Book Six
Dorieus
1.
Surprise is the mother of victory. I doubt whether a single Carthaginian in Panormos could have believed it possible that the battered galley entering the harbor in bright daylight was the pirate ship which had fled Himera a month earlier. Lars Tular’s silver Gorgon head which dangled from our prow misled the patrols into believing us Etruscan, while the peaceful gestures of our men and the meaningless jargon they shouted in greeting contributed to the uncertainty. And so the patrols merely stared at us in wonder without sounding an alarm on their brass drums.
From a large round cargo vessel tied to the shore we heard cries of warning and injunctions not to row so rapidly. And when the men, peacefully dangling their feet over the water, saw our split sides and sagging rails they laughed heartily. Curious townspeople began to gather at the shore.
Even after our ram had crashed into their vessel with such force as to thrust it onto land, snap its mast and send the men toppling backward onto the deck, the sailors thought it all an accident. Their commander ran toward us, shaking his fist, cursing loudly and demanding compensation for the damage wrought by our carelessness.
But the men of Phocaea, led by Dorieus, leaped onto the vessel with their weapons, struck down everyone in their path and raced to shore. Cutting through the throng that hastened toward them, they climbed the hill and pushed through the gate into the city before the guards quite realized what had happened. While the vanguard was overcoming the resistance in the puny city and killing the’ fear-stunned men, Dionysius with his rearguard was seizing the ships on shore merely by lashing out with his rope. Having seen what happened to the first ship, the crews of the remaining cargo vessels did not even attempt to resist but begged on their knees for mercy. Only a few sought escape, but when Dionysius ordered his men to stone them, they halted in their flight and returned.
Dionysius opened the large shed on the shore in which the residents of Panormos housed the slaves used in unloading the ships. Into it he thrust the prisoners he had just seized, while the liberated slaves, among them a number of Greeks, prostrated themselves before us, hailing us as saviors. Dionysius asked them to prepare food, which they did gladly, lighting fires on the shore and slaughtering some of the neighborhood cattle. But before the meat was roasted, most of us satisfied our deepest pangs of hunger with raw flour mixed with oil.
So sudden and successful was the conquest of Panormos that a wave of audacity swept over the men of Phocaea and they recklessly swore to follow Dorieus wherever he led them. Naturally, some of this courage was born of the wine they had stolen from the houses after killing the able-bodied men of the city.
In truth, the entire garrison in the city and harbor consisted of barely fifty armed men, for the people of Panormos, with their long history of peace, did not consider weapons necessary. Since the only men in that seafaring city were artisans and hence not difficult to kill, the ease of Dorieus’ victory was not surprising. The men of Phocaea, however, considered it a miracle that none of them had received even the smallest wound and, heady from the wine, began to consider themselves invulnerable. In the evening, when they again counted their ranks and numbered three hundred—but only because they saw double—they considered that also a miracle.
To the credit of the Phocaean men be it said that, having overcome their own fear, they did not unnecessarily annoy the peaceful residents of the city. True, they went from house to house in search of loot, but they seized nothing by violence, merely pointing to that which they desired. Beholding their sea-lined faces and bloody hands, the trembling occupants willingly relinquished whatever was wanted. If someone demurred, the men laughingly moved on to the next house. That is how pleased they were with their victory, the food and the wine, and the future which Dorieus held out to them as the rulers of Eryx.
Having set up a watch, Dorieus installed himself in the timbered building occupied by the city council. When he saw that the only treasures it contained were the city charter and the sacred reeds of the river god, he angrily summoned the council before him. The quivering patriarchs in their long Carthaginian robes, their hair bound with colored bands, swore that Panormos was a wretched, poverty-stricken city whose available funds all went to Segesta as taxes. Indeed, they lamented, whenever they held feasts for the gods or welcomed state visitors, each lent his own dishes for the occasion.
Dorieus inquired ominously whether they did not consider him, a descendant of Herakles, worthy of a banquet. After shrill consultation, the old men assured him with one voice that their wives and servants had already undertaken the necessary preparations and that slaves were polishing the scanty silverware in his honor. But a satisfactory banquet could not be arranged without security of person and property.
Dorieus smiled sadly. “Have you scales over your eyes, old men, that you do not recognize me? At least feel the hot wind of my presence. My power is not founded solely on my incontestable hereditary rights or on the weapons of my men, but on the sanctification bestowed on my sovereignty by the sea goddess Thetis. Perhaps you do not recognize her by her Greek name, but you must worship her in one form or another since you engage in fishing and trading by sea.”
The men fearfully covered their eyes with a corner of their robes and explained, “We have our Baal and the ancient goddess of Eryx, but the sea gods of Carthage can be mentioned only in whispers.”
“For my part,” said Dorieus, “I can speak openly. I have entered into an eternal pact with the sea goddess Thetis, just as I have in the earthly manner married a highborn woman descended from the founders of Carthage. But since you know so little about sea gods, it is useless for me to describe my matrimonial adventures.”
The members of the council had fine foods prepared in their houses and brought their silver dishes to the council building. Nor did Dorieus steal them but instead presented to the council a large Phoenician silver beaker from among Dionysius’ treasure.
To Dionysius’ protest Dorieus replied, “I have learned many bitter lessons in my life, perhaps the bitterest of which has been that a man’s heart is where his treasures are. Because of my divine ancestry I have always been something more than just a human and thus have difficulty in comprehending that fact. I can only say that where my sword is, there am I. I do not desire your treasure, Dionysius, but you must admit that you and your ship would both be at the bottom of the sea had I not saved you all by allying myself with the sea goddess Thetis.”
“I have already heard enough about Thetis and your voyages at the bottom of the sea,” retorted Dionysius angrily. “I do not intend to let you deal with the treasure as though it were your own.”
Dorieus replied with a pitying smile, “Tomorrow morning we march on Segesta, and there is nothing better than a brisk journey on foot for recovering from the trials of the sea. The treasure we must take with us since it cannot be left on the vessel. At any moment the warships of Carthage may sail into the harbor. On that fertile plain we can obtain donkeys, horses and other beasts of burden for transporting the treasure. I have already given orders for them to be assembled, and their owners may follow us to care for the animals since sailors fear horses.”
Now it was Dionysius’ turn to gnash his teeth, but he had to admit that Dorieus’ decision was the only possible one. The dry-docking of the trireme and its repair would take weeks, during which time we would be vulnerable to attack by the Phoenician warships. Our only possibility was to push inland, the faster the better. Having the treasure with them, the men of Phocaea were bound to fight for it on land despite their annoyance at the rigors of an overland journey.
“So be it,” said Dionysius grimly. “Tomorrow morning we leave for Segesta with the treasure. But it is as though I were abandoning my own child to leave my trireme defenseless in Panormos.”
Dorieus snapped at him, “You probably have left children behind at every port you have ever visited. Let us burn your vessel and all the others in Panormos so that no one will be tempted to flee.”
Dionysius scowled at the very thought.
“Have the trireme dry-docked and let the city council attend to the repairs,” I suggested. “The silver shield of Gorgon will be its protector. Should Phoenician warships sail into the harbor the council can give assurance that the trireme is the property of the new king of Segesta. The Carthaginian commanders will not dare to interfere in the internal affairs of Panormos without returning to Carthage for consultation. If we do this, we will lose nothing.”
Dorieus scratched his head. “Let Dionysius have charge of maritime matters. If he accedes, I will not insist that the vessels be burned. Besides, it would be wasteful to destroy something which must later be built again, and I will need ships to protect the interests of Eryx at sea.”
Dorieus entrusted the welfare of Panormos to its former council, promising to return as king of Segesta to punish or reward as he saw fit.
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