Tyrant (43 page)

‘Did you see Babylon?’ asked Dionysius.

‘No,’ replied Xenophon. ‘We weren’t far from there, but one morning, near a village called Kounaxa, the army of the Great King suddenly appeared. There were hundreds of thousands of foot and horse soldiers from every land: Persians, Ethiopians, Egyptians, Carduchians, Assyrians, Medians, Mossinecians, Armenians. They lifted a wide cloud of dust four or five stadia wide, clear across the plain. As they got closer, the fearful horde materialized, weapons and shields glittering, wild cries sounding in all those languages, drums rolling. The scythed war chariots raced towards us, built to mow down men as if they were heads of wheat. It was a frightful sight . . .’

‘And you?’ asked Dionysius, personally filling his guest’s cup.

‘What about you?’ echoed Doris.

‘Cyrus wanted us to attack at the centre so we could kill the king.’

‘His brother,’ commented Dionysius.

‘Exactly. It’s normal for them to settle dynastic questions that way. But Clearcus refused, and we attacked the advancing line head on. We managed to break through, and we returned that evening to the battlefield thinking we had won, but instead we found Cyrus’s body, decapitated and impaled.’

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.

T
HE 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.