Tyrant (17 page)

A group of about twenty men followed Dionysius to the eastern exit of the agora. There was no one on the other side, either, and Dionysius took position at the foot of the colonnade to defend the hoplites’ passage. It wasn’t long before the head of Hermocrates’s column appeared. Most of their plan had already been accomplished: the causeway to Ortygia was just a few hundred feet away and the first rays of the morning would soon be striking the gilded acroteria of the Temple of Athena at the highest point of the island. The sun’s salute to Syracuse.

Instead, all hell broke loose. Just as the last of Hermocrates’s men were entering the agora, columns of armed warriors – who had remained hidden until that moment in the houses lining the square – rushed in from the side streets on the right and the left, from the east and west, blocking off all exits. Thousands of arrows rained down from the rooftops of the buildings all around, loosed by invisible archers who shot into the body of men, sure to make their mark.

Dionysius reacted instantly with the men of his Company; he tried to force the eastern side of the square and open a passage towards the dockyard, but their assailants had foreseen such a move and counter-attacked vigorously with a large contingent of select troops.

Fighting broke out in every corner of the great square and, with the light of dawn, the proportions of the disaster became horribly evident. Blood flowed copiously and the ground was strewn with dead and wounded men. The vice tightened as the defenders slaughtered the warriors besieged at the centre of the vast paved square, leaving them no way out.

Hermocrates tried to gather his best men around him and to break out of the encirclement on the right side of the square; there seemed to be a spot there where the enemy ranks were thinning. It was a difficult task to maintain a cohesive line in such a restricted place, and to keep the pressure steady throughout.

Dionysius grasped Hermocrates’s intentions and ran over to back him up. He and all his men lunged forward, gripping their spears and shouting loudly to muster their courage and spur on their fellow combatants. The enemy front wavered under the thrust of those desperate men and began to falter. Dionysius lashed out with his sword in close hand-to-hand combat, downing three adversaries one after another. Intuiting the chance of breaking out of the trap, his comrades began to push forth forcefully from behind their shields, providing the front-line fighters with a surge of power. They finally succeeded in overwhelming the enemy and Dionysius’s men sought escape towards the western quarters of Achradina. But just at that instant one of the enemy officers realized what was happening and took aim with a javelin from a distance of about twenty feet; he let fly straight at Hermocrates, who stood enveloped in the light of the dawning sun, and struck him full in the chest.

His heart pierced, Hermocrates crashed to the ground and a cry of dismay arose from his men, who nonetheless continued to fight with unflagging fury, driven on by the sight of their fallen commander as they fought now to avenge him.

Dionysius had nearly fought his way out of the square when he turned back to see what was happening and a sword’s blade sank into his right shoulder. He dropped the weapon he was carrying with a howl of pain and found the strength to fell the man who had wounded him with a great swing of his shield. Iolaus seized him before he could fall and dragged him off, leaving a stream of blood in their wake.

They stopped, panting, under the shadow of an archivolt which opened between two narrow side streets. From there they could hear the screams echoing between the city walls like the bellowing of cattle being slaughtered.

Iolaus propped him up and grabbed him under an arm, urging him to walk. ‘They’ll be out here searching for survivors in no time! We have to get away while we can.’

Dionysius leaned against a wall and was suddenly overcome by a terrible thought. ‘Oh gods, Arete!’

‘What?’

‘I have to reach my wife. She’s at home alone and they all know by now that I’ve taken part in this assault. This ambush was the work of a traitor.’

‘You need a doctor, now, or you’ll never make it.’

‘No, my wife first. Help me, please.’

‘All right,’ panted Iolaus. ‘But I have to take care of this wound or you’ll bleed to death.’ He ripped a strip of fabric off his cloak, wrapped it tightly over the gash and secured it with one of the straps from his shield. Then they set off.

People had begun pouring into the city streets, running every which way, with absolutely no idea of what was happening. Government heralds appeared at the street corners, publicly proclaiming Hermocrates’s and Dionysius’s attempted coup a failure, and promising generous rewards for anyone who captured the survivors or reported their whereabouts.

‘I told you,’ hissed Iolaus.

‘I know, I know, but you have to help me . . . I’m afraid . . .’

Iolaus looked over at him: his face was ashen, and he was icy cold. He groaned with every step he took and was sweating copiously. Iolaus made him stop again and again so he could catch his breath. At the bottom of the little hill that led up to his house, Dionysius stopped, leaning heavily against the shrine to Hecate that always stood at the meeting of three roads. When he pushed off, he left a wide swathe of blood on the wall.

They had to stop again, to avoid a group of Syracusan soldiers on patrol, searching for fugitives. Any who were found were immediately executed. Bands of ruffians were already roaming the city, hunting out the houses of the conspirators to plunder and devastate them.

The house with the trellis was close now and Dionysius was seized by unbearable anguish. Iolaus propped him against the enclosure wall. ‘You wait here,’ he said, ‘I’ll go ahead; there may be someone waiting inside to kill you.’ He approached the gate of the garden at the back of the house, entered from the rear door and made his way towards the atrium, checking all around. As soon as his eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, his face twisted into a grimace of horror. He wheeled around to rush back outside, but he found Dionysius close behind him, pale as death, unsteady on his feet. ‘There’s no one left inside,’ said Iolaus, trying to appear normal. ‘Let’s go now, we have to find you a doctor. You can’t even stand up.’ But his eyes were still full of the horror he had seen.

Dionysius understood and pushed aside his arm. ‘Let me through.’

‘Please . . .’ begged his friend, no longer able to hold back his tears. ‘Please, Dionysius, don’t go in there.’

But Dionysius had pushed past the threshold, and was already in the house. Iolaus soon heard his voice, rent by horror, howling meaningless words. He could hear his sobs echoing from the bloodied, befouled walls. Iolaus came close but did not dare touch him or say a word. Dionysius was on his knees in front of the naked body of his wife and was weeping disconsolately.

Arete was nearly unrecognizable; she had been raped to death. She lay in a repugnant pool of semen, blood and spit. Her face was swollen, her lips cracked, her body full of cuts and bruises. They had even cut her hair off, like a prostitute’s.

Dionysius took her into his arms and held her close, swaying back and forth as if to rock her gently to sleep. He abandoned himself to a mournful, heartbroken keening, like the whimpering of a wounded animal.

‘Let’s leave,’ pleaded Iolaus. ‘They’ll be back looking for you, you can be sure of it. You have to save yourself, Dionysius. You have to save yourself to avenge this horror.’

Dionysius started at the sound of his friend’s voice. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘She will be revenged. I will find them, one by one. I will hunt them down and kill them all. But I can’t leave her here . . . I can’t let her body suffer any more insults . . .’

‘She suffers no longer, Dionysius, and if she could she would tell you to save yourself.’

He brushed her forehead with his fingertips. ‘Help me to bring her downstairs, I beg of you. There’s a hiding place in the cellar. I’ll wait there with her and I’ll keep her company – she always was afraid of the dark.’

Iolaus helped him, bearing almost all of the weight of the girl’s lifeless body, because Dionysius looked as if he would pass out at any moment. They lifted a trapdoor, went down a few steps and found themselves underground.

Dionysius pointed at a passageway that led to a room dug into the tufa, hidden behind shelves which held wine amphoras. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘go up to the attic. You’ll find a chest with clean clothes. Take off your armour and change; wash your face. You’ll manage to get by unobserved. Go to Philistus: he lives in Ortygia, in the house with the portico behind the Arethusa spring. Tell him I’m waiting for him here.’

Iolaus nodded. ‘I know where his house is. Promise me you won’t move or do anything rash. Keep as still as you can. I’m going to get you some water – you must be burning up with thirst.’

Dionysius said nothing. He was crouched near the wall, cradling Arete’s body close as if he could warm her. Iolaus brought him water, changed and left.

He returned a couple of hours later, just fifty steps in front of Philistus and the doctor, so as not to attract attention. They found Dionysius unconscious, still embracing Arete. Philistus could not hold back his tears and stood there stock-still, in silence, overcome by emotion. The doctor came in, and they moved Dionysius to the bedroom and stretched him out on the bed. He was still breathing but his heartbeat was very weak; his body was cold and his lips livid. They stripped off his clothing and uncovered the gash that the sword had opened between his shoulder and pectoral muscle.

‘It’s a miracle it didn’t shear through the tendons of his arm, or the big vein right here,’ said the doctor, pointing his surgical instrument at a point under his collar bone. ‘Hold him still.’

Philistus and Iolaus immobilized his arms while the doctor washed out the wound with wine and vinegar. He then heated the iron until it was red hot, on the fire he’d built using the flame from his lantern. He cauterized the inner part of the wound which was still bleeding and started to stitch up the cut. Dionysius was so exhausted that he didn’t move a whit. He only let out a long groan when the doctor scorched his flesh.

‘He must rest now. I’ve done everything I can; the rest is in the hands of the gods. I only hope the wound does not become gangrenous.’

Philistus took him aside. ‘You must speak with no one of what you’ve done here. If you keep quiet, you won’t regret it; we’ll find a way to recompense you well.’

The doctor nodded and reached out to take the money Philistus was holding out for him: five silver coins with the image of Arethusa circled by dolphins.

‘What shall we do with the girl’s body?’ whispered Iolaus.

Philistus sighed. ‘For the time being we’ll bury her here underground, until it becomes possible to celebrate funeral rites for her and bury her in a tomb worthy of her rank and of Dionysius’s love for her.’

They laid her in a grave dug in the tufa and Philistus tried to keep back his tears as he murmured: ‘Welcome her, O Demeter and Persephone, into the Asphodel fields, let her drink the waters of Lethe so that she may forget the horrors of this ferocious world and may find peace, awaiting the day in which she will be rejoined with the only man she loved in her life.’

They went back up to Dionysius’s room and waited until it became dark. Philistus had already organized everything. One of his servants drove up on a hay-laden cart pulled by a couple of mules; he entered from the garden, shielded by the enclosure wall. They laid Dionysius on the cart, covering him with a sheet and then with the hay.

The cart headed towards the western gate, guarded at that moment by two members of the Company, ready to kill the other two sentries who were on duty with them if they should become too diligent in checking the people and goods seeking passage.

It was not necessary. The cart was allowed to pass the gate untouched, and the driver directed it to the shores of the Anapus, where a boat was waiting for them. It travelled up-current, amidst dense cane thickets.

Late that night, in a city fallen silent after a day of bloodshed and wailing, a song was heard rising up near the house with the trellis, a hymn to love; an ancient wedding melody, sweet and heart-rending in that desolate and profaned place; the last homage of a fugitive near death, a serenade for his lost love.

None of those who participated in the unhappy endeavour were spared. All of the prisoners who belonged to the hated caste of the landowners and who had been exiled from Syracuse were executed. Those who had followed Hermocrates in the hopes of seeing the cities of Selinus and Himera liberated and rebuilt were not put to death immediately, but condemned to long years of prison.