Tyrant (6 page)

Arete spent the evening with the women of the house, who dutifully tried at first to avoid asking her questions about her ordeal, but the massacre of Selinus was such an enormous event that it couldn’t be kept outside the walls of their home or their conversation. The girl’s curt answers made it clear that what she had experienced could not be the subject of idle chatter. But one of the women could not hold back. ‘Is it true,’ she asked at a certain point, ‘that all the women were raped?’ Clearly, in her cruel curiosity, she wanted to know: ‘Were you raped as well?’

Arete answered: ‘The women suffered like all our people did. Even worse, seeing their children and husbands killed before their eyes. You can’t imagine how atrocious it is for those of us who have survived when these memories surge up or someone forces us to remember.’

The women fell silent in chagrin and Tellias’s wife broke in: ‘That’s enough, my friends. Let’s leave her in peace. She needs tranquillity to begin a new life. Think of how you would feel if you had lived through such atrocities.’

Arete tried to lessen their embarrassment by asking them about their city; was it true that horses that had won important competitions were buried in monumental tombs, and that there was even a cemetery for the songbirds that kept the ladies company in their living quarters?

‘Oh, heavens!’ replied Tellias’s wife. ‘Who knows, perhaps once or twice. But I can assure you we don’t have a necropolis for goldfinches! Just silly stories, my girl, that you needn’t believe.’

After dinner, Arete was accompanied back to the ground floor where Dionysius sat alone. ‘Where’s the master of the house?’ asked Arete.

‘He’s gone out a moment. Sit down.’

‘I thought we’d be going home.’

‘No,’ said Dionysius. ‘You’re staying here.’

‘Why?’

‘Because tomorrow I’m leaving for Syracuse before dawn and I can’t take you with me.’

‘I don’t need to go anywhere with you. I can take care of myself.’

‘No you can’t. A woman can’t travel alone unless she’s accompanied by a relative. You wouldn’t know how to get around, how to find a place to sleep for the night. Syracuse is a dangerous place these days. Be patient. As soon as I can I’ll come back for you, I promise.’

‘Why should you?’

‘Because . . . because I said that I’ll be back and that means that I’ll be back,’ he said sharply.

‘When will you come back for me?’

‘As soon as I can. You’ll be safe here and happy, my friends can give you anything you need.’

Arete bowed her head and was quiet.

‘And I won’t have to worry about you,’ Dionysius added.

The girl stood up at those words and looked deep into his eyes. ‘Will you stay away from danger at least?’

‘No.’

‘And will you give me a kiss before you leave me?’

‘Yes,’ said Dionysius. He pulled her close and kissed her on the lips. Then, without waiting for Tellias to return, he opened the door and walked out.

D
IONYSIUS AROSE AT
cockcrow thinking of Arete. That frightened, proud girl, brazen yet tender, as fragile as a vial of perfume, had awakened a feeling in him that he didn’t want to admit or accept. He’d admired her since the first time he’d seen her long ago in Syracuse, at a procession during the festivities dedicated to Athena.

The daughter of Hermocrates, his idol and his model. He knew that she, the daughter of an aristocrat, would never have deemed him worthy of a glance; he could never have imagined that the day would come in which her survival would depend on him. He was rather annoyed at himself for having fallen for her so completely. No, it wasn’t compassion that motivated him, although he would have liked to think so at first.

The evening before, he’d lingered to look at her after she’d fallen into a deep sleep. He had contemplated her every feature in the lantern light: her face, the soft curves of her body, her little sore-covered feet. Then he had returned to the terrace under the arbour to watch the sun sink into the sea.

He put a loaf of bread into his satchel and filled his flask with fresh water. He prepared his horse and walked down towards the market square, leading him by the reins.

His men were waiting for him with all their gear; they were having breakfast and tossing bits of bread to the fish teeming at the surface of the pond. They set off almost immediately. When they had exited the eastern gate and descended into the valley, they turned around to gaze upon the magnificent spectacle of the morning rays striking the Temple of Athena on the acropolis before slowly descending to illuminate the sides of the sacred hill.

Towering walls surrounded the hill on every side; thousands of mercenaries had joined the city’s troops to guard the mighty barricade.

‘Too big,’ observed Dionysius as he took in that marvellous scene.

‘What did you say?’ asked Philistus, who rode alongside him.

‘The circle of walls is too big. It could become indefensible.’

‘What nonsense!’ Philistus exclaimed. ‘What are you thinking? Acragas is impregnable. The walls are too high for any siege towers, and the city is so rich she could take any steps necessary to ensure her defence.’

Dionysius kept up his grumbling. ‘Too big, I’m telling you.’

They passed the camp of the Syracusan contingent that had been sent to assist Selinus; they were there waiting for orders but none were forthcoming. Dionysius and his men continued at a walk that whole day. They journeyed five more days after that, and on the sixth, towards evening, they came within view of Syracuse. The city was like a gem, set between land and sea. Her heart, Ortygia, lodged on the rocky island where their ancestors had first set foot; they had come from beyond the sea with nothing but a handful of dirt from their homeland and the flame they’d taken from the sacred brazier that burned on the acropolis.

The founding fathers had chosen a perfect place, both for defence and for trade. The city had two ports, in fact, one at the north called Laccius, sheltered from the south-west wind, and another at the south, sheltered from Boreas. This ensured that contrary winds could never isolate Syracuse, and made besieging the city almost impossible.

This was a lesson that the Athenians had learned at their own expense after trying repeatedly and futilely to take Syracuse by force. They suffered long months in the noxious swamps at the mouth of the Anapus, tormented by the heat, by fever and dysentery, watching their proud triremes slowly rotting at anchor. Although he was just a boy then, Dionysius remembered the procession of chained prisoners making their way to the
latomiae
, the horrible stone quarries where they would spend the rest of their days without ever again seeing the light of the sun. They were marked on their foreheads, one by one, using a branding iron for horses, and were left to waste away in that immense dark cavern from which the clang of their chisels sounded obsessively, ceaselessly, where the air was a dense cloud of dust that blinded the eyes and burnt the lungs.

The only men who were spared were those who could recite by heart the verses of Euripedes’s
Trojan Women
, which sang praise to peace. It couldn’t be said that the Syracusans were coarse or ignorant! And yet the city of Syracuse had ended up copying the institutions of her sworn enemy: like Athens, she approved a democratic constitution that drastically reduced the power and political influence of the great landowners and the nobility.

As they drew nearer, they could see the causeway which connected the island of Ortygia to the mainland, where a new district was expanding. On higher ground – on Epipolae, the plateau which loomed behind the city – were a number of guard posts facing the inland regions.

They passed the Arethusa fount, the nearly miraculous spring that flowed just a few steps from the sea. It gave forth the purest waters; it had allowed the city of Syracuse to be born and to exist, and her people venerated the spring as a divinity.

Dionysius stopped to drink, as he always did when returning from a journey. He wet his eyes and his forehead, thus allowing the lifeblood that flowed through the hidden, secret veins of his land to flow over his body.

His city, his homeland.

He loved her with a possessive, jealous love. He knew all the stories and legends which dated from the very day of her founding. He knew every wall and every stone, the discordant noises of the market and the ports, the intense odours of the land and the sea. He would be able to cross the city blindfolded, from one end to the other, without faltering. He knew the magnates and the beggars, the warriors and the informers, the priests and the hired mourners, the craftsmen and the thieves, the street prostitutes and the most refined courtesans from Greece and Asia. He had always lived on the streets, played on the streets as a boy with his brother Leptines, challenging rival gangs to stone-throwing fights.

All this was his city to him: an indivisible union, not a multitude of distinct individuals with whom to talk or quarrel or clash. And she was born to be the greatest, the strongest, the most powerful city in the world: more so than Sparta, who had helped them during the great war, more so than Athens, who still mourned her sons, fallen in the plague-ridden swamps of the Anapus and on the scorching banks of the Assinarus.

As he advanced at a walk, leading his horse by the reins and nodding at all those who greeted him, he continued his brooding, furious at the fate of Selinus, which could have been avoided if Hermocrates had been present. He was indignant over Syracuse’s treatment of the valiant admiral: they had shamefully stripped him of his position and his rights and forced him to flee in order to save his life. And whom would Dionysius soon be reporting to regarding his failed mission? None other than Diocles, the man he considered the primary culprit in Hermocrates’s exile, the man who – had fortune not assisted her – had likely plotted Arete’s death as well.

Diocles received him, along with Philistus, in the council hall at the hour in which the market was most crowded. He knew that Dionysius was loyal to Hermocrates, but he was also well aware of what fame Dionysius enjoyed among the people for his courage and daring, for his untiring spirit of self-sacrifice, for his impulsive temperament and for the combative zeal that he never turned against the weak, but always against bullies and deceivers. What’s more, he was a favourite of the women, and this was not to be overlooked.

‘So it was a massacre,’ he began as soon as Dionysius entered the room.

‘Except for the two thousand six hundred people who escaped, all the others were killed or taken slaves. The temples were sacked, the walls destroyed. The city is in ruins.’

Diocles bowed his head, and for a moment it seemed that the catastrophe weighed on his soul and his conscience.

Dionysius held his tongue because talking would have been useless; it was clear what he was thinking from his expression, and Philistus’s hand gripped his arm as if he could thus restrain his reactions.

Diocles sighed. ‘We’ve arranged for an envoy to meet with Hannibal as soon as possible.’

‘You’re going to negotiate?’ asked Dionysius, utterly shocked.

‘We’ll offer a ransom. Slaves can be bought, can’t they? We can be buyers like anyone else. I’ve ordered them to offer a higher price than what they can get on the market, to free as many people as possible. The legation has already left in the hopes of reaching the Carthaginian before he moves on. Empedius is leading the mission.’

‘That spineless worm!’ Dionysius burst out. Philistus dug his fingers futilely into his arm. ‘That barbarian will spit in his face and kick him in the ass.’

‘So you have a better solution?’ asked Diocles, irritated.

‘Certainly. We should use the money to recruit mercenaries, who cost much less than slaves. We’ll storm the Carthaginians when least they expect it; we’ll butcher them and sell off the survivors as slaves. We’ll use the money to compensate the prisoners so they can rebuild their homes and the walls of their city.’

‘Sounds easy, to listen to you.’

‘It is easy if you have guts.’

‘And you think you’re the only one who does?’

‘That’s what I’d say, seeing it was just me and my men who made it out there. My unit was the only one ready to move.’

‘What’s been has been. If this mission goes well, I’ll be satisfied with the results.’

‘It’s a question of how you see things,’ broke in Philistus, who hadn’t opened his mouth during their exchange. ‘I hope we’re not going to loaf around and wait for that barbarian to move in for the slaughter. If we allow him to destroy the Greek cities one by one, we’ll end up alone. And then there will be no way out.’

‘Our army is on the alert.’

‘Fine, then,’ shot back Dionysius. ‘And don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ He turned to Philistus. ‘Let’s go, there’s nothing more to be said here.’

They walked out into the street and towards Dionysius’s house in the southern part of Ortygia. The narrow, shady streets of the old city teemed with people, and the attendant buzz announced the nearing of the noon hour, the busiest time of day, with people bustling around to settle their affairs or finish their chores. The catastrophe of Selinus seemed as far away in space and time as the fall of Troy. Only the thought of Arete seemed real, and Dionysius would have done anything to be able to see her, if only for a moment.