"It was nothing like that!" said Delia indignantly. "Nothing at all!"
She picked up the auloi- all four of them- and began wiping them off.
She had known for many years that she would eventually marry for her brother's political advantage, cementing some alliance with a great Sicilian nobleman or a foreign kingdom. She did not look forward to it, but she'd always accepted it, and accepted too the necessary corollary, that she must never interfere with that destiny by falling in love. She owed her brother that, for all he had done for her.
Delia did not remember her mother, and her father had died when she was five. For a year after his death, she had lived with her father's sister and her husband, and that year was the worst of her life. She was her father's only legitimate child, and heiress to his estates. Her uncle had managed those estates, and hoped that she would die so that he could gain control of them forever. She had not understood that at the time, of course. She had known only that there was something wrong with her, that he and his wife hated her, that she was a wicked girl who could do nothing right, that she was clumsy and stupid and that even the slaves hated having to attend her. She had swung between cringing attempts to win approval and outbursts of passionate resentment: the former had been ignored and the latter savagely punished.
Then, one afternoon, she had been summoned into the dining room and presented to her half brother, Hieron.
She had been aware of his existence, though mention of him in the household had always been conducted in disapproving whispers- "the bastard who's done so well in the army," "the bastard who's in joint command of the mutiny," "the bastard who's married Leptines' daughter and made himself tyrant!" But she had never met him before, and did not know what to say to him. Her aunt had scolded her for her silence, and Hieron had shaken his head.
The next day, her outraged aunt and uncle informed her that her half brother had insisted that she live in his household in future. She had gone to the mansion in terror, certain that she had displeased a new master- and found herself welcomed warmly, and swept effortlessly into happiness. For the first few years she had tried to earn her brother's approval by being good, but eventually she understood that she didn't have to earn anything. Hieron gave, generously, with a tolerant good humor that left her free to be herself.
Or he had done. The one advantage she had expected to give him he had not used, and she had been growing increasingly dissatisfied with her life. In a world where girls were often married at fourteen, she was eighteen and still a virgin. Girls who'd shared dancing and music lessons with her were now mothers, but she still remained in her brother's house with nothing to do. Her brother was reluctant to marry her to a foreigner- the Roman and Carthaginian aristocracies practically never married outside their own circles, and there was little profit to be gained by attaching her to a minor princeling of some great Greek royal house. But when it came to the nobility of Syracuse, the political advantages offered by her wedding had never been advantageous enough.
Still, she did not question her fate now, either: if she could win Hieron any political advantage, she was glad of it. She merely told herself angrily that playing the flute with a man didn't mean you were going to fall in love with him.
Archimedes was still drooping when he reached the street, but more from the heat than from any disappointment. Delia had liked his present, and he had been able to play a duet with her. The music had been exhilarating. If they could play together regularly, and learn each other's styles, they could do something really interesting!
Then he tried to imagine how a catapult maker would manage to play regular duets with the sister of a king, and drooped in earnest. He loosened his cloak irritably. It was too hot to wear wool.
When he turned into the main road, he saw the regent Leptines, marching smartly away down the thoroughfare in the middle of a troop of a dozen soldiers. He grabbed the edge of his cloak to stop it from falling off and ran after them. When the guards at the rear of the party noticed him flapping after them, they halted, and half a dozen spears were leveled at him. He stopped short, panting.
Leptines had glanced around to see what the matter was; he noticed Archimedes and gestured for the soldiers to shoulder their weapons again. "What do you want?" he asked irritably.
"Um," said Archimedes. "It's about the one-talent stone-hurler, lord. I've just been to your house to tell you that it's ready, but you weren't there. Where do you want us to put it?"
"At least something in this god-hated city is ready!" exclaimed Leptines. "Does it work?"
"Yes," said Archimedes, without thinking.
"Then put it in the Hexapylon," said the regent.
There were catapults of one size or another all the way along the fifteen miles of Syracuse's city wall, but the largest machines were concentrated in the batteries of the great forts. The Hexapylon was the fort which guarded the gate on the main road north. It was the first defense against any army coming from the north and Messana. Archimedes licked his lips. "Yes, lord. And the trials for it?"
Leptines had either forgotten the arrangement he'd made with Archimedes or forgotten everything about catapults. "You said it works!" he cried indignantly.
"Uh, sir, I'm sure it does!" Archimedes protested. "But we can't fire it in the workshop, so we need trials before it's proven and, uh, I'm paid."
Several of the soldiers grinned; one of them, Archimedes noticed, was Straton. He had not recognized the man before, among so many others identically armored and helmeted.
Leptines frowned a minute, then gave a sudden snort of amusement. "Well, put it in the Hexapylon," he said. "And when you have it set up there, send word, and I'll send someone to observe. If it does work, start building another immediately."
"Yes, sir!" said Archimedes.
"Lord!" said Straton smartly. "Shall I arrange transport for the catapult, sir?"
"Do that!" said the regent. He gestured to his guard, and he and they moved off down the street, leaving Straton with Archimedes.
"Thank you," said Archimedes gratefully. "I didn't know who to talk to about moving it. We'll need a big wagon."
Straton grinned. "Thank you!" he replied. "I'm glad to stop running up and down. We've been from the arsenal to the naval docks and back twice this morning." He tipped his helmet back and put his spear across his shoulders. "Besides, I want to have a look at this one-talenter."
They started along the main street toward the workshop, the opposite direction to Leptines. After a minute, Archimedes said uncertainly, "At the king's house they said that we had won a victory."
Straton nodded. "That's the news."
"I don't understand, then," Archimedes said. "Why is the king lifting the siege and coming home?"
Straton moved his shoulders uncomfortably under his armor. " 'The fox has many tricks,' " he said.
" 'The hedgehog only one- but it's a good one,' " said Archimedes, finishing the proverb, then went on, "Yes, but why come back to the city and play hedgehog when you've the strength to be a fox and snap up rats? I don't understand. Was it a victory?"
Straton shrugged again. "They say it was. It wasn't a defeat, anyway. But I know one thing: King Hieron's a clever fox, and if he thinks it's time to raise the siege and come home, he's got a good reason for it."
They walked on for a little while in silence. The question Archimedes really wanted to ask was "Are the Romans going to follow King Hieron back here to Syracuse and besiege us in turn?" But he did not quite dare. He could remember the last time Syracuse had been besieged; he had been not quite nine years old. There had been a blockade, and food had grown short. The family had shared one loaf of bread a day among four adults and four children, and eaten rats when they could get them, weeds and beetles when they couldn't. Marcus' predecessor had fallen ill and died; if there had been more food, he would probably have lived. Once Archimedes had gone up to the city walls with his father, and they had measured shadows to calculate the distance to the besieging army they could se
e clearly, camped just out of catapult range. "What would happen if they got in?" he had asked, and Phidias had shaken his head and refused to answer.
That had been the Carthaginians, of course. And they had not got in.
They reached the catapult workshop and went in to see the great beast crouched as before. To Archimedes it looked suddenly more beautiful than ever. The Romans, if they came, would not get in either.
"Herakles!" said Straton, staring. "That's a monster!"
Epimeles had begun hurrying over the moment he saw them; his step faltered at the exclamation, and he gave Straton an irritated look. "It's a beauty!" he corrected him; then, to Archimedes, "Sir?"
"It's to go to the Hexapylon," said Archimedes. "Straton son of Metrodoros here is going to help us arrange transport for it. They'll send an observer to see that it works as soon as we've got it in place, and then we can start on another."
"Good," said Epimeles, with satisfaction. "The Hexapylon. Good."
They all walked over to the catapult and gazed up at it. "The Hexapylon," the foreman said again, softly this time. "We can call it the Welcomer."
Moving a catapult the size of the Welcomer was a laborious business. The beast had to be taken apart- stock, stand, peritrete, arms- and loaded onto an enormous wagon fetched by Straton from the military supplies depot. By the time this had been done, it was too late to set off for the Hexapylon, which was more than four miles distant from the workshop. The loaded wagon was instead put back in the military supplies depot to wait for the morning.
Archimedes went home. By then news of the victory at Messana, and the army's impending return, was all over the city. Marcus had heard it that afternoon.
He had gone over to the nearest tile yard, on the seaward side of the Achradina, to order some new roof tiles for the house, and he had taken the boy Chrestos with him. They had found the tile workers in a huddle in the middle of the drying yard, animatedly discussing the victory. "Attacked the siege works," Marcus heard as they approached, and "chased them back to the walls!" He stopped, saying nothing, afraid that his Italian accent would attract comment. It was left to Chrestos to hurry forward and demand the whole story, and receive in response a glowing account of King Hieron's wisdom and Syracusan valor. Marcus listened to it intently, but made no comment. It was clear to him that some element of the tale had been left out, and a moment's thought gave him a chilling awareness of what that could be. He confined his speech, however, to the subject of roof tiles.
When they got back to the house near the Lion Fountain, Chrestos excitedly repeated the account of the victory to the rest of the family. It was received with intense relief- a terrible threat was lifted. Philyra, however, also became anxious. If the king was coming home, his other engineers would be with him, and her brother's services would become unnecessary. What was more, if the war was already ending, the catapult wouldn't be wanted and Archimedes wouldn't be paid. When Archimedes himself returned slightly later, she rushed to question him about the machine's fate.
"They want it," he told her grimly. "And they want me to start on another one as soon as they're sure it works." At that his sister became silent, realizing in her turn that something about the story of the victory didn't ring true.
The household ate supper, then played a little music in the sickroom. Phidias listened attentively, but seemed to tire quickly, and the concert was stopped. Philyra left him talking astronomy with Archimedes and went into the courtyard to practice her lute. After a time Marcus came in from an errand down the street. When she saw him she stopped playing and gave him an accusing look. He hurriedly wiped his hands and looked back at her questioningly.
"What sort of Italian are you?" she demanded.
At that his face dropped into its mask of impassivity. "Mistress, we've already said all this."
"But you were enslaved fighting in one of the Roman wars on the Roman side, weren't you?"
He was silent for a moment, then looked away, remembering the onslaught, the screams of the injured and dying, the stink of his own terror. "Yes," he admitted at last.
"You've seen the Romans fight. What do they do when they take a city?"
"Same as anybody else."
"I've heard," said Philyra tightly, "that sometimes they kill every living thing within the walls. Even the animals."
"Sometimes they do," said Marcus reluctantly. "If they've made a vow. But mostly they don't. Mostly they just plunder and then put in a garrison. Same as anybody else."
"Barbarians!" said Philyra. She looked at Marcus with hot eyes. "What you mean is, sometimes they're as savage, cruel, and bloodthirsty as anybody else, and sometimes they're worse. Did you ever help them take a city?"
Marcus shook his head in protest. "Mistress, when I joined the army I was no older than you are now! You're supposed to be eighteen, but I lied. And the first time I saw war, I… ended up here. I don't know anything more about sieges than you do."
Some of the heat went out of her eyes, and the fear beneath it began to show. "You'd be free, wouldn't you, if the Romans took Syracuse?"
He shook his head again, in denial this time. "I don't think they'd even ask what I was. A slave's a slave. I'd get a new master or be killed. But it's pointless for you to worry about it, mistress, because they won't take Syracuse. And anyway, the news is that the city has a victory."
It was her turn to shake her head. "Why is the king coming home, if it was a victory? Why do they want more catapults, if it was a victory?"
"Where were the Carthaginians during that victory?" he replied in a fierce voice. "They were supposed to be our allies. But I haven't heard any reports of them doing any fighting."
Then he regretted his words. He should have remembered: Philyra was too intelligent not to understand their implications. Now her eyes widened in fear. What if the Romans at Messana had come to terms with the Carthaginians? Rome and Carthage had been allies during the war against Pyrrhus of Epirus: it was entirely conceivable that they had now agreed to divide Sicily between them. If King Hieron suspected that his new allies were going to turn on him, it would certainly explain why he was taking his army home in a hurry. Syracuse could not face Rome without help from Carthage. If she faced Rome and Carthage together, she was doomed.
"Oh, gods, no!" whispered Philyra.
Marcus crossed the courtyard to her in a few swift steps, then stopped, helplessly wishing he dared touch her thin shoulders. "Nobody will take Syracuse," he told her. "The Carthaginians have tried often enough, and never managed it, and I can tell you, mistress, that the Romans won't crack a city like this. They're not as good at siege craft as you Greeks. Nobody's ever taken Syracuse by storm, and nobody will take her now." Then he smiled, with an effort, and added, "Not with your brother's catapults to defend her."
Philyra took a deep breath, told herself that she wasn't a little girl to be frightened by rumors, and managed to smile back. She looked down at the lute in her hands, then set it against her shoulder and began playing something complicated, something that needed all her attention and left her no time to think of anything else.
In the sickroom, Phidias gazed at the lamp flame with his yellowed eyes, then looked over to his son, smiling. "Tell me again about the hypothesis of Aristarchos," he said.
Archimedes shrugged: this theory had been exciting great controversy in Alexandria, and his father was fascinated by it. "He says that the earth revolves about the sun in the circumference of a circle."
"And all the planets as well?"
"That's right."
"What about the stars?" asked Phidias. "If the earth revolved about the sun, the fixed stars would appear to shift as we saw them from different angles at different points in the earth's orbit."
"No! That's the most interesting part," said Archimedes, warming to the subject. "Aristarchos says that the universe is much, much larger than anyone believes. He says that the whole circle described by the earth's orbit is only a point compared to the size of the sphere of the f
ixed stars."
"That's nonsense," said Phidias. "A point has no magnitude at all."
"Well, not a point, then! But incomparably small. So small that all the earth's revolving doesn't make the least difference to our view of the fixed stars."
"You believe it, don't you?" said Phidias.
"It's a hypothesis," said Archimedes, flushing a little. "There isn't enough evidence to decide either way. I suppose the people are right who say that where there isn't evidence, you should choose the explanation that fits appearances best- which is that the sun goes around the earth. But- I like it."
"Oi moi! You like to think of the earth whirling about like a dust mote in an unspeakable immensity of space? It makes me dizzy!"
Archimedes grinned, but said, "It makes sense to me that the universe is incomparably great. After all, the more I look at it, the more things I see that I can't understand."
The words "If you don't understand much, what hope is there for the rest of us?" hovered on the edge of Phidias' tongue, but he did not say them. He was wary of admitting how hard he worked to grasp ideas which seemed obvious to Archimedes. His son had always regarded him as an equal, and he was almost as proud of that as he was of the son himself- his son, the most gifted student he had ever taught, the most profound mind he had ever encountered. Phidias watched him now, tenderly: Archimedes' grin was fading, and his eyes, still bright, were abstracted, reckoning up the vastness of the universe. Phidias knew that they no longer saw him. He felt for a moment the ache that any parent feels at realizing the utter foreignness of the child: the body that came from you, that you have nourished, now contains a mind full of things you will never comprehend. He reached over and caught his son's hand. "Medion," he said, a bit breathlessly, "swear to me that you will never, ever give up mathematics."
The Sand-Reckoner Page 12