413BC
The Greek city of Syracuse is fighting for its life against the might of Athens.
Timon, a thirteen-year-old miller’s son, makes the disturbing discovery that his premonitions have a habit of coming true.
When his vision warns of the imminent attack by the Athenian fleet, he becomes the boy who heard the voice of the god. His warning saves the city, but brings him and his seer’s gift into the brutal power struggle within Syracuse.
It is now 407BC, and Syracuse faces an existential threat as the Greek cities of Sicily fall like dominoes before the Carthaginian advance. But which is the greater danger, the threat of Carthaginian troops outside the walls, or the rising power of the ruthless and ambitious Dionysius, within?
As Timon investigates the murder of his mentor, General Hermocrates, he must use his instincts to find out who he can he trust? He follows the thread of evidence from the brothels of Syracuse to the councils of the rich and powerful. Step by step he is drawn into the heart of a dangerous conspiracy.
It is only when he learns to trust his own insights that Timon comes face to face with the killer.
413BC
The Greek city of Syracuse is fighting for its life against the might of Athens.
Timon, a thirteen-year-old miller’s son, makes the disturbing discovery that his premonitions have a habit of coming true.
When his vision warns of the imminent attack by the Athenian fleet, he becomes the boy who heard the voice of the god. His warning saves the city, but brings him and his seer’s gift into the brutal power struggle within Syracuse.
It is now 407BC, and Syracuse faces an existential threat as the Greek cities of Sicily fall like dominoes before the Carthaginian advance. But which is the greater danger, the threat of Carthaginian troops outside the walls, or the rising power of the ruthless and ambitious Dionysius, within?
As Timon investigates the murder of his mentor, General Hermocrates, he must use his instincts to find out who he can he trust? He follows the thread of evidence from the brothels of Syracuse to the councils of the rich and powerful. Step by step he is drawn into the heart of a dangerous conspiracy.
It is only when he learns to trust his own insights that Timon comes face to face with the killer.
PROLOGUE
426BC
When her husband filled his cup of wine for the third time, Selene knew what would follow. With one child living and two buried in the ground, the thought of another pregnancy filled her with dread. The midwife had warned her:
“Last time your life hung by a thread; you mustn’t tempt fate.”
As if she had any choice. With luck it would be over quickly. Her husband was not a bad man. He worked hard in the mill, and it was no great sacrifice to offer him some occasional comfort. There had been love once, but a life of endless toil had worn them both down. As her husband heaved and pushed on top of her, she lay in the dark, thinking, if only for once in my life this could be something beautiful instead of the dutiful rut it has become. She was tired and her body ached from the hard labour of hauling wood and feeding animals. In her mind’s eye, she pictured the statue in the Temple of Apollo: golden hair the colour of ripe wheat and eyes the colour of anemones. What would it be like? she wondered – once, just once. She was still smiling when her husband rolled off her with a sigh of release and caught the look on her face.
“What are you laughing at?” he asked. “Am I some kind of joke to you?”
“No,” she said, “I was dreaming.”
He grunted once and went to sleep. Selene lay awake in the dark, thinking, asking herself: is this all there is? When the baby came, the labour was long and hard. She was lying in a daze waiting for the pain and bleeding to subside when she heard the midwife talking to her husband.
“You have another son: a beautiful baby boy – with hair the colour of ripe wheat, and eyes blue like anemones.”
Where had she heard that phrase? Maybe in a dream, she thought as she drifted off into a deep sleep aided by a spoon of poppy juice.
CHAPTER 1
Late August 407BC
The late summer sun was still high in the sky. Timon stood at the top of the amphitheatre steps, looking out beyond the pillars and porticoes of the stage towards the city of Syracuse and the distant shimmering blues of the Ionian Sea: aquamarine, sapphire, deepest lapis. He could barely see the ripple of the waves and the wake of ships and smaller craft as they moved in and out of the great harbour. The theatre could seat fifteen thousand people, but it was empty at this time of day. He liked to come and sit here in the peace and quiet. He breathed in the fresh clean smell of thyme and the wild mint that carried up from the slopes below. It was good to be on his own, away from the noise and filth of the city and the swirl of political intrigue.
Here he was, caught in a political web not of his making: Dionysius, the rising politician, Artemisia, the High Priestess of Demeter, Philistus, the bag man for Dionysius, and Nicomedes who was now the leading general in the city. Whichever way he turned, one of them was there, waiting, poised, with a question ready. There was no end to it. Everybody wanted something from him. Reluctantly, Timon began to walk down towards the new Temple of Demeter on the lower slopes below the amphitheatre. The white stone steps still retained the accumulated heat of the day, and he could feel the soles of his feet burning through the thin leather of his sandals.
He had just left the precinct of the amphitheatre and stepped out onto the main road leading into the city when he saw his friend Leon sitting under the pergola of a small tavern. Leon was wearing his army gear and looked tired and sweaty. There was an empty beaker of beer in front of him and a platter with several slices of watermelon. Leon sat solidly munching his way through the watermelon and trying to spit the seeds into his helmet, which he had placed on the ground about ten paces away. He looked the picture of misery.
“What’s wrong with you?” Timon asked.
“Training!” Leon replied. “I am so sick of it. Mother seems to think that with war on the horizon this will be my big chance to achieve glory and gold. I’m not sure which interests her more. Here, look at this,” and he pulled aside his tunic to reveal a huge bruise that was spreading across his shoulder.
“You should tell your mother that you have no interest in being a soldier.”
“Tell me, Timon. Do you really think that will keep my mother quiet? The explosion would put Mount Aetna in the shade.”
Leon was the eldest son of a poor family. His mother, Ino, was ambitious and determined that her beloved son would achieve glory to make up for his useless father.
“Anyway, what about you? Where are you off to all dressed up?” Leon asked, looking Timon up and down. Timon sat down beside him in the shade of the climbing vine and picked up a slice of watermelon. The grapes on the vine were slowly turning purple, and he was tempted to reach up and grab a bunch, but he did not think the proprietor would appreciate it. Summer was already on the turn and there was a smell of ripe wheat drifting in from the surrounding fields. Timon would have been quite happy to sit there chatting to Leon for the rest of the afternoon, but he knew he dare not keep the High Priestess waiting. He was wearing a clean tunic and the new sandals that she had given him. For a while they sat in the drowsy silence, eating the sweet, juicy melon and competing to see who could land the most seeds in the helmet.
“Well?” Leon repeated.
“Well, what?”
“Where are you off to?”
Timon had to wipe away the sweet juice that was running down his chin before he spoke.
“Over to the temple. I’ve been summoned by the High Priestess for my weekly interrogation.”
“What does she want from you?”
“The usual. She seems to think that because I get these bloody premonitions that, somehow, I can open a door and see into the minds of men and gods. She is obsessed with what is going on in Athens and Sparta, and as for Persia I couldn’t even find it on a map. At least, that’s what I let her believe.”
“Well? Do you know what is going to happen? You don’t talk about it, but I know there is a lot going on in your mind. You never did tell me the full story of what happened on the night of the ships.”
“Don’t you start. It is not like that. Sometimes I can see a clear image or hear a voice. At other times it’s broken up, like waking up out of a dream. Sometimes, it makes sense. Other times, it’s like two drunks arguing at the end of the night, it makes no sense at all. And then again, sometimes it is so clear that I see more than I want to know.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Knowledge is power.”
“Now, Timon, you are being a bit oracular. Can you not just spell it out for us lesser mortals.”
“It’s not that complicated. Since the democrats accused Hermocrates of wanting to make himself tyrant and sent him into exile, every second person in Syracuse is vying for power, and they all want information on their enemies that will give them the edge and...”
“And they think you can give it to them. Can you?”
“Sometimes yes, most times no. I have to be careful. When it comes to keeping them up to date with what’s going on in the city, that is one thing. I only need to keep my eyes and ears open. It is more tricky when they want to know the future. It’s a balancing act. If I know nothing, I am useless. If I know too much, I am a threat and I will not live to see the morning.”
“Ye gods, Timon, what do you tell them?”
“I tell them what they want to hear – but I only tell them part of what I see. It’s always good to have something up your sleeve. Sometimes, I even answer some of their questions directly, to keep them happy. I do what they say the Oracle of Delphi does and try to never give a straight answer. Some things, I store up for myself and use the information to navigate my way through this labyrinth to wherever it is life is taking me. I had a dream the other night. I was walking on a tight rope across a bottomless chasm. I could feel the wind beginning to blow on my skin, but I did not dare look to see where it was coming from. I had to keep my eyes fixed on the other side.”
“What was on the other side?”
“Safety!”
“But what about the High Priestess? What will you tell her?”
“The same as I tell her every week. Enough to keep her happy and whatever it takes to keep me and my family safe. Now, I must go. She will be waiting. Thanks for the melon.”
***
The new Temple of Demeter was set on a slight rise, looking out over rolling fields of wheat and barley that stretched away to the distant mountains. The rich farmlands outside the city walls provided a large part of the income for the temple, and it was part of Timon’s job to manage the planting and harvesting of the crops. Timon left the main road and walked along the winding path that led up to the temple. The fields of ripe wheat shone gold in the late afternoon sun. Timon ran his hand among the stalks of wheat and held a few grains up to his nose. The wheat smelled earthy and slightly sweet. The harvest would begin in the coming days, and over the next few weeks he would be working from dawn to dusk to get the crops in before the weather changed. At the end of summer, there could be a week of unsettled weather, and a random storm of rain could destroy the harvest.
Timon looked ahead to where he could see the High Priestess with her daughter Sofia and baby granddaughter walking in the garden at the side of the temple. The white of their dresses stood out against the purple lavender that had been planted along all the paths. He could hear the hum of the bees as he bent down to break off a stem of lavender and rolled it between his fingers. It too would soon be harvested and taken away to be dried and stored for use in the temple rituals. In summer, the High Priestess and her family left the main temple on Ortigia and came out into the countryside to escape the heat of the city. Once the harvest was over, they would return to the old temple and their home on Ortigia where the Lady Artemisia could keep her finger on the political pulse of the city. With war on the horizon, it was also a lot safer.
Timon could hear Sofia singing to the child, an old familiar song that he remembered his mother singing to him, but the name of which escaped him. It was a scene of quiet autumn content, but Timon did not feel at ease. It was as if some unknown threat was creeping up behind him. Every meeting with the High Priestess was a trial of strength between two conflicting wills. Lately, with a growing sense of crisis in the city, she had been pushing for more detailed answers. Timon was not sure what to tell her.
The new Temple of Demeter had been built by Gelon the Tyrant with the spoils from an earlier war against Carthage and the price of Carthaginian prisoners sold into slavery. As he walked up the steps, Timon thought the pillars should have been painted the colour of blood. Was there no end to the war? Every day there was a new rumour. A merchant who had been in Carthage said that the Carthaginians were building a new fleet and calling up their allies. Others said that, no, the Carthaginian fleet had been seen sailing in the opposite direction, towards Sardinia. Either way, most people realised that eventually the Carthaginians would resume the attack. Or maybe a new Athenian fleet would appear on the horizon. Syracuse, one of the richest cities in the Mediterranean, was too rich a prize to resist.
As he passed through the towering columns of the portico, Timon felt dwarfed by the scale of the building. It had clearly been built to remind people like him of their humble status in the presence of the gods. Gods? – which gods? – did he even believe in the gods? How could any sane person believe in a god who lived in a cave, ate his children, and married his sister? It had no logic. Still, he could not help feeling a shiver of anxiety as he passed from bright sunshine into the cool dimness of the temple. He walked along the colonnade towards the sanctuary through diagonal patches of light and shade. He could see the High Priestess, by now standing at the altar, tending to a small fire, and making offerings of wheat and barley to Demeter, goddess of harvest and fertility. Her daughter and granddaughter were nowhere to be seen. Timon tried to steady his thoughts and prepared for the onslaught of questions.
It had been six years since the night of the ships, and he wished he could go back to the way life had been before. If he had not woken up that night, life would have continued its slow, monotonous pace. On the other hand, if he had not woken up the Athenians would have captured Syracuse and he would now be a slave working in the quarries like the defeated Athenians.
Timon hesitated for a moment in the shadow of the colonnade and looked ahead to where the Lady Artemisia stood in front of the sacred fire, waiting, oblivious of his presence. Leon said that she scared him, that she had a way of looking at you out of the corner of her eyes that made him think of Medusa, but Timon did not see that. By any standard Artemisia, High Priestess of Demeter, was a beautiful woman. Tall and slender, her air of dignity and quiet authority intimidated Timon so much that he could not see beyond the deep blue of her eyes.
It was said that no political leader would risk making a decision without consulting her. It helped that her husband, Kyriakos, was one of the richest merchants in the city, with a fleet of ships that sailed from Egypt to the Pillars of Hercules. The heavy gold bracelet on her wrist and the single pearls tipped with gold beads that hung from her ears spoke volumes. Nevertheless, the High Priestess was one of the few people he could not quite get a handle on. She had the ability to keep him at a distance, and it was clear that she would only reveal what she wanted to share. Lately, there had been a growing sense of frustration in her voice, as though Timon was a disappointment who had failed to live up to expectations. As he drew closer, the High Priestess spoke.
“You came, finally.”
“I’m sorry, Lady. I had to finish my chores.”
“They said you had the gift. That you heard the voice of the god. The time of decisions is approaching and, after six years, it is about time you proved your worth. I am beginning to wonder if I should not send you back to your father in the mill.”
“It is as you wish, Lady. I never claimed to hear the voice of the god. In any case, why would any self-respecting god speak to a poor boy like me, a miller’s son with dirty hands and ragged clothes?”
“It is not for us to judge the way of the gods. The gods will speak to those they favour and, at the moment, they do not seem to be favouring you.”
The smell of incense hung heavy in the air. As he breathed it in, Timon could feel a distance opening up between him and the priestess, as if he were looking at her from far away.
“Look into my eyes. What do you see? I will know if you lie.”
Timon hesitated before he spoke. The images swirled in his mind.
“I see death and destruction. I see this building a roofless shell and I see a man dressed in black standing where you are now. The building is the same but not the same.”
“Who is he?”
“He says he is a priest of the one God.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants to burn you as a witch.”
“Can you hear what he is saying?”
“He says that the old gods are dead.”
“When will this happen?”
“When your daughter’s daughter’s bones lie rotting in the grave. When the hills are bare of trees and the valleys are dead of any living thing, the stones will stand alone to speak of what once was.” Timon did not recognise himself in the resonant voice that echoed in the enclosed spaces of the temple.
“That’s of no matter now. I can only deal with the here and now. What of Sicily? Will Carthage invade?” He could hear a note of agitation in her voice.
“What do you see?” she repeated. The sudden image was unexpectedly clear.
“I see two dogs fighting over the body of a deer until one has the other by the throat and it lies gaping and bloody on the ground.”
“What else?”
“I see a horse, fierce and proud, running freely towards a city.”
“What city? What does it mean?”
“I cannot tell.”
The High Priestess strode towards him and seized him by the throat.
“I know the games you play with other people. But remember this: I have wiped the floor with better men than you. Now, what does it mean?” she asked as she relaxed her grip. Timon stood back and breathed in. That bare second of hesitation gave him the time to assemble his thoughts.
“The dogs are Athens and Sparta fighting over the body of Greece until one of them lies bleeding in the dirt.”
“Which side will win?”
“It isn’t clear.”
The High Priestess looked as though she wanted to strike him but thought better of it.
“What of the horse?”
“The horse is the symbol of Carthage.”
“And the city?”
“It could be Syracuse, but I cannot see clearly. In any case, there is no one able to stand in its way.”
“What else?”
“There is nothing else.”
“Are you sure, or are you holding something back for your friends in the city?”
“There is only one thing that is clear; war is coming.”
Timon could feel himself getting angry. It was never clear to him what these premonitions meant, but the one thing he did know was that he wanted them to go away so he could get on with his life. If only life could go back to normal. But what was normal? A life of unrelenting labour in a mill that ground people down like corn.
Instead, they were all at him: Hermocrates, Nicomedes, the High Priestess – even old Philistus. Philistus was always watching, listening. People said that he kept a record of everything that went on in the city of Syracuse and knew everything about everybody. With his whispering voice and his knack of being able to walk around without making a sound, he gave Timon the creeps. They never gave up, any of them: the same questions over and over again, and behind the questions always the same thing: greed, and ambition. Timon was nineteen, already a man, but he felt scared and lonely. The voice of the High Priestess interrupted his thoughts.
“Tell me, what do you see?” This time her voice was harsh and insistent.
“Most of the time I see only what other men see: troops gathered in the city and people preparing for the worst. I see fear in peoples’ eyes, and I hear murmurs of discontent from the people in the market. Food is expensive and getting scarce. They blame the generals for leading us into another war, yet they are hungry for the spoils of war. They are like sheep being led first one way, then another, by whoever speaks loudest. But you don’t need me to tell you that. All you need to do is stand in the market and listen.”
“And what of Hermocrates? What do they say about him?”
“They say he saved the city once and that maybe he can do it again. Some wonder how it is that the man who helped to save Syracuse from the Athenian attack has been sent into exile when he is needed at home. Others say that he is getting old and that it is time for someone younger.”
“Like whom?”
“Like Dionysius or Nicomedes.”
“Why would they choose Dionysius over the tried and tested Hermocrates?”
“They think that Hermocrates is a rich aristocrat who wants to be tyrant. Dionysius claims to be the champion of the people, the one who will redistribute the land.”
“And what do you think, Timon?”
“I think it is dangerous to think and even more dangerous to speak. I prefer to remain silent and listen.”
“Very wise, Timon, as long as you repeat what you hear only to me.” Her voice had resumed its normal silken tones.
“Listen to me, Timon. You have a gift, but you must learn to use it. You must learn to see beyond the here and now to what is important. In this city, there are only two things that matter: power and money. And you cannot have one without the other. She looked at him with her head tilted to one side.
“Tell me, Timon. What do you see when you look at me?”
Timon was completely taken aback as the High Priestess waited for him to speak.
“I see a beautiful woman, who also sometimes scares me.”
“I scare you!” she laughed. “Poor Timon, though that’s probably a good thing. Remember this: we all have to make choices but do not let yourself be blinded by passion or friendship. They will betray you in the end, as I have learned to my cost.”
Timon looked at her closely but could see nothing beyond her beauty. The High Priestess stood in silence for a moment before pulling her stole up over her head and walking back into the inner sanctum of the temple. As his mind cleared, Timon looked around the empty temple at the brilliantly painted statues of Demeter, goddess of harvests and plenty, and her daughter Persephone, Queen of the Underworld. He no longer felt afraid. In fact, he felt nothing except an urgent need to be somewhere else. This was a dreadful, oppressive place. He needed sunlight. One thing was clear: he would have to be a lot more careful about what he said to the High Priestess in future.
Syracuse Will Burn is a dialogue-driven, third point of view written historical novel—meaning we’re back to my main lit interest, history!
I want to be honest and say Timon’s age almost made me pick something else, since I feel like, at this point in time, I have very little in common with teenage MCs. I’m glad I went forward anyway, because I would have missed one of the best stories of the year.
Timon, the aforementioned main character, is thirteen and gifted (or cursed; it depends) with premonition. His ability to predict the future, and more specifically, an attack launched by the Athenian fleet upon the city of Syracuse, has landed him in a spot of trouble—hence my curse comment. Will he be able to navigate a messy historical era and come to terms with his gift? Of course he will. I don’t like rhetorical questions when we’re talking lit, and I’m not spoiling anything by saying so. The end, in this case, is not the point: first of all because Syracuse Will Burn is the first book of a planned series, and then because, to paraphrase Sanderson, the joy is in the journey, not in the destination.
The journey—the plot—is a complex one, with a lot of subplots to enrich it. Of course there are loose ties, given the nature of this project; rather than finding them annoying, I found myself looking forward to the next installment. That alone is a feat, because I have sub-zero patience, haha.
Spotless grammar, a solid story arc, and characters that have been crafted by a skilled author help making Syracuse Will Burn a book able to stand out. I have to say, the dialogue-driven choice is maybe the best one Loughran made for it. It makes for a nice rhythm, which is what turns a good book into a page-turner (please forgive my pun). There’s enough prose to make the story feel balanced, though.
Another thing I want to highlight is Loughran’s unwillingness to pull punches. Sanitized, whitewashed stories are not for me; I’m interested in what feels real even if it’s raw, unpleasant, or downright nasty, and it’s a recurring issue in historical books. Thank you for not falling for that self-censorship trap.