Tyrant (59 page)

Dionysius II was twenty-eight years old now, and a grown man. Up until that moment he had never proven himself in a challenging situation. He had always lived in luxury, giving himself over to the pleasures of wine, food and sex, and he had never enjoyed his father’s esteem. He was cultured and well educated, but feeble and irresolute.

Philistus tried to defend him as well. ‘You mustn’t judge him so severely,’ he said to Dionysius. ‘Any son of a father like you feels crushed by the comparison. He grows up feeling inadequate and incompetent, and this continually puts him in a bad light. He realizes that, but at the same time he feels less and less capable of showing what he’s worth. It’s a vicious circle that has no end.’

‘So what should I do?’ asked Dionysius. ‘Give him kisses and pat him on the head? By Zeus, if he doesn’t want to become a man I’ll force him, by fair means or foul!’

But these were only words. In reality, Dionysius was convinced that no one could succeed him, that no one was up to such a task. Philistus was tempted at times to suggest that he restore the government to the people, but he held his tongue. He knew full well that, although a democracy might be capable of governing a city, it would never be able to handle a State of such dimensions, with outposts all the way in Epirus, Illyria, Umbria and Padusa. It was respect and fear towards one man alone that held together the complex. A government of citizens would never be likewise feared nor respected by other citizens’ governments in subjugated cities.

Perhaps the situation would have remained stable, with the political, economical and cultural equilibrium that Dionysius had managed to create, had news not come from Africa that threw him into a state of great agitation.

Philistus was urgently summoned and he rushed to the fortress. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked as soon as he was in the door.

‘Plague has broken out in Carthage.’

‘Again?’

‘And this time it seems to be exterminating a good number of those bastards.’

‘I understand how that may please you.’

‘That’s not all. The Libyans are in revolt.’

‘That’s not new either. Why are you so excited?’

‘Because it’s our opportunity to finally chase them out of Sicily.’

‘You said you wouldn’t be trying again.’

‘I lied. I intend to try again.’

‘You signed a treaty.’

‘Only in order to gain time. A man like me can never give up his plans. Never, understand?’

Philistus lowered his eyes. ‘I imagine it would be useless to remind you that Carthage has been debilitated by plague and rebellion many times in the past, and each time she came back stronger and more determined than ever.’

‘This time is different.’

‘Why is it different?’

‘For two reasons. First of all, those curs killed my brother and they’ll have to spit blood until I say “Enough”. Second, I’m sixty years old.’

‘That should make you sensible and dedicated to wise administration. War is always bad business.’

‘You don’t understand. I mean to say that if I don’t carry through with my plans now I never will. As far as my son is concerned, it’s best you don’t even mention him. I’ve made my decision. We will attack next spring with our army, fleet and artillery. We will attack with the greatest army that has ever been seen and we’ll tear them to shreds.’

‘And where are you counting on finding so much money?’

‘You worry about that. Must I always teach you everything? Borrow the treasures from the temples: the gods will apply a reasonable rate of interest, I’m sure. Tax the Company. Ours here in Syracuse and in the other cities as well. They have plenty of money.’

‘I wouldn’t try either of those options, if I were you. You’ll come out looking sacrilegious. And as far as the Companies are concerned, you know full well how powerful they are. There’s the risk that they’ll make you pay this time. Even here in Syracuse. They may have pardoned your purges, or they may be temporarily overlooking them, but when it comes to money they don’t make allowances for anybody.’

‘Do you want to help me find this money or not?’

‘All right,’ said Philistus. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘This time we’ve been given our golden opportunity! This time we will carry it off, believe me, and all of Greece will honour me. They will raise statues to me at Delphi and Olympia, dedicate inscriptions to me in public places . . .’

He was dreaming. Now that he had been accepted at the highest levels by the metropolises, he – the one from the colonies, treated with scorn and arrogance for years, ridiculed for his awkward literary endeavours – wanted to crown his life’s achievement by becoming the leading man in the Greek world.

Nothing could dissuade him. By the beginning of the summer he had mustered an enormous army: thirty-five thousand foot soldiers, five thousand horsemen, three hundred battle ships and four hundred transports.

His army swept through Sicily: Selinus and Entella welcomed him as a liberator, Eryx surrendered to him, as did Drepanum, where he stationed the fleet. But he had to stop at Lilybaeum. The Carthaginian fortifications were so imposing, their defences so tough, that any attempt at an attack would have ended in failure, or worse, in defeat.

The season was drawing to an end and Dionysius prepared to return to Syracuse. He intended to leave almost the entire fleet at Drepanum to head off any possible attack from Africa, but he received a piece of news that made him change his mind: a secret dispatch announced that a fire had broken out at the island of the admiralty in Carthage and had nearly destroyed the shipyards.

The partially artificial island of the admiralty was one of the wonders of the world, the only structure that Dionysius envied his great rival. Perfectly shaped in a circular form, in the middle of a vast lagoon, its covered docks could host more than four hundred battle ships. At the centre was the admiralty building which gave the island its name. It was said that the most jealous secrets of the Carthaginian navy were conserved there: the routes of gold and of tin, and those that led to the remote Hesperides, at the extreme confines of the Ocean.

The legendary trophies of the most daring exploits of navigation were displayed there, even those from the journeys of the caravaneers who had gone so far as to cross the sea of sand that led to the land of the Pygmies. Some claimed that the maps of lost worlds were preserved in those inaccessible archives. It was even rumoured that most of the Carthaginian harbours were designed to reproduce the ancient capital of Atlantis.

If the island had truly burned down, then Carthage had lost her heart and her memory.

‘The gods are with us,’ he said to Philistus. ‘See? I’ll leave a hundred ships at Drepanum; that should suffice. And next spring, as soon as the weather turns good again, we’ll be back to deal the decisive blow. We’ll concentrate all our efforts on artillery; we’ll build more machines, I’ll have new ones drawn up . . .’ His eyes shone as he spoke, brimming with enthusiasm, and even Philistus began to believe that the venture that had occupied forty years of his life might at last be happily concluded.

Dionysius was so sure of himself at that point that he spent the winter working on the last draft of his tragedy
The Ransom of Hector
. He had an actor recite excerpts in Philistus’s presence to have his opinion. In the meantime he had sent a delegation to Athens to enter his tragedy in the competition held at the Lenaean festival, the solemn celebrations in honour of the god Dionysus. Dionysus had given Dionysius his name, and this seemed an excellent omen.

When the day arrived, he asked Philistus to accompany him. ‘You must come as well. You have been of such great help to me in perfecting my work.’

‘I would come very gladly,’ replied Philistus. ‘But who will remain here to see to preparations for the new expedition?’

Dionysius sighed. ‘I have reflected upon the situation at length. I’m sure that the Carthaginians will still be quite occupied repairing the damage to their dockyards. What’s more, our navy officers in Drepanum are a good lot, and very competent. In the third place, I’ve decided to invest my son with a few limited supervisory responsibilities to see how he manages. So I would say you can leave with me. Now don’t imagine that I’m doing this just for literary glory! What I’m most concerned with is drawing up a protocol with the Athenians and signing the treaty that will confirm our place among the great powers of the world. Our weak spot has always been the navy, whereas the Athenians have at least as much experience as the Carthaginians; we could learn much about their techniques and expertise in the field of naval warfare.’

The reasons Dionysius laid out were certainly convincing but not entirely reassuring; nonetheless, in the end Philistus agreed to leave with him. There was a kind of uneasiness gnawing at him, an anxiety that kept him awake at night. The stakes were too high, the risks too great; too many uncertainties in a winter so uncharacteristically mild that it was even favourable for navigation.

They reached Athens midway through the month of Gamelion and they found the city in a flutter over staging the performances. They lodged in a beautiful house with a garden that they had bought near Ceramicus, and they threw themselves into preparations, sparing no expense: they hired the actors and chorus, had the costumes made up, chose the masks, had the stage machines built. Announcements had already been posted in the theatre, on the acropolis and at the agora but Dionysius, at his own expense, had more announcements put up all over the city, in the most frequented spots, under the porticoes and in the libraries. He was sure that his name alone would draw the crowds.

He personally supervised the rehearsals, and did not hesitate to dismiss any actors who were not up to his standards and to engage others. He did the same with the chorus and the musicians, making them repeat the dances and songs that would accompany the tragedy countless times.

And the great day arrived.

The theatre was packed. Dionysius and Philistus sat in their reserved places among the city magistrates and the priests from the various colleges. The tragedy was performed in an impeccable manner, with certain parts even expressing considerable intensity, revealing the author’s long experience in matters of war and in the exhausting negotiations for the liberation of hostages and prisoners. The scene in which old Priamus got to his knees to kiss Achilles’s hands, and the mournful chorus of the Trojan women pleading for the return of Hector’s body, moved the public to tears. Even Philistus was surprisingly moist-eyed; could Dionysius have felt real emotions? And felt them strongly enough to communicate his feelings to the people gathered in the theatre?

The question was unanswerable: Dionysius was and would always be a sphinx, an enigma, for all his days. And yet Philistus, in watching those scenes, recognized many aspects of his personality, witnessed many fragments of his past life, many moments of both glory and abasement. Dionysius had recited his role in life like an actor; he had often concealed, feigned, deceived; he had hidden his human feelings, if he had any, behind the harsh mask of the tyrant.

The finale met with applause, not overwhelming, perhaps, but not merely polite, either, considering that that theatre had hosted the works of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, and that the Athenian public was the most demanding in the entire world.

At the conclusion of the festivities, rather surprising the author himself, Dionysius’s tragedy was awarded first prize. Many claimed that the other contestants were chosen from among poets so modest that even a mediocre poet like Dionysius could win.

No matter; Dionysius celebrated his victory with great solemnity and magnificence, laying on a sumptuous banquet in a garden at the foot of Mount Hymettus, inviting all the dignitaries and notables of Athens.

Just before dinner, Philistus was told that a messenger had arrived with an urgent message from Syracuse. He received the man personally, fearing that the news he brought might have ruined the party. He was not mistaken.

‘The Carthaginian dockyard never burned down,’ reported the messenger.

‘What do you mean, it never burned down?’

‘I’m afraid not; it was a trick. The Carthaginians are masters at this sort of thing. We should have imagined it.’

‘That’s not possible!’ protested Philistus. ‘Our informers assured us they saw smoke and flames rising from the island.’