Tyrant (58 page)

The battle began in the late morning. The Syracusan forces, alerted by blaring horns and the shouted password, attacked the enemy with great vigour, encouraged by their success the previous year. At first the outcome of the clash was uncertain as each of the two armies alternately fell back and gained ground under the merciless rays of the sun. Towards midday, the Celts that Dionysius had lined up at the centre, wearied by the heat, began to lose ground, baring the flank of the right wing where Leptines was fighting with unflagging fury. Dionysius realized what was happening and ordered his adjutant to send reinforcements to cover his brother, but Himilco’s Celts and Balearics had already wedged deep into the opening. They managed to almost completely cut off the right Syracusan wing which suddenly found itself in crushingly inferior numbers.

Submerged by a multitude of enemies, Leptines did not lose heart: he plunged into the heart of the fray roaring like a lion. He struck cleaving blows, mowing down one foe after another for as long as his strength sustained him. He finally collapsed, his chest, his belly, his neck run through.

When he fell a cry of exultation rose from the enemy ranks and dismay invaded the Syracusans, who began to retreat without breaking their formation. But their withdrawal soon turned into an open rout. News reached Dionysius almost immediately, and his heart sank. He saw his men falling left and right, the enemy charging in pursuit, determined to spare no one on their path. He was about to turn his sword upon himself when Aksal arrived on horseback, screaming like an infernal fury and brandishing an enormous axe. He chopped down all those who got in his way then leaned over the side of his horse, grabbed his master by the arm and hoisted him on to the steed’s back. He sped towards a little hill located at a distance of about one stadium, where a rear observation post had been sited, garrisoned by Philistus who was waving a Syracusan standard.

Aksal leapt to the ground, turned Dionysius over to the men of the meagre garrison and blew hard on his horn. The long lament echoed through the valley, flew over the field of the massacre and rallied the scattered soldiers.

Dionysius remained on his feet under the standard for hours to gather his men, to bolster their spirits and to draw them up in a square formation for the final defence. Only when darkness fell did the slaughter cease, and at that point, strangely, he heard the Carthaginian war horns sound the retreat and saw the victorious army withdraw well beyond the line of battle.

Only then did he let himself go, and he crumbled to the ground, unconscious.

When he opened his eyes again, he sought Aksal, but no one knew where he had gone. Philistus had his men search everywhere for him. They called out his name with all the breath they had, combing the countryside all around, without success.

He appeared just before dawn, on foot, staggering with fatigue and covered with blood, holding the corpse of Leptines in his arms.

The men ran towards him and helped him lay the commander’s lifeless body on the ground before his stunned brother.

Aksal approached Dionysius and said: ‘Carthaginians go away.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Philistus. ‘That’s not possible.’

‘Yes. They going away.’

It was true. Himilco’s army, after winning a crushing victory were inexplicably withdrawing.

Dionysius ordered a pyre to be built, and had his brother’s body washed and laid out. Then he drew up the troops for their last salute.

When their shout had died down he dismissed them. ‘Go now,’ he said in a firm voice. ‘Leave me alone.’

The soldiers lined up and marched off in a column. A small group remained behind under Philistus’s command to protect him. They withdrew to a certain distance.

Dionysius took a torch and lit the pyre. He watched the flames licking at the wood, stoked by the dry branches. They crackled louder and louder and surrounded the body of the fallen warrior in a blazing vortex.

Philistus, who hadn’t dared watch at first, now turned his eyes to the fire raging in the darkness. In the light of the flames he saw a shadow, a man on his knees, bent in half and sobbing into the dust.

P
HILISTUS RECEIVED THE
terms of the peace proposal twenty days later. The message, which came from Panormus, was drawn up in Greek and bore the signature of Himilco and the Great Council of Carthage. It said:

Philistus took the dispatch and asked to be announced at the Ortygia fortress, where Dionysius had been closed up for days, refusing to see anyone.

Aksal barred his way. ‘Boss no want anybody.’

‘Tell him that it’s me, Aksal, and that I must absolutely speak with him. It is a matter of the utmost importance.’

Aksal disappeared inside and reappeared after a short time, gesturing for Philistus to enter.

Dionysius was sitting on the audience seat. He had dark circles under his eyes, his skin was ashen and his beard and hair were dishevelled. He looked as though he’d aged ten years.

‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ said Philistus, ‘but I have no choice. The Carthaginians propose peace.’

Dionysius reacted to those words. ‘Of their own initiative? You didn’t make the first offer?’

‘I would never have taken the liberty without informing you first. No, the proposal comes from them.’

‘What do they want?’

Philistus read him the message, saw that he was listening attentively, and continued: ‘I would say it’s a very reasonable proposal, given our current state of inferiority. We can discuss the war damage. The Carthaginians are always willing to haggle over money matters. But the most important thing is their official recognition of your authority and your claim to this territory, extending to your descendants. This is fundamental; you mustn’t miss this opportunity. Think of your son. You know well that he doesn’t resemble you, or his uncle. If you leave him a solid state, with recognized borders, life will be much easier for him, wouldn’t you say?’

Dionysius let out a long sigh, got to his feet and walked towards him. ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right. Let me read it through one more time.’

They sat together at a table. Philistus placed the sheet in front of him and waited as he read it.

‘You are right,’ Dionysius said finally. ‘I will follow your advice. Prepare the official protocol and enter into negotiations for the war damage. We don’t have all that money.’

‘Maybe we could make concessions as far as territory is concerned. Inland, perhaps one of the Siculian districts that’s not vital to our economy.’

‘Yes, that is a possibility.’

‘Well then . . .’

Dionysius was silent, absorbed in thought.

‘Well, then, I’m leaving,’ said Philistus, and seeing that he wasn’t getting an answer, rolled up the sheet and headed towards the door.

‘Wait,’ Dionysius called him back.

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing . . . nothing. You can go.’

Philistus nodded his head and left. For a moment he thought he was about to say something personal. But perhaps he still needed time . . .

Three years passed, during which Dionysius seemed little by little to resume his old habits, dedicating himself to government matters and to the political training of his first-born son, with very little satisfaction in truth. The young man preferred to organize parties with his friends, inviting artists, courtesans and poets, and he always seemed embarrassed when his father summoned him.

His mother Doris, who had become quite heavy over years of inactivity, tried to defend him. ‘You’ve always been too harsh with the boy; you frighten him.’

‘I’m trying to make a man of him, by Zeus, a man of state, if I can manage it,’ replied Dionysius.

‘Yes, but how are you trying? Never a gentle word, never an affectionate gesture.’

‘You can worry about simpering over him. I’m his father, by Heracles, not his mother! You’ve succeeded in making him a spineless, incapable . . .’

‘That’s not true! He has good qualities, and if you gave him a task to accomplish, any kind of responsibility at all, he could prove it to you. Anyone can see that all your affection goes to Arete, the daughter of that . . .’

‘Shut up!’ ordered Dionysius. ‘Not another word! Arete is my child like all the others. She’s just the youngest and she is an adorable little girl. I have the right to have some satisfaction from this brood!’

Their discussions invariably ended up in quarrels, with Doris bursting into tears and closing herself up in her rooms for days with her maids and lady companions.

Philistus, on the other hand, became his intimate adviser and, although Dionysius would never completely admit it, his friend. The only one he had left to him.

Having definitively settled the western borders and their relations with Carthage, Philistus began attending to relations with Sparta, which had always been Syracuse’s protecting power. When she once again waged war against Athens, he sent ten ships to take part in operations in the Aegean, with Dionysius’s approval. It was an act of duty, not an intervention with expansionistic ambitions.

Dionysius seemed increasingly interested in literature, an old juvenile passion of his, while he continued to remain hostile towards philosophy. He had the city theatre enlarged and had his plays performed there, usually to great applause. Knowing who the dramatist was, the public was eager not to offend him.

The expedition in the Aegean had a terrible outcome: the Athenians sank nine of the ten Syracusan ships and the admiral leading them preferred to take his own life rather than sail back to Laccius with a single ship.

Politics in Greece had become so complicated that it was difficult to guess how things would develop from one season to the next, let alone from one year to the next.

The Thebans had introduced a new military formation called the ‘oblique’ array – invented by two of their generals named Pelopidas and Hepameinondas – that was so effective that they managed to defeat the invincible Spartans, once their allies, at a place called Leuctra. Startled by a similar success, which was wholly unimaginable, the Athenians passed over to the side of Sparta, their old enemy, in an effort to contain the Thebans.

Things were going badly, and would have got much worse if it had not been for Dionysius’s intervention. The massive use of Celtic mercenaries and of his siege machines had great success and overturned the situation. Athens went so far as to dedicate a golden crown to him. Rumour had it that the king of Sparta, Agesilaus, after having seen Dionysius’s ballistas and catapults in action for the first time, exclaimed: ‘By the gods, a man’s courage is no longer worth anything nowadays!’

The bestowal of the golden crown provided Dionysius with a unique opportunity: he obtained Athenian citizenship and, through Philistus, laid the basis for a treaty which bound his State in an alliance with Athens, ending belligerency that had lasted virtually fifty years, from the time of the Great War when the Athenians had besieged Syracuse.

Dionysius was accepted now with great honour in all the metropolises, recognized and celebrated as the champion of western Hellenism against the barbarians. His slips in the past in this regard were eclipsed or forgotten. He returned to Syracuse in the autumn of that year, the sixtieth of his life, and was resolutely determined, this time, to dedicate himself to preparing his son to succeed him.