The Sand-Reckoner

by Gillian Bradshaw

  Hieron began speaking quickly and clearly, pausing after every phrase to allow Marcus to shout out his translation. "When Fate delivered some of your people into my hands, O Romans, it was my intention to return them to you quickly. I waited for you to send a herald to ask me what ransom I required, but you sent none. Indeed, you left Syracuse during the night, and left your people in my hands. Do you not care for them, O Consul?"

  Claudius drew himself straight and glared at Hieron. "When Romans make war, Tyrant of Syracuse," he declared in Latin, "they accept the risk of death, and meet it bravely. Those who do not are no true men, and are not worth ransoming. However, as you may have heard, we have besieged and sacked the city of Echetla, your ally, and if you wish we will exchange the women of Echetla for our own people. The men we have killed."

  "What does he say?" Hieron asked Marcus. Marcus hurriedly translated, wondering about Echetla. It lay to the northwest of Syracuse, and was indeed a Syracusan dependency, though to call it a city was to exaggerate the scale of the action: it was a fortified market town, no more, and had had no chance against a large Roman army. The Romans had undoubtedly been angry when they attacked it, furious over their losses before Syracuse and in no mood either to negotiate or to show mercy. He imagined the desperate defense, and the massacre of all the men able to bear arms, and felt sick.

  "I had intended to ask no ransom for your people, Consul of the Romans," said Hieron reproachfully. "Like Pyrrhus of Epirus, at whose side I once fought, I would have returned them without fee. Like him, I honor the courage of the Roman people."

  As Marcus translated this, for the first time a ripple of whispers spread out through the Roman ranks: men who'd heard what he said were repeating it to those who stood farther back. The mention of King Pyrrhus, Marcus thought, was well made: the Romans respected him more than any other enemy they had faced.

  "Then return them, Tyrant, without so much talk!" snapped Claudius. "And we will keep the Echetlans as our slaves."

  Hieron paused so that his next words would not be obscured, then replied, "As for the Echetlans, I will ransom them, O Consul, if you will name a price. But as for your own people, your answer has made me hesitate. I have treated my prisoners with all the respect due to brave enemies. They have been well fed and housed, and my own doctor has tended their wounds. Before you left here, though, I saw that you obliged their surviving comrades to pitch their tents outside your camp, and now it seems that you place little value upon the men I hold, since you reckon them equal to slaves. How have they offended you?"

  "They lack courage," replied the consul harshly. "They surrendered. We Romans are not like you Greeks. When we fail, we expect to suffer the penalty."

  "They lack courage?" repeated Hieron. "The wounds the men in my prison have suffered are the best testimony to their bravery, for few of them are uninjured. But the task they were set was impossible. Two maniples in loose formation without siege equipment were sent out in broad daylight against heavy artillery. They were ordered not to battle, but to execution! It astonished me that they nonetheless obeyed. What they lacked was certainly not courage, but a wise commander."

  Claudius opened his mouth, but even as he did so, the spreading whispers turned into a growl, and then a full-throated roar. Behind him the legions hammered their spears against the ground and cheered fiercely for the two slaughtered maniples; the men watching from the palisade rattled entrenching tools against the wall. Claudius' face turned crimson and he whirled on the tribunes and shouted, "Silence! Make that rabble be quiet!"

  Hieron's charger fidgeted uneasily at the uproar, and the king patted its neck.

  "My fellow soldiers!" bellowed Claudius, when the noise began to die down at last. "My fellow soldiers, don't listen to this man! He is trying to seduce you from your discipline. You, soldier"- to Marcus" stop repeating his lies!"

  Marcus remembered Gaius' white face and agonized gasps as he was marched into the city, and was suddenly in a crimson fury of his own. He remembered that moment afterward like a witness remembering a fatal accident, mentally shrieking at himself, No, stop, not that way, you fool! But he could not stop. Because of this man, Gaius had suffered, and he had lost everything. Claudius could not be permitted to slough off the guilt.

  "He's telling the truth!" Marcus shouted passionately. He waved with both shackles up the hill toward the Euryalus. "What did you think they had in there- slingshots? Don't you know the standard range of a catapult? Or did you just expect a city that the Carthaginians have besieged with armies ten times the size of this one to crack like an egg? Jupiter! You had no idea what you were doing. It's inexcusable to blame your own failure on the men who suffered from it! If you're a Roman, Consul, accept the penalty yourself!"

  There was another uproar. Claudius stared at Marcus in astonishment and rage; Hieron, with uneasiness. "What did you say?" asked the king, but Marcus did not answer. He lowered his shackled hands and stood proudly, glaring back at the consul.

  "I hope this man has not offended you," said Hieron, speaking directly to Claudius in a more normal voice. "His brother was badly injured in your assault, and he may have spoken passionately because of it. You must excuse him. I myself have no wish to insult you or your people."

  Claudius turned the furious glare on Hieron. "And saying that I am not a wise commander is no insult?" he asked.

  Hieron smiled. "You are certainly inexperienced at sieges, O Consul- at least, at sieges of Greek cities which are well equipped with artillery. Wouldn't you agree that when a wise commander lacks knowledge, he proceeds only with caution? If you wish to improve your understanding of what you face, you may come up to the wall, under my protection, and view the defenses. You have underrated us, Consul, and treated us with a contempt we in no way deserve."

  Claudius spat. "Your protection is as worthless as your boasts, Tyrant! I credit neither!"

  "You are right in saying that they are both of the same value," replied the king. The noise was dying down once more, and Hieron lifted his arms as he began to speak once more to the whole army; Marcus at once began his shouted translation. Claudius tried to protest, but even his own officers paid no attention to him, and the army instantly quieted to hear what Hieron had to say. While the consul fumed, the king's words rode out upon another ring of whispers.

  "Men of Rome, I have heard that I am reported arrogant and cruel. Report lies, for I have ever acted with moderation, and honored the gods."

  "And that's true," Marcus added, with a defiant glare at the consul. "All those stories about bronze bulls and impalings were made up by the Mamertini to get Roman help."

  "There is no citizen of Syracuse who has just complaint against me," Hieron continued. "My lovely city is as united as she is strongand her strength you have all seen. Your own people can vouch for that when I return them. If you wish to receive them with honor, I will return them to you today, without ransom as I promised. If you do not, I will keep them unharmed to give to the first Roman who asks me for their freedom."

  "It is a trick!" bellowed Claudius.

  "It is offered honestly and in good faith," replied Hieron. "Do you wish me to send them?"

  Claudius looked as though he might burst. "You are growing desperate for a peace, Tyrant!" he shouted. "Where are the allies you abandoned at Messana?"

  "And you are in a great hurry for a triumph, Consul!" replied Hieron sharply. "You're even willing to trust the Carthaginians to get it- willing to gamble the lives of all your men on that chance that they stay away. Yes, where are the Carthaginians? In your rear? At Messana, sacking it in your absence, and destroying the ships on which you intend to sail home? You've chosen to fight Syracuse instead of Carthage, and forgotten that you offered to fight both. Can you, O Romans? But you haven't answered my question, Consul. I have ninety-two of your people prisoner. Do you want them back?"

  Claudius was silent for a long minute, while the whispers spread through his army, the translation almost obscured by the buzz of angry d
iscussion. Then, in a choked voice, the consul said, "Yes. Return them."

  "You will receive them with honor?"

  "Since you say that they fought bravely, they will be received as brave men," grated the consul.

  Hieron inclined his head graciously. "And the women of Echetlawhat price do you want for them?"

  "None!" a voice from among the legions shouted suddenly. Claudius spun toward it, but already a dozen other voices had joined it, "Honor to those who honor the Roman people! Return the Echetlans without ransom!" There was a thunder of spears against the ground, and then a full-throated roar: "Honor to the Roman people!"

  Claudius looked back at Hieron. Marcus had never seen such a look of bleak vindictiveness. "You shall have them without ransom," he muttered.

  "I will have your men brought from their prison and delivered to you here," said Hieron. "It will take perhaps four hours. I take it this truce holds until then?"

  Claudius nodded, then, not trusting himself to say more, turned his horse away.

  Hieron snapped his fingers, and the Syracusan aulist struck up his marching tune again. The files divided, leaving a space for the king to ride through them. Marcus followed between his two guards; behind him the Syracusan battalion turned about and marched back up the hill.

  When the gates of the Euryalus had closed behind them, the king drew rein and looked down at Marcus thoughtfully. "What did you say to the consul?" he asked.

  "That what you'd said was true," replied Marcus shortly.

  Hieron sighed. "That was unwise."

  "It was true."

  "It is not usually a good idea to speak truth to kings- or to consuls. I am going to have to return you anyway. If I keep you, Claudius will say that you were really a Greek in disguise, and it will be easier for him to convince his army that he was right after all."

  Marcus nodded. Hieron looked at him a moment longer, then sighed again. "You are a true Roman, aren't you? You accept the penalty for your own actions- whether it's justified or not. What's that you have in your belt?"

  Marcus' face went hot. "A flute," he said. "My mas- Archimedes gave it to me. He thought I would have time in prison to learn it."

  "I pray that the gods grant you a life long enough to become as skilled on it as he is himself!" Hieron snapped his fingers and said to the guards, "Take the chains off him, and put him somewhere shady to wait for the others. Give him something to eat and drink- it's a long walk over here, and interpreting is thirsty work."

  The guards led Marcus to a room in one of the towers, a catapult platform with no catapult in it. They took off his chains and fetched him some bread and wine. "With goodwill," said one of the guards, offering the wine. "I should have believed Apollodoros when he said you were philhellene."

  Marcus drank the watered wine thirstily, but had no appetite for the bread. He kept remembering the way Claudius had looked at Hieron. The consul would happily have cooked his enemy alive, in or out of a bronze bull. Hieron would be out of his reach behind the walls of Syracuse, but Marcus was going to have to face him again in about four hours.

  He wished that he had volunteered nothing, that he had been content to translate Hieron's words and leave it at that. It was not as though Hieron had needed any help. The parley that morning now appeared to him as a wrestling match in which Claudius had been comprehensively beaten. Claudius was clearly a man who liked to find scapegoats for his own failures, and in Marcus he would find in ideal one: a disloyal Hellenizer, a coward who had escaped the penalty due to him by accepting slavery. Claudius could try to discredit the truth by disgracing and executing the man who had spoken it.

  But perhaps the consul would prefer to forget about Marcus. A vindictive punishment would only confirm the reputation for callous arrogance which Hieron had just draped him in. Marcus would just have to hope that the consul was intelligent enough to realize that.

  Time passed. The guards left him in the tower room, and he waited alone, watching the Roman camp through the artillery port. He could see a drab-colored mass of people assembled by the gate: the women of Echetla, no doubt. He supposed that there had been no way to save Echetla. By the time Hieron's scouts found out that the Romans had gone there, it would have been too late to send help to it. He was still sorry for Echetla.

  Four hours, Hieron had said. That would be about right: a rider had to be sent to the quarry to tell the guards to take all the prisoners to the gates, and then there would be preparations- leg irons to be taken off, escorts to be assembled, stretchers found for those men still unable to walk- and then the whole party had to make the long walk up to the Euryalus. Four hours. It seemed to Marcus that four years passed before the sun dipped from the height of noon.

  He took out the aulos and began to practice it, as something to do. He had practiced every day since first being given it, and could now play very simple tunes, very, very slowly. He picked his way laboriously through a Nile boat song, then, stirred by an ache for vanished safety, found himself struggling for the notes of a lullaby he remembered his mother singing by the fire at home.

  "I don't know that one," said Hieron. "Is it Roman?"

  Marcus set the aulos down and got to his feet. He had not heard the door open. The king was alone, and dust on his cloak proclaimed that he'd been riding hard.

  "Yes," said Marcus in a low voice. "It's Roman, lord."

  "Odd," remarked Hieron. "One doesn't think of your people producing anything gentle. Is there anything left in that flask?"

  There was a little of the wine left. Hieron drained it, then sat down. The small tower room had no furniture, so he sat on the floor, crossing his ankles comfortably, and gestured for Marcus to do likewise. Marcus squatted facing him, watching him warily.

  Hieron looked back speculatively. "I wanted to talk to you," he said. "I hoped there would be time. I have one or two things I wanted to say."

  "To me?" asked Marcus in confusion.

  "Why not? You think I spared you for Archimedes' sake, don't you?"

  Marcus said nothing, merely looked back with an impassive slave's face.

  "Archimedes had nothing to do with it. Incidentally, his friends in Alexandria called him Alpha, didn't they? Do you know why?"

  "Because when anybody set a mathematical problem, he was always the first to find the answer," said Marcus, startled. Then, "How…"

  "I thought it might be that," said Hieron. "Alpha. Not a bad nickname, and I need one for him. His proper name doesn't slip off the tongue easily enough. No, I spared you because- you must excuse me- I had a use for you. You're the only Hellenized Roman I've ever encountered."

  Marcus stared.

  "I know. Greek is the first language your people study, though most of them are very bad at it. Your coins, when you do coin silver, are based on ours. Your pottery, fashions, furniture, and so forth all mimic ours. You hire Greek architects to build Greek-style temples and fill them with Greek statues of the gods- often of Greek gods. You worship Apollo, don't you? But it's all shallow, like a film of water over granite. A bit of gloss on your own nature, which is hard, brutal, and profoundly suspicious of imagination. A Roman gentleman may read our poetry, listen to our music: he would consider it menial to write or play himself. Our philosophy is condemned as atheistic nonsense, our sports as immoral, and our politics- well, tyranny is bad, and democracy unspeakably worse. Am I being unfair?"

  Marcus said nothing. He was stung, but suspicious. With a man like Hieron it seemed better to find out what the object of the speech was before responding.

  Hieron smiled. "I'm glad you can be cautious," he remarked. "Very well, I'll put your people's side of things for you. You are also courageous, disciplined, pious, honorable, and extraordinarily tenacious. There is no hope that we can deal with you as Greeks elsewhere deal with barbarians: pay you off and persuade you to go away. You have taken the whole of Italy, and if you decide to take Sicily as well, there is nothing Syracuse can do to stop you. Carthage, too, is growing too powerful for us.
" He got up suddenly and went to the open door, where he stood leaning against the frame and looking across the plateau toward the city. "Before Alexander conquered the world," he said softly, "men lived in cities. Now they live in kingdoms, and cities must preserve themselves as they can. I've tried aligning Syracuse with Carthage, but there's not much hope there: the hatred is too old. That leaves Rome. But I find Romans… difficult."

  "You managed Appius Claudius easily enough," said Marcus sourly. "Three falls and he was out."

  Hieron glanced around, then turned back from the view and regarded him with a smile. "You like wrestling, do you?" he asked. "I was never any good at it."

  "You obliged Appius Claudius to speak to you," said Marcus resolutely. "He couldn't refuse to parley about prisoners. You got him to accept me an interpreter- and then you pitched every speech over his head directly to the legions. He's a senator and a patrician; they're plebeians, like me. You slipped your finger into the difference and wriggled it around like a man prying a brick out of a rotten wall. You said he was arrogant and incompetent, and that he unjustly blamed them for failures that were his own. You said he risked all their lives when he ignored Carthage, and that he did it to further his own ambitions. And then you said you were an honest and decent man and that you honored the Roman people. He had no answer to any of it. And the Roman people in arms drank it down and cheered for you. Claudius won't get a triumph, and won't be reelected to command the Roman forces in Sicily."

  Hieron drew a deep breath and let it out again slowly. "On the other hand," he commented, "the Senate and people of Rome will undoubtedly decide that they have not sent enough troops to deal with the situation in Sicily. The city of Syracuse is altogether more formidable than they first believed, and Carthage hasn't been touched yet. They will never retreat, will they? So they will send more men, under a new commander. Who? What I want, what I was working to achieve- I admit it- was to discredit the Claudian faction, and get a moderate put in charge of the war. But maybe the Roman people, in their usual indomitable style, will pick another Claudius, or an Aemilius, which I believe would be almost as bad. Would it be?"