Tyrant (32 page)

Dionysius regarded him with the expression of a man who has suddenly awakened from a dream, and said: ‘Don’t you feel that I should have some time to think about it? It isn’t an easy decision, after all.’

‘Oh yes, of course,’ mumbled the ambassador. ‘Of course.’

Nearly an hour of total silence ensued, in which Dionysius did not reveal a single thought or move as much as a muscle on his face, as if he were a statue, while the ambassador nervously wiped his brow, shifting from one leg to the other, since there was no place for him to sit down.

Dionysius finally let out a soft sigh and curled his index finger to invite the ambassador closer. He complied with light, cautious steps, and Dionysius said: ‘You can tell noble Himilco that I said . . .’

‘Yes,
hegemon
. . .’

‘If I could express myself as my soul suggests, I would tell him . . .’

‘Yes?’ prompted the ambassador encouragingly.

‘To go get fucked up the arse.’

The ambassador rolled his eyes. ‘To go . . .?’

‘Get fucked up the arse,’ repeated Dionysius. ‘However,’ he continued, ‘my government responsibilities impose more conciliatory words. You will therefore tell him that for the moment I am willing to sign a peace treaty at his conditions and to ransom all possible prisoners, as soon as he has raised his siege and put an end to hostilities.’

The ambassador nodded, relieved to have finally obtained an answer, then backed up one step at a time all the way to the door and slipped out.

Himilco, who had expected an unconditional acceptance of his terms, decided to begin a military offensive without further delay. He was initially in doubt as to how to conduct the operations. The terrain was unfavourable, the massive walls intimidating and it was physically impossible to blockade the ports, both garrisoned by the toughest and most well-trained units of the Syracusan navy. A few aborted attempts to batter the walls with their siege engines led to naught, and the suffocating heat of the summer, which was obstinately persisting into the autumn, raised an unbearable humidity from the marshes which weakened and disheartened the men. The stench of the excrement of so many thousands of men saturated the swampy valley, making the air unbreathable, and before long plague broke out. Hundreds of bodies were laid on the pyre day after day as discontent grew among the troops, fomenting rebellion against the commander and his officers. Himilco kept hoping that something would occur – as it had at Acragas – to turn around the situation. He was convinced that the Syracusans might be tempted to attack frontally by land or sea, but the days passed and nothing happened.

Dionysius remained within his formidable circle of walls. Supplies continued to come in from the Laccius port at the north, so the people did not go hungry.

In the end, Himilco counted the dead and the survivors, and realized that his force was insufficient for an assault; he thus decided to raise the siege. He sent the Campanian mercenaries to the western part of the island to occupy the cities there, embarked the Africans and set sail for Carthage.

Dionysius had also had news that in Thrace, the Spartan fleet commanded by Lysander had surprised the Athenian fleet practically unmanned in the shallows, and had neatly wiped them out in a place called ‘the rivers of the goat’, a name nearly as absurd as the event itself. Conon, the Athenian admiral, had managed to get away with eight ships and had fled to Piraeus. But Athens was now blocked by land and by sea, and her situation seemed hopeless.

‘What do you think?’ asked Philistus.

‘Things don’t change much for us,’ replied Dionysius. ‘In theory, the Spartans should be freer to help us, but in reality, I’d rather they stayed away. We must settle our own affairs whenever we can.’

‘No, you don’t understand. I meant to say what do you think will happen to Athens?’

‘You want to know what I’d do if I were Lysander?’

‘Yes, if you’d like to tell me.’

‘The Athenians are the best. They’ve taught the world to think, and for that reason alone they deserve to survive, no matter what offences they’ve committed over thirty years of war.’

‘It’s just the excellence of the mind that counts, then? Don’t actions mean anything?’

‘Is it a philosophical discussion you’re looking for? We’ve already spoken about these problems. Your question would have meaning if there were some supreme judge who absolves and condemns, some force who protects the innocent and punishes the evil. But there is no such judge, and no force except for blind, casual violence; like a hurricane or storm, it strikes at random, bringing death and destruction where it hits.’

‘But the judge you’re talking about does exist.’

‘Oh, really? And who would that be?’

‘History. History is the judge. It commemorates those who have done well by humankind, and condemns those who have oppressed or caused suffering without a reason.’

‘Ah, history . . .’ replied Dionysius. ‘Now I understand. So you’re saying that a man should regulate his actions in accordance with what history will have to say about him when he’s nothing but ashes and he doesn’t give a whit about anything any more? And who writes history, anyway? Certainly no one who is any better than I am . . .

‘I’m the one making history, my friend. Understand? I know for certain that I can bend events to my will, even though everything seems to demonstrate the opposite. Remember, in any case, that you haven’t seen anything yet. Nothing, understand? The best has yet to begin.’

‘You’re fooling yourself,’ protested Philistus. ‘History is the story of humanity, filtered by the intelligence of people who have the gift of understanding. And history goes where it wants, Dionysius, like an enormous river that sometimes flows with unstoppable strength, overwhelming everything in its path, and that sometimes advances slowly in lazy spirals waiting to be subdued and controlled by the most mediocre of men. History is a mystery, a mix of passion, horror, hope, enthusiasm, misery. It is both fate and chance, as it is also the product of the iron will of men like you, certainly. History is our desire to overcome our own unhappy existence; it is the only monument that will survive us. Even when our temples and our walls have crumbled into ruins, when our gods and our heroes are mere shadows, time-faded images, mutilated and corroded statues, history will remember what we’ve done. The record which survives us is the only immortality that we are granted.’

‘Fine,’ replied Dionysius. ‘Then take note, Philistus, because I know that you’ve been writing, for some time now. I’ve already made my choice. I’m ready to condemn my name for centuries to come and be remembered as a monster capable of any sort of foul deed, but also as a real man. A man capable of bending events to my own will. Only this type of man resembles the gods. Only if you are truly great will people forgive you for having limited their freedom; otherwise, they’ll tear you to pieces and trample you as soon as you’ve shown the slightest sign of weakness.’

Philistus held his tongue. He was struck by those presumptuous, arrogant words, but also by the nearly blind faith in his destiny that Dionysius managed to project with his voice and with the feverish intensity of his gaze. ‘What are your intentions, then?’ he asked him after a little while.

‘I must enrol more mercenaries and build a fortress in Ortygia; it will be my residence, and will incorporate the dockyard so that I can never be blocked off from the sea. I will then raise a wall across the isthmus which will cut off the rest of the city on the mainland, so my enemies cannot reach me from any direction, neither from without nor from within. The enemies on the inside can be the worst, you know, and the most cruel: the ferocity of brothers knows no bounds.’

Philistus looked at him in amazement. ‘That’s an enormous project. Where will you find the money?’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t be asking you for it.’

Offended, Philistus protested: ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever—’

‘No, I didn’t mean that. You’ve already done too much for me. I don’t want to drag you down in my fall, if that is what happens. I want you to have a good life, as good as possible. In any case my friend, not even your wealth – not that I know how much you have – could suffice to cover a similar expense.’

‘What will you do, then?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Dionysius. ‘But I’ll find a solution. There’s always a solution if you have the courage to think on a vast scale. Right now I need some fresh air. Sea air. Will you keep me company?’

‘With great pleasure,’ replied Philistus.

‘Then put up your hood; it’s best not to stir up idle curiosity in the city.’

They left the barracks from a secret door, shoulders and heads covered by their hooded cloaks, and began to walk down the darkening streets of Ortygia.

Dionysius headed towards the dockyard, where the huge combat vessels of his fleet had been pulled aground for autumn maintenance. From there they took the road that led north, towards the trade wharves.

‘Look at that, how strange!’ said Philistus at a certain point. ‘There, down by the second wharf.’

A ship had managed to dock in the waning light of dusk and was putting a load of slaves ashore. They drew closer and Dionysius saw what Philistus had been referring to: one of the slaves had very blonde, almost white, hair. He was completely naked except for a small tattoo on his chest, and his skin was badly reddened and burned by the sun. The only thing he wore was a stiff neckband shaped like a rope with two small wooden snakes’ heads dangling from either end.

Dionysius observed him for a few moments, then said to Philistus: ‘Find out how much he costs.’

Philistus approached the merchant. ‘My friend wants to know how much the Celt with the burnt skin costs.’

‘Tell him to come by the market square tomorrow morning and get in line with everyone else to make his offer,’ replied the merchant without even turning around.

Dionysius whispered something in his friend’s ear, nodded in agreement with his answer and walked off. Philistus approached the merchant again. ‘My friend is very interested in your slave and he’s willing to pay a fine price.’

‘I’ll bet he is. You know how many old queers will be lined up tomorrow morning at the market to fight over the prick of that blonde northern Apollo? You don’t think your friend is the prettiest of them all, do you? I’ve already told you: if he wants to buy that magnificent specimen, tell him to get his silver staters ready so he can outbid the other customers.’

Philistus lowered his hood and bared his face. ‘My friend’s name is Dionysius,’ he said. ‘Ever hear of him?’

The merchant suddenly changed expression and attitude. ‘You mean
that
Dionysius?’ he asked, widening his bulging white eyes.

‘That’s right,’ replied Philistus, regarding him with a very significant look. ‘And if you want my advice, I’d offer him a very good price at this point, if I were you.’

‘So what’s a good price, in your opinion?’

‘Five minae seems honest.’

‘Five minae? He’s worth at least three times that much!’

‘True. That’s what I was planning to offer you, but you missed your chance. Now you’ll have to be content with that, unless you’re stupid enough to risk playing a dangerous loser’s game.’

‘How can I be sure you’re not tricking me?’

‘You can’t, actually. You can decide to trust me, or not to trust me. If you’re lucky, tomorrow you’ll get double the amount at the market. If you’re not, you won’t earn a thing tomorrow. What do you choose?’

‘All right, blast you,’ replied the merchant in a huff.

Philistus handed over the agreed sum and gave instructions for delivery. He caught up with Dionysius at the sea gate.

‘How did it go?’ he asked.

‘Five minae. In cash.’

‘Good price.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I’ll pay you back tomorrow.’

‘Why are you interested in that slave?’

‘Did you notice that collar he’s wearing on his neck?’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘And that tattoo on his chest?’

‘It looks like . . .’

‘That man belongs to a dreaded brotherhood of war. The most fearsome combatants alive. They’re groups of nomads who behave like packs of wolves in search of prey, but sometimes they’ll enlist as mercenaries. They are so strong that they go into battle naked, protected only by their shield and sword. They have no fear of death, and their only desire in life is to prove their courage at any opportunity. I can’t figure out how they captured him alive. Do you know if he speaks Greek?’

‘No.’

‘Try to find out. Ask him where he comes from, and how he was taken prisoner. Find out everything you can about him. If he doesn’t speak Greek, have one of our mercenaries help you.’

‘You still haven’t told me what you mean to do with him.’

‘He’ll be my bodyguard,’ replied Dionysius.

F
REED FROM HIS
chains, the Celt haltingly entered the vast fencing room which was dimly lit by a couple of lamps hanging on the wall. In front of him was a man sitting immobile on a stool, his back turned to him. The warrior approached without making the slightest sound, his feet bare on the stone floor. He stopped at a short distance from the seated man, who seemed like a statue.