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Dionysius approached Arete and said: ‘You’ll be safe here. This city is rich and powerful; her walls are the strongest of all Sicily. I have a small house here myself, with an almond grove and a vegetable garden. I would be honoured if you and the boy accepted my hospitality.’

  ‘Don’t you want to wait until the lots have been drawn?’ asked Arete.

  ‘I never wait,’ replied Dionysius. ‘Destiny is blind, but I never close my eyes completely, not even when I’m sleeping. Will you accept?’

  Arete smiled. ‘Which way is it?’ she asked.

  ‘This way. Follow me.’ Dionysius set off, leading his horse by its reins. But just then they heard a shout: ‘Krisse!’ A woman ran towards them, calling out that name.

  The child raised his head, shook free of Arete’s hand and ran towards that voice, shouting ‘Mama!’ They embraced in the middle of the square, under the moved gazes of the onlookers.

  ‘He’s not the first,’ said Dionysius. ‘Other children have found fathers or mothers who they had imagined dead. Husbands have found their wives, brothers their sisters. Their joy is so great it wipes out the thought of all they have lost.’

  ‘I’m a little sorry,’ said Arete. ‘I was growing so fond of him. So now you want me in your house alone? I don’t know if I can trust you.’

  ‘Of course you can trust me,’ replied Dionysius. ‘You’re too skinny for my teeth.’

  Arete shot a peeved look at him, but Dionysius’s teasing smile dispelled any feelings of irritation. She’d been charmed, all right, as much by his looks as by his personality: he was taller than average, with dark hair and eyes as black and shiny as the sea at night. His sun-bronzed skin was stretched over the powerful muscles of a fighter, shot through with turgid blue veins on his arms and the backs of his hands.

  He had led her fellow townspeople to salvation; he’d been the first to come to their aid and perhaps Selinus would not have fallen had he had his way.

  Selinus . . . the name sounded sweet even in the extreme bitterness of her exile, in the loss of everything she had imagined belonged to her and could not be taken away: her home, her family, the childhood games she had so recently set aside, the girlfriends with whom she would go to the temples on the acropolis, bringing gifts to the gods for the prosperity of her city and her people. She remembered the big market square full of people and of goods to sell, the processions, the walks through the fields, the river bank where she’d go with her friends to do the washing and hang the linens in the sun so they’d absorb the scent of the wind, fragrant with poppies and wheat.

  ‘What could smell sweeter than a field of wheat in flower?’ she mused as they climbed upwards towards the high part of the city.

  ‘That’s silly,’ replied Dionysius. ‘Wheat doesn’t flower.’

  ‘Of course it does, when it’s still green, in May. The flowers are really tiny, a milky white colour, inside the head. But their scent is so sweet that it mixes in with the smell of spring itself. You know when people say “it smells like spring” but the roses haven’t bloomed yet, and the violets have withered? That’s what wheat blossoms smell like . . .’

  Dionysius looked at her closely, with a touch of tenderness. ‘You know a lot of things, girl . . .’

  ‘You can call me Arete.’

  ‘Arete . . . where did you learn them?’

  ‘Looking around. I’ve never as now understood the value of the treasures that surround us and that we don’t notice. Like the wheat flowers . . . understand?’

  ‘I think so. Are you tired?’

  ‘I could lie down on these cobblestones and fall into the deepest sleep.’

  ‘Better go inside, then. That’s my house down there.’ Dionysius tied his horse to a ring on the wall, opened a wooden gate and entered a little courtyard shaded by an almond tree and a blooming pomegranate. He took a key from under a stone and opened the door. It was very simple and plain inside: a table with a couple of chairs, a bench along one wall, a sink and a clay water jug on the other. At the end of the room, opposite the entrance, was a wooden stair that led to a second floor. She lay down in the only bedroom and he covered her with a light blanket. Arete fell asleep almost instantly and Dionysius stayed to watch her for a little while. A neighing startled him and he went back downstairs to take care of his horse.

  2

  ARETE AWOKE AND was gripped by panic for a moment, not realizing where she was. The room was sunk in darkness and not a sound came from outside. She got up and went to the window that opened on to an inner garden. She saw the pomegranate and almond with its still tender leaves and remembered. She must have fallen into a deep sleep for many hours; evening was falling. She found a basin filled with water and was relieved to be able to wash and put on a fresh gown. Curious now, she looked around; a stair with a dozen stone steps led up to a landing and she walked up barefooted without making the slightest noise.

  When she reached the terrace, she was confronted by a spectacle that left her amazed and moved: all of Acragas stretched out before her, the lamps being lit now in each of the houses. To her right, on high, she could see the Athenaion on the top of the acropolis, a wisp of smoke rising, perhaps from the altar. To her left, scattered over the hill which faced the sea, were the other temples of the gods: one was right on top, another halfway up the slope, a third a little further over at the same distance. They were painted in bright colours, adorned by friezes and sculptures, with beautiful trees and gardens all around. At the bottom of the hill, in the western part of the valley, was a gigantic building still under construction, a temple the likes of which she’d never seen. So tall that it towered over any other structure, the entablature was held up by stone colossi at least twelve feet high and the pediment was animated by huge statuary groups bulging with heroes involved in titanic struggles. She could see the walls surrounding the whole city, with armed sentinels marching back and forth on the battlements and, beyond them, the plain that stretched out to the sea, already the colour of iron. Two more temples arose in the distance towards the west, white with stucco work and glittering with the gilded edging on the pediments and acroteria.

  Dionysius was sitting in an armchair, contemplating the sight in the last faint light of sunset. To his right, hanging from one of the arbour posts, was his armour; his shield and spear were leaning against the parapet. He was wearing only a chlamys over his nude body and he must have bathed, for as Arete drew closer, she could smell none of the stink of horse sweat that had made it hard to distinguish him from his steed.

  ‘The most beautiful city of mortal man . . .’ said Dionysius without turning.

  Arete couldn’t understand how he had sensed her presence since she’d come up in absolute silence, but she imagined that the long vigils he’d kept in war must have honed this sense of alertness. ‘It’s enchanting,’ she answered, continuing to let her gaze roam over the stunning countryside.

  ‘That’s what Pindar said in one of his poems. Do you know his work?’

  ‘Of course, although he’s not my favourite. I like lyric poetry better.’

  ‘He composed an ode to celebrate the victory of Theron, the lord of Acragas, in the chariot races of Olympia seventy years ago.’

  ‘They must have paid him well. He certainly couldn’t say anything bad about the place.’

  ‘What a foolish thing to say. Money can’t buy inspiration, and the spectacle you see before you has no equal in Sicily, or anywhere else in this world.’

  ‘Unforgiving, aren’t you?’ observed the girl in a resigned tone. ‘Everyone says stupid things sometimes. And I still have the splendour of my lost home in my heart . . . can’t you understand that? I look at all this, and can’t help but think that the city I loved has become nothing but a heap of ruins.’

  ‘Not for always,’ replied Dionysius without turning. ‘We’ll go back and build it up again.’

  ‘We’ll go back? You’re not Selinuntian, you’re Syracusan.’

  ‘I’m Sicilian. A Sicilian Greek, like you, like
all the others. The bastard race of the sons of Greece and the native women. “Half-barbarians”, that’s what they call us in our so-called motherland. But look what we’ve accomplished, we half-barbarians. Look at that temple down there, held up by a host of giants: it’s bigger and grander than the Parthenon. Look at that artificial pond in the middle of the valley that reflects the colours of the sky in the middle of the city. Look at the porticoes, the statues, the monuments. Our athletes have made their challengers from the continent eat dust. The sons of the emigrants have won all the games of Olympia. Do you know the story of Euenetos?’

  ‘The charioteer, the Olympic champion?’

  ‘That’s him. When he returned to the city after his victory in the chariot races, the young Acragantines greeted him with a procession of one thousand two hundred chariots. One thousand two hundred, understand? Two thousand four hundred horses. There probably aren’t so many chariots in all of Greece these days! Here they make monuments to horses. They bury them in luxurious sarcophaguses, as if they were heroes. Look, there’s one down there, see, with the Ionic columns?’

  ‘I think so . . . but there’s so little light now. Tell me about that tall temple down there, the one held up by the giants.’

  ‘It’s dedicated to Zeus of Olympia and it will be finished next year. That’s a battle of the giants on the pediment. Zeus wins over the giants, and they are condemned to holding up the architrave of his temple in eternity. The scene on the other pediment represents the fall of Troy . . .’

  ‘Oh, gods, why? Why choose such a theme for the tympanum? It’s a sad story.’

  ‘I know,’ nodded Dionysius. ‘Perhaps to ward off a similar fate; who knows? Or perhaps the Acragantines have such an intense sense of death . . . because they love life in such an extreme, exaggerated way. See? They are a strange lot: they make monuments as though they were going to live for ever and they live each day as though it were the very last of their existence.’ He hesitated a moment, then added: ‘Those aren’t my words. It was Empedocles, their greatest philosopher, who said that.’

  ‘They are beautiful and terrible words,’ said Arete. ‘I would like very much to see it when it is finished.’

  ‘You will, I promise. I’ll come to get you, if need be, wherever you are. When you’ve visited that marvel you’ll forget everything you’ve suffered.’

  Arete sought out his eyes in the darkness. ‘Will you come and get me even if I’m so thin?’

  ‘Silly girl,’ said Dionysius. ‘Silly, silly girl. Of course I’ll come. I didn’t save your life so someone else could have you.’

  ‘If we were in another situation, I’d say you were making fun of me. But you found me in such a miserable state, deprived of my loved ones, my homeland . . . you’ve got to be sincere! But if you are, why haven’t you kissed me yet?’

  Dionysius got up, drew her close and kissed her. She could feel his nudity under the light chlamys and she pulled away, but kept talking: ‘I’m glad you did that. As soon as I first saw you, mounting that splendid black horse, in your armour like Achilles, I thought, won’t the girl he chooses be lucky! And then I thought that even the girl who got a kiss from you would be lucky. It’s not that you can have everything from life.’

  Dionysius shook his head. ‘What a talker! Aren’t you hungry?’

  ‘Of course I’m hungry, but it’s not good manners to say so.’

  ‘Then let’s go to dinner. We have an invitation.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘We’re going to call on one of the wealthiest men of the city. His name is Tellias. You’ll have dinner with his wife and her friends.’

  ‘I talk so much because if I don’t, I feel like crying.’

  ‘Your answers always come late, and never at the right moment.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. I’m afraid I won’t make a good impression on your friends. I am trying to react, but it feels as though I’m just struggling to keep my head above water so I won’t drown. I won’t be good company.’

  ‘You can’t stay here alone in the dark; it would only be worse for you. Wait for me downstairs, I’ll dress and be with you in a moment.’

  Arete went down the stairs and waited in the little patio, listening to the sounds of the evening: the carts clattering over the cobblestones, the cadenced step of the patrols making their first rounds, the voices of mothers calling their children home. She had just wiped away her tears when she heard Dionysius’s footsteps on the stairs.

  ‘Tellias was a friend of my father’s,’ Dionysius began to explain, ‘and when my father died in the great war against Athens, he took our family under his wing. I’ve always been his favourite. They’ve never had children of their own, you see, and I think he would have liked a boy. He’s one of the richest men of the city, as I told you, and since this is probably the richest city in the world, you can guess what that means. The wealthy are usually swine who think only of getting fatter. Not Tellias; he’s as rich as Croesus and as fat as a pig, but he’s both wise and generous, an extraordinary man. Just think, once he was just standing under the portico of his house, watching a storm, when a Geloan cavalry squad rode by. Those poor lads were soaking wet, chilled to the bone, and he invited them all in to drink and warm themselves. Can you believe it? An entire squad of horsemen! He had them sit down and gave dry clothes to everyone, and as much to eat and drink as they wanted, until the weather had changed and they could set off again.

  ‘Another time the city sent him to Rhegium with a legation, and the Rhegines invited him to speak at the theatre. But when he opened his mouth, with that scratchy, silly voice he has, small and plump as he is, someone started laughing and before you knew it, the whole theatre followed suit. The whole place was rocking with laughter.

  ‘So what do you think he did? Got angry? Flew into a rage?

  Not at all. He waited until they had finished, then said: “Laugh all you like; I’m not handsome, nor imposing, and I certainly don’t have a commanding voice. But, you see, that’s how it is where I come from: they send the handsome, vigorous, eloquent ambassadors to important cities, and the little fat ones with the funny voices like me to worthless places like this.” No one felt like laughing after that!’

  Arete laughed despite herself, amused. ‘I’d like to meet him.’

  ‘You will. He’s a charming host, even with the ladies. Wait to speak until he’s spoken to you, though, and after I’ve introduced you, take your leave and go to the women’s quarters. I’ll have you called when it’s time to leave.’

  They had reached the entrance to Tellias’s home: a portico with a wooden door that led to a house with whitewashed walls, framed by creeping rose bushes on both sides which gave off a sweet fragrance in the evening air. A servant had them enter and took them to the atrium, where Tellias came to receive them.

  ‘Dionysius, my boy! I’ve been so anxious since I learned that you’d set off with just fifty men to face the entire Carthaginian army!’

  ‘Well, at least you still feel like joking,’ replied Dionysius. ‘If you had seen what I’d seen, you’d have lost your taste for it.’

  Tellias gestured for both of them to come in. ‘Do not scold me, son, I just meant to say that you were mad to set off with just a handful of men in such a dangerous situation.’

  ‘At least I was able to help the survivors. We escorted them along a safer route and kept them off the more frequented roads where they could have met with trouble.’

  ‘You are a headstrong young lad, but I must admit you’re always right in the end. It’s uncanny, really. And who, may I ask, is this gentle dove? She’s beautiful, although I would have said a bit thin for your tastes. Where did you find her? She’s certainly not from Acragas. What father in his right mind would allow you to wander around with her after dark like this? In any case, that lovely long hair of hers tells me that she is a free woman—’

  Dionysius cut him short: ‘She’s from Selinus.’

  Tellias’s expression suddenly darke
ned. ‘Oh, poor dear,’ he said, lowering his eyes. ‘Poor little thing.’ He led them along the atrium, which was illuminated by two rows of bronze candelabra, each with four lamps. ‘We respect tradition in this home,’ he said to Arete, ‘and so you’ll dine with my wife and her friends. They are very agreeable and I’m sure you’ll enjoy their company.’ He gestured to a servant who was just entering with a tray of flat bread. ‘She’ll take you upstairs, to the women’s quarters.’

  The servant set the tray on the table and Tellias beckoned for her to come closer. He whispered something into her ear. When she had gone up the stairs with Arete, he turned to Dionysius: ‘I asked her to tell the women not to trouble her with tiresome questions. Who knows what pain the poor girl has suffered.’

  ‘Her whole family was exterminated by those barbarians. If any of them had lived, they would have envied those who died.’

  ‘Was it so terrible?’

  ‘I didn’t see Selinus. I found the refugees at about ten stadia from the city. But I’ve listened to their stories. I’ve never heard of such horrors in all my life. Many of the women have totally lost their minds. There’s one of them, a woman of about thirty, who must have been very beautiful. I noticed her that first evening because she was swinging her head back and forth and chanting a kind of dirge. Always that sing-song voice and her eyes staring off into nothing, for hours and hours. The day after, I sat down in front of her and tried to talk, to convince her to eat something. But I realized she couldn’t see me. Her pupils were dilated and her eyes were a bottomless abyss of darkness. No one could get her to eat anything. She’ll surely die, if she hasn’t already.’

  ‘How many were saved?’

  ‘I don’t know. Between two and three thousand, I’d say. But many more will die from their injuries and from the torture they’ve suffered.’

  A servant brought a jug and a tray and poured water over the hands of the two table companions, handing them a linen cloth to dry them with. Other servants brought the dinner – roast squab with wild apples, sesame bread and red wine from Sybaritis – and the two men began to eat, sitting at a single table placed on the floor between them. Tellias had had the table set in this way because he considered his guest a dear, intimate friend.