The Etruscan (28 page)

When the king of Segesta saw that a number of his peerless horses were wounded or killed, he lost his courage and shouted for the chariots to return. The unharmed chariots circled back and the charioteer who had been overturned forgot the battle. Clasping the dying animals to him, he kissed their muzzles and eyes and tried to call them back to life with endearing words.

The charioteers who had circled back, right and left, jumped to the ground and began calming their trembling and sweating horses while spitting curses and shaking their fists at us. The men of Phocaea ventured out from behind the memorial and the altars and gathered around Dorieus, shield touching shield, the rear forces physically supporting those in front. The mud-stained rebels of Eryx likewise recrossed the irrigation ditch, bravely brandishing their clubs and axes, and emitting fierce battle cries.

Now the heavily armed warriors of Segesta made way for the dogs and their trainers who set the animals on us. Hugging the ground, they sped toward us with bared fangs. I wore my cuirass and leg guards as did Dorieus, and the men of Phocaea succeeded in warding off the dogs with their shields. Indeed Dorieus did not even trouble to kill the animals but as they leaped for his throat struck their muzzles a blow that dropped them whining to the ground. Over the growls and the din we heard the Siccanians’ squeals of terror as they fled into the safety of the woods. The Siccanians’ flight so amused Dorieus that he burst into laughter and that heartened the men of Phocaea perhaps more than anything else.

The bloodthirsty pack now were by us, and made for the rebels of Eryx. They tore open unprotected throats, mutilated thighs and crushed bare arms between their jaws. But the peasants staunchly withstood the attacks of the hated dogs and shouted in triumph upon discovering that they could club them to death. The killing of pedigreed dogs was a serious offense in the land of Eryx and the peasants and their wives had many times helplessly felt their fangs and seen them mangle sheep and frighten children.

I doubt whether the releasing of the Segestans’ holy dog Krimisos was deliberate. Probably it had broken its leash, or the trainer had accidentally loosened his hold on it. At any rate, that gray-muzzled, gentle animal which had lived peacefully in its pen for years trotted stiffly behind the other dogs. Fat and gigantic in size, it looked around in bewilderment, not realizing what was happening. The barking and growling of its own kind annoyed it, and its sensitive muzzle was offended by the stench of blood rising from the ground.

Dorieus called the dog to him and it came, sniffed amiably at his knees and raised its head to look at Dorieus’ face while he patted its head and spoke to it softly, promising it an even fairer maiden as its wife each year once he wore the dog crown. Slowly the holy dog, panting from its short trot, stretched itself out at his feet. From there it glowered at the shining front of heavy-armored warriors, wrinkled its muzzle and bared its yellow fangs in a growl.

Cries of amazement arose from the Segestan ranks and the king himself, seeing his power slip from his fingers with the loss of the holy dog, condescended to whistle to it, but in vain. The dog only looked lovingly at Dorieus and licked his iron shoe.

Dorieus spoke to the holy dog, asking it to guard his father’s memorial. Actually it was a memorial to Philip of Croton, but Dorieus probably did not remember that. The dog dropped its gray muzzle between its paws and remained lying on the ground.

Dorieus then glanced at the men of Phocaea, struck his shield with his sword and set forth to meet the wavering row of heavily armed Segestan warriors. I marched beside him, and when Dionysius realized that the moment of decision was at hand he thrust the length of rope under his belt, seized his shield and sword and took his place at Dorieus’ right.

Dorieus did not glance back, nor did Dionysius. As we marched abreast our steps necessarily quickened since none of us was willing to let any other gain the lead—Dorieus for reasons of rank, Dionysius because of honor and I from sheer vanity. In this manner our march soon quickened to a trot. Behind us we heard the battle cries of the men of Phocaea and the thud of their feet as they sought to overtake us. At the same moment the lowly rebels of Eryx stirred in the rear, while from the distance we heard the throb of hollow logs and guessed that the Siccanians were returning from the woods.

The distance was but several hundred paces, yet it seemed to be the longest journey of my life. Vanity kept my eyes on our advancing feet and I did not look up until Dorieus’ roar raised my shield in line with his to receive the spears that were angrily thrown at us. My shield arm drooped with the weight of the spears and one spear had penetrated the shield, wounding me, but at the moment I did not notice it. In vain I tried to shake the spears from the shield. Suddenly, as once before, Dorieus’ sword flashed at my side and with a single stroke cut the shafts in time for me to raise the shield as we clashed head on with the column of heavily armed Segestans.

I doubt whether anyone who has been in an actual battle knows much about its progress, so absorbed is he in saving his own life. The first line of Segestans had linked their shields together by means of hooks, and when the shock of our attack downed some of the men, they dragged down the entire line so that it rippled like a wave. We passed over the shields to the next line, and that is when the real fighting began, sword against sword and man against man.

Although the Segestans were effete, their anger over their wounded animals made them formidable opponents. The nobles fought for their property and hereditary power without which life held no meaning. But even more formidable were the athletes whose only function was the development of their strength and skill as wrestlers and boxers for the amusement of their masters. In our hand-to-hand fighting in such close quarters that it was difficult to raise a sword, the athletes abandoned the shields and swords to which they were unaccustomed and began wielding iron fists and breaking necks.

Emaciated from our voyage and exhausted by the long march, we were in no condition to endure a prolonged battle. Our only hope lay in suddenness and speed. For that reason Dorieus had hoped to break through the middle of the Segestan line. But the battle was not so easily won, for both wings of the front began to bend as we pressed ahead. Now the Segestans shouted in elation as they ran to encircle our dwindling forces. Sweat and blood blinded me, my body was numb and my arms so tired that I did not know how I had the strength to strike and thrust over and over again.

Dionysius called out encouraging words: “Men of Phocaea, our forefathers fought in these fields. So let us be at home and fight for our lives.” To the hesitant and exhausted he cried, “Remember that you fight for your treasure! The rabble of Eryx think we are lost and are all ready to pillage it.”

A concerted roar of rage rose from the throats of the weary men. For a moment the Segestans lowered their swords and it was then that Dorieus glanced at the sky.

“Listen!” he cried. “Listen to the wings of the goddess of victory!”

He spoke in one of those breath-long periods of silence that sometimes occur in a battle. I do not know whether it was merely the blood throbbing at my temples, but I seemed to hear clearly the rustle of heavy wings above us. The men of Phocaea also heard it, or so they afterward declared.

At that moment an unnatural exaltation came over Dorieus, multiplying his strength so that no one in his path could withstand him. Beside him charged Dionysius, head down like a bull, clearing the way with his axe. They were followed by the men of Phocaea in a blind rage, and so it was that, with the strength born of desperation, we managed to break through the lines of heavily armed Segestans. Behind them their lightly armed companions fled in chaos.

The violence of the unexpected attack took the king of Segesta by surprise and he had no time for escape. Dorieus killed him so swiftly that he barely could raise his sword in defense. The dog crown rolled on the ground and Dorieus snatched it, holding it up for all to see.

Actually it meant little since the Segestans did not hold the king and the crown in great esteem. In fact, the holy dog’s surrender at Dorieus’ feet shocked them more than the king’s death and the loss of the dog crown. But the men of Phocaea did not know that. They cried out in victory although the Segestans’ line closed behind us and the way to the city was still blocked with horses and warriors.

Suddenly shouts of alarm came from the city gates. The charioteers, who were attempting to drive their valuable horses to safety, swerved back, shouting that all was lost. The people of the city, following the events from atop the wall, had thought the battle over when they saw the chariots turn back to the city and had surprised and disarmed the few guards, locked the gates and taken the power into their own hands.

At the gate we paused to wipe the blood from our wounds and to gasp for air. Dorieus hammered at the gate with his shield, demanding entrance and holding up the dog crown that the people might see it. It was too small for him, since Segestan nobles had narrower heads than the Greeks and even bred their dogs narrow-headed.

To our surprise the gate creaked open and out came Tanakil’s two sons in their capacity as leaders of the people. They greeted Dorieus glumly, admitted us, and quickly closed the gate behind the barely forty survivors of the men of Phocaea. From all sides the people cheered Dorieus and extolled his brilliance in battle.

Soon we saw Tanakil coming along the street clothed in rich robes and wearing a Carthaginian headdress while a female slave held a parasol over her head to indicate her descent from Carthaginian gods. How valid Tanakil’s genealogical table was in Carthage I do not know, but in Segesta the people made way for her with respect.

She bowed her head before Dorieus and raised both hands in greeting. Dorieus extended the dog crown to her in order to free his hands and looked around somewhat stupidly.

To me it seemed that he could have greeted his earthly wife with greater warmth despite his union at sea with the white-limbed Thetis. And so I said quickly, “Tanakil, I greet you with all my heart. At this moment you are fairer in my eyes than the sun, but Arsinoe is still by the memorial together with our goods and we must save her from the Segestan nobles.”

Dionysius also spoke up, “There is a time for everything, and I would not willingly disturb you at such a solmen moment, Dorieus. But our treasure is still at the memorial and I greatly fear that the peasants who accompanied us will steal it.”

Quickly Dorieus recovered himself. “So it is. I was about to forget that,” he admitted. “I have atoned for my father’s bones and brought peace to his spirit. The name of the spurious Philip is to be cut away from the memorial immediately and in its stead must be the words: To
Dorieus, father of Segesta’s J^ing Dorieus, Spartan, fairest of his contemporaries and thrice winner in the Olympic games.
In addition, his lineage beginning with Herakles, as well as I can remember it.”

We explained the matter to Tanakil’s sons, who sighed in relief and said that they had nothing against the rectification of an error. On the contrary, they declared themselves to be greatly relieved that Dorieus demanded no more.

Dorieus said then, “I do not need the treasure and Arsinoe is able to take care of herself, for she is surrounded by men. But I left the holy dog Krimisos to await me by my father’s memorial and it should be brought back to the city. Is anyone willing to fetch it? I myself am exhausted from the battle and wouldn’t care to walk that distance.”

No one among the Segestans was willing to go, and the men of Phocaea shook their heads and declared that they themselves were so battered and covered with wounds that they could hardly stand.

Dorieus sighed. “The burden of kingship is heavy. I already feel myself a lonely being among mortals and can trust no one. A king is the servant of his people and as such his own first servant. So I suppose nothing will do but that I myself must fetch the dog. After all, I can’t forsake it when it surrendered to me and licked my foot.”

Tanakil burst into tears and begged him not to go; the men of Phocaea stared at him with round eyes and Dionysius declared that he was insane. But Dorieus had the gate opened and walked alone out of the city, his arms drooping in exhaustion.

We climbed the wall to watch his progress. The Segestan nobles had formed a protective circle around the horses; some distance away the lightly armed troops were arguing among themselves and the rebels of Eryx had withdrawn to safety beyond the irrigation ditch. At the edge of the woods, barely visible, were the Siccanians who now and then sounded their hollow logs inquiringly.

Dorieus strode through the deserted battlefield with its bloody corpses and its wounded crying for water and mother. He greeted by name every fallen man of Phocaea and lauded his heroism. “You are not dead,” he proclaimed loudly to each one. “You are invulnerable and we are still the three hundred, as we will be for eternity.”

As he moved among the fallen, all other voices were silenced. The Segestans watched him incredulously and it did not occur to anyone to attack him. The heavy clouds which always cover the sky during a battle began to break, and the sun shone on Dorieus’ blood-stained figure with dazzling brightness.

The men of Phocaea whispered among themselves. “He’s truly a god and not a human, although we only half believed it.”

To this Dionysius added, “True, he is not a human, at least not a sane human.”

Having reached the memorial, Dorieus called the holy dog by name. It rose immediately, trotted to him with wagging tail and looked at him lovingly.

Dorieus then called to his father’s spirit in a loud voice. “Are you content, my father Dorieus? Will you now rest in peace and not torment me?”

Afterwards it was said that a hollow voice from within the memorial responded, “I am content, my son, and will go to my rest.”

I myself did not hear the voice nor do I believe that it spoke, since the Segestans had erected the memorial to Philip of Croton several decades earlier and had buried Dorieus’ father in their fields with the other fallen. On the other hand, Dorieus might well have heard the voice within him. This I admit lest it be thought that I accuse Dorieus of lying.