Free Tyrant by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

accompanied the return of soldiers from the battlefield was repeated: fathers, mothers, wives and sweethearts thronged along the road trying anxiously to pick out their own loved ones. It was terrible to see hope snuffed out on those faces little by little as the survivors filed past them, without their helmets so as to be more easily recognized. Their despair contrasted with the joy of those who had spotted a son or husband safe from harm.
    The battalion commanders read off the roll in the agora. At the end, the city magistrates counted three thousand fallen on the field of battle. The best of their youth had been wiped out and the bodies of these their sons lay scattered over the plains at the mercy of the barbarians and the dogs. Every name called without an answer met with a shrill wail, and the weeping of the mothers grew until it became a mournful chorus. In many cases, both father and sons had been lost, and entire families were forever deprived of descendants. Three hundred and fifty men of the Syracusan expeditionary force were also missing at the roll-call.
    Dionysius volunteered to go in person and negotiate the restitution of the prisoners, had any been taken, and the truce that would allow them to collect their dead. Diocles had to swallow his pride and admire the man’s courage; he consented to Dionysius’s request.
    He left through the eastern gate between two magistrates on horseback, unarmed and bare-headed, although he still wore his breastplate and greaves. He advanced to where Hannibal had had a pavilion built for himself in the middle of the plain. Perched on a high seat, he was distributing awards to those among his mercenaries who had most distinguished themselves in battle.
    The Carthaginian general received him with an air of contempt, and, before Dionysius could open his mouth, had an interpreter tell him that he would not grant any truce; that he was there to avenge the memory of his ancestor Hamilcar and that there would be no peace until the entire race of the Himerans was totally annihilated.
    Dionysius got as close as he could and pointed in the direction of the battlefield, saying, ‘Down there among the dead lie four of my friends, members of my Company. I must reclaim their bodies: we are sworn to do so. If you allow me this, I shall spare your life when the moment comes.’
    Hannibal couldn’t believe his ears when the interpreter had finished translating. ‘You . . . you will spare my life!’ he exclaimed, bursting into laughter.
    ‘I shall,’ confirmed Dionysius without batting an eye.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he answered, ‘but I will make no exceptions. Be content to return safe and sound to the city. I want them to hear from your lips what awaits them.’
    ‘So be it,’ said Dionysius. ‘Know that you will meet a disgraceful end. He who has no mercy for the dead does not deserve the mercy of the living. Farewell.’ He mounted his horse and returned to report the unhappy outcome of his mission.
    He found the city in an uproar, seized by extreme agitation. Some of the passers-by even railed against him, shouting, ‘Traitors! Cowards!’
    ‘What are they saying?’ Dionysius asked the two magistrates at his sides, but they could only shrug, unable to explain such an attitude.
    ‘Pay no attention,’ said one of them. ‘They’ve lost their minds. War is a terrible thing.’
    Dionysius did not answer, but he was sure that something strange had happened. He had his explanation when he arrived at the Syracusan headquarters near the agora. The Himeran commanders were just leaving, cursing furiously.
    ‘What has happened? Speak!’ demanded Dionysius.
    ‘Ask your commander!’ replied one of them before walking off in disgust. They were so angry that they hadn’t even asked him about the outcome of his mission.
    He found Diocles surrounded by the city elders, who were crowding around him, shouting and beseeching. ‘What is happening?’ asked Dionysius loudly. ‘Will someone