Tyrant

  Dionysius spoke again. ‘Let us do the last thing that must be done, and let us do it immediately. Two thousand light infantrymen will remain on the walls all night to keep watch fires burning, so that the Carthaginians will assume that we’re still here. The Geloan commanders will issue the order to evacuate quarter by quarter, so that the entire city will not fall into a panic. The people will be escorted by soldiers from their own district, who will inspire trust and tranquillity in their family members, friends and neighbours. Within one hour’s time at the latest, the first columns will set off for Camarina from the eastern gate, in the dark and in complete silence.

  ‘An embassy will leave immediately for the Carthaginian camp to negotiate a truce and the recovery of our dead. This will also gain time for us.

  ‘Before dawn, the troops remaining on the walls will add extra wood to the fires, then disengage as quickly as possible before day has broken.

  ‘I thank our allies for the help they have given us, and in wishing them farewell, I want to assure them that we shall see each other soon again, and that when we do, no one and nothing will stop us. I have nothing else to say. Go now, and may the gods protect you.’

  He embraced the Italian Greek generals one by one, and the Geloan commanders as well. The latter received his embrace coldly at first, but then responded with more warmth as they saw Dionysius’s eyes filled with consternation.

  Dionysius went to his lodgings and began to pack his bags and prepare for the journey. Philistus entered.

  ‘Have you come to remind me of your inauspicious predictions?’ Dionysius asked him.

  ‘I’m here to remind you that power alone is not enough to win certain challenges. I’ve come to remind you that you’ve just ordered an evacuation and that you’re leaving the bodies of your fallen warriors unburied on the field of battle. I’m right, aren’t I? The story of negotiating a truce is a farce, isn’t it? You’ll leave here with the first group out and you’ll abandon them unburied, as Diocles did in Himera, as Daphnaeus did in Acragas!’

  ‘I know!’ shouted Dionysius. ‘I know what happened in the past! Spare me your preaching!’

  ‘You asked me to pledge my friendship and my blind faith. I have the right to know who I’ve placed my trust in!’

  Dionysius turned towards the wall, hid his face in his arm and took a deep gasping breath. He said: ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘If you were sincere when you said those words to the Council.’

  ‘What words?’

  ‘All that fine talk about the Greeks of Sicily and Italy, about reconquest, about young men fallen in battle . . . I want to know if those words were sincere and came from your heart, or whether it was just a hypocritical performance to avoid getting stoned like the Acragantine generals.’

  ‘That’s all you want to know?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘But I can’t prove the truth of what I say.’

  ‘No. I think not.’

  ‘Then you may as well believe whatever you want to believe. And now let’s get moving, we have a long night ahead of us.’

  He girded his sword, slung his shield over his shoulder, grabbed a spear and left the room.

  Philistus wanted to stop him and make him speak, but his voice wouldn’t come out. He remained alone in the empty room, listening to the suffocated weeping of the women of Gela which filled the darkness.

  Camarina had sturdy walls and was protected on the west by a marsh that would make it impossible to use the siege works on that side at least. The city would have been defendable if Himilco had remained in Gela. That was not to be so. As soon as he realized that the city had been deserted, the Carthaginian commander gave his mercenaries leave to sack it and to massacre the old and the infirm who had been left behind, and then he resumed his march. He was not worried about bad weather, he had no thought for the raging sea that might have damaged his fleet. He was convinced that nothing could stop him any more, and that the other Greek cities of Sicily would fall one after another like in some dreadful table game.

  Every day, the dispatch riders who kept up the rear guard of the column reached Dionysius by sunset to report on exactly how close the pursuers were getting.

  They weren’t stopping. They wouldn’t stop at anything.

  The Italian Greeks had already separated from the rest of the confederate army, marching along the most direct route to the Straits, making any attempt at resistance unimaginable.

  And so Camarina was abandoned as well.

  Despite the considerable and evident low morale of the troops, Dionysius’s orders were respected and he was still obeyed as the high commander of the Syracusan army.

  The day after the evacuation of Camarina, Elorus, the commander of the Syracusan cavalry, claimed that suspicious movements had been reported at a point on the road still beyond them, at a distance of about fifty stadia. He requested permission to ride forward and open the passage, if necessary.

  Dionysius consented and the officer galloped off with his men, about one thousand in all.

  Leptines approached his brother. ‘Where are they going?’ he asked.

  ‘Suspicious activity has been sighted at about fifty stadia from here. I’m afraid the Carthaginian light cavalry may have succeeded in passing ahead of us. They’re going to secure the passage for us.’

  ‘Secure a passage? Sounds to me like they’re laying a trap for you. I don’t like them. The Knights are all arrogant, insolent aristocrats who despise us because we don’t belong to their caste and our accent is from the wrong side of town. You can be sure they’re enjoying your humiliation. They couldn’t care less about the troubles of these poor unfortunates,’ he continued, pointing at the long line of refugees straggling along the path. ‘All they care about is getting you defeated. Remember that.’

  Dionysius said nothing. Naivety was the accusation that stung most. He would rather be considered a delinquent than a dupe. ‘Where’s Philistus?’ he muttered.

  ‘I don’t know. The last time I saw him he was at the rear of the column, helping an old woman who couldn’t walk.’

  ‘I can’t really believe that about the Knights. After all, I . . .’

  ‘You married the daughter of Hermocrates? Forget it. Most of those assholes got drunk and made merry the night that you were wounded and she was . . .’

  ‘Shut up!’ shouted Dionysius with such vehemence that many of the refugees passing by turned towards him with an expression of fear.

  ‘As you wish,’ replied Leptines. ‘But that’s the way things are, even if you’re hurt by it.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ asked Dionysius after a while.

  ‘There are some things I just know. Philistus does as well. Ask him.’

  ‘He told me that everyone involved in the crime had been . . . taken care of.’

  ‘Oh right, sure, those poor sons of bitches that we castrated, murdered and roasted. But the gentlemen, the noblemen, the descendants of the heroes and the gods, well that’s a different matter. They don’t get their hands dirty. They don’t even have to bother to give certain orders; all they have to do is let someone know what would please them. And usually it doesn’t even take that. All they have to do is look askance at somebody, or drop a name.’

  ‘Get on your horse,’ ordered Dionysius. ‘Take a hundred of our fastest horsemen with you and follow them. Don’t let yourself be seen. Then come back and tell me what you find. Go!’

  Leptines didn’t wait to be asked twice. He shouted out something in slang and a group of skirmishers on horseback broke away from the column and caught up with him. At his signal, they launched into a gallop, as swift as the wind.

  He was back a couple of hours later, his horse shining with sweat and nearly done in by exertion. In the meantime, Dionysius had asked for Philistus to come forward; his friend hadn’t spoken to him since the night of the evacuation.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Dionysius.

  ‘There’s nothing up ahead. No Carthaginia
ns, no trace of anyone else,’ replied Leptines.

  ‘What about our cavalrymen?’

  ‘Vanished. Into thin air. Their tracks lead to Syracuse, though.’

  Philistus approached, eyes blazing, and turned to Leptines. ‘What in the name of Hades are you saying?’

  ‘Nothing but the truth. I’ve loosed a dozen of the lads after them with orders to follow them and relay news back. If we get moving, we’ll have fresh news every twenty stadia.’

  ‘They’re headed for Syracuse to rouse the people against me,’ snarled Dionysius. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘There’s no doubt,’ agreed Philistus. ‘We have to move immediately, or it will be all over. You must go on at a forced march with all the available troops.’

  Dionysius looked at the long line of refugees shuffling down the road and he felt his heart pounding as it had when he went into battle for the first time at eighteen. ‘I just need a few men,’ he said. ‘The remaining cavalry and the skirmishers. Leptines, you’ll take my place here . . .’

  ‘Like hell I will. I’m coming to Syracuse with you.’

  ‘It’s the high commander speaking,’ retorted Dionysius harshly. ‘You’ll do as I order.’

  Philistus broke in. ‘You’ll need him, Dionysius. This is an extremely dangerous situation. Let Iolaus take command here. He’s always been loyal to you and he already commands the fourth battalion of the phalanx.’

  ‘All right. As you say. But let’s get going, by all the gods!’

  Iolaus was summoned urgently to take charge. Before mounting his horse, Dionysius embraced him and while his mouth was very close to his ear, he whispered: ‘They mustn’t suffer any more than they already have. Defend them with your life, if you have to.’ He pulled away and, looking him straight in the eye, said loudly: ‘Tell them that next year I’ll be bringing them home.’

  ‘I will, hegemon. See you at Syracuse.’

  Dionysius mounted, waved briefly at Philistus and set off posthaste with his Campanian mercenary guard, Leptines and his skirmishers. A heavy infantry battalion followed them by forced marches.

  Twenty stadia on they found the first relay team, consisting of three men on horseback who leapt to the ground, covered with sweat and dust. The weather was still very hot.

  ‘Hegemon,’ they greeted him. ‘We are absolutely sure that the Knights are headed for Syracuse.’

  ‘All right. Go join up with the rest of the troops, get something to eat and drink and take a rest.’

  ‘If you’ll permit it, we’d rather come with you. We are not weary, and we can be of use to you.’

  ‘Then get yourselves some fresh horses and fall in.’

  They made swift progress until they met up with the last team, at just fifteen stadia from Syracuse.

  ‘The gate is barred,’ reported the head of the squad, ‘and we have no idea of what is going on in the city.’

  ‘Is there an armed garrison at the gate?’

  ‘No, I would say not.’

  ‘Then they don’t know we’re here. Let’s get moving.’

  One of the horsemen stopped him. ‘Hegemon . . .’

  ‘In the name of the gods!’ burst out Dionysius. ‘Tell me everything you have to say and let’s get moving, once and for all!’

  ‘They’ve done something to hurt you.’

  Dionysius tried to imagine what they could have done at such a distance to hurt him, and couldn’t think of a thing.

  ‘They’ve opened your wife’s tomb, hegemon . . .’ blurted out the soldier.

  ‘No!’ roared Dionysius.

  ‘And they’ve desecrated her body . . . the dogs have . . .’

  Dionysius bellowed even louder, seized by such fury that the soldier was struck dumb. Stock-still he watched Dionysius spring on to his horse and lunge forward, sword in hand, as if his enemies were right in front of him.

  ‘Follow him!’ shouted Leptines. ‘He’s out of his mind!’

  But Dionysius was perfectly lucid in his rage. He rode straight to the dockyards at the Great Harbour and ordered pitch to be brought to the gate. He burned down the doors to let his bodyguards and skirmishers through.

  The Knights were holding council in the agora; they were planning to summon an Assembly the next day and declare the end of the reign of the ‘tyrant’, for it was such that they had already decided to call their political adversary.

  They were completely taken by surprise. Dionysius, mindful of how he himself had been surrounded in that square along with Hermocrates and his men, had his troops enter from the side streets and alleys all around, blocking off any possible exit. He gave the order to attack and threw himself forward, his sword held high and his shield on his arm, plunging into the butchery with delirious abandon.

  No one got away. No one was spared, not even those who threw themselves at his feet begging.

  Late that night, assisted only by his brother Leptines, Dionysius burnt Arete’s despoiled remains on an improvised pyre. He gathered up her ashes and buried them in a secret place that no one knew of but him. And on that same night he buried – in a place even more secret and hidden in his heart – all mercy, every trace of humanity.

  16

  THE MEETING OF Dionysius’s most trusted friends was held at Philistus’s house in Ortygia. Besides the two of them, Iolaus, Doricus and Biton were present; they were soon joined by Heloris, overheated and out of breath. His brother was the last to arrive; Dionysius nodded and Leptines told the others what he had learned: ‘They’ve sacked Camarina but they’re not stopping there. It’s here they’re headed.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ asked Dionysius, seemingly not too upset.

  ‘I would say so. The road they’ve taken leads this way, and I don’t think they’re coming on a courtesy visit.’

  ‘Fine. They may succeed in getting here, but this is where they’ll get nailed. Our walls have driven back even the Athenians. Our fleet is intact and so is our army. Why should they attempt an endeavour that is destined to fail from the start?’

  ‘Because they are convinced that they will not fail,’ broke in Philistus. ‘They’ve succeeded five times, why not the sixth? Their mercenaries are first-rate troops, and if they die, no one complains about it: no public funerals, no speeches, no epigraphs. They toss them into a ditch with a shovelful of dirt, and that’s that. One less salary to pay. We have to answer for every man we lose, answer to his city and his family.’

  ‘That’s only right,’ said Doricus. We are Greeks, after all’

  ‘Each one of us has a family,’ added Biton.

  ‘True,’ admitted Dionysius. ‘But then how did Theron of Acragas and Gelon of Syracuse manage seventy years ago to wipe out the Carthaginian army at Himera? I’ll tell you how. Because they had a vast territory from which they could draw all kinds of material and human resources. The Greek cities are just clusters of houses stuck on the cliffs along the coast. The Carthaginians can pick us off one by one. In theory, our troops are superior in terms of weaponry and combat technique, but there is no true chain of command in our armies; someone decides to leave and off he goes. And no one can stop him. Fifteen, twenty thousand men go off at once and all of a sudden you are seriously deficient in numbers. Why? Because they have to go home and sow their fields. Their fields. Do you hear what I’m saying? By Heracles, war is a serious business! It must be fought by professionals.’

  ‘I don’t agree,’ objected Iolaus. ‘Mercenaries sell themselves to the highest bidder and think nothing of leaving you in the lurch at any time, for any reason. Remember Acragas? It was the desertion of the Campanian mercenaries that left the city defenceless.’

  ‘That’s not exactly true,’ shot back Dionysius. ‘Mercenaries stick with the winner; not with the loser or whoever looks like the loser. They stick with whoever pays them well, gives them the chance to plunder, knows how to lead them and won’t squander their lives. They care about their skin just like we do, and they know how much it’s worth.’

  ‘You
want a mercenary army?’ asked Heloris with a note of wonder.

  ‘At least the core, yes. Men who are nothing but soldiers; who spend all their time training, wielding weapons, fencing. Men who haven’t got fields to cultivate or shops to manage, whose only source of income is their sword and their spear. It would be best if they were Greeks. It doesn’t matter from where, but Greeks.’

  Leptines got to his feet. ‘I can’t believe my ears. Those bastards are practically at our walls, and here we are talking about what we don’t have and should have. Does anyone have any idea of how we’re going to get out of this one?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ replied Dionysius. ‘They’re in for a sound thrashing at our walls. And if they try to come by sea, we’ll send our whole fleet out to sink them. But I don’t think that will be necessary. They’ll see just how tough we can get and they’ll be begging to negotiate. You’ll see. What we have to do now is guard the walls day and night, reinforce the gates and station the fleet at the harbour outlets so that they can’t lock us in. Then we’ll sit and wait.’

  ‘Wait?’ asked Leptines, astonished.

  ‘Wait,’ repeated Dionysius.

  Each of them left to carry out orders. Philistus sat down at his desk. He had long thought that the events he was witnessing deserved to be written down, and he was sure that what was about to happen would make history. It was going to be the fiercest fight ever fought between Greeks and barbarians, no less important than the Persian Wars narrated by Herodotus in his History. He was also convinced that he knew what his friend was planning: Dionysius would build a territorial Syracusan empire without giving a thought to anyone, Greeks or barbarians. He would create a new army, completely faithful to him, and use it in a duel to the death from which the Carthaginian enemy could expect no quarter.

  Philistus took a fresh roll of papyrus from the drawer, laid it out and weighed down its sides on the table. He began to write a new chapter. Philistus did not usually dictate, as all those who intended to compose a literary work of any sort were wont to do; he preferred to write in person, like a humble scribe, because he liked to hear the slight sound the quill made as it glided across the papyrus lubricated by the ink, and to see the words being born and chasing one another on the white scroll. In doing so, he savoured a sense of power greater than any in the entire world: that of setting down human events for the years and perhaps the centuries to come. The power of representing men, their vices and their virtues, on the basis of his own irrevocable judgement. He was at that moment the histor: he who narrates because he knows; he who knows because he has seen and heard. But the terms of his judgement obeyed only the categories of his mind, and naught else.