‘Perfectly,’ replied Philistus.
‘That’s all.’
‘That’s all?’ repeated Philistus.
‘Why? Have we got other things to discuss?’
Philistus lowered his head. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘I suppose not.’
He walked out and found Aksal waiting to accompany him home.
When he entered he found the house in perfect order: the walls had been freshly painted, the furniture and objects were in place as if he had never left.
He sat down, took a tablet and a stylus, drew a long breath, and said: ‘Let’s get back to work.’
Leptines came by a few days later. He was in the blackest of moods.
‘What did you expect?’ asked Philistus, putting aside his papers. ‘That he’d throw his arms around you?’
‘Not in the least.’
‘Well, you’re wrong, because that’s what he did, in his own way. He asked you to help him: that’s like getting to his knees in front of you.’
‘Because he’s as lonely as a dog. There’s no one he can trust.’
‘Exactly. In theory, he can’t even trust us. The last time we saw each other, the situation was anything but clear.’
‘In your case, not in mine.’
‘True. In fact, I’m sure that his feelings for you haven’t changed at all. As for me, I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me, and do you know why? You failed him with your heart, but I with my mind. But he needs me. He’s never found anyone as good as I am in diplomatic relations. But that’s enough for me. It’s enough for me to be back at his side, I admit it.’
‘What about those plans for change that you talked to me about, that you wanted to involve me in? Is that all over? Is everything all right now?’
Philistus sighed. ‘Men of letters should keep away from action. We’re just not cut out for it. That awkward attempt of mine was a huge mistake, and trying to involve you an even worse one. But I did it in good faith, I swear to you. Have you taken a look around in the city? Have you seen what the mood is? No one cares about politics any more. The administrative system is running well, the citizens’ council can rule on any number of economic questions, on public order and urbanistics, our confines are guarded with an iron fist, trade is blooming, and there’s plenty of money in circulation. Syracuse is a great power that can deal with Athens, Sparta, even Persia, as her equals. I just hadn’t realized. And they say that he’s even become a better poet! A miracle, if it’s true.
‘He has built a system that works, and the facts are in his favour. The age of heroes is ancient past, my friend. We’re dealing with a middle-aged man now – who is very capricious and often intractable, but who’s still capable of conceiving incredibly daring strategies. If he wanted to, he could happily enjoy a tranquil old age at this point: receive foreign ambassadors, preside over public events and theatrical representations, hunt and raise hounds. No, he’s preparing an expedition against Carthage. The last, he says. After which all of Sicily will be Greek, and will have become the centre of the world, the new metropolis. You know, if you think about it, it’s our natural vocation, wouldn’t you say? Positioned at the centre of the seas, halfway between the Hellespont and the columns of Heracles. It’s a great vision that he has, understand? Unfortunately there’s a fundamental problem that makes the whole operation futile.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Leptines.
‘It’s simple: there will never be a second Dionysius. Your brother has always been too detached from his first-born son, who I hear has become even more timid and retiring. Everything rests on Dionysius, like the sky on the shoulders of Atlas. The best of tyrants cannot be preferable to the worst of democracies. He is not replaceable, and when he falls, his construction – no matter how great and powerful he has made it – will fall with him. It’s only a question of time.’
‘But then,’ said Leptines, ‘if it’s all useless, why did we come back?’
‘Because he called us,’ replied Philistus. ‘And because we love him.’
30
SOMEONE KNOCKED AT the door.
‘Come in,’ said Leptines, and opened it.
He found Aristomache before him, as beautiful as when he had last seen her, but paler. It took him a little while to recover, as if he had met with an apparition. ‘Come in,’ he repeated.
Aristomache removed her veil. ‘We’ve been apart for so long! I’m so happy to see you.’
And I as well. I thought of you every day I was in exile. Now you’re here ... I never would have hoped it. Has he sent you?’
‘No. I asked him if I could see you and he agreed.’
Leptines didn’t know what to say.
‘It’s a generous gesture,’ said Aristomache.
‘Do you think so?’
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘Perhaps he thinks you can convince me to help him in the upcoming war.’
‘Oh, no. It’s not that. You’re free to do as you like. Your privileges have been restored. Your properties are intact and have been well kept up in your absence. You could choose a tranquil life and no one would blame you. He least of all’
‘How do you know?’
‘He told me.’
‘You’ve spoken of me?’
‘Every day, since your return. Sometimes . . . even before then. He never wanted to admit it, but your absence was the worst punishment for him.’
Leptines wiped his hand across his forehead. ‘And what . . . what did he say about me?’
‘You are the most important person in the world for him. More than me, more than his children, more than his other wife.’
‘Words . . .’
‘More than words. Feelings,’ replied Aristomache with a quiver in her voice. ‘The most precious of our possessions; the only things that make life worth living. If I could, I would convince you to choose a life of tranquillity. You no longer have to worry about governing or commanding. You’ve paid a high price for your courage, your valour and your honesty.’
Leptines looked at her at length in silence, listening to the pounding of his heart. He wasn’t used to such strong emotions. He felt that her urgings – although they were coming from the woman he loved – went against his natural inclination. He answered: ‘I’m afraid that kind of life isn’t for me. For five years I stood on that windswept rock and I did nothing but watch the sea, day in and day out. Inactivity is unbearable torture for me. I’ll have time to rest for an eternity when I’m closed up in a tomb. Tell my brother that I am willing to take up my sword and fight for him, but only against our old enemy. And that he should call upon me for this and this alone.’
Aristomache stared at him with moist eyes. ‘So you’ll go back to fighting.’
‘If necessary, yes.’
‘I will pray to the gods that they may protect you.’
‘I thank you, but I don’t think the gods care much about me. Your thoughts will be of much greater comfort to me.’
‘You will always have my thoughts, at every moment of every day and night. It has been a great consolation for me to see you again. Take care of yourself.’
She brushed his lips with hers and left.
He never saw her again, alone.
Preparations lasted three years, during which Dionysius extended his hegemony to the most important centre of the Italian League, Croton, even though the city was allied with Carthage. The massive use of Celtic mercenaries had secured his victory.
The alliance between the League and the Punic city had in reality never become operative, because Carthage had been struck once again by plague and had had to put down another revolt of the native Libyan tribes. In the meantime, Dionysius decided to refill the empty coffers of his treasury in view of a new war and teach a lesson to the Etruscan pirates who were venturing ever further south. He launched a bold foray all the way to the very heart of the Tyrrhenian, where an assault contingent took and plundered the sanctuary at Agylla which the Greeks called ‘the Towers’.
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The raid brought in over one thousand talents and the abhorrence of philosophers, who once again branded Dionysius as a monster who didn’t even respect the gods.
Philistus had managed to conclude new treaties with Acragas, Selinus and Himera, including them in Dionysius’s Greater Sicily. Carthaginian territory was reduced to the far western corner of the island, with a few cities still in Punic hands.
Leptines did not participate in his brother’s campaign against the Etruscans, in keeping with his promise, but he was preparing in every way he could for the decisive match with the Carthaginians. He spent hours each day in the palaestra with Aksal, training with shield and sword, wrestling and boxing. When the two of them moved to the centre of the arena, all activities in the gymnasium were abruptly stopped as the others thronged around the ring to watch the battle of the titans. The gleaming sweat on their bulging muscles and the convulsive panting of their gaping mouths made the encounter extraordinarily realistic; only the lack of blood marred the impression that they were watching a duel to the death.
When Dionysius returned from Italy he invited his brother to dinner.
There were only the two of them, and they dined in military camp style, with a planed table and folding stools.
‘See? The Italian League had allied with the Carthaginians. They don’t seem to mind making pacts with the barbarians.’
‘You’re playing with loaded dice: you know that things aren’t quite that way. There are some who consider freedom the highest good, more important even than ties of blood or language. And I understand them.’
Dionysius nodded solemnly. ‘And yet you’ve accepted to fight the coming war with me.’
‘I have.’
‘May I ask you why?’
‘No.’
‘All right. Can I trust you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like . . . I used to trust you?’
Leptines lowered his eyes. That phrase had sufficed to set off a turmoil of memories and emotions.
‘I had to send you away, keep you in exile, because seeing you and thinking that you could betray me would have caused me insufferable pain.’
‘You’re still capable of suffering?’ asked Leptines. ‘I wouldn’t have said so.’
‘Like any human being. Like any mortal man. And now that I’m approaching the threshold of old age, I’d like for things to be the way they once were between us.’
‘What about my betrayal?’
‘I’ve had time to think about it. Everything requires time, but mine is running out, day after day. I want to say one thing: if I should . . . die, in this war, you will be my successor and you may marry Aristomache. She won’t say no to you. I’m certain of it. You are the best man I know. There have always been very few men like you, and I don’t think there will be more in the future.
If I fall in combat, you will arrange for my ashes to be united with those of Arete. Promise me that.’
‘I promise you,’ said Leptines.
Dionysius stood and walked to where Leptines sat. He did not give him time to get up: he grasped his brother’s head close against his chest, while Leptines, in turn, embraced him tightly around the waist.
They wept in silence.
The Carthaginians made their first move that very summer, when Mago decided to advance from Panormus towards Messana. Dionysius called a meeting of his high command and laid out his plan. The fleet would not leave the harbour. The ground troops would go out alone to intercept the enemy army to the north and destroy it. The Celtic mercenaries would hold the centre under his direct command, the Syracusan militias would occupy the right wing commanded by Leptines, and the Campanian and Peloponnesian mercenaries would be on the left with their unit commanders. The cavalry would remain in reserve and be launched at a second stage in pursuit of the fugitives.
The battle took place ten days later at a native village in the centre of the island called Cabala, and Dionysius’s secret weapon proved to be a triumph. The sight of the gigantic Celtic warriors with their long white manes and tattooed chests and arms threw the adversaries into a panic and at the moment of impact, their extraordinary power sent the enemy into a ruinous rout. Leptines launched his militias from the right, leading them in person with unrestrained impetus, advantaged by the slope of the land. He circled around the enemy in a sweeping manoeuvre, herding them towards the centre as the Campanians and Peloponnesians were doing the same from the left.
The Punic army was annihilated: ten thousand were slain, including their supreme commander, Mago, and five thousand were taken prisoner. Five thousand others – nearly all Carthaginians – managed to take up a defensive position on a hill behind an old wall where they could dig in for the night, under the command of the son of the fallen general, a valiant young man who bore the fated name of Himilco.
Before the sun set, they had sent a delegation to negotiate their surrender, but Dionysius, who was feeling invincible, imposed very harsh conditions: immediate withdrawal from all of Sicily and payment for war damage as well.
Himilco’s messengers communicated that in order to make such a decision they must send a messenger to Panormus to consult with their superiors. They promised an answer within four days, and asked for a five-day truce.
Dionysius and Leptines, still covered in sweat and blood from the battle, retired to their tent and held council. ‘What shall we do?’ asked Dionysius.
‘We do have five thousand of them in our hands, but you’ve advanced a proposal that they’ll find difficult to accept. They’ll want to play for time, which is what they’re doing. Let’s close the circle around the hill, to be sure we’re safe from their tricks. We will let no one through but the messenger.’
‘You’re right. That’s what we’ll do. Tell them they can come in.’
The envoys listened to the terms of the truce with visible satisfaction, then they respectfully took their leave and returned to their makeshift camp.
Leptines immediately sent the cavalry and the Peloponnesians with the Syracusan officers to close in around the hill and set fires all around. The messenger arrived at one of the road blocks when darkness had fallen and was allowed to pass. He galloped off in a rush.
The rest of the night and the next day were tranquil. The dispatches from the guard posts that Leptines would receive now and then did not report any news. The third day, towards evening, he began to become suspicious; the messenger had not returned and it didn’t seem possible that there was no movement whatsoever on the top of the hill. He took command of a group of light infantry and advanced on foot towards the peak, fanning his men out. As he made his way up, a terrible premonition wormed into his mind. Suddenly certain that he was not mistaken, he loosed his men at a run towards the wall. He soon arrived at the top, panting, and let out a bitter laugh: the place was deserted.
‘Search everywhere!’ he shouted. ‘Turn over every stone! They can’t have vanished like this. Find them, I said!’
Dionysius himself arrived and was appalled at the sight of the abandoned camp. Pale, his jaw clenched, he was trembling with rage and frustration.
‘Hegemones!’ shouted a soldier. ‘This way, quick!’
Leptines and Dionysius rushed over and found themselves before the entrance of a cave, one of many that dotted that bleak landscape. It was a natural cavern that descended into the depths of the earth, wound on for a distance of nearly three stadia and finally ended up in the open countryside; the aperture was hidden by thick scrub and brambles. Bloodstains on the thorns and on the trodden earth left no doubts.
‘Blast them!’ cursed Dionysius. ‘Follow their traces!’
‘They’re too far ahead by now; they will have marched at full speed. We’ll never catch them. Destiny has mocked us by robbing us of a definitive victory. But we have defeated them nevertheless and we can be happy with that for the time being. Let’s go back now.’
Three days later a Carthaginian messenger brought word from Himilco; he was sorry, but he would
have to reject the conditions of surrender.
‘How dare he ridicule me!’ roared Dionysius.
‘It’s his right to do so, I’d say,’ commented Philistus philosophically after joining them.
‘Oh! Sod it!’ swore Dionysius and rode off at a gallop.
It took Dionysius the rest of the year to prepare for resuming the war; his informers had told him that the Carthaginians would almost certainly attempt another attack. In fact, the armies set off once again at the beginning of the summer.
Dionysius and Leptines, accompanied by Philistus, advanced from the south; Himilco from the north. After testing and provoking each other at length through a series of feints and skirmishes, and after long observation of the opposite camp by reconnaissance squads, the two armies finally faced off at a place in western Sicily that the Greeks called Cronium. Dionysius was bitterly surprised to see that the Carthaginians had added on a massive contingent of Celtic mercenaries, probably enlisted directly in Gaul, or through their bases in Liguria.
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.
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