Shortly after our arrival, Damarata prompted Adranodorus with what appeared to be a kick under the table. Swallowing a grimace, he lifted his cup in the direction of the new king. “Let’s raise a drink to King Hieronymus. Grandson on one side to Hiero. Grandson on the other to Pyrrhus. To the king with the most noble bloodline in the world.”
The reference to King Pyrrhus made Hieronymus sit up like a purebred dog hearing its name. Pyrrhus’ ferocity in battle was often compared to that of Alexander, and his bloodline was said to stretch back to the legendary Achilles.
From the far end of the table, Hippocrates upped the ante. “One major difference splits the ancestry, Adranodorus. Hiero liked his Romans, and Pyrrhus all but conquered them.” Laughter burst out down the length of the table.
Hippocrates was a charming individual. That was clear to me right away. He and his brother had long black hair, curled in the style of the Canaanites. Hippocrates had a full beard with no mustache. Epicydes was clean shaven. They were handsome men with olive skin, dark eyes, and thick, powerful bodies built of careers soldiering. Both wore their decorative armor that night and could not have looked more impressive.
Speaking in beautiful Greek, Hippocrates addressed the young king as though an old friend. “What say you, Hieronymus? Which grandfather most suits your rule?” Hippocrates tilted his head, aiming just one eye down the table, grinning with mischief and wine.
Everyone turned to the end of the table. The boy king responded to all the attention with an idiotic smile. His eyes were blank as ice. A drool of wine hung from the down on his chin.
At that moment a herald announced the arrival of the two Roman envoys from Lilybaeum. The din of noise abruptly hushed to quiet as the dignitaries strode into the room. An older, heavy-set man led the way, wearing a red cloak over a white toga. He was completely bald, with a closely-cropped white beard and a proud bearing. Behind him was a soldier, half his age. A long scar creased the soldier’s cheek and ran down along his neck. A war-pocked gladius hung from a baldric at his hip.
Hieronymus’ inane smile turned crooked. He stood up on his seat, and with obvious intent to insult, replied, “Why Hippocrates, if you ask me who is my favorite grandfather, I believe it must be Pyrrhus—because of his politics.”
The older Roman proceeded down the length of the table, glaring at the drunken guests. “Stop this embarrassment to the memory of your great king. There can be no doubt as to who is Syracuse’s most important ally. You can’t remember back forty years, King Hieronymus, but Sicily was at the center of a war much like the one waged now. Hiero made a wise decision then. Syracuse became what it is today because of his enduring friendship with Rome. I come here today to remind you of that.” He paused to take deliberate notice of the Carthaginians in the seats of honor. “Rome requests this opportunity to renew the arrangements made by your grandfather. We seek Syracuse as an ally today and forever.” These last words came out one at a time, taut and sharp.
Hieronymus remained standing on the couch, a half-filled goblet sloshing in his right hand. “Instead of my seal on a piece of paper, I believe my condolences would be more appropriate. I’ve been told that the Roman armies have suffered some serious losses of late. You might like to recount the battles of Lake Trasimene or Cannae for me. Perhaps the reports I heard were exaggerated. Knowing the truth about those battles would certainly help me decide which way I should cast the support of Syracuse.” He lifted the goblet and took a long, deep swallow, the red wine spilling from both sides of his mouth.
The envoy bristled. “The roots of loyalty should run deep, not follow the whim of one battle or another when there is an entire war to be fought.”
Prodded by Damarata, Adranodorus pointed his cup in the direction of Hippocrates. “My friend, please tell this poor uninformed Roman what has been going on in his homeland while he sleeps in Lilybaeum.”
Many at the table laughed at this, but Hippocrates lowered his eyes momentarily, then allowed a thin smile. “One would have to be an ambassador to the moon to miss what has been going on in Italy. Hannibal is rapidly proving that he is the greatest general the world has ever seen. He demolished the army of Publius Scipio in Trebia within a month of bringing twenty-six thousand men through the Alps. The following spring, at Lake Trasimene, he lured Flaminius into one of the prettiest ambushes you ever saw—another whole army destroyed and hardly a casualty to the Carthaginian side. Then there was Cannae!” He turned to his brother. “What say you, Epicydes? You were there.”
Epicydes had big teeth that dominated his face when he spoke. “Fifty thousand dead!” he said, all glittering teeth and a mouth full of venison. “The armies of two consuls spread three bodies deep across the battlefield. Enough Roman blood spilled to fill her public baths twice over. It’s only a matter of time before Hannibal will march in triumph through the gates of Porta Latina.”
Hippocrates’ eyes sparkled. “And it seems you Romans perform some unusual rites after your losses. Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t there a rather extreme supplication to the gods following Cannae?”
Epicydes took the cue. “They buried a pair of Gauls and a pair of Greeks alive in Rome’s cattle market, hoping to improve their fate.” He laughed in derision. “And they call us barbarians!”
Hippocrates fixed a firm look at the envoy, then Hieronymus. “Only a fool would give aid to Rome at this point. Her generals are so afraid of Hannibal all they want to do is play hide and seek.”
The Roman envoy made no acknowledgement of the brothers’ commentary. “As I said, there is yet an entire war to be fought, your majesty. I advise you to do nothing that would impair our existing treaty. Your kingdom and your people are at risk.”
This last statement brought a chorus of laughter from the pro-Carthaginian gathering.
Hieronymus struggled not to laugh himself. “I appreciate your opinion, old man. I will take the matter to my advisors.”
Adranodorus and Zoippos lifted their cups. Adranodorus grinned. “Be sure we will give it full consideration.”
By now I was filled with my own anger. I held Hannibal responsible for the loss of my parents and considered Carthage my personal enemy.
“I have a question for you,” continued the king, still standing on the couch and looking down on the envoy.
“And that is?” asked the Roman, tense with contempt.
“Almost a year ago, many months before my grandfather passed away, at the time when it first became known that he was ill, you sent a squadron of fifty ships to our waters. It lingered offshore for a week before turning around and returning to Lilybaeum. I’m wondering why that squadron was here?”
The envoy nodded that he recalled the incident. “We heard a false report that the king had died. We were concerned that negative elements in Syracuse might take advantage of the situation.” There was some murmuring in the group. The soldier accompanying the envoy let his hand slide down to the handle of his gladius. The envoy spoke directly to Hieronymus. “When we learned that the report was false and that King Hiero was alive, those ships were called back.”
Hieronymus scowled. “You mean, you doubted that I might be able to conduct business here by myself. That the hand of Rome might be necessary to help me with my decision making.” He looked to the end of the table seeking approval for his performance. “As you can see by this gathering, I don’t need your support or your advice. There was no reason for your ships to be here before, and there’s no reason for you to be here now. I have no more business with Rome and no treaty to review.”
The soldier stepped up closer to the envoy. The older man, clearly outraged by the insolent youth, summoned all his verve and restraint. “If that is what you wish, your majesty, I can only hope that you will be in a more receptive mood when we come again.”
“Your reception will be no different than it was today,” said Hieronymus with the stone cold finality of complete inebriation. “There is no reason for you to return.”
Adr
anodorus lowered his head to hide his pleasure.
The ambassador glared at the king as would a father an unruly son. “I don’t think you understand the implications of that reply.” Then the two Romans brusquely turned away from the table and marched in long matching strides out of the hall.
Silence held two beats, then Hippocrates lifted his cup in the direction of Hieronymus. “Well done, your majesty.”
Hippocrates dominated the rest of the evening, entertaining the young king with stories of Hannibal’s exploits and Rome’s ineptitude.
When Archimedes decided it was time to leave, I offered him a hand. Hippocrates rose to meet us. He introduced himself politely to Archimedes. My master gave the Carthaginian no acknowledgement and made to leave without a response. Hippocrates placed his huge hand on Archimedes’ shoulder and introduced himself at a higher volume, but with no loss of manners. Archimedes apologized for his hearing and deigned to hear out the Carthaginian.
“You have a reputation for working miracles with your machines,” said Hippocrates with a remarkably pleasant smile. “I’m here in Syracuse for a while. I’d enjoy the opportunity to view some of your work.”
Archimedes reluctantly agreed to a visit, then muttered to himself all the way back to the tower.
CHAPTER 26
The day after King Hieronymus had so unceremoniously dismissed the Roman ambassador, Syracusan envoys sailed for Africa to finalize the terms of alliance with the Carthaginian Senate. The proposal that had tentatively been agreed upon in Syracuse called for Carthage to supply land and sea forces to expel the Romans from Sicily. Once this was completed, the treaty gave the city-state of Syracuse control of all of Sicily east of the Himera River, roughly half the island. Carthage would get the rest.
Hippocrates and Epicydes remained in Syracuse, steadily increasing their influence over Hieronymus. Much as Adranodorus and Zoippos had, the two Carthaginians drank with the young king and filled his head with ambitions and lust. They talked about the victories gained by Hannibal, his strategies and his courage. They talked about the wartime exploits of Hieronymus’ grandfather Pyrrhus and how that same soldier’s blood was in him. They told Hieronymus his destiny was to eventually rule all of Sicily, just as Pyrrhus had, and that was possible if he listened to their advice. Which the boy did, gradually drawing away from Damarata and his uncles, falling fully into Hannibal’s web.
Archimedes had seen enough of the inner workings of Syracusan politics that evening with the new king to understand that war with Rome was now inevitable. He instructed me to store an emergency supply of food in the workshop. I obtained a small cart and over the next month gradually acquired a cupboard full of provisions—wheat, barley, dry beans, pulled venison, and dried fruit. During these trips to town I deliberately steered clear of Moira’s grandfather’s fruit stand and instead focused on the faces in the crowd, hoping to find Adeon. Moira’s sharp words still rang in my ears from the day I had offered to help her, and I couldn’t bring myself to face that kind of rejection again.
One afternoon while I was out running errands, I heard my name called.
“Timon,” the voice called out again.
I turned to look into the crowd behind me.
“Timon, it’s me!” Moira came running down the street, her black hair flying. “Where have you been? It’s been ages since you’ve come by.”
“I—I’ve been working,” I stammered, looking into her black eyes and noticing for the first time that she had a light sprinkling of freckles across the top of her cheeks. “After our last encounter, I wasn’t really certain if you wanted to see me again.”
Moira’s eyes diverted to the ground. When they rose to meet mine, she batted her eyes in a way I thought would surely stop my heart. “I’m sorry, Timon. I was just so upset about what had happened to our fruit that I couldn’t contain myself.” She kicked at the ground with her sandal. “I had no one to lash out at and suddenly there you were.” She looked to the ground again, then gazed into my eyes. “Can you forgive me?”
I was helpless before her appeal. “Yes,” I heard myself say. “That was a very bad day. I had thought of you as a friend, but after that I wasn’t sure any more.”
She took my hands in hers. “I understand.” She turned one way and then the other in her girlish way, allowing me to notice how her tunic lay on her body. She was almost as tall as I was, but not as skinny. “Come, you must see,” she suddenly exclaimed. “Our stand is repaired and entirely replenished. The figs are especially sweet.” She took a glance at my cart. “What’s all this?”
“Things I bought for my master,” I said.
“You’re a slave?”
It was something that had never come up in our few encounters. The implications were manifold—and it struck a nerve. “Only because of the war,” I snapped.
A moment of tension left us staring at each other. Something passed between us—an insight into each other.
“That’s the same reason I live with my grandfather.” She bit her lower lip.
Both of us had been orphaned by the war. Neither of us wanted to talk about it. We stood there awkwardly.
Moira was the first to recover. “So what’s all the stuff?”
I had no intention of telling anyone what Archimedes had predicted, but I felt a need to share something with her. “There’s a chance we will go to war with Rome,” I whispered. “My master wants extra food in case of difficulties.”
“Do you think so? Really? War?” she asked anxiously.
“I’m just following my master’s request. I know nothing more than that.”
“But no one can get into this city. That’s what everyone says.”
“Perhaps there’s no danger then.”
But my words had scared her. She stared at me.
“Please don’t say anything about this, Moira. It could cause undue panic. Besides there’s every chance my master is wrong,” I added, though I was sure he wasn’t.
Moira nodded.
“Are your figs really as good as before?” I asked.
“Follow me to our stand and you can sample them.”
“Then you can grab me by the wrist and call me a thief?”
She and I both laughed. But I couldn’t go. I had a cart full of supplies to take back to the island. We said good-bye and went off in opposite directions.
As I climbed the tower stairs, feeling unusually good, I heard the faint sounds of a flute coming down the staircase. The music got louder at each landing. The tune was very simple, but beautiful, lilting and ethereal. It reminded me of the music my father had played on his monochord.
I entered the workshop expecting to see a musician, but it was Archimedes. He stood at the window, playing a simple pan pipe. I sat down at my desk quietly to listen.
The music was lovely. I remembered my father telling me that the monochord’s harmonics were based on the ratios of string lengths—one to two, two to three, three to four, and so on. It seemed likely that the flute’s five pipes had been cut to lengths matching those ratios as well. My father had played his monochord as a way to relax in times of stress. I imagined that was the same for Archimedes.
CHAPTER 27
Early one morning, when the sun was just four or five diameters above the horizon, Archimedes asked me to light an oil lamp and close the window shutters. He also had me draw the wall drapes across the door and the south and north windows, leaving the east window shuttered but not covered by the drapes. A cork, about the diameter of my thumb, had been inserted in the east window’s shutter at the level of my chest. Archimedes pulled out the cork. A beam of direct sunlight came through the hole, projecting a bright circle of light the size of a lemon on the drapes covering the opposite wall.
Archimedes took a thin sheet of lead from the workbench and fastened it to the shutter so that it covered the hole. The sheet of lead, which was no larger than the sole of my sandal, had a very small hole in it, made with a leather worker’s needle.
A
rchimedes blew out the lamp. The workshop became completely dark except for a thin ray of sunlight that cut across the room. A dot of light, smaller than an olive, appeared on the west wall. The motes of dust in the air were all that allowed us to see the faint ray of light.
Archimedes was only a vague shadow in the darkness. He inspected the hole where the sunlight came in, then walked the length of the ray to the dot of light on the drape. Seemingly satisfied, he returned to the window. “This, Timon, is where geometry begins—a point.” He placed his index finger over the hole in the sheet of lead, making the room entirely dark. “And a perfectly straight ray.” He removed his finger, allowing the narrow streak of light to slice across the room once more. “These are the physical embodiments of our geometric ideals—and fundamental to the study of optics.”
Archimedes took a handful of flour from one of the sacks in our cupboard, stood at a location midway along the ray, and clapped his hands together. The flour particles turned the faintly visible ray of light into a white line cutting through the darkness. He got up close to the ray and used the crystal lens to examine it. Then he ran his hand along the ray without touching it—as if it were something hot.
Archimedes took a flat piece of polished bronze from the workbench. Using the metal plate as a mirror, he deflected the beam of light around the room, as if it were a plaything, something he could inspect and explore, much as he had with the candles and the wooden partition.
“Watch the angles of reflection, Timon.” He turned the bronze plate slightly one way then the other. Because of the flour, the bent ray of light looked as if it had been drawn in the air. “The laws of optics derive from the laws of geometry,” he said. “This is what our work will be about in the coming months.”
That he said our work meant a lot to me. He truly did consider me something more than a slave.
Eventually the sun rose high enough in the sky that it no longer shone directly through the hole in the shutter, and there was no ray of light that streaked across the room. But the hole itself was still visible as a spot of light, and some indirect sunlight did filter into the room.
The Siege of Syracuse Page 14