Tyrant

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  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.’

  ‘True. It was all part of the staging. They set fire to some old laid up wrecks while the fleet was anchored at a number of secret landings along the northern coast.’

  ‘Stop dragging this out and come to the point. What has happened?’

  ‘The new Carthaginian admiral invaded the port of Drepanum at first light with two hundred battle ships. Our fleet was greatly outnumbered, and had the worst of it.’

  Philistus dismissed the messenger and lingered for a while all alone to meditate on what had to be done. In the end he decided not to tell Dionysius anything for the time being, so as not to spoil the festivities. He stretched out at his place, ate and drank, apparently enjoying himself.

  That same night, after the guests had gone, towards the third guard shift, Dionysius fell ill. Aksal rushed to awaken Philistus. ‘Boss not well.’

  ‘What are you saying, Aksal?’

  ‘He very sick, you come now.’

  Philistus hurried to his room, where he found Dionysius in a terrible state: shaken by convulsions and retching, soaked in sweat but cold as ice, ashen-faced and dark-nailed.

  ‘Go call his doctor, Aksal, run! Three blocks from here, towards the agora. Run, by all the gods! Run!’

  As Aksal rushed down to the street, Philistus tried to lift Dionysius to a sitting position and help him breathe. He dried his forehead and dampened his parched lips. The bed stank of sweat and urine.

  Dionysius seemed to rally for a moment, to regain his strength. ‘It’s finished,’ he whispered. ‘It’s all over, my friend.’

  Philistus was moved by that word that he hadn’t heard for so many years, and he clasped his hand tightly. ‘What are you saying, hegemon? Your doctor is coming. You’ll get better. You drank a little too much, that’s all. Take heart, you’ll see that . . .’

  Dionysius cut him off by wearily raising his hand in his habitual imperious gesture. ‘No, I’m not wrong. Death is cold . . . feel it? Fate mocks me! I’ve always fought on the front lines, I’ve been wounded five times, and here I am dying in bed, pissing myself . . . like a man worth nothing. I’ll never see the dawn of the new era I’ve dreamed of all my life . . . Sicily . . . at the centre of the world . . .’

  ‘You will see it! We’ll go back home and finish up this war, once and for all. You will win, Dionysius. You will win, because you are the greatest.’

  ‘No . . . no. I sent all the friends I had to their deaths: Doricus, Biton, Iolaus, my own Leptines. I’ve spilled so much blood, for nothing.’

  The steps of a lone passer-by could be heard from outside. Dionysius lit up. ‘Arete!’ he said, straining to hear. ‘Arete . . . is that you?’

  Philistus lowered his tear-filled eyes. ‘Arete’s here,’ he answered. ‘She’s come – she’s here for you.’

 
Dionysius collapsed with a long gasp. He whispered again: ‘Remember what you promised. Farewell, chaire . . .’ and then nothing.

  The doctor burst into the room all at once, short of breath and accompanied by Aksal, but it was too late. All he could do was verify his death.

  Aksal stiffened at the sight. His face hardened into a stone mask. He struck up a mournful dirge, the harrowing lament that his people sang to accompany the last journey of great warriors. Then he closed himself off in an impenetrable silence. He mounted armed guard over Dionysius’s body, day and night, neither eating nor drinking. He never abandoned him, not even when the coffin was placed on the ship that would carry him back to his homeland.

  In Syracuse, Philistus personally saw to the funeral rites. He had a gigantic pyre built in the courtyard of fort Euryalus at the top of Epipolae so that the whole city could see his soul rising in the vortex of fire and sparks that would push him towards the sky. Dionysius’s body, dressed in his most splendid armour, was set on the pyre in front of the drawn-up army. Twenty thousand warriors from every nation shouted out his name ten times, as the flames rose roaring towards the winter sky.

  Late that night, Philistus and Aksal went to gather his ashes. Together they went to Arete’s tomb and joined his ashes with hers in the urn.

  When they had finished this simple rite, Philistus dried his eyes and turned towards the Celtic warrior, frightening in the gaunt severity of his fasting, grief hollowing his face and blackening his eyes. ‘Go back to your quarters now, Aksal,’ he said, ‘and break off your fasting. Your master doesn’t need you any more . . . We do.’

  They left, and the tomb remained dark and silent.

  But when the sound of their steps had died away completely, a solitary song rose from the darkness, the heart-rending melody that accompanied the first night of love for Arete and Dionysius.

  And the last.

  EPILOGUE

  CORINTH, 342 BC

  ‘No one was ever able to explain the cause of his death. They said that Philistus had seen the sign of the dolphin carved into the bottom of the cup that his lord and master had drunk from the night of the celebrations. He remembered how Dionysius had ordered the deaths of many members of the Company during the last great purge, and how he had unceremoniously taxed Company members in other cities to finance the coming war, heedless of any warnings.

  ‘Some attributed his death simply to the revelry that followed his victory in the Lenaean tragedy contest. Others saw the long arm of Carthage in his decease; how else could they have hoped to destroy such an obstinate enemy?

  ‘I signed the peace treaty, as soon as I had the power to do so, and I tried to uphold it. But I struck fear into no one’s heart, and even the philosophers were lining up to teach me how to govern ...

  ‘In ten years’ time, all that my father had managed to build up was in ruins and would never be revived. An ageing general sent by the metropolis, Timoleon, defeated the Carthaginians and deprived me of my powers. I was exiled here to Corinth . . . the place from which our founding fathers set off so long ago . . .’

  ‘Maestro! What are you doing? Talking to yourself ?’

  The schoolmaster rubbed his eyes and looked around. The asses and their minder had disappeared; lounging against the wall on the other side of the road was one of the three brutes who had rescued him the night before, one of the inseparable bodyguards that the city had charged with his safety.

  Standing in front of him was the tavern keeper, a cup of steaming milk in hand. ‘Drink this,’ he said. ‘It will put you back on your feet.’

  The maestro took a look at him, and then at the sun that was emerging at the horizon, setting off a thousand golden reflections on the street still shining with the night’s rain. He stuck a hand in his satchel and felt for the scrolls. They were still there; he breathed a sigh of relief.

  He got up with some difficulty, stretched his aching limbs and rubbed his eyes again, as if he could not quite awaken from a dream. ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘Another time.’

  He walked off unsteadily, and the tavern keeper stood for a while watching him bemused, until his figure dissolved in the glare of the dawning sun.

  Author’s Note

  The story of Dionysius I of Syracuse is so complex that I’ve chosen at times to simplify some of the historical figures, as well as the events themselves.

  I’ve purposely left out the tyrant’s numerous offspring, except for the first two, Dionysius II and Hipparinus, and little Arete. The figure of Dionysius’s young brother-in-law Dion, so noteworthy in the ancient sources that Plutarch dedicates one of his biographies to him, has been completely removed. To introduce and develop such a character more than halfway through the novel would have created narrative problems. The figure of Iolaus also embodies Dionysius’s younger brother Thearides, who thus does not appear in our story.

  Apart from these considerations, the story of Dionysius I substantially reflects the accounts given in the ancient sources, especially Diodorus Siculus, who draws from both Timaeus of Tauromenium and Philistus himself, who readers will be familiar with as one of the protagonists of this novel.

  The theme of the Company, which rather explicitly echoes the modern Sicilian Mafia, is not fabricated; the hetairiai were somewhat secret associations of citizens – attested to in historical sources – who often used intimidation or even physical elimination of their adversaries to attain their means. Such associations also existed in Greece, but it seemed to me that the extent of this phenomenon in Sicily, in such ancient times, was particularly significant.

  As far as the names are concerned, I’ve used the Latin spelling where a consolidated use of such names exists; I’ve used the Greek (or Carthaginian) spelling only for rarer and less well-known names.

  Some readers may be surprised that I’ve used ‘Italians’ and

  ‘Sicilians’ instead of ‘Italiots’ or ‘Siceliots’, but I’ve preferred to eliminate terminology which is too specialistic or academic in favour of more suggestive terms, bearing in mind that the terms I’ve chosen are the literal translation of the original words. Obviously, the words ‘Italy’ and ‘Italians’ always refer here to the southern tip of the peninsula, the area we call Calabria today.

  The use of language in slang expressions, in cursing and dialogues, has been derived from theatrical comedies, which have conserved such colourful everyday expressions.

  The political perspective mirrors the point of view of the story’s protagonists, and could not be otherwise, although in various cases and situations, secondary characters express values which differ from those of Greek civilization, especially regarding the politics of the Greeks of Sicily.

  Dionysius emerges as the great protagonist that I believe he was. His substantial failure appears to be a consequence of the basic error he made in running the State: absolutism.

  Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  TYRANT

  VALERIO MASSIMO MANFREDI is professor of classical archaeology at the Luigi Bocconi University in Milan. He has carried out a number of expeditions to and excavations in many sites throughout the Mediterranean, and has taught in Italian and international universities. He has published numerous articles and academic books, mainly on military and trade routes and exploraton in the ancient world.

  He has published ten works of fiction, including the Alexander trilogy, which has been translated into twenty-four languages in thirty-eight countries, and The Last Legion. now a major motion picture.

  He has written and hosted documentaries on the ancient world, which have been transmitted by the main television networks, and has written fiction for cinema and television as well.

  He lives with his family in the countryside near Bologna.

  Also by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ALEXANDER: CHILD OF A DREAM

  ALEXANDER: THE SANDS OF AMMON

  ALEXANDER: THE ENDS OF THE EARTH

  SPARTAN

  THE LAST LEGION

  HERO
ES

  (Formerly The Talisman of Troy)

  THE ORACLE

  EMPIRE OF DRAGONS

  THE TOWER

  First published 2005 by Macmillan

  First published in paperback 2005 by Pan Books

  This electronic edition published 2010 by Pan Books

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

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  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-330-52692-0 PDF

  ISBN 978-0-330-52687-6 EPUB

  Copyright © Valerio Massimo Manfredi 2005

  Translation copyright © Macmillan 2005

  First published in Italian 2003 as Il tiranno by

  Arnoldo Mondadori Editore S.p.A., Milano

  The right of Valerio Massimo Manfredi to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.