Tyrant by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

prudent attention on his part. He noticed that Arete seemed unnerved when she first saw the city, and could not hide a marked agitation.
    ‘Do you know someone here?’ Philistus asked her.
    ‘I spent my childhood here,’ replied Arete, trying to control herself.
    ‘Really? Then perhaps I know your parents.’
    ‘I don’t think so,’ replied the girl, and went to sit at the aft deck to put an end to the conversation.
    Philistus said nothing else, and occupied himself with the provisions. He gave orders for dinner to be eaten on board; no one was to go ashore.
    Before the sun set, she sought out her escort again. ‘Can you see his house from here?’ she asked.
    Philistus smiled and pointed at a spot in front of him. ‘Look straight up there, above Achradina, where the theatre is. Now follow an imaginary line to the causeway of Ortygia. See the terraced house with the trellis, about halfway down the road?’
    ‘Yes, I do.’
    ‘Well, that’s where Dionysius lives.’
    ‘Are his parents there?’
    ‘They’re gone. His father, Hermocritus, died during the Great War, when the Athenians were laying siege to Syracuse. His mother followed him to the tomb just a short time later; she died of an incurable illness. At sixteen he found himself having to care for his little sisters, who are all now married in other cities, and his brother Leptines.’
    Arete asked nothing more, but never took her eyes off the red roof tiles and the trellis until the sun vanished over the horizon.
    Two more days passed before they came within sight of Mount Aetna, still hooded with snow. So tall, with its curl of smoke. The gulf was a wonder, set against a coastal plain full of olive trees and grapevines that were just starting to sprout tender springtime leaves.
    Naxos stretched out along the coast. The first colony of the Greeks in Sicily, her biggest temple still stood on the spot near the beach where the city’s fathers had touched land, led by Tucles, her founder. Philistus explained that an altar to Apollo, Leader of Men, stood in the agora; he was the god said to guide colonists leaving their homeland in search of fortune on distant shores. All of the delegations sent to Greece to consult the Oracle of Delphi set off from that very altar, the oldest sacred place on the entire island.
    ‘No one would ever attempt to migrate,’ pointed out Philistus, ‘without the assistance of the Oracle. The voice of the Oracle indicates the place where the emigrants should found a new homeland, and the best time to take to sea. That’s why you’ll find an altar to Apollo in many colonies; sometimes even a temple, like at Cyrene in Africa . . .’
    ‘Have you ever visited Cyrene?’ asked Arete, her curiosity piqued.
    ‘Certainly. It’s a marvellous city. There’s a huge inscription, right in the main square, that reproduces the oath of the colonists. Do you know the story of the founding of Cyrene? One day I’ll tell you all about it; it’s a fabulous adventure, full of extraordinary happenings.’
    ‘Why don’t you tell me the story now?’ asked Arete.
    ‘No, another time,’ replied Philistus. ‘The closer we get to our destination, the more I can tell that your mind is occupied by other thoughts. It’s only right, and I can imagine why.’
    ‘It’s not easy to keep anything hidden from you,’ said Arete.
    ‘I’ve dedicated my life to studying man’s nature and actions, and I hope I’ve learned something. And yet I can tell that you’re going to surprise me, sooner or later. There are many things in you that I still can’t understand.’
    ‘When will we get to Messana?’ asked Arete, changing the subject.
    ‘This evening, if the weather stays good. Our journey is almost over.’
    They entered the great sickle-shaped harbour of Messana at sunset and Arete was as excited as a little girl to see the Straits that divided Sicily from Italy. Rhegium, on the other side, seemed close enough to touch with a hand. ‘What a