Tyrant

  He had one of his guards pass him a spear and used the tip to draw out his plans in the sand.

  ‘We will attack at night, using ladders, at a completely different point. Here. Biton, your assault troops will carry out the operation. Once you’re up on the walls, you should have no problem ridding yourselves of the few sentries that are usually posted in that area. You’ll use the ladders as footbridges to put you on the terraces of the houses nearest the walls. The men will enter through the roof windows and surprise the inhabitants in their sleep. More warriors will follow and take control of an increasingly vast area of the walls. An incendiary arrow will be the signal that you’ve succeeded in the operation, and at that point we will launch an assault from the breach with the bulk of our forces. The Motyans won’t know what to defend first, panic will spread and the city will be in our hands. Are you up to it, men?’

  ‘We’re raring to go!’ came the reply.

  ‘Fine. Leptines will transport the raiders with small flat-bottomed boats, painted black. You won’t need heavy arms; peltasts’ gear for everyone, cuirasses and leather shields. We’ll attack this very night; there’s a new moon and by moving quickly we’ll also ensure that word doesn’t get out. Men, the time has come to take your revenge. May the gods assist you.’

  ‘Will they succeed?’ asked Leptines when they’d left.

  ‘I’m sure they will,’ replied Dionysius. ‘Go now. I’ll wait here for your signal.’

  Leptines went to the naval base to prepare the boats and ladders, then took the geared-up raiders on board. They were led by Biton, Dionysius’s trusted friend and a member of the Company.

  Leptines put them ashore at a spot where the walls were almost lapped by the sea; they were far away from the breach and so the area was poorly guarded. The first group of raiders placed their ladders and climbed up in silence. After a short time, two of them leaned over and gestured for more to come up. The route was clear. In a matter of moments, fifty warriors were on the walls. They found no more than a few sentries on a stretch of about one hundred feet of the battlements, and easily took them out. Several were wearing the armour of the murdered Motyans and took their places. They were Selinuntians who spoke the language.

  The men continued to urge their comrades up the ladders until there were about two hundred men gathered on the walls. They split into two groups: fifty of them remained to guard the point of ascent, where more warriors continued to arrive in a continuous stream from Leptines’s boats. The others laid out the ladders horizontally to reach the terraces of the houses closest to the wall and began to climb on to them, using the ladders as bridges. Then they opened the ceiling windows and dropped inside.

  Surprised in their sleep, the inhabitants were massacred. Twenty men remained to garrison the terraces, as the ladders were extended to more houses and the assailants proceeded with their deadly mission. When the alarm sounded, the Motyans grabbed their arms and swarmed down into the streets, yelling loudly to wake up their comrades. Some of the houses had already been set aflame and many others were occupied by the attackers. More of them continued to pour over the walls, while others kept the breach under surveillance.

  Biton launched the signal they’d agreed upon and Dionysius, already in position on the causeway, had the assault towers advance. Thousands of warriors invaded the city through the breach, easily overwhelming the one hundred or so defenders stationed there as guards.

  Before long, contrasting rumours regarding multiple attacks at various spots of the circle of walls spread utter panic within the city, and the Motyans scattered in every direction, many of them defending the barricades that closed the entrances of the streets where their own families lived. When the common barrier was shattered, each of them fell back to the single barriers, until many found themselves – as had the Selinuntians so many years before – defending the doors to their own homes. It was the Selinuntians who were most murderous, and with them the Himerans. The shrieks of torment that reached their ears reawakened other screams in their minds: those of their dying wives and children, of their comrades massacred and tortured. Foaming with rage, out of their minds with bloodlust, excited by the mounting flames, they gave themselves over to merciless slaughter and to the sacking of that prosperous city, the hub of flourishing commerce between Africa and Sicily.

  Dionysius, who had hoped to capture many prisoners to be sold as slaves in order to pay for part of the war expenses, realized that he had stirred up the men excessively and tried to take measures. He sent out heralds who enjoined the Motyans in Phoenician to take shelter in the temples that the Greeks respected: the temples of Heracles-Melqart, Hera-Tanit and Apollo-Reshef. Many lives were thus spared, and many more saved when the officers began to order their men to take the prisoners alive.

  By dusk the city was completely under control. The prisoners had been amassed in the squares, tied and chained, to be carried off to the Greek camp on the mainland. Among them were a good number of Greek warriors who had fought for the Motyans. Many were residents who had lived peacefully with the inhabitants of the city for years, carrying out the activities they excelled in; they had been craftsmen, architects, sculptors, bronze-workers, decorators and weavers. One of them, an Italian sculptor from Medma, had been engaged by a rich merchant to execute a magnificent marble statue that represented a charioteer in typical Punic garb. Seeing that the Greeks were raging against all the images and statues that represented Carthaginians or Phoenicians, he had dragged his creation – in the heat of the battle – behind a wall near his laboratory and buried it in great haste under a heap of refuse, unable to bear the idea that his marvellous work would be hacked to pieces by the fury of war.

  He was captured soon afterwards and hauled off with the others to camp.

  One of the Motyan Greeks stood out above the rest: their commander, a certain Deimenes, who was taken to Dionysius’s presence.

  The Syracusan dynast ordered all the others to leave and gave the man a seat. He was bleeding from a number of wounds, his face had been blackened by the smoke, his skin burned by the flames, his feet were riddled with sores.

  ‘What must I do with you and your men?’ began Dionysius. ‘Greeks who have chosen to fight alongside the barbarians against your own blood?’ And he quoted a phrase of Herodotus from his History: ‘Medizein . . . hellenes eontes.’

  ‘We fought for our city,’ replied Deimenes in a faint voice.

  ‘Your city?’ screamed Dionysius.

  ‘Yes. We’ve lived at length here in peace and prosperity. Our children were born here. Our work was here, our homes and our friends. Our wives come from this people, and their families, to whom we are tied by deep bonds. Our homeland is the land we live in, that our loved ones live in. We’ve betrayed no one, hegemon, we’ve done nothing but defend our families and our homes. What would you have done?’

  ‘What about the people of Selinus and of Himera?’ shot back Dionysius. ‘Weren’t they perhaps living in peace when they were savaged by your barbarians? They were people who spoke your same language, who believed in your same gods . . .’

  The continuous dripping of blood from his wounds had created a large red stain at Deimenes’s feet. He replied, ever more weakly: ‘Eighty years ago Selinus fought alongside the Carthaginians against Acragas and Syracuse. Common gods, language and customs are only called upon when it is convenient to do so, and you know that well. When there are other interests at heart, no one mentions them. Spare us, hegemon, show us mercy, and you will be remembered as a magnanimous man.’

  Dionysius remained in silence as the bloodstain on the floor continued to widen, and was transformed into a stream that ran, due to the inclination of the ground, towards his feet. ‘I cannot,’ he said finally. ‘I must give an example. And it must be a terrible one.’

  Deimenes was crucified on the causeway, and with him all the other Greeks who had fought in defence of Motya. The others were sold as slaves.

  22

  DIONYSIUS WENT BACK
to Syracuse before the weather turned. Biton was left to garrison Motya with a unit of the mercenaries, and Leptines remained with one hundred and twenty ships of the fleet, with the task of intercepting and sinking any Carthaginian ship that attempted a landing. Dionysius’s plans were to return the following year with a new expedition and to attack the remaining Punic cities on the island – Panormus, perhaps, and Solus – and he wanted to ensure there would be no help forthcoming from Africa.

  Philistus came to greet him at the entrance to the city with a small cortège of notables, but the true welcome was given him by the people as he passed down the streets and through the agora, headed for Ortygia. They cheered him like a hero and he felt finally satisfied, gratified at achieving everything he had desired and pursued for so many years.

  ‘Things went as you wanted,’ said Philistus that evening, entering his private apartment.

  ‘So far. Let’s hope Leptines doesn’t get himself into trouble. He is too impetuous, he doesn’t reflect enough on the situation. And in war you pay a dear price for any error, no matter how small’

  ‘That’s true, but that’s the way he is and you’ve always known it. It was you who named him supreme commander of the fleet.’

  ‘Who else? He’s my brother.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s the problem for a man who governs alone. He can’t trust anyone, so he can only hope that his closest relatives – who are inevitably destined to become his closest collaborators – are up to the task.’

  ‘I can trust my friends from the Company; there’s Biton, I’ve left him in charge of garrisoning Motya . . .’

  ‘And there’s Iolaus . . . Doricus, too,’ added Philistus, ‘before they killed him.’

  ‘And there’s you, if I’m not mistaken,’ said Dionysius. ‘I’m sure you’re happy now that you’ve delivered your tirade about the solitude of the tyrant. You’re right, some of my best friends are dead, but I’m still not alone: I have many others, and you yourself saw how the people greeted me today.’

  ‘The people . . . will rip you to pieces and throw you to the dogs as soon as fortune turns her back on you, or if you run out of money to pay the mercenaries. You know that well.’

  ‘But this is where the great innovation lies, can’t you understand that? The mercenaries know that their generous salaries and their privileges depend on me, and I know that my safety depends on them. It’s a relationship based on convenience and interest. The most solid there can be.’

  ‘I see you’ve named me last on your list of friends,’ interrupted Philistus in a mocking tone.

  ‘You are here,’ replied Dionysius. ‘Isn’t it obvious that you are with me?’

  ‘Certainly, of course. But I see you changing every day, and not for the better. You had the Greek residents of Motya massacred.’

  ‘They gave me no choice!’ he bellowed. ‘They knew they could have come over to our side. They asked for it!’

  ‘You asked for it,’ insisted Philistus, impassive.

  ‘Blast you!’ shouted Dionysius. ‘Still under the influence of that Athenian sophist . . .’

  ‘Socrates is dead,’ replied Philistus curtly. ‘And he was not a sophist.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Right. Has been for a while. Hadn’t you heard? He was sentenced to drink hemlock.’

  ‘Ah,’ replied Dionysius. ‘And what was he accused of?’

  ‘Corrupting youth and introducing new divinities. It happened after Trasibulus took power in Athens.’

  ‘What a strange accusation. There must have been something else underneath. In any case, your philosopher was condemned by a democratic government. As you see, a democracy can be as intolerant and destructive of liberty as the government of one man alone. Worse, I’d say. I don’t kill philosophers, even if I can’t stand them.’

  Philistus said nothing and Dionysius changed the subject. ‘So, tell me what has happened while I was away.’

  ‘Everything’s in order. The works have been finished here in the city and at Fort Euryalus as well, the people are calm, the exiles in Rhegium are not being taken too seriously for the moment.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, you have a visitor.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘An Athenian called Xenophon. He’s about your age. He was a pupil of Socrates’s . . .’

  ‘Then tell him he can fuck off.’

  ‘He’s carried out an absolutely amazing endeavour, actually. He led the retreat of the Ten Thousand.’

  ‘Him? The one who got all the way to Babylon, and then . . .’

  ‘Him.’

  Dionysius sighed. ‘I wanted to spend this evening with my wives. I imagine they want to see me, and I them.’

  ‘Why don’t you invite him? The girls will be very amused to hear about such incredible adventures. They don’t have much to distract them here . . .’

  ‘They’ve got me, by Zeus!’

  ‘You are not a distraction.’

  ‘Right. But then you have to stay for dinner as well.’

  Philistus nodded. ‘Gladly. I don’t want to miss a word of his story. It’s the greatest adventure of all times, from what I’ve heard.’

  ‘You are an Athenian yet you choose to live in Sparta and are a personal friend of King Agesilaus. The Spartans have defeated and humiliated your city. What must I make of you?’ Dionysius asked his guest.

  Xenophon considered him with an impassive expression. He was an attractive man with an athletic build, wide shoulders, a well-trimmed beard, and thick, very dark hair which was neither too long nor too short, elegant but not stylish. In a single word, a conservative. ‘It was the recklessness of the demagogues that brought my city to ruin. We conservatives had always sought an understanding with Sparta, and if it had been for us, this war would have never happened. I admire the Spartans, and I share their values of frugality, honour and moderation.’

  Dionysius nodded in satisfaction, then glanced over at Aristomache and Doris and realized that the talk of politics was boring them. ‘It seems that you have experienced an incredible adventure. If you are not too tired of repeating your story, it would give us pleasure to hear about it.’

  Xenophon sipped a bit of wine and began. ‘When the democrats, led by Trasibulus, regained power in Athens with a military coup, I found myself fighting on the wrong side. I was just twenty-seven years old but I no longer had any hopes for a political future in my city, and so I accepted the invitation of a friend who had enlisted as a mercenary officer under the orders of Cyrus, the younger brother of the Persian emperor. Cyrus wanted to overthrow him and become emperor in his place, and he asked for help from the Spartans.

  ‘The temptation was strong. Sparta had won the war against Athens thanks in part to the money that Cyrus had been supplying in continuation. If he succeeded in becoming king in his brother’s place, he would be beholden to those who had helped him win the throne. On the other hand, the Spartan government was officially allied with the Great King and could not be found helping his younger brother in an attempt to usurp his power. And so they had to find a way to throw the stone and hide their hand, as it were.’

  Dionysius interrupted him. ‘Let me guess: the Spartans let Cyrus know that there was a mercenary army to be had, and as he was recruiting them, they looked the other way.’

  ‘You’re right there, but there’s more to the story. The commander of this mercenary army was a tough number named Clearcus. The story was that he was officially wanted for homicide in Sparta, while in reality he was a Spartan agent.’

  ‘A stroke of genius!’ commented Dionysius. ‘And they say that the Spartans are inept.’

  ‘But then, when we were nearly in Syria, they sent a regular officer by sea, a battalion commander named Chirisophus.’

  ‘I’ve heard my mercenaries speak of him. An excellent officer, they say.’

  ‘He is my dear friend . . . the best I have ever had.’ Aristomache and Doris exchanged whispered comments, probably about their g
uest’s looks, as he began to tell his story again. ‘The objective of our expedition was absolutely secret, but when we arrived in the Syrian desert, the soldiers began to baulk; they said they would not go on another step unless they were told where they were going and what they would be doing. Cyrus was forced to reveal his plan: he told them the truth and promised great riches for all of them as long as they lived. It was easy to convince them, and so we ventured into that vast country. We would often go hunting: ostriches, gazelles and antelopes, bustards. Animals of every species . . .’

  ‘Were there lions?’ asked Doris.

  ‘They are said to live there, but we didn’t meet any. I’m afraid they’re being exterminated by continual hunting parties. But the things we saw were extraordinary: the Karmanda pitch spring, which flows all the way to the Euphrates, towering palms with huge, succulent dates and many other trees bearing strange fruits.’

  ‘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.’