over the water, saw our split sides and sagging rails they laughed heartily. Curious townspeople began to gather at the shore.
Even after our ram had crashed into their vessel with such force as to thrust it onto land, snap its mast and send the men toppling backward onto the deck, the sailors thought it all an accident. Their commander ran toward us, shaking his fist, cursing loudly and demanding compensation for the damage wrought by our carelessness.
But the men of Phocaea, led by Dorieus, leaped onto the vessel with their weapons, struck down everyone in their path and raced to shore. Cutting through the throng that hastened toward them, they climbed the hill and pushed through the gate into the city before the guards quite realized what had happened. While the vanguard was overcoming the resistance in the puny city and killing the’ fear-stunned men, Dionysius with his rearguard was seizing the ships on shore merely by lashing out with his rope. Having seen what happened to the first ship, the crews of the remaining cargo vessels did not even attempt to resist but begged on their knees for mercy. Only a few sought escape, but when Dionysius ordered his men to stone them, they halted in their flight and returned.
Dionysius opened the large shed on the shore in which the residents of Panormos housed the slaves used in unloading the ships. Into it he thrust the prisoners he had just seized, while the liberated slaves, among them a number of Greeks, prostrated themselves before us, hailing us as saviors. Dionysius asked them to prepare food, which they did gladly, lighting fires on the shore and slaughtering some of the neighborhood cattle. But before the meat was roasted, most of us satisfied our deepest pangs of hunger with raw flour mixed with oil.
So sudden and successful was the conquest of Panormos that a wave of audacity swept over the men of Phocaea and they recklessly swore to follow Dorieus wherever he led them. Naturally, some of this courage was born of the wine they had stolen from the houses after killing the able-bodied men of the city.
In truth, the entire garrison in the city and harbor consisted of barely fifty armed men, for the people of Panormos, with their long history of peace, did not consider weapons necessary. Since the only men in that seafaring city were artisans and hence not difficult to kill, the ease of Dorieus’ victory was not surprising. The men of Phocaea, however, considered it a miracle that none of them had received even the smallest wound and, heady from the wine, began to consider themselves invulnerable. In the evening, when they again counted their ranks and numbered three hundred-but only because they saw double-they considered that also a miracle.
To the credit of the Phocaean men be it said that, having overcome their own fear, they did not unnecessarily annoy the peaceful residents of the city. True, they went from house to house in search of loot, but they seized nothing by violence, merely pointing to that which they desired. Beholding their sea-lined faces and bloody hands, the trembling occupants willingly relinquished whatever was wanted. If someone demurred, the men laughingly moved on to the next house. That is how pleased they were with their victory, the food and the wine, and the future which Dorieus held out to them as the rulers of Eryx.
Having set up a watch, Dorieus installed himself in the timbered building occupied by the city council. When he saw that the only treasures it contained were the city charter and the sacred reeds of the river god, he angrily summoned the council before him. The quivering patriarchs in their long Carthaginian robes, their hair bound with colored bands, swore that Panormos was a wretched, poverty-stricken city whose available funds all went to Segesta as taxes. Indeed, they lamented, whenever they held feasts for the gods or welcomed state visitors, each lent his own dishes for the occasion.
Dorieus inquired ominously whether they did not consider him, a descendant of Herakles, worthy of a banquet. After shrill consultation, the old men assured him with one voice that their wives and servants had already undertaken the necessary preparations and that slaves were polishing the scanty silverware in his honor. But a satisfactory banquet could not be arranged without security of person and property.
Dorieus smiled sadly. “Have you scales over your eyes, old men, that you do not recognize me? At least feel the hot wind of my presence. My power is not founded solely on my incontestable hereditary rights or on the weapons of my men, but on the sanctification bestowed on my sovereignty by the sea goddess Thetis. Perhaps you do not recognize her by her Greek name, but you must worship her in one form or another since you engage in fishing and trading by sea.”
The men fearfully covered their eyes with a corner of their robes and explained, “We have our Baal and the ancient goddess of Eryx, but the sea gods of Carthage can be mentioned only in whispers.”
“For my part,” said Dorieus, “I can speak openly. I have entered into an eternal pact with the sea goddess Thetis, just as I have in the earthly manner married a highborn woman descended from the founders of Carthage. But since you know so little about sea gods, it is useless for me to describe my matrimonial adventures.”
The members of the council had fine foods prepared in their houses and brought their silver dishes to the council building. Nor did Dorieus steal them but instead presented to the council a large Phoenician silver beaker from among Dionysius’ treasure.
To Dionysius’ protest Dorieus replied, “I have learned many bitter lessons in my life, perhaps the bitterest of which has been that a man’s heart is where his treasures are. Because of my divine ancestry I have always been something more than just a human and thus have difficulty in comprehending that fact. I can only say that where my sword is, there am I. I do not desire your treasure, Dionysius, but you must admit that you and your ship would both be at the bottom of the sea had I not saved you all by allying myself with the sea goddess Thetis.”
“I have already heard enough about Thetis and your voyages at the bottom of the sea,” retorted Dionysius angrily. “I do not intend to let you deal with the treasure as though it were your own.”
Dorieus replied with a pitying smile, “Tomorrow morning we march on Segesta, and there is nothing better than a brisk journey on foot for recovering from the trials of the sea. The treasure we must take with us since it cannot be left on the vessel. At any moment the warships of Carthage may sail into the harbor. On that fertile plain we can obtain donkeys, horses and other beasts of burden for transporting the treasure. I have already given orders for them to be assembled, and their owners may follow us to care fo
r the animals since sailors fear horses.”
Now it was Dionysius’ turn to gnash his teeth, but he had to admit that Dorieus’ decision was the only possible one. The dry-docking of the trireme and its repair would take weeks, during which time we would be vulnerable to attack by the Phoenician warships. Our only possibility was to push inland, the faster the better. Having the treasure with them, the men of Phocaea were bound to fight for it on land despite their annoyance at the rigors of an overland journey.
“So be it,” said Dionysius grimly. “Tomorrow morning we leave for Segesta with the treasure. But it is as though I were abandoning my own child to leave my trireme defenseless in Panormos.”
Dorieus snapped at him, “You probably have left children behind at every port you have ever visited. Let us burn your vessel and all the others in Panormos so that no one will be tempted to flee.”
Dionysius scowled at the very thought.
“Have the trireme dry-docked and let the city council attend to the repairs,” I suggested. “The silver shield of Gorgon will be its protector. Should Phoenician warships sail into the harbor the council can give assurance that the trireme is the property of the new king of Segesta. The Carthaginian commanders will not dare to interfere in the internal affairs of Panormos without returning to Carthage for consultation. If we do this, we will lose nothing.”
Dorieus scratched his head. “Let Dionysius have charge of maritime matters. If he accedes, I will not insist that the vessels be burned. Besides, it would be wasteful to destroy something which must later be built again, and I will need ships to protect the interests of Eryx at sea.”
Dorieus entrusted the welfare of Panormos to its former council, promising to return as king of Segesta to punish or reward as he saw fit.
2.
The following day Dorieus organized the men of Phocaea for a refreshing march, as he put it, to help them recover from the trials of the sea. The men had spread his fame throughout the city and when he made his offering before their departure, the market place grew still and the people of Panormos stared at him in awe. He was a head taller than humans, they said to one another, invulnerable and godlike.
“Let us be on our way,” he said, and without a backward glance headed out of the city dressed in full armor despite the heat. We three hundred, as he called us, followed him, Dionysius at the rear with a length of rope in his hand. We had unloaded the treasure from the trireme and piled it on the backs of the animals without much difficulty since a goodly part of it had gone down with our penteconters.
Having reached the plain we looked behind and to our amazement saw that many of the men of Panormos were following us. By the time we had begun ascending the slope of the mountain at dusk our rearguard had been joined by hundreds of shepherds and plowmen, each armed to the best of his ability. When we made camp for the night the entire mountain slope was dotted with small fires. It seemed as though all of the backwoods people were eager to rise in revolt against Segesta.
On the third day of our exhausting march the men of Phocaea, unaccustomed to land travel, began to grumble and show their blisters. Then Dorieus spoke to them. “I myself march ahead of you and enjoy marching despite my full armor. As you can see, I am not even sweating. And you have only your weapons to carry.”
“It is easy for you to talk,” they retorted, “for you are not like us.” At the first spring they threw themselves on the ground, doused their heads in the water and wept in misery. Dorieus’ words did not help the situation, but they had to believe Dionysius’ rope and continue the journey.
Dorieus then spoke to Dionysius. “You are not stupid,” he admitted, “and apparently are beginning to understand a commander’s responsibilities on land. We are approaching Segesta and before a battle a responsible commander must march his men to such exhaustion that they no longer have the strength to flee. The distance from Panormos to Segesta is precisely right, as though measured by the gods for our purpose. We will go directly to Segesta and spread ourselves in battle formation before it.”
Dionysius replied somberly, “You know best what you are saying, but we are sailors and not soldiers. For that reason we will most certainly not spread out in a battle line but will remain supporting one another in a body, side to side and back to back. But if you go ahead, we will follow.”
But Dorieus bristled in anger and said that he would wage the battle in accordance with the rules of war so that future generations might learn from it. In the midst of the argument a group of Siccanians crept from the woods with their slings, bows and spears. They wore animal skins and had stained their faces and bodies red, black and yellow. Their chief, who had a fearsome wooden mask over his head, danced before Dorieus, after which the Siccanians placed at Dorieus’ feet the decayed and foul-smelling heads of several Segestan nobles.
They explained that seers had sought them out in the forests and mountains, had given them salt and presaged the coming of a new king. Encouraged by the predictions, they had begun to raid Segestan fields, and when the nobles had pursued them with horses and dogs they had led them into an ambush and killed them.
Now, however, they were afraid of revenge and so placed themselves under Dorieus’ protection. For as long as they could remember, they said, a tale had passed from father to son of a powerful stranger who had once come to their land, vanquished the king in a duel and given the land to the natives, promising some day to claim his inheritance. They called Dorieus “Erkle” and expressed the wish that he would banish the Elymi and restore the land to the Siccani.
Dorieus accepted their homage as his due. He attempted to teach them to say “Herakles” but when their mouths could not shape it he shook his head. Little joy would he have of such barbarians.
Barbarians they were, indeed. The only metallic weapons they had were a few spears, knives and the chief’s sword, for the Segestans stringently forbade itinerant merchants to sell them weapons. Instead, they had other skills. Never did they fell a tree wherein dwelled a nymph, or drink from the spring of a malevolent deity. Their priest, they explained, had swallowed a divining potion the previous night and had seen the coming of Dorieus while in a trance.
When Dorieus asked them to join in open battle against the Segestans they refused. They were too afraid of the horses and angry dogs to venture beyond the woods, but they would be happy to encourage Dorieus by beating on drums made of hollow logs.
As we continued the march, more and more Siccanians appeared to stare at us and to shout, “Erkle! Erkle!” The peasants of Panormos were amazed at the sight of these usually shy natives who did not reveal themselves even when trading, but placed their goods on display in certain locations and accepted whatever was left in return.
Now the fertile fields of Segesta with their altars and monuments lay before us. But we saw no people, for they had all withdrawn into the city. At the memorial to the spurious Philip of Croton, Dorieus halted and said, “Here we will fight, so that my father’s spirit may be appeased for the humiliation it suffered.”
We could see people moving restlessly on the city wall, and Dorieus ordered the men of Phocaea to beat their shields as proof that he had no intention of taking the city by surprise. Then he sent a herald to proclaim to the Segestans his hereditary right to the throne and to challenge the king to a duel. Thereafter we made camp around the memorial and ate, drank and rested. Despite Dorieus’ warning not to trample the grain we could not avoid doing so, for there must have been several thousand of us if one includes the Siccanians at our rear.
I believe the trampling of the grain annoyed the Segestans even more than Dorieus’ demands. Having noticed that the grain would in any case be ruined and that a battle was inescapable, their ruler assembled his athletes and noble youths and hitched his horses to the war chariots which for decades had been used only in races. Although the king had no more power than the sacrificial king in Ionian cities, the dog crown imposed certain obligations. Afterward we heard that he was not especially anxious to r
etain it and while harnessing the horses had taken the crown from his head and offered it to those around him. But at that moment no one else was anxious to wear the crown either.
They summoned up one another’s courage by retelling tales of the battles that their forefathers had waged against invaders and recalling the bones which fertilized their fields. Meanwhile the king’s heralds went from door to door to summon able-bodied men to arms, but the citizens said openly that a political controversy over the dog crown was no concern of theirs. And so the nobles and landowners drank wine and made their offering to the gods of the underworld to gain courage to die honorably if that was ordained. They also spent much time in oiling and combing their hair.
Having fetched the holy dog and led it to its place among the pack, the Segestans, finally ready for battle, flung open the gates and sent the chariots thundering toward us. The chariots were an imposing sight, the like of which had hardly been seen in battle for a generation. We counted twenty-eight spread out in a phalanx to protect the gates. The horses were magnificent with their plumed heads and their harnesses gilded with silver.
Behind the chariots were spread the armored warriors, the nobles, the mercenaries and the athletes. Dorieus forbade us to count the shields lest we grow alarmed. The warriors were followed by the dogs and their trainers and they in turn by the stone-throwers and the archers.
We could hear the charioteers urge on the horses. Seeing the flaring nostrils and the flashing hoofs approach, the men of Phocaea began to tremble so that their shields rattled against one another. Calmly Dorieus stood before them and urged them to aim their spears manfully at the horses’ bellies. But as the chariots rumbled toward them, flattening the grain field, the men of Phocaea withdrew behind the memorial and the altars and declared that, for their part, Dorieus could handle the problem of the chariots alone since they were unaccustomed to such matters. Whereupon the remaining forces likewise withdrew beyond the wide irrigation ditch.
