Tyrant

  He found himself on the rim of a precipice. Down below, the sun flashed intermittently on a pool of pure water at the centre of an expanse of flowers. The long branches of a plane tree stretching over the spring swayed in the wind, intercepting the golden reflections of the sun. Dionysius felt dizzy, sucked in by that luminous abyss. He felt that he might at any moment plunge down like a lark inebriated by the sun, thus banishing the intolerable anguish that rose from his heart as he realized how bottomless his solitude had become.

  He was yanked back by a hairy hand and a sharp voice calling him back to reality. ‘If you want to die, you’ll have to wait until after your friends have paid me. I promised I’d give you back in one piece.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Dionysius. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘It’s no affair of yours who I am. This, my friend, is a cemetery.

  Just the right place for someone given up as dead.’ He spoke a rough but understandable Greek, with a heavy Siculian accent.

  ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘A month. And it will take another month before you’re back on your feet.’

  ‘I want to go down there by the water; I think it would do me good. I can imagine the scent of those flowers. And I need to bathe – the smell in this place is revolting.’

  The old man set down a basket with some bread and cheese. ‘Eat. You worry about getting your strength back and I’ll let you go down there very soon. Use the water in that bag to wash for now,’ he said, pointing at a goatskin hanging from a nail.

  ‘Has no one come looking for me?’

  ‘More then once. But you were in no condition to see or to hear. The man who had you brought here will be coming tomorrow.’

  ‘Philistus?’

  The old man nodded. He looked Dionysius over once and then left through a crevice at the end of the cave, closing a kind of wooden gate behind him.

  Dionysius waited until he had gone, then plucked the cork out of the goatskin and poured the water over himself, savouring the pleasure of that rudimentary bath. He ate and then, exhausted again, stretched out and fell deeply asleep.

  Philistus arrived the next day towards evening and was brought to Dionysius’s refuge. They embraced each other warmly, but then fell silent; neither of the two wanted to let the lump in his throat betray his emotion.

  It was Philistus who spoke first. ‘Your brother’s back, have you heard? We’re busy preparing for your return and—’

  ‘Who did it?’ growled Dionysius.

  ‘Listen . . . you must listen to me, understand? I’ve always given you the right advice, haven’t I? Do not allow yourself to be driven by rage; you mustn’t take what happened personally. What happened was political, can’t you see that? Whoever unleashed those dogs wanted to ruin you, to annihilate you, even if you managed to survive the wounds on your body. They are only too aware of your courage, of your will power. They know how you, your ideas, hold the people in sway, especially the young. And they’re afraid of you. They know that no one could stand up to you in the Assembly.’

  ‘I want their names,’ repeated Dionysius in a low voice.

  ‘I’ve gathered information,’ replied Philistus after a few moments’ hesitation. ‘But if I tell you, do you promise you won’t act on your own without consulting me first?’

  ‘I can promise,’ replied Dionysius. ‘But the fact is that I want them all dead. From the first to the last. That I refuse to discuss. If you want to help me, I’ll be grateful. If you want to stay out of it, I’ll do it myself. You . . . you weren’t there when we found her . . . you can’t imagine . . . you don’t know what I feel every time I open my eyes and realize that it all really happened.’ He broke off because his voice failed him, and his head dropped to his chest.

  ‘Iolaus told me everything. I cared deeply for Arete myself, you know, I loved her like a sister and I’m tormented by the thought that I wasn’t able to protect her. Everything fell apart at once, understand? There was no time to organize; the military succeeded in keeping their plan secret until the very end. Not a thing filtered through, can you believe me? I knew they were watching me and so I couldn’t run certain risks. They’re well aware that I’m your friend, so I have to prove that I’ve got the State’s best interests at heart without letting personal matters interfere. Otherwise I never would have been able to continue helping you, nor could I help you now. Dionysius, believe me, the horror of what happened keeps me from sleeping, it gives me no peace nor respite . . .’

  ‘I’m not blaming you. I’m grateful for what you’ve done for me. I owe you my life. But I must do what my honour demands and my religion orders. Arete’s shade must be appeased. I am sure that she has not found peace . . . she’s suffering . . . she’s cold. She’s always cold, and she’s afraid of the dark . . .’ He lifted his eyes. ‘She calls me, you know? And she comes to visit me in my dreams. Yesterday she appeared to me in the guise of a wild woman. She was suspended in thin air, right there, in front of that opening. Only a spirit can float in the air . . . isn’t that so?’

  He was irrational; Philistus looked at him, trying to hide the compassion he felt, pretending not to see the tears streaming down his bristly cheeks.

  Dionysius stared straight into his eyes: ‘They must die. Die a slow and very painful death. Well then, are you with me?’

  ‘I’m with you, of course I am,’ replied Philistus. ‘How could I not be? But I implore you, accept my advice. Listen to me: the Company is still strong and we have men in important positions both in the army and the city administration. Among the clergy as well. I told you, I’ve gathered information. I know who her executioners were, and I know who sent them. Money opens a lot of mouths. But there are other problems.

  ‘It appears that the Carthaginians mean to attack next spring, and it’s Acragas’s turn to be worried: they’re on the border now. I’ve received a message from Tellias; he says that he has learned that they will almost certainly attack in great numbers with a powerful fleet. He has already taken action, though. He has convinced eight hundred of the Campanian mercenaries garrisoned on Carthaginian territory to come over to Acragas. He’s paid them in person, an enormous amount. As you know, money’s no obstacle for him.

  ‘What I’m concerned about is the position of Syracuse. If we don’t strike the right policy in this war, if we let Acragas fall, it will be Gela next and then us, there’s no doubt about it. So first of all and above all, Dionysius, we must prepare your return to the city.’

  ‘I imagine there’s a price on my head.’

  ‘No. You’re dead. People have testified to that before the authorities.’

  ‘Well, dead men don’t come back.’

  ‘That’s not always so. There’s a law – although most of your fellow citizens ignore its existence – that says that when a man is given up as dead without a will in his name, his worldly goods go to his closest heirs, if he has any, otherwise they are confiscated by the State. That’s why I had your brother Leptines return from Asia. If this supposedly “dead” man should, by chance, reappear, he can no longer claim rights to anything, not even his citizenship, unless . . .’

  ‘Unless what?’ asked Dionysius, his curiosity aroused by that sequence of improbable events, and by Philistus’s formidable ability to come up with new strategies.

  ‘Unless he’s adopted by someone. In this case, he regains full access to his functions and rights, and what’s more, he becomes untouchable. It’s assumed that a man given up as dead by everyone, who then turns up alive, is manifesting the will of the gods, and no one will dare challenge that. His reappearance and adoption, in other words, are considered the same as a second birth.’

  ‘Who would ever want to adopt someone like me?’

  Philistus smiled. ‘Do you remember Heloris, the horse breeder?’

  ‘Yes. He helped me in the Council when I needed them to approve the departure of my contingent for Selinus.’

  ‘That’s right. It was no problem to convin
ce him. He said he’d be happy and honoured to adopt you because he admires you greatly. So that much is done. This is my plan: you will remain here until you have completely recovered your strength. At that point, I’ll arrange for you to return to the city in secret; you’ll be able to obtain justice over those who have offended you. When you’ve got them all out of the way, I’ll organize your comeback, which will take everyone by surprise.’

  Dionysius fell silent, fascinated and still unbelieving at such skilful manoeuvring. He was above all comforted by this demonstration of such deep, faithful friendship. He hugged his friend without saying a word, but the force of those arms expressed what he felt in his heart and Philistus understood.

  ‘Take care and don’t do anything foolish,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  Dionysius nodded and watched as he walked past the gate.

  Just before leaving, Philistus turned towards him again. ‘Listen

  . . . what you saw . . . I don’t think it was Arete, you know. There’s this poor wretch who lives all alone here in this necropolis. She lost her parents when she was just a child and she’s grown up wild in this cemetery. The people who live around here believe she’s a spirit because she appears and disappears like a ghost and she climbs all over these cliffs like a spider. You know how superstitious the Sicels are . . . Take care, my friend.’

  Dionysius made his way down to the spring at the bottom of the chasm ten days later. It felt like being born again: plunging nude into that pure water, breathing in the fragrance of all those flowers, feeling the sun’s caress on his shoulders, the wind in his hair. The spot was blindingly beautiful, completely isolated by the towering cliffs which surrounded it on almost all sides. And deserted as well; the local religion severely prohibited access to the valley of the Anapus except during the annual festivities at the end of the summer. A colossal plane tree stood on the shore, its branches stretching out to skim the surface of the water. Some of the boughs were so big they seemed trees themselves, and nurtured countless birds’ nests scattered here and there among the leafy fronds. Their song mixed with the chirping of crickets, the only sounds to be heard echoing between the rocky walls covered with blonde broom. A garden as enchanting and secluded as Elysium!

  Dionysius felt life flowing through his veins again and strength swelling his muscles. The spring must possess miraculous powers, he thought, that could restore his vigour. He stretched out on the clean, sandy shore to dry in the sun and abandoned himself to a wave of memories. He listened to a nightingale’s warbling, and thought he recognized the melody of the last serenade sung for his lost bride – the last notes he had heard before pain made him lose consciousness, before he’d had to leave his city under cover, like a scoundrel.

  If only Arete could join him for but an instant! If only he had the gift of song, like Orpheus, so he could move harsh Persephone to let his beloved return to the surface, emerging from the crystal lake into the light of the sun, just for an instant, oh gods, for even just an instant!

  He was startled instead by a rustling of leaves and there was the creature, crouched in a fork of the branches at an incredible height. She was watching him, seemingly more curious than afraid. She was a frightful sight to see, her hair tangled and dirty and so long it covered her face and most of her body. Her skin had the dark cast of one who is constantly exposed to the sun and her feet were grey with dust and calluses.

  Dionysius turned away and closed his eyes, seized by sudden weariness. When he opened them, the little valley was already in shadow and the long-haired creature was sitting on a lower branch, her feet dangling near the water. She must have been guarding him the whole time he slept, to judge from the number of plane leaves that she had plucked off to while away the time, floating now on the water like a fleet of tiny vessels pushed along by the evening breeze.

  He got to his feet without covering himself, feeling as if he were in the presence of an animal rather than a human being. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Have you got a name?’

  The sound of his first word was enough to scare her off. She fled through the branches of the tree with great agility, then jumped to the ground and began to scale the rock wall. Her limbs stretched out over the cliff with incredible grace and dexterity, apparently without effort and certainly without fear. She would hang between two outcroppings and then, with a little swing, abandon one and grab the other, hoisting herself, with a single arm at times, up to the next hold without a worry for the abyss that yawned beneath her.

  She vanished all at once, swallowed up into one of the many dark openings that studded the rock face, leaving her observer open-mouthed with wonder.

  Dionysius gathered up the nearly dry tunic that he had attempted to wash in the spring, put it on and set off at a slow pace back up to his refuge. He found his usual dinner of bread, cheese and beans and, for the first time, a jug of wine. He drank it with pleasure, although it was quite tart, and he felt warmed by the potent dark red liquid. But now that he could get around and he felt his strength coming back, the place he found himself in seemed an unbearable prison. He could think of nothing but those who he wanted dead but who were still alive, and every moment of their illicit living seemed an intolerable offence. Dionysius longed to leave, but he had no idea how to escape the place and he realized that, if he were recognized, all the efforts of those who still cared about him would be thwarted.

  He forced himself to kill time by exercising and swimming in the chilly waters of the spring below, until one day he saw the mysterious inhabitant of the valley again. She was sitting on a jutting rock, her feet swinging over the void at a great height. He was struck by the idea that he could do the same thing: climb up to the little cave that he had been living in for so long.

  He began to scale the rock wall slowly, ignoring the pain in his right shoulder, scratching his feet and hands on the rough crags, under the curious gaze of the creature. When he had made his way about ten feet up, the girl took fright and disappeared, but Dionysius continued to climb the wall, biting his lips to suffocate the pain while the strain became almost unbearable. He did not even understand why he was doing it, but he continued to attack the bare rock, increasingly steep now, as if danger didn’t exist, in a senseless game which put his very life at stake.

  He finally found himself at a spot from which it was impossible to descend and impossible to go up. He turned around and saw the chasm; he felt the void crushing his lungs, fatigue assailing his muscles with painful cramps, and he knew that he would soon be dead, smashed to pieces on the bottom of that abyss. But it made no difference at all. He was no longer afraid of anything. And he made the move that only a man who cared nothing for his life could make: he let go, imagining that he could manage to seize a rocky outcropping about twenty feet below him. But as soon as he had slackened his grip, a hand closed around his wrist like a talon and, with incredible strength, began to hoist him up. The creature’s legs were wrapped around the trunk of a wild fig tree growing out of the rock above him; hanging head down, she had grabbed him at the last moment, slipping out of some hidden crevice. She pulled him up to a point from which he could continue his ascent without great danger, then she let herself drop down, and completed the move that he would certainly have failed. In a few moments she had reached the bottom with the agile bearing of a wild feline, and disappeared into the shadows of the plane tree.

  He didn’t see her again for a very long time, but he was certain that she was watching him. Perhaps even as he slept.

  One day, when Dionysius felt close to being completely healed, he witnessed an event that moved him deeply: the great native Feast of the Three Mothers. His guardian had made him promise not to descend to the valley for any reason in the world if his life meant anything to him. He was to remain hidden in his refuge for the entire duration of the ceremony. He watched it all from that privileged position in the highest part of the rock wall.

  Dionysius saw a long line of men and women of all ages walking
along the Anapus valley to the spring, preceded by those who must have been the high priests. They were venerable old men with white beards wearing full-length tunics of raw wool, who advanced leaning on carved staffs from which bronze bells hung, jingling with their every step. Behind them were the images of the Three Mothers: rough-hewn wooden statues whose shapes were difficult to make out, but which seemed to be seated women nursing two infants each at their enormous breasts. Each statue was borne by six men on their shoulders, and swayed back and forth with the uneven terrain. A group of players with reed pipes, drums and rattles filled the narrow valley with their jarring music. When the procession reached the spring, the statues were deposited on the ground in the shade of the plane tree. The priests drew water from the spring using wooden bowls and sprinkled it on the images of the Three Mothers, chanting a rhythmic, unvaried tune made up of long, low notes. Once the rite was over, one of the priests, who seemed to be presiding, made a gesture and a long line of very young girls came forward. Each girl approached the three statues and knelt before each one of them in turn, laying her forehead on the goddess’s lap, perhaps to receive a fertility blessing.

  The music became more intense and the tone of the singing higher and more acute when, all at once, the sound of a horn echoed hard and long in the valley and a number of youths who had remained hidden until then came forth. Each boy took a girl by the hand and led her to a spot in the middle of the thickets of oleanders, myrtle and broom. The music of drums, pipes and cymbals increased sharply in intensity until it became an uproar amplified and multiplied beyond measure by the surrounding walls.

  Dionysius imagined that that barbaric clamour was meant to accompany the mating rites of those young men who had withdrawn with their chosen virgins, and certainly this was close to the truth. That primitive people, who lived contentedly on the meagre offerings of their mountains, thus celebrated that which all the peoples of the world celebrate in different yet similar ways, the most intense and mysterious, most frenetic and consuming moment of human existence: the love that joins a man and a woman and perpetuates life.