Chapter 1 The Arrival
Sicily 369 BC
A horseman approached at a leisurely pace towards the village, like many other settlements in this region of Sicily this one was unremarkable: earthen walls with plaster marked the boundary protected simple wooden houses with thatched roofs. Few people - least of all farmers and commoners- could afford the terracotta tiles roofs seen in the polis - proper walled cities that hug the Mediterranean coasts of the island. No decorated frieses or tiles here. Only plaster on stone, bare logs and clay.
It was past the first watch, an hour before true dawn when the horseman finally reached the gates where he was challenged by the guard on duty.
‘Identify yourself, stranger’ barked the guard on top of the gates.
‘Messenger from Syracuse. I bring news.’
The guard barked orders to his comrades behind the gate to open them and called for someone to wake the village head.
Scarcely was there a gap between the wooden gates that the messenger pressed his horse through and continued into the village passing through simple dwellings, thatched roofs and densely packed dirt roads. Unremarkable, the messenger joked to himself- even his old village where he grew up had a proper square unlike this one.
He made it to what passed for the village square, now illuminated by a few torch-wielding denizens, dressed in short chitons and barefoot. The village appeared deserted but could guess that would not be the case later when people went about their business in the cool early morning: the women would make for the well to get water, the men would lead their flocks of sheep into the hills or prepare their crafts.
The messenger recognized one of the guards who was speaking quickly to one of the others, similarly dressed save for a cap of goatskin and wearing a sash of dyed red wool. The messenger could tell he was the leader from his belly and how he held himself above the others. The messenger addressed himself to the assembly.
‘The Council of Syracuse has declared war on the Carthaginians. Prepare your men for the call to arms!’ the messenger called out.
‘The hour is late. We will assemble the freemen and landholders at dawn break.’
It didn’t elicit the response he wanted. The assembly didn’t decide on the next course of action yet.
Instead they invited the messenger to a nearby tavern. After leaving his horse with the guard to be fed and watered, he was led into the tavern by his hosts: the village leader and his clique of landowner friends. Crossing the threshold into the tavern he could already smell the aroma of freshly baked flatbreads on coals, stewed legumes and even cooked meats but what excited him the most was the smell of wine - oh how he thirsted for some fresh wine! His supply had already turned sour and became more vinegar than wine.
He could barely make out the snippets of conversation between his hosts at the table: the harvest was due soon, did the ewes give birth yet, et cetera. He was drawn back to reality when a plate of fresh baked flatbread topped with crushed olives and a side of mashed peas entered his line of vision. Not waiting for the others, he dug in, savouring the taste - was it his hunger or did this unremarkable village’s food taste really good? When the tavern lady brought out an amphora of wine and started pouring it in their cups, he broke off from stuffing his face to take a sip - better safe than sorry. From his many travels across the length and breadth of Sicily, the Greek parts at least, he learned to smell the wine-filled cup first before draining it down. More often than not they were extremely sour and unpalatable like drinking vinegar, that or they were extremely diluted. It was not the case this time. The wine flowed smoothly across his tongue and down his throat, only slightly tart, but quite mellow and fruity.
His companions smiled and guffawed at their guest. ‘Good, huh? Our village takes great pride in our wine!’ the village head boasted.
‘You’re full of it, Diomedes! I’m the one that makes the wine, you just take the credit!’ quipped a heavyset man with salt and pepper hair.
‘Well, the grapes are from the village’s vineyards, so….’ Diomedes trailed off.
‘Enough about your old rivalries, let’s hear something about the coastal cities from our messenger friend here,... uhmm’
‘Timon. Messenger of Acrygas’
‘Yes, Timon. What news from the coast. And what’s this about another war with Carthage? I thought we beat Hamilcar already.’
Timon steadied himself on the bench, taking a sip of the delicious heady wine before telling them of the Carthaginian threat. The Council of Acrygas, an ally of Syracuse, had assembled and voted on preemptive measures against their neighbours: military drills and stockpiling of weapons. The assembly of all armed freemen of the Erebus and other villages in league with Acrygas was a census of sorts to measure the fighting capability and response time of the levies. While Timon was regaling his companions with his travels around Sicily, the wine kept flowing.
‘What can our village offer to the army of Acrygas but archers and slingers? Surely the battle will be won at sea with great wooden ships instead of on land, right?’ One of the landowners questioned.
‘You must be joking, Cletus, the Carthaginians have us outnumbered at sea, at least on land we have a chance’ An elderly man countered. ‘We didn’t beat the Athenians at sea, we crushed them against the cliffs and swamps!’ He sounded like he’d been there to witness the crushing defeat of the Athenians in their failed Sicilian Expedition decades prior and by the looks of it he might have, thought the messenger.
‘Now, now. Let’s not jump to conclusions.’ Diomedes addressed his companions. ’Syracuse will sort this out and they might not even need our men for their army. We do not have any hoplites, only peltasts and taxotoi.′
Timon refused to go into detail about the composition of the Acragas army and what the villagers would probably add to it. When dawn broke, a call from outside drew the assembly’s attention. The fighting men had assembled in the village square. Timon bore witness to the sight of scarcely a hundred men in simple tunics protected by nothing save a helmet and small shield, armed with light weapons: slings, javelins and short hornbows more suited to hunting than killing men on the battlefield. Timon inspected, as part of his duty both as messenger and as a soldier, the levies. He found them satisfactory at best, for use as skirmishing infantry or garrison duty. He didn’t expect hoplite or the like. Satisfied with the quality of the levy he made a quick note on a papyrus scrap. Erebus, forty men - light.
When his inspection was completed he dismissed the men to their duties: most were tenant farmers that harvested the grapes from the vine, some goat herders and shepherds, and some were shopkeepers. He had some free time to browse the stalls and speak with the villagers - also part of his job. The village boasted the best wine in Sicily, having tried some of the best wines in the coastal cities: Selinus, Acragas, Gela and Syracuse in his travels, he could agree with Erebus’ claim. Apart from the delicious wines sold in nondescript looking amphoras, the village stalls also sold unique food items: pickled olives and onions, vinegar made from their wine and lastly pale wine. A beverage Timon had drunk before, unlike the dark red wine from before, this had a rosy colour. Curious, he bought a cup of it to try. He wasn’t disappointed, it was a smooth sensation and thirst quenching - he could taste the sweetness of the grapes!
