The Sand-Reckoner

by Gillian Bradshaw

  Marcus settled on the floor and placed the armful of flute cases on his lap- there were four of them. "My master's auloi," he said neutrally. "He was asked to bring them."

  The pretty boy tittered. "He's the flute boy, is he?"

  "That's enough!" ordered Agathon sternly. "Several of the other guests have brought instruments, too. If you give those to me, fellow, I'll see they're put safe with the others."

  "I can look after them," replied Marcus.

  The slaves had been provided with a plain meal of bean soup and bread, and someone helped Marcus to a bowl. He sat back and began to eat in silence, careful not to drip on the flutes.

  The doorkeeper appeared in no hurry to get back to his lodge. He leaned against the storeroom wall, crossing his arms. "You usually look after his flutes?" he asked casually.

  Marcus gave a grunt of assent.

  "Been with your master long?"

  "Been in the family about thirteen years," replied Marcus evenly.

  "Heard he went out to Alexandria. You go with him?"

  Marcus gave another grunt, noting to himself that Arata had been quite right: they were trying to probe him.

  "I'd like to go to Alexandria," said one of the other slaves enviously. "What's it like?"

  Marcus shrugged and concentrated on bean soup.

  "This fellow's some kind of barbarian," remarked the boy, sneering. "He doesn't know enough Greek to describe it."

  Marcus cast him an irritated glare, then returned to his soup.

  "What sort of barbarian are you?" asked the doorkeeper.

  "Samnite," said Marcus firmly. "And freeborn."

  That was where everything began to go wrong. One of the other slaves gave an exclamation of delight and began speaking rapidly in Oscan. Marcus stared for a moment in horror. He understood Oscan, but to try to speak it would betray his complete lack of a Samnite accentwhich this speaker definitely possessed. He interrupted the flood of words with a hasty explanation, in Greek, that it had been so many years since he spoke Oscan that he'd forgotten his native tongue.

  "I thought you said you'd only been a slave for thirteen years!" protested the disappointed Samnite.

  "No, no, longer than that!" said Marcus. "Much longer. I had a couple of other masters- soldiers- before I was sold to my present master's father." That was true, too, though he had not had them for long.

  "You were enslaved by the Romans?" asked the Samnite.

  "Yes," agreed Marcus.

  "May the gods destroy them!" said the Samnite. "I, also." He offered Marcus his hand.

  Marcus made a vague gesture toward it and spilled soup on the flute cases. He swore. The Samnite helped him mop up; the pretty boy giggled. The doorkeeper just stood there watching with cynical eyes.

  "What's your name?" asked the Samnite; and, when Marcus told him, exclaimed, "You shouldn't use the name a Roman gave you! Your father must have named you Mamertus- that is the name you should keep."

  "I was sold as Marcus," said Marcus. "I can't change that now."

  The Samnite made a disparaging remark about Greeks- in Oscan- then began questioning Marcus about where in Samnium he came from and when he had been enslaved. Marcus sweated and lied, horribly aware of the doorkeeper smiling. Luckily, the Samnite was soon wholly engaged in recounting his own history and did not probe Marcus'. But he could not be got rid of. Even after the other slaves settled to a discussion of the war and prices instead, the Samnite clung to Marcus' side and rambled on about the wonders of Samnium and the wickedness of the Romans. Marcus ached to tell him to be quiet, but did not dare.

  After what seemed an eternity, the king's butler came in with a basin of surprisingly good strong wine for the slaves. He gave Marcus a hard look. "You're the slave of that new engineer?" he asked, and, when Marcus admitted that he was, the butler demanded furiously, "Does he always draw on the table?" which sent the pretty boy into floods of giggles. No sooner had he settled than the Samnite started up again.

  After another eternity, however, another of the king's waiters appeared to announce that the guests were ready for some music. Marcus picked up the flutes and headed for the dining room in a relieved rush. He did not care where he spent the rest of the evening, so long as it was away from the Samnite- and the door-keeper.

  Archimedes had not been enjoying the dinner much more than his slave. When he first arrived, Hieron had asked him how the preparations for the demonstration were going. He'd made a mistake: he'd answered. The preparations were going very well, the project was tremendously interesting, and he was ready to jump and down with excitement. He told the company all about the compound pulleys and toothed wheels, and went on to the principles of the lever and the mechanical advantages of the screw; he sketched diagrams on the table in wine, and flourished table knives and bread rolls to illustrate points. Hieron and the engineer Kallippos asked occasional informed and interested questions, so he did not at first notice that the rest of the company was regarding him as though he were a dead earwig that had turned up in their soup. When he finally did notice, it was halfway through the main course. Then he realized that he'd been speaking virtually without a pause for half an hour, that the other guests were watching him with expressions ranging from outrage to stark disbelief, and that the butler and slaves were glaring at the mess he had made on the table. He went crimson and fell silent.

  He kept quiet for the rest of the meal, too embarrassed even to notice what food he was eating. Leptines the Regent and the city councillors discussed finance, with occasional interested comments from the king; the army officers and Kallippos discussed fortifications, again with occasional comments from the king. Archimedes felt ignorant, young, and extremely stupid.

  Eventually, however, the slaves brought in the dessert course of apples and honeyed almonds, and Hieron sat up and poured out a few drops of unmixed wine, the offering to the gods which closed the meal. This was supposed to be the moment when the most pleasant part of the dinner party began, when the food was out of the way and the participants could sit about drinking and talking and listening to music.

  "My dear friends," said Hieron, as the slaves hurried about refilling cups, "I thought that, given the tense and unhappy situation in which our lovely city finds herself, we might cheer ourselves with a bit of music. For those gifted by the Muses, making music is surely a greater pleasure even than listening to it, so, as several of you are accomplished musicians, I've invited you to bring your instruments. What do you say? Shall we brighten the night with song?"

  The party naturally agreed, and presently a number of slaves, including Marcus, hurried in with boxes or canvas-wrapped bundles. Archimedes was surprised to see that Leptines the Regent was handed a kithara and Kallippos a lyre. One of the city councillors had a barbitos- a bass lyre- and one of the army officers a second kithara. Archimedes himself was the only aulist. He took his flute cases nervously, then shot Marcus a startled look: the cases were sticky, as though something had been spilled on them. But the slave was at his most impassive and didn't respond to the look by so much as a blink. Archimedes hesitated, then opened all four sticky cases, inserted reeds in all four auloi, and tied on his cheek strap.

  "Captain Dionysios," said Hieron, smiling, "I know you have a very fine voice. Perhaps you could favor us with… what about the 'Swallow Song'? We all know that, don't we?"

  Everyone did. Dionysios son of Chairephon, looking slightly less comfortable in the king's house than he had at the Arethusa, stood up, waited for the scuffle of the instrumentalists to abate, then raised his head and began the old folk song:

  "Come, come, swallow,

  Come bring back the Spring!

  Bring us the best season,

  White-belly, black-wing!"

  Marcus had succeeded in slipping out the far door into a garden, and when the music started he sat down beneath a date palm to listen. The night air was pleasantly cool after the hot sweatiness of the workroom, and the singing carried out clearly from the lamplit dini
ng room. Dionysios did indeed have a fine voice, a clear strong tenor. Leptines' accompaniment was a bit too formal for a folk song, but the other players caught the spirit of the music quickly, especially the barbitos player, who was very good. Archimedes, Marcus noted, had chosen the tenor and soprano auloi: tenor for the melody, soprano for an embroidery of swallowlike chirps which swirled and swooped above the melodic line. It went well, and when the song ended, there was a ripple of applause.

  There was a rustling among the ornamental shrubs as the next song started, and someone else came through the dark garden; the care with which the figure eased its way through the under-growth made Marcus certain that it was a woman even when she was no more than a shadow on the other side of the courtyard. She did not notice Marcus until she almost stumbled over him. Then she demanded in an angry whisper, "Who are you?"

  Delia was in a temper. She had spent much of the afternoon resenting the convention that barred her from attending the dinner party. The whole world might agree that respectable girls did not recline at table for men's parties, still less come in after the meal was finished and offer to play the flute- but she differed with the world on this and many other points. Now she had come quietly to listen to the music, and here was somebody or other standing watch to prevent her!

  But the lumpish shape under the date palm whispered back, "Excuse me. I'm the slave of one of the guests. I wanted to listen to the music."

  "Oh," said Delia. Nothing to do with her, then- and she could hardly object to someone else doing what she had come to do herself. "You may stay," she conceded.

  She retreated a few steps to a stone bench under a grape arbor, and for a time they both listened in silence. The folk song was followed by an aria from Euripides- Leptines' formality came into its own- then by a drinking song, then by a lament. There was a pause, and then suddenly a duet between the barbitos and the auloi sprang into the still air- a fiery cascade on the strings and a swirl of notes from the flute so thick and fast that the ear struggled to follow them. The barbitos lit up the night; the flutes danced around it, now following the melody, now countering it, and suddenly, in the final phrases, blending with it in a shocking and breathtaking harmony. There was a moment's silence, then a thunder of applause.

  The slave gave a satisfied sigh. Delia felt a sudden sympathy for him: banned, like her, from the feast, but sitting outside in the dark to drink in the music. "Whose slave are you?" she asked, remembering to keep her voice low. The music had stopped for the moment, as the guests drank more wine, and she did not want to be overheard.

  "Archimedes son of Phidias'," said Marcus. Ordinarily he would have added his own name, but at the moment he was wishing that he were called something nondescript and Greek.

  "Oh!" exclaimed Delia.

  Marcus caught the note of recognition in her voice and set his teeth angrily. The whole royal household must have been discussing Archimedes! He had no idea who this woman was, but the way she had granted him permission to stay had marked her out as free and important.

  After a moment, Delia said warmly, "Your master's flute-playing is superb."

  Marcus turned the remark this way and that in his mind and concluded that it was harmless. He gave a grunt of agreement. "The fellow on the barbitos is good, too," he added.

  There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of voices talking in the dining room and the buzzing call of a scops owl from some corner of the garden. Delia gazed intently at the slave's hunched black shape, struggling with an urgent desire to speak to him, to tell him something of importance… but what? She could feel it there, an undefined tension within herself, crying that she should make use of this providential encounter to warn Archimedes that…

  She told herself not to be ridiculous. Warn Archimedes, against her tolerant, generous, much-loved brother? The worst Hieron was going to do was pay Archimedes no more than the salary agreed! Perhaps that was the message she really wanted to send: Don't sell yourself too cheap!

  But with that thought she understood suddenly that she did not want Archimedes to sell himself at all. Not even to Hieron and Syracuse.

  "Your master…" she said finally, not knowing how or even whether to begin. "Is he a good master?"

  Marcus had scrutinized this question, too, before he was aware of it, and discovered that it was difficult to answer. It was, in a way, the wrong question- he very rarely thought of Archimedes as his master at all; when he did, he resented him. But most of the time he thought of Archimedes simply as Archimedes: a phenomenon exasperating, astonishing, and unparalleled. "I don't know," he said, surprised into honesty. "I think most of the time he forgets that he is my master. Does that make him a good master or a bad one?"

  Delia made a noise of impatience. "Do you like him?"

  "Most of the time," he admitted cautiously.

  "Listen, then," said Delia. "Tell him I wish him well. And tell him… tell him that my brother is waiting to see how this demonstration of his turns out to decide what offer to make him. If it goes well he needs to be more careful than he does if it goes badly."

  Marcus stared at her. In the night shadows of the garden, he could make out nothing but the gleam of eyes in a pale face. Her brother. "I don't understand!" he said in bewilderment. Then, urgently, "Lady, if the king suspects my master of anything…"

  "Nobody suspects him!" said Delia. She was Syracusan enough to understand that the first emotion inspired by a tyrant's interest was fear. "Don't think that! Hieron wouldn't. It's just that Hieron thinks he may become invaluable, and there may be something in the contract that…I don't know, that may bind him in a way he might later regret. Just- ask him to be careful." She stopped, biting her lip. Now that she had delivered it, the nature of her warning seemed to have altered. Night and the unexpected opportunity had tricked her into a betrayal, a breach of the loyalty she owed to her brother. Her face went hot and she felt all at once sick with shame. She jumped to her feet. "No!" she said, in a fervent whisper. "Don't say anything to him at all!" She turned and blundered off through the dark garden as though the slave might chase after her.

  Marcus remained under the date palm, too stunned to move.

  After many more songs, the party ended, and Marcus slunk back into the dining room to collect the flutes. He found Archimedes busy discussing modes with the barbitos player; the barbitos itself had been collected by the pretty boy, who amused himself by sneering at Marcus as they both stood waiting for their masters to finish talking. Marcus was intensely relieved when the discussion finally ended and they were able to leave the house.

  Archimedes had largely forgotten his humiliation early in meal: his flute-playing had been a success. The barbitos player in particular had been very gracious, and said that they must play together again. Since the barbitos player was one of the richest and most important men in the city, well known for his patronage of the arts, this was gratifying. Not that it mattered, Archimedes told himself- he was a democrat, after all- but still, it was gratifying. He set off down the road at a good pace, swinging a corner of his cloak and humming.

  Marcus hurried after him, clutching the flutes and looking grim. When they reached the main road, the slave ran up beside him and said in a low voice, "Sir, something happened up there that you should know about."

  "Mmmm?" said Archimedes, without paying attention.

  "I was listening to the music in the garden," went on Marcus, "and the king's sister came up to listen as well, and-"

  "Delia?" asked Archimedes, stopping short and turning to Marcus. The moon had risen and shone full into the wide avenue, and it showed plainly his look of delight.

  Delia? thought Marcus, in disbelief. "I don't know her name," he said in bewilderment. "But she was the king's sister. She said to tell you-"

  "Delia gave you a message for me?" cried Archimedes, even more delighted.

  Marcus stared at him. He remembered now the girl's hesitant speech, and the way she had run off after trying to deny her message. In retro
spect it seemed very like a maiden's first shy steps toward love. "Perii!" he exclaimed, surprised into swearing in his own language. "No wonder the king's been sending people to spy on you!"

  "What?" said Archimedes, surprised in turn. "On me? Don't be ridiculous! There's nothing for anyone to find out."

  "May the gods forbid that there should be anything between you and the king's sister!"

  "I just met her twice in the king's house when I went there to see about the catapult," said Archimedes stiffly. "She plays the aulos too, and we talked about it. She's very good. What was the message? You said I should know about it."

  Marcus rubbed his hands through his hair. Maybe it was that innocent, he thought- but the fact remained that the king's sisterthe king's sister! — was sending Archimedes clandestine warnings about her brother's intentions. What did she see in him? He wasn't particularly good-looking, wasn't rich, and certainly possessed no polished seducer's charm. But in Alexandria he had won the favor of La[i..]s, and now there was this!

  He could not even tell Arata about it- a thing he regretted, because he knew she was concerned about the king's spies and he had deep respect for her good sense. But he could not inform his master's mother, of all people, about his master's romantic follies!

  "Well?" demanded Archimedes.

  "She said to tell you that she wishes you well," he said at last, "and she warns you that if your demonstration goes well you must be careful, because her brother may try to get you into a contract that binds you to something you might later regret."

  Archimedes beamed. "That's wonderful!" He began walking again, this time with something of a swagger.

  "Wonderful? Didn't you hear what I said?" demanded Marcus furiously.

  "Yes, of course. Delia wishes me well, and the king is going to offer me a contract if my demonstration goes well. I thank the gods!"

  Marcus groaned.

  "What's the matter now?"

  Marcus regarded his bright-eyed assurance and groaned again. "Nothing," he said despairingly. "Nothing at all."