as all her tension dissolved and she clung to his neck. She stood there without moving, in the middle of that plain, bare room, wrapped in the warmth of an embrace that she had always desired.
It was Dionysius’s voice that shook her to her senses: ‘Hegemon
Hermocrates seemed only then to notice his presence. He looked at him with a quizzical expression, not understanding how that young warrior could have brought him the daughter that he had thought lost to him forever.
‘Father,’ said Arete, ‘it’s to him I owe my life. He found me nearly unconscious along the road. He helped me up, he comforted me, protected me . . .’
Hermocrates shot a suddenly dark, suspicious look at the young man he had in front of him.
‘. . . and respected me,’ concluded Arete.
Hermocrates released her and turned to Dionysius. ‘I thank you for what you have done. Tell me how I can reward you.’
‘I’ve already had my reward, hegemon . Meeting your daughter was the greatest fortune that has ever befallen me. The privilege of talking to her and listening to her words has changed me profoundly—’
‘It’s all ended up well,’ Hermocrates cut him off. ‘I’m very grateful to you, boy, more than you can imagine. When I learned about the fall of Selinus and found no way to have news of my daughter, I was tortured by the thought that she might be a prisoner, dragged who knows where in slavery, exposed to brutality and violence of every sort . . . The uncertainty of her fate was even more painful for me than if I had learned of her death. There is no worse torture for a father than not knowing the destiny of his daughter. My properties and my wealth have been confiscated, but I still have something hidden away. Let me pay you back.’
‘There’s no price for what I’m about to ask you, hegemon ,’ said Dionysius with a firm voice, looking him straight in the eyes, ‘because I intend to ask you to give me the daughter I’ve just returned to you.’
‘But . . . what are you saying . . .’ stuttered Hermocrates.
‘I’ve fallen in love with him, father,’ Arete broke in. ‘As soon as I saw him, as soon as I opened my eyes. And from that moment I’ve wanted nothing but to be his bride and live with him every day that the gods shall grant us.’
Hermocrates looked like he’d been struck by lightning, and couldn’t say a word.
‘I know, I’m a man of humble birth,’ continued Dionysius, ‘and I should never have even raised my eyes to her, but the love I feel for her gives me the courage to dare so much. I will prove myself worthy of your daughter and of you, hegemon . You will not regret having granted me so great a treasure. I’m not asking for her hand because I want to have a family and ensure my progeny, nor in order to bind myself to one of the most illustrious houses of my city, and certainly not to take the credit for having brought her back to you. I would have tried to save anyone I found in those conditions. I’m asking you for her hand because without her there would be no joy in my life, because I want to love her and protect her against any harm or danger, even at the cost of my own life.’
Hermocrates nodded solemnly without saying a word, and Arete, realizing that he had consented, hugged him tightly, whispering in his ear: ‘Thank you, father, thank you . . . I’m happy because I’m with the only people in the world who mean something to me.’
Their marriage was celebrated the following day. Since Arete had no friends who could accompany her to her husband’s house, and since her husband had no house of his own in Messana, the noblest families of the city offered Dionysius a home, and their virgin daughters accompanied the bride to her wedding chamber to loosen the belt of her gown. Arete thought of the fires of Acragas and of the solitary song of the poet on the hill of the temples as she made her way to the house where Dionysius was waiting for her. He was a hero to her; the
It was Dionysius’s voice that shook her to her senses: ‘Hegemon
Hermocrates seemed only then to notice his presence. He looked at him with a quizzical expression, not understanding how that young warrior could have brought him the daughter that he had thought lost to him forever.
‘Father,’ said Arete, ‘it’s to him I owe my life. He found me nearly unconscious along the road. He helped me up, he comforted me, protected me . . .’
Hermocrates shot a suddenly dark, suspicious look at the young man he had in front of him.
‘. . . and respected me,’ concluded Arete.
Hermocrates released her and turned to Dionysius. ‘I thank you for what you have done. Tell me how I can reward you.’
‘I’ve already had my reward, hegemon . Meeting your daughter was the greatest fortune that has ever befallen me. The privilege of talking to her and listening to her words has changed me profoundly—’
‘It’s all ended up well,’ Hermocrates cut him off. ‘I’m very grateful to you, boy, more than you can imagine. When I learned about the fall of Selinus and found no way to have news of my daughter, I was tortured by the thought that she might be a prisoner, dragged who knows where in slavery, exposed to brutality and violence of every sort . . . The uncertainty of her fate was even more painful for me than if I had learned of her death. There is no worse torture for a father than not knowing the destiny of his daughter. My properties and my wealth have been confiscated, but I still have something hidden away. Let me pay you back.’
‘There’s no price for what I’m about to ask you, hegemon ,’ said Dionysius with a firm voice, looking him straight in the eyes, ‘because I intend to ask you to give me the daughter I’ve just returned to you.’
‘But . . . what are you saying . . .’ stuttered Hermocrates.
‘I’ve fallen in love with him, father,’ Arete broke in. ‘As soon as I saw him, as soon as I opened my eyes. And from that moment I’ve wanted nothing but to be his bride and live with him every day that the gods shall grant us.’
Hermocrates looked like he’d been struck by lightning, and couldn’t say a word.
‘I know, I’m a man of humble birth,’ continued Dionysius, ‘and I should never have even raised my eyes to her, but the love I feel for her gives me the courage to dare so much. I will prove myself worthy of your daughter and of you, hegemon . You will not regret having granted me so great a treasure. I’m not asking for her hand because I want to have a family and ensure my progeny, nor in order to bind myself to one of the most illustrious houses of my city, and certainly not to take the credit for having brought her back to you. I would have tried to save anyone I found in those conditions. I’m asking you for her hand because without her there would be no joy in my life, because I want to love her and protect her against any harm or danger, even at the cost of my own life.’
Hermocrates nodded solemnly without saying a word, and Arete, realizing that he had consented, hugged him tightly, whispering in his ear: ‘Thank you, father, thank you . . . I’m happy because I’m with the only people in the world who mean something to me.’
Their marriage was celebrated the following day. Since Arete had no friends who could accompany her to her husband’s house, and since her husband had no house of his own in Messana, the noblest families of the city offered Dionysius a home, and their virgin daughters accompanied the bride to her wedding chamber to loosen the belt of her gown. Arete thought of the fires of Acragas and of the solitary song of the poet on the hill of the temples as she made her way to the house where Dionysius was waiting for her. He was a hero to her; the
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