Tyrant (12 page)

‘No one would ever attempt to migrate,’ pointed out Philistus, ‘without the assistance of the Oracle. The voice of the Oracle indicates the place where the emigrants should found a new homeland, and the best time to take to sea. That’s why you’ll find an altar to Apollo in many colonies; sometimes even a temple, like at Cyrene in Africa . . .’

‘Have you ever visited Cyrene?’ asked Arete, her curiosity piqued.

‘Certainly. It’s a marvellous city. There’s a huge inscription, right in the main square, that reproduces the oath of the colonists. Do you know the story of the founding of Cyrene? One day I’ll tell you all about it; it’s a fabulous adventure, full of extraordinary happenings.’

‘Why don’t you tell me the story now?’ asked Arete.

‘No, another time,’ replied Philistus. ‘The closer we get to our destination, the more I can tell that your mind is occupied by other thoughts. It’s only right, and I can imagine why.’

‘It’s not easy to keep anything hidden from you,’ said Arete.

‘I’ve dedicated my life to studying man’s nature and actions, and I hope I’ve learned something. And yet I can tell that you’re going to surprise me, sooner or later. There are many things in you that I still can’t understand.’

‘When will we get to Messana?’ asked Arete, changing the subject.

‘This evening, if the weather stays good. Our journey is almost over.’

They entered the great sickle-shaped harbour of Messana at sunset and Arete was as excited as a little girl to see the Straits that divided Sicily from Italy. Rhegium, on the other side, seemed close enough to touch with a hand. ‘What a magnificent place!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s hard to imagine that Scylla and Charybdis were here.’

‘What seems like such a marvellous place to you now, with beautiful cities on both sides, looked wild and treacherous to the first navigators that ventured into these waters. The strong current of the Straits tossed their fragile vessels against the rocks this way and that. The sight of Mount Aetna with its rivers of fire, the rumbling that shook the earth, the cliffs towering on the east, the dark forests . . . it all seemed monstrous and threatening. And so they imagined that Odysseus, the wandering hero, had ploughed these turbulent waters long before they had, managing to defeat the monsters, overcome the Cyclops, trick the sirens, elude Circe’s sorcery . . .’

Arete turned towards the Sicilian shore and gazed at the beautiful harbour swarming with vessels; the sea had turned the colour of lead and the distant clouds were reddened by the last rays of the sun. Even the plume of Mount Aetna was tinged with unreal colours, and she understood what Philistus’s words meant. ‘I could listen to you for days and days,’ she said. ‘It’s been a privilege to spend this time with you.’

‘As it has been for me,’ replied Philistus.

Arete dropped her eyes and asked with a blush: ‘How do I look to you? I mean . . . don’t you think I look too skinny?’

Philistus smiled. ‘You look beautiful to me. But look, there’s someone coming this way, and I’d say he can’t wait to get you into his arms.’

Arete glanced over at the dockyard and was struck dumb: Dionysius was running towards her like a young god, dressed only in a light chlamys, his hair curling over his shoulders. He was shouting out her name.

She would have wanted to run and shout as well, or maybe break down in tears, but she could do nothing. Still and silent, she gripped the ship’s railing and looked at him as if he were a vision from a dream.

Dionysius sprang from the edge of the wharf and grabbed the ship’s railing from the other side. He hoisted himself up on his arms and pushed himself clear over the railing. She found him standing in front of her.

She could only gasp: ‘How did you know that . . . ?’

‘Every evening I watch the mouth of the harbour hoping to see you arrive.’

‘You haven’t changed your mind? Are you sure that . . .’

Dionysius cut off her words with a kiss as he pulled her close. Arete threw her arms around him and felt herself melt in the heat of his embrace as she abandoned herself to the fiery words he whispered in her ear.

Dionysius stepped back and said to her, smiling: ‘Now we have to respect tradition. Come on, I’ve got to ask for your hand in marriage.’

‘What do you mean . . . ask for my hand? Ask who? I’m all alone, I’m . . .’

‘Ask your father, little girl. Hermocrates is here.’

Arete looked at Philistus and then again at Dionysius, saying: ‘My father? Oh gods in heaven, my father?’ Her eyes welled up with tears.

H
ERMOCRATES HAD BEEN
told only that Dionysius had asked to be received and that he would have a person with him who wanted to see him. He suddenly found the daughter he had thought dead standing in front of him.

He was a hard man, tempered by the vicissitudes of an adventurous life, a proud, austere aristocrat, but he was thoroughly shaken by the sight of her. Arete did not dare run to him, in keeping with the respect she’d been taught to have for her father since she was young. She took a few timid steps in his direction, without daring to look him in the eye. He had always been more of an image, an idol, for her than a real parent, and the sudden, dramatic intimacy of such an extreme situation made her feel panicky and light-headed. Her heart was beating so hard she thought she would suffocate. But her father rose to his feet as soon as he had got over his shock and he ran to her, holding her close in a long, emotional hug. She burst into tears as all her tension dissolved and she clung to his neck. She stood there without moving, in the middle of that plain, bare room, wrapped in the warmth of an embrace that she had always desired.

It was Dionysius’s voice that shook her to her senses:
‘Hegemon

Hermocrates seemed only then to notice his presence. He looked at him with a quizzical expression, not understanding how that young warrior could have brought him the daughter that he had thought lost to him forever.

‘Father,’ said Arete, ‘it’s to him I owe my life. He found me nearly unconscious along the road. He helped me up, he comforted me, protected me . . .’

Hermocrates shot a suddenly dark, suspicious look at the young man he had in front of him.

‘. . . and respected me,’ concluded Arete.

Hermocrates released her and turned to Dionysius. ‘I thank you for what you have done. Tell me how I can reward you.’

‘I’ve already had my reward,
hegemon
. Meeting your daughter was the greatest fortune that has ever befallen me. The privilege of talking to her and listening to her words has changed me profoundly—’

‘It’s all ended up well,’ Hermocrates cut him off. ‘I’m very grateful to you, boy, more than you can imagine. When I learned about the fall of Selinus and found no way to have news of my daughter, I was tortured by the thought that she might be a prisoner, dragged who knows where in slavery, exposed to brutality and violence of every sort . . . The uncertainty of her fate was even more painful for me than if I had learned of her death. There is no worse torture for a father than not knowing the destiny of his daughter. My properties and my wealth have been confiscated, but I still have something hidden away. Let me pay you back.’

‘There’s no price for what I’m about to ask you,
hegemon
,’ said Dionysius with a firm voice, looking him straight in the eyes, ‘because I intend to ask you to give me the daughter I’ve just returned to you.’

‘But . . . what are you saying . . .’ stuttered Hermocrates.

‘I’ve fallen in love with him, father,’ Arete broke in. ‘As soon as I saw him, as soon as I opened my eyes. And from that moment I’ve wanted nothing but to be his bride and live with him every day that the gods shall grant us.’

Hermocrates looked like he’d been struck by lightning, and couldn’t say a word.

‘I know, I’m a man of humble birth,’ continued Dionysius, ‘and I should never have even raised my eyes to her, but the love I feel for her gives me the courage to dare so much. I will prove myself worthy of your daughter and of you,
hegemon
. You will not regret having granted me so great a treasure. I’m not asking for her hand because I want to have a family and ensure my progeny, nor in order to bind myself to one of the most illustrious houses of my city, and certainly not to take the credit for having brought her back to you. I would have tried to save anyone I found in those conditions. I’m asking you for her hand because without her there would be no joy in my life, because I want to love her and protect her against any harm or danger, even at the cost of my own life.’

Hermocrates nodded solemnly without saying a word, and Arete, realizing that he had consented, hugged him tightly, whispering in his ear: ‘Thank you, father, thank you . . . I’m happy because I’m with the only people in the world who mean something to me.’

Their marriage was celebrated the following day. Since Arete had no friends who could accompany her to her husband’s house, and since her husband had no house of his own in Messana, the noblest families of the city offered Dionysius a home, and their virgin daughters accompanied the bride to her wedding chamber to loosen the belt of her gown. Arete thought of the fires of Acragas and of the solitary song of the poet on the hill of the temples as she made her way to the house where Dionysius was waiting for her. He was a hero to her; the man who most resembled her father, the love she’d dreamt of since she was a child, when she would listen to fanciful stories on her mother’s knee.

The procession was festive, the young people along the way shouted and teased, the children chanted the traditional nursery rhyme that wished offspring of both sexes upon the couple.

The maidens who accompanied Arete sprinkled wild rose petals before her. They were all lovely, dressed in their best peplums, but no one could match the splendour of the bride. Her happiness made her even more luminous: she had cast aside all her worrisome thoughts to think only of the young man who awaited her at the threshold of a modest home at the foot of the hills.

The sun was setting behind the mountains when she came within sight of the house. Dionysius stood at the door dressed in an elegant white floor-length chiton embroidered with silver palm leaves; certainly some wealthy friend had lent it to him! At his side was the priest who united their hands with the sacred ribbon and blessed the bride.

The girls then accompanied Arete to the bridal chamber, chanting the wedding hymn and lighting the torches they held in their hands from the oil lamp in the atrium. They loosened her hair and combed it, then untied the belt that graced her gown. They undressed her and lay her down on the bed, under the white linen sheets.

Then they scampered down the stairs with mischievous little yelps. Dionysius waited until everything was tranquil and quiet, then went upstairs and neared the bedroom door. He strained his ears, and finally heard the serenade that he had requested for his bride that night. Down in the street, a Messanian singer, accompanied by a flute and a string instrument, had struck up his song: a moving love story where a poor boy falls in love with a princess after having seen her pass only once on her sedan chair.

He gently pushed the door open just a crack, and saw with surprise that the bed was empty. Alarmed, he entered the room: it was empty as well! His heart pounding, Dionysius tried to calm down. He closed the door behind him and started. Arete had been hiding behind the door and was now standing proudly naked in front of him, backed up against the wall, with a naughty, amused smile on her face.

Dionysius shook his head and came close. ‘You know that a young bride should wait timid and trembling under the sheets? Does this seem the time to play games?’

Arete smiled: ‘Do you still think I’m too thin?’

‘I think you are very, very beautiful,’ replied Dionysius. ‘And that I was completely wrong.’ He held out his hand to caress her cheek and she kissed it gently, barely grazing it with her open lips. He slid his other hand down to caress her breasts and stomach. He saw Arete close her eyes and felt her flesh quiver under his fingertips.

He suddenly lifted her in his arms with a natural, gentle gesture, as if she were as light as a feather, and laid her on the bed. He undressed, and to Arete he looked like the statues of the Olympic athletes in the squares and of the gods on the temple pediments. The last rosy reflections of the evening sifted in through the window and alighted on Arete’s skin like the gaze of Aphrodite. The serenade was more distant now, and softer, so much like the melody she’d heard in Acragas, accompanied by the mellow notes of a flute and the silvery warble of strings.