Tyrant (34 page)

He jumped on to his steed and took the first of the three horses by its halter as the others tramped behind. The girl followed on foot for a while, then seemed to stop and regard the rough gown she was wearing with a strange expression.

Dionysius stopped as well, and turned to say farewell with a last look, thinking that she would not dare go beyond the edge of the great rock basin. But she took off at a run and with a bound leapt on to the lead horse with extraordinary agility and marvellous ease. The animal did not shy, as if the creature were weightless and scentless, and continued tranquilly on his way, guided by those small, bare, rock-toughened feet.

That same day, at dusk, he used his sword to cut her hair neck-length, and once again her expression changed. She became a dark ephebus for a moment and then, for just an instant, for a single, brief, fleeting instant, she was Arete. She looked at him with Arete’s eyes.

They started up again before dawn and ventured through deserted, solitary lands to which the war had dealt a death blow. They journeyed in silence the whole time. Her mute presence somehow accentuated his solitude and, at the same time, the desolate territory they were crossing seemed to emphasize and infinitely magnify the presence of that creature, making her seem divine.

They rode for eight days through the mountains, sleeping just a few hours a night, until one morning Acragas appeared to them, high on her hill in a spectral dawn.

The city was deserted and the wild animals – stray dogs, foxes, crows – had settled in. The signs of destruction were everywhere to be seen, as were the miserable remains of those who had been left behind and killed.

He did not dare go up to the acropolis, but he did pass in front of Tellias’s house and went in. He was greeted by chipped walls, blackened ceilings and burnt furniture. Precious vases lay in shards on the floors. He leaned his head against the wall as tears rose to his eyes. The girl came close and put her hand on the nape of his neck. She could instinctively feel the pain that grieved him and tried to take part of it away into herself.

Dionysius turned and looked into her eyes. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘let’s go to the pond.’

The water was tepid, nearly warm, but there were no fish. The occupying forces must have taken them for food last winter. He dived in, but it took him several tries before he reached the bottom. He finally saw a couple of crates tied with hemp rope but he found it completely impossible to move them. He decided to cut the ropes and looked inside: there were hundreds of silver and gold coins. Tellias’s treasure!

His lungs felt like they would explode, and he pushed on his legs to return to the surface but something held him back: the rope he had cut had twisted around his foot and was keeping him anchored to the bottom.

Was he dying? Was it all over? Bubbles surged up around his body, the images of his life faded in a sickly green light, the groans of the dying flitted under his skin, fire blazed in his lungs, the eyes of weeping girls watched him from other worlds . . .

Then he felt a wrenching tug. His body emerged swiftly and an extraordinary force dragged him to the shore. The wild girl had climbed on to his chest and her knees pushed the vomit out of his stomach, the water – and the fire – out of his lungs. He coughed, spat, twisted and finally drew a breath.

He looked around and saw no one. But then he heard the water gurgling again and saw the girl tossing two big handfuls of gold and silver coins on to the shore before dipping again into the water.

She continued in and out untiringly, without ever stopping a moment to rest, the whole day, as Dionysius filled the packs to load on to the horses’ backs.

By evening, nearly all the treasure had been taken from the water: an enormous wealth of coins.

‘We can go now,’ he said. He was going towards the horses to load the last sack when he suddenly heard a noise and stopped. The intense excitement of such an incredible day, their roaming through the ghostly city and the sight of so much money had plunged him into a kind of oneiric state, but that sound brought him straight back to reality. He felt a shiver run up his spine. He had been mad to think he could act alone in that way and that place.

‘Who goes there?’ he shouted.

He got no answer, but saw shadows slipping from one house to the next, brushing past the walls.

‘Get on your horse, quickly!’ he told the girl, and his gestures made it clear what those words meant. But she would not move. She seemed to be sniffing the air and was baring her teeth like an animal, recoiling. Dionysius grabbed hold of the horses’ halters and began to drag them towards the eastern wall.

But more sounds were coming from there, voices calling to each other, and shadows advanced towards them. They were trapped.

A couple of individuals came forward, gripping clubs in their hands. They were covered with rags and had long hair and beards: brigands? deserters? . . . survivors? They seemed more like beasts than men. Dionysius stopped and drew his sword. The girl snatched up two stones and let fly with deadly precision. Both men were struck right on the forehead and they collapsed to the ground without a whimper. But more cries broke out and a mob of about fifty more charged forward, brandishing clubs and knives.

‘Quick, this way,’ shouted Dionysius, grabbing the girl by her hand and leaving the horses behind. But their pursuers were evidently seeking revenge for their companions and continued to chase them, waving their weapons.

Dionysius ducked behind the corner of a house only to run straight into a man coming from the opposite direction. He was about to strike him down with his sword when a voice in Greek shouted ‘Stop, blast you! Would you cut my throat?’

‘Leptines?’

‘Who else!’ He turned around. ‘Go to it men, mow down those mangy dogs.’

Sixty mercenaries and Aksal himself lunged forward, slaughtering the first ones to get in their way, then used bow and arrow to cut down the rest of them in their panicked flight. Not one of them got away.

‘I gave you precise orders,’ said Dionysius when it was all over.

‘By Heracles! I’ve just saved your life! Some nerve you have . . .’ retorted Leptines.

‘I gave you precise orders!’ roared Dionysius.

Leptines lowered his head and bit his lip.

‘I would have managed fine without you,’ he continued. ‘They were nothing but a bunch of lousy swine, but your disobedience could have had disastrous consequences. Don’t you understand that?’

‘I left Doricus in Syracuse: he’s an excellent officer and he’s always been a member of the Company. Nothing will happen there. I thought that it was too risky for you to go off on your own, so I followed your tracks. Next time I’ll let you croak.’

‘Next time you’ll do as I say, or I’ll forget that you are my brother and I’ll have you executed for insubordination. Is that clear?’

Aksal arrived with a head in each hand. ‘Aksal you shadow, see?’ And he stuck them in front of his nose.

Dionysius grimaced. ‘Yes, yes, all right. Take those horses and let’s get out of here fast.’

‘Who’s that?’ asked Leptines, nodding towards the girl.

Dionysius turned but she bolted away, vanishing into the deserted city now plunged in darkness. ‘Wait!’ he shouted, ‘Wait!’ running after her, but he immediately realized it was useless. He would never find her.

‘Well, who was she?’ asked Leptines again.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Dionysius curtly.

They made their way through the eastern quarters all the way to the Gela gate. They emerged into the eastern necropolis as the moon rose behind them, shedding its wan light over the temples on the hill. Dionysius looked over at his brother who was trudging along silently, keeping step with the shaft of his spear.

It seemed strange to him that Leptines would have taken such initiative on his own.

‘Tell me the truth. Who suggested that you follow me? Philistus?’

Leptines stopped and turned towards him. ‘No. Philistus had nothing to do with it.’

‘Who, then?’

‘That fellow. The stocky bald-headed fellow, the one who brought me the message. He just suddenly showed up in the atrium of the barracks and he said: “Your brother is in danger. You must go to him immediately, on the road to Acragas.” Then he vanished before I could say a word. What could I do?’

Dionysius did not answer. He resumed the march in silence and no one saw his eyes glittering in the darkness, nor heard the words that rose from his throat with the emotion of a sudden revelation: ‘Tellias . . . my friend.’

A
S SOON AS
he had returned to Syracuse, Dionysius commenced a couple of ambitious construction projects: a fortified residence connected to the dockyards in the heart of the old city, and a wall that blocked off the isthmus of Ortygia. He also had thirty battleships built. He took these initiatives without convening the Assembly, and it was thus clear to all that he would tolerate no checks on his power. His attitude provoked violent reactions from the opposition, especially from the families of the Knights who had taken exile at Aetna. They openly denounced the tyranny that had been established in the city, and incited the people to rebel.

Dionysius’s reaction was unforgiving and harsh. He unleashed his mercenaries, who conducted massive house-to-house searches, arrested all his opponents and brought them to the fortress in Ortygia. There, after a summary trial, they were condemned to exile. Their goods and property were seized and distributed to the mercenaries, who were gratified by this new, prestigious style of living and thus twice bound to their lord and benefactor.

He didn’t see the girl from the source of the Anapus in all this time, nor did he ever go back there, occupied as he was by so many plans and worries, but sometimes, at night, when he was resting in his huge bare bedroom in his fortress inhabited only by mercenaries, he thought of her and of how they had made love in the waters of the spring. How she had appeared miraculously, looking so different from how he had remembered her, and how she had followed him to the walls of Acragas on his quest. He thought of the voice that had spoken to him from the rocks, softly, almost as if not to be heard by anyone but him.

As winter turned to spring, ships started to arrive in the harbour and, with the ships, news. Athens had fallen, yielding to the hunger and hardship of so long a siege by both land and sea. The powerful metropolis had been brought to her knees, and had no choice but to surrender unconditionally. It was rumoured that Sparta’s allies – the Thebans and Corinthians in particular – had insisted that the city be razed to the ground, but Lysander had refused: destroying Athens would be like depriving Greece of one of her two eyes. The conditions that she was forced to agree to were punishing: destruction of the Long Wall, the mighty fortification that connected the city to the port at Piraeus, surrender of the entire war fleet except for eight ships and, most humiliating of all, a Spartan garrison on the Acropolis.

Dionysius believed that the beginning of her relentless decline had started under the walls of Syracuse, where the best young men of Athens had been mown down. He realized that the time had come to commence with his plan, and he convoked the Council: Heloris, Philistus, Leptines, Doricus, Iolaus, Biton and three more friends from the Company. ‘The war in Greece is over,’ he said. ‘Athens has lost. Thousands of men who have done nothing but fight for years and years, and who are incapable of doing anything else, are now at the disposal of the highest bidder. You, Leptines, will leave for Sparta to enrol all those you can. You’ll try to meet with Lysander, and establish an agreement with him if you can. They tell me he’s a practical man who knows how to deal with a situation.’

‘What about Corinth?’ asked Leptines. ‘Corinth is our metropolis and has always shown interest in our internal affairs, either to help us or to put pressure on us.’

‘Bring some offerings for the Temple of Poseidon on the isthmus. A formal act of homage is more than sufficient. We are stronger than Corinth: we don’t need them. Sparta’s in command now; Sparta is the true power that won the war. And Lysander is the most powerful man in Sparta, even more powerful than the kings. But there are things that must be settled here first. You, Doricus, will depart with the army and take charge of the complete subjugation of the Sicels. Our first objective is Herbessos. Once that city falls, the others will follow. You’ll leave at once and take the Syracusan troops with you. I’ll follow up with the mercenaries.’

‘What about the Carthaginians?’ asked Philistus. ‘All this activity is bound to make them nervous . . .’

‘They won’t move,’ replied Dionysius. ‘I’ve learned that the plague is still raging, the city is weakened and Himilco no longer enjoys such consideration. They won’t move. Not yet, anyway.’