Tyrant (2 page)

He did not come to his senses until much later, when it started to rain and the icy water dribbled down his face and back. After a little while, he felt someone dragging him to the side of the road under a shed where some asses were tethered.

He opened his eyes, and the light pouring out of the tavern window revealed the face of an old, bald-headed beggar without a tooth in his mouth.

‘Who are you?’ he muttered.

‘Who are you, that’s what I want to know. I’ve never seen anything like it! Three monsters show up out of nowhere, beat those creeps to a pulp . . . and then disappear! That’s a lot of fuss over a tramp, I say.’

‘I’m not a tramp.’

‘Damned if you aren’t.’ The old man pulled him up a little against the wall and covered him with a few handfuls of straw. ‘Hold on, big man,’ he said, ‘maybe I’ve got a little wine left. It’s my pay for watching these asses all night. Here, drink some of this, it’ll warm you up.’

He watched him as he gulped down a few swallows of wine.

‘If you’re not a tramp, what are you then?’

‘I earn a living teaching people to read and write, but I . . .’

‘You what?’

His mouth twisted into a grimace that might have been a smile. ‘I was the lord of the wealthiest and most powerful city of all the earth . . .’

‘Yeah, sure. Right. And I’m the great king of Persia.’

‘And my father was the greatest man of our times . . . Give me a little more wine.’

‘Are you going to get on with this story, then? And what have you got in that satchel that you’re always clutching so tight?’

He took another couple of long draughts, then cleaned his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Nothing that’s worth stealing. It’s his story . . . my father’s story. The story of a man who became the lord of almost all of Sicily and much of Italy. He defeated the barbarians in countless battles, invented machines of war the likes of which had never been seen, deported entire populations, erected the greatest fortress in the world in just three months, founded colonies in the Tyrrhenian and Adriatic seas, married two women on the same day. There’s never been anyone like him among all the Greeks.’

The old man reached over with the flask of wine again, and then sat down next to him, leaning up against the wall. ‘By all the gods! And just who is this phenomenon, this . . .’

A flash of lightning brightly lit up the rain-spattered road and the maestro’s swollen face. Thunder pealed through the sky but he did not move. He clasped the sack to his chest and said, emphasizing each word, ‘His name was Dionysius. Dionysius of Syracuse. But the entire world called him . . . the tyrant!’

S
YRACUSE 409 BC

A
HORSEMAN APPROACHED
at breakneck speed, lifting a storm of white dust on the road from Camarina, directed towards the city’s western gate. The officer on duty ordered him to stop. ‘Halt!’ he shouted. ‘Make yourself known!’

His order proved unnecessary. The horse collapsed to the ground suddenly at less than two hundred feet from the walls, sending his rider rolling in the dust.

‘Open the gate!’ ordered the officer. ‘Hurry, go see who it is and bring him in.’

Four guards ran out and reached the horseman, who was sprawled out in the dirt. The horse lay panting in agony.

The man screamed out in pain when they tried to turn him over. His face was disfigured from the strain, sullied with dust and with blood.

‘Who are you?’ asked one of the soldiers.

‘I’ve come from Selinus . . . take me to your commander! Hurry, I implore you.’

The soldiers looked each other in the eye, then put together a litter with their spears and shields, lifted him on to it and carried him inside. One of them hung back to put the horse out of his misery; he gave a last shudder and expired.

The little group soon reached the guardhouse. Their officer approached, carrying a torch, and the messenger looked up at him: a handsome, sturdy youth with pitch-black, wavy hair, black eyes and full lips.

‘My name is Dionysius,’ he said. ‘I’m the commander of the guards. What has happened? Speak, for the gods’ sake!’

‘I must report to the authorities. It’s a question of life or death. The Carthaginians are laying siege to Selinus. There are thousands and thousands of them, they are attacking us with huge, incredible machines. We cannot hold out alone . . . we need your help! Now, in the name of the gods, you must leave now!’ Then, in a lower voice, ‘Give me water, please, I’m dying of thirst.’

Dionysius handed him his own flask and barked out quick orders to his men: ‘You, find Diocles and tell him to meet us at the prytaneum; tell him it’s a matter of the utmost urgency.’

‘But he’ll be sleeping at this hour . . .’ objected the guard.

‘Get him out of his bed, by Heracles, move! And the rest of you,’ he said, turning to the others, ‘go wake up the members of the Council and have them gather at the prytaneum. They must listen to this man. You,’ he said to the last, ‘go call a surgeon and tell him it’s urgent.’

The men hurried off to do as they had been ordered. Dionysius had his second-in-command, a friend named Iolaus, replace him on guard duty, and he escorted the soldiers carrying the litter through the dark streets of the city, lighting their way with the torch he held in his hand. He’d glance back every now and then at the man stretched out on that rough litter, his features twisted into a grimace of pain at every jerk and jolt. He must have broken bones when he was thrown to the ground.

When they reached their destination, the council members had already begun to show up. Half asleep and in a foul humour, they were accompanied by their lantern-carrying slaves. Diocles, the commander-in-chief of the armed forces, arrived nearly immediately, but scowled when he saw Dionysius. ‘What is all this rush? Is this any way to—’

Dionysius raised his hand sharply to cut off the complaining. He was only twenty-two years old, but he was the strongest warrior in the city: no one could match him in the use of arms; his resistance to fatigue, hardship and pain had already become legendary. He was fearless and had no tolerance for discipline. He had no respect for those who were not worthy of it, be they gods or men. He despised those who preferred talk over action. He believed that only a man who was willing to put his own life on the line deserved to command, and that a commander had to prove his nerve and his courage on the battlefield. And he always looked a man in the eye before he killed him.

‘This messenger has done in his horse and shattered his bones to get here,’ he said, ‘and I say we need to listen to him immediately.’

‘Let him talk, then,’ snapped Diocles impatiently.

Dionysius drew close and helped the man into a sitting position. The messenger began to speak. ‘They attacked us suddenly, arriving from the north, from where we would have least expected a raid. And they got all the way to our walls! We have been doing all we can to withstand their attacks, but they’ve been battering our walls day and night. They’ve got moving towers, fitted with swinging rams. Huge trunks of wood with solid iron heads! Archers posted at the tops of those tall towers are picking off our defenders on the battlements.

‘Their commander is called Hannibal, son of Gisco. He’s obsessed; they say he descends from that Hamilcar who died immolating himself on the altar of Himera seventy years ago, when you Syracusans wiped out the Carthaginian army with the help of the Acragantines. He has sworn to vindicate his forefather, they say, and he will stop at nothing to get revenge.

‘We’ve managed to hold out for three days running, but the only thing that is keeping us in the fight is the hope of seeing you show up with reinforcements. Why have you done nothing? The city cannot resist much longer; we are short of food and water and we’ve lost a great many men. We’ve had to put sixteen-year-old boys and sixty-year-old men on the front lines. Our women are fighting at their sides! Help us in the name of the gods, I beg of you . . . help us!’

Diocles looked away from the anguished Selinuntian messenger and turned around to examine the faces of the councillors sitting in the hemicycle. ‘Have you heard him? What do you decide?’

‘I say we leave immediately,’ said Dionysius.

‘Your opinion has no importance here,’ Diocles hissed. ‘You are merely a low-ranking officer.’

‘But those people need us, by Heracles!’ snapped back Dionysius. ‘They’re dying; they’ll be butchered if we don’t get there in time.’

‘That’s enough!’ said Diocles. ‘Or I’ll have you expelled.’

‘The fact is,’ spoke up an elderly councillor named Heloris, ‘that we can make no decision before tomorrow, when a legal number of councilmen can be summoned. Why don’t you let Dionysius go in the meantime?’

‘Alone?’ asked Diocles sarcastically.

‘Give me an order,’ said Dionysius, ‘and before dawn I’ll have five hundred men ready in fighting order. And if you give me a couple of ships I’ll be inside the walls of Selinus in two days’ time.’

The messenger listened anxiously to their debate: every passing moment could be decisive in his city’s being saved or annihilated.

‘Five hundred men,’ said Diocles. ‘Now you’ll tell me where you’re going to get five hundred men.’

‘The Company,’ replied Dionysius.

‘The Company? I’m in charge here, not the Company!’ Diocles shouted.

‘Then you get them for me,’ replied Dionysius coldly.

Heloris broke in again. ‘I don’t think it matters much where he gets them, as long as they can set off as soon as possible. Is there anyone against it?’

The councillors, who could not wait to crawl back under their covers, unanimously approved the expedition, but without allowing him to take the ships; they would be needed to transport the bulk of the troops later.

The surgeon arrived at that moment with his instruments in hand.

‘Take care of this man,’ said Dionysius, and left without waiting for Diocles’s orders. He soon reached his friend Iolaus at the guardhouse. ‘We’re leaving,’ he said.

‘When? Where for?’ asked the youth, alarmed.

‘At dawn, for Selinus. We’re the vanguard. The others will arrive with the fleet. I need five hundred men and they must all be members of the Company. Spread the word, immediately. I want them here, fully armed, with enough rations for five days. And an extra horse every three men. Within two hours, at the most.’

‘We’ll never pull that off! You know the Company holds you in great esteem, but . . .’

‘You tell them that now is the time to prove it. Move.’

‘As you wish,’ replied Iolaus. He whistled, and was answered by whinnying and the pounding of hooves. Iolaus jumped on to his horse and sped off into the darkness.

On the fourth day, one of the battering rams managed to open a breach in the walls of Selinus. The Campanian mercenaries hired by the Carthaginians rushed through the gap, driven by the desire to stand out in their commander’s eyes, but above all by their greed, since he had promised them the sack of the city.

The Selinuntians crowded around the breach to defend it, walling out the attackers with their shields and their chests. They succeeded in driving back their assailants and slew a great number of them; the rest of the barbarian troops made a disorderly retreat, trampling the bodies of their fellow soldiers.

The next day, Hannibal gave orders to remove the rubble and had protective roofing built so that his men could work to clear a passage. From up high on the assault towers, his archers continued to keep the defenders in their marks, forcing them away from the breach.

On the sixth day, the passage was clear; the rams further widened the gap, opening the way for the assault infantry of Libyan, Iberian and Campanian mercenaries, who poured into the city, howling fearsome war cries.

The Selinuntians were expecting them; they had worked all night to erect barricades at the entrances to each of their streets, isolating the districts behind them. From these shelters they counter-attacked ceaselessly, pushing back the enemy and killing off as many as they could. But although their valour was beyond any imagining, their strength was waning with every passing hour. The strain of building the barricades, their lack of sleep and the exertion of endless battle made them a poor match for the fresh hordes of rested enemy troops.