Tyrant by Valerio Massimo Manfredi Page A

magnificent place!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s hard to imagine that Scylla and Charybdis were here.’
    ‘What seems like such a marvellous place to you now, with beautiful cities on both sides, looked wild and treacherous to the first navigators that ventured into these waters. The strong current of the Straits tossed their fragile vessels against the rocks this way and that. The sight of Mount Aetna with its rivers of fire, the rumbling that shook the earth, the cliffs towering on the east, the dark forests . . . it all seemed monstrous and threatening. And so they imagined that Odysseus, the wandering hero, had ploughed these turbulent waters long before they had, managing to defeat the monsters, overcome the Cyclops, trick the sirens, elude Circe’s sorcery . . .’
    Arete turned towards the Sicilian shore and gazed at the beautiful harbour swarming with vessels; the sea had turned the colour of lead and the distant clouds were reddened by the last rays of the sun. Even the plume of Mount Aetna was tinged with unreal colours, and she understood what Philistus’s words meant. ‘I could listen to you for days and days,’ she said. ‘It’s been a privilege to spend this time with you.’
    ‘As it has been for me,’ replied Philistus.
    Arete dropped her eyes and asked with a blush: ‘How do I look to you? I mean . . . don’t you think I look too skinny?’
    Philistus smiled. ‘You look beautiful to me. But look, there’s someone coming this way, and I’d say he can’t wait to get you into his arms.’
    Arete glanced over at the dockyard and was struck dumb: Dionysius was running towards her like a young god, dressed only in a light chlamys, his hair curling over his shoulders. He was shouting out her name.
    She would have wanted to run and shout as well, or maybe break down in tears, but she could do nothing. Still and silent, she gripped the ship’s railing and looked at him as if he were a vision from a dream.
    Dionysius sprang from the edge of the wharf and grabbed the ship’s railing from the other side. He hoisted himself up on his arms and pushed himself clear over the railing. She found him standing in front of her.
    She could only gasp: ‘How did you know that . . . ?’
    ‘Every evening I watch the mouth of the harbour hoping to see you arrive.’
    ‘You haven’t changed your mind? Are you sure that . . .’
    Dionysius cut off her words with a kiss as he pulled her close. Arete threw her arms around him and felt herself melt in the heat of his embrace as she abandoned herself to the fiery words he whispered in her ear.
    Dionysius stepped back and said to her, smiling: ‘Now we have to respect tradition. Come on, I’ve got to ask for your hand in marriage.’
    ‘What do you mean . . . ask for my hand? Ask who? I’m all alone, I’m . . .’
    ‘Ask your father, little girl. Hermocrates is here.’
    Arete looked at Philistus and then again at Dionysius, saying: ‘My father? Oh gods in heaven, my father?’ Her eyes welled up with tears.

 
6
     
    H ERMOCRATES HAD BEEN told only that Dionysius had asked to be received and that he would have a person with him who wanted to see him. He suddenly found the daughter he had thought dead standing in front of him.
    He was a hard man, tempered by the vicissitudes of an adventurous life, a proud, austere aristocrat, but he was thoroughly shaken by the sight of her. Arete did not dare run to him, in keeping with the respect she’d been taught to have for her father since she was young. She took a few timid steps in his direction, without daring to look him in the eye. He had always been more of an image, an idol, for her than a real parent, and the sudden, dramatic intimacy of such an extreme situation made her feel panicky and light-headed. Her heart was beating so hard she thought she would suffocate. But her father rose to his feet as soon as he had got over his shock and he ran to her, holding her close in a long, emotional hug. She burst into tears