“Adeon is my one hope for learning more about my parents,” I said. “I’ve been trying to find her since the day I was sold. The man who bought her was tall and had a very distinctive red birthmark on his right cheek. I believe he lives in the city. Is there any chance you might have seen him?”
Moira stopped walking. “I have seen him,” she said. “Several times.”
“At the market?”
“Once there, but many times in Neapolis.”
“Where?”
“It’s a place I often go. The public garden.”
“How long has it been since you last saw him?”
“A fortnight,” she said, squeezing my hand, feeling my excitement.
“Take me there.”
“Now?”
For once I heard hesitance in her voice. I wanted to go immediately, but how could I? “You’re right. We’re both late already, and I have two errands to run.” We were still holding hands. “The market is on the way to where I’m going. I’ll walk you there.”
I pressed her for more information as we walked. “Do you know where this man lives? Or what he does?”
Moira shook her head. “I’ve seen the man. That’s all. But I’ve seen him at the garden several times. It may be near his home or just a place he regularly goes.”
“Can you tell me where it is?”
“I’ll draw you a map.” Moira knelt on one knee and drew with her finger in the street. “This is the rim of the plateau,” she said as she stretched out a line in the dirt. “Do you know the stairway above Neapolis?”
“Yes, of course.”
“The garden is right here.” She made a circle in the dirt. “Not far from the bottom of the stairs.” She looked up at me. “It’s easy to find.”
I nodded. “I’ll look for it the next time I’m running an errand. We could both go if you’re free.”
She stood and we continued walking. When we were almost to her grandfather’s fruit stand, Moira stopped. “Maybe this is a good place to part ways,” she said. “I’m late and it might look better if...”
“I’m not with you.”
She smiled, then leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. There was a brief moment when our eyes met before she turned away. I watched her run down the aisle to her grandfather’s stand. Even at a distance I could see her grandfather’s angry reaction. I knew I was partly to blame.
A small stack of intricately cut pieces of wood were waiting for me at Orestes’ shop. Orestes put them in a cloth bag, and I headed to the palace courier in Achradina, tremendously excited that Moira had seen the man I had been trying to find for more than a year.
As I neared Achradina, the gates swung open. The royal trumpets sounded, crisp and loud. Five standard bearers cantered out on gleaming black horses. King Hieronymus followed in his chariot drawn by four white horses. It was the same chariot I’d seen before, but this time the king was dressed for war with a golden breast plate and helmet. He raised his sword as he exited from the gate and thundered up Via Intermuralis in my direction. A full company of armed soldiers on horseback followed him. I backed into an alley to watch them pass. The entire length of the street was filled with cavalry, riding four abreast and shaking the ground as they galloped by. I had never seen such a thing up close. Tens of hundreds of soldiers followed, marching in formation. They continued northward onto the plateau and out the Hexapylon. The bystanders who had ridiculed Hieronymus all morning now cheered the boy king, urging him to put his name alongside those of Achilles, Pyrrhus, and Hiero II.
The letter I retrieved from the palace courier was from the Greek city of Samos, which meant communication from Archimedes’ longtime friend and colleague Conon. Rarely did anything animate Archimedes more than letters from other mathematicians, but Conon’s were his favorite. They invariably contained a new proof or a review of one of Archimedes’. These letters between Archimedes and Conon, and others, represented the leading edge of mathematical research and contained the most advanced arithmetic methods of the time. To Archimedes these letters were everything and meant more to him than food or wealth.
When I returned to the tower, I gave the letter to Archimedes. “From Samos,” I said, thinking only about seeing Moira again.
Archimedes needed the crystal lens to read anything now, but he didn’t use it in the presence of anyone other than me. He might have asked me to read him the letter, but he so enjoyed correspondence from Conon that he preferred to read it slowly by himself. He got the lens from its box, then carefully opened the sealed document. Holding the lens between his forefinger and thumb, he leaned over and went at it one word at a time. It took him quite a while to finish. I was standing across the desk when he put the letter down and gazed off to his left. He stared into space without moving for so long I was afraid he’d turned to stone. He finally stood and walked over to the east window and looked off in the direction of Samos.
The letter lay open on his desk. It was written in Greek and consisted of only five lines. I read them upside down. I am very sad to inform you, Archimedes, that my father has died from an infection in his lungs. He left some papers that he asked me to send to you. Once I have a chance to do an inventory, I will send them on to Syracuse. It was signed by Conon’s son.
After a while, Archimedes returned from the window. There were no tears, no visible sign of the emotions that must have filled him. I stood at his desk, the letter open beside me.
“Timon,” he said, “didn’t you say your father was a member of the Pythagorean School.”
I nodded.
“Did you know that Pythagoras was from Samos?”
It seemed that he knew I’d read the letter. “Yes, my father spoke of him frequently.”
“Pythagoras was a favorite of Conon’s—and mine. What did your father tell you about him?”
“My father said Pythagoras lived a hundred years before Socrates, and that he traveled almost half his life in search of knowledge. He went to Egypt and learned the geometry of the pyramids.”
Archimedes nodded.
“He also went to Babylon and to India to speak with the philosophers there. That’s where he learned the system of numbers.”
Archimedes nodded again.
“When Pythagoras returned from the east, he didn’t go to Samos. He went to Croton, where he began his school. It was dedicated to the advancement of those two ancient sciences—the system of numbers and geometry. This is what my father hoped to revive.”
“More than the advancement of these sciences, Timon, the unification of them.”
I wasn’t sure what Archimedes meant.
“My friend Conon,” he said with a tremor in his voice, “referred to it as the cipher of form and figure. Did your father ever talk of this?”
I shook my head, no.
“It began as a challenge from Pythagoras to his students. If you can find a way to unite the form—the geometry—and the figures—the numbers, he said, you will have a tool with which to open all the secrets of the universe. The work of Euclid, formalizing geometry, was the beginning, the first big step to solving Pythagoras’ challenge. My friends and I have been adding the numbers to Euclid’s elements of geometry, one proof at a time. Conon was the driving force behind this effort.” Archimedes looked off toward the east window for some time. He spoke without turning his head.
“Conon and I became friends many years ago in Alexandria. For almost forty years now, we have exchanged proofs and writings aimed at the union of the numbers with geometry.” He faced me, his one eye deep and sad, the other blank white. “Of late, we’d been working on a method of exhaustion to determine the area of complex geometric shapes. Recently I’ve had a breakthrough. It’s a way of dividing an irregular shape into many tiny regular shapes. It’s only an approximation, but as the pieces get smaller and smaller the accuracy increases. I call it infinitesimal summation. Think of Zeno’s paradox, and the man advancing to a wall, half the remaining distance at a time. I’ve been preparing a dem
onstration of it for Conon this past week.” His voice grew emotional. “I know of no one else who is capable of following my argument. I will miss Conon as a friend, but even more as a colleague and fellow pioneer in this work.”
Archimedes finished this statement with tears in his eyes. Suddenly he waved his hand for me to leave him alone. As I left the workshop, I looked back over my shoulder. The great mathematician had laid his head down on the workbench.
I went to my little room and sat on the cot. Plato joined me. I remained there for quite some time, stroking his smooth coat and wondering how I might console my master. After a while, my thoughts returned to the man with the birthmark on his cheek—and Moira—and how the wind had blown her tunic up above her thighs. Plato looked up at me. I’m not sure if cats smile, but his eyes squeezed shut and I think he gave me a little grin.
CHAPTER 41
Five days after the king left for Leontini, I went down to the pantry in the afternoon. Hektor was the only one there. He sat unsteadily on a bag of wheat, holding a cup of wine in one hand and a two-handled amphora in the other.
“Hieronymus was murdered,” he said with a sloppy grin, tipping a little more wine from the amphora into his cup and nearly tipping himself off the bag of grain. “The bastard maker is dead.” He said it viciously and with pleasure.
I’m sure my mouth fell open. I had no affection for Hieronymus. But I hadn’t wanted him dead. He was a boy of my age who had been thrown into a difficult situation. Everyone around him sought to use him, not help him. Surely there was a sad side to it. Not that sad though. He wouldn’t be looking for Eurydice or her son any more. I could thank the assassins for that.
As usual, the kitchen staff and royal attendants already knew the story. Hektor related it to me, brimming with wine. I would learn the details later when I studied the history to write this narrative.
Hieronymus had used a much larger force to overwhelm the Roman garrison at Leontini. The outcome was never in question, and the city fell in two days. But the morning after the capture of the city, as Hieronymus strode across town to the forum to introduce himself to his new subjects, a cadre of Roman sympathizers within the king’s own personal guard killed him in the street. One of his slaves escaped and ran back to Syracuse with the news. He went straight to the slave quarters in the palace. By late afternoon, the story had percolated through the slaves to the palace staff, up through the officers of the guard and finally to the royal family.
Damarata took it very badly. She burst into tears and ran sobbing to her sister Heraclia. But the tears were not for Hieronymus. They were for fear of her life. With the death of her nephew, it could be argued that Damarata became the queen and Adranodorus the king. In a sense, the assassination saved them the trouble of trying to marionette a difficult puppet. One would imagine that this is what they had wanted all along—the fabulously wealthy city of Syracuse all to themselves. However, the assassination also meant that the pro-Roman cadre, contained for the last year, had gained the courage to draw blood. And they were likely not done.
Damarata impressed this on Adranodorus. They had until the troops returned from Leontini—a few days, perhaps a week—to gain the support of the city council and secure the throne.
That afternoon, while anointing Archimedes with scented olive oil, I told him of Hieronymus’ death. I did the anointing about once a month. It was one of the few luxuries Archimedes allowed himself. He would remove his toga and sit on a stool while I rubbed the oil into his aging skin.
As little attention as the great man paid to politics, he fully understood the implications of the boy king’s death. “There will be civil war,” he said. “The mob will prevail. No one will be safe.”
After what I had already seen in the streets of Syracuse, Archimedes’ appraisal rang true. I got down on my knees to rub the oil into his calves and feet. His skin was thin and creased like wrinkled papyrus. The oil brought back resilience and luster.
As I completed his left leg, I heard the sounds of clanking armor and marching soldiers coming from outside. With Archimedes’ permission, I went to the north window. A stream of soldiers was filing across the drawbridge onto the island. Pack animals and carts followed, loaded with what looked to be sacks of grain. I turned to Archimedes. “More soldiers are coming to the island.”
He nodded his head. “It’s already begun. The royal family will come here for safety.”
No sooner had he said the words than voices began echoing up the stairwell, followed by the steady thud of feet and the clang of metal on metal. I looked to Archimedes.
“Ignore them,” he said.
I knelt beside him and began oiling his right leg.
The door to the workshop was partway open. Adranodorus and five soldiers, one them Tacitus Maso, appeared on the landing. Adranodorus and the tall, angular captain came into the room. Adranodorus knew Archimedes in a distant way. He looked ill at ease and distracted. He walked up to Archimedes, who was drawing geometric shapes in the oil on his left thigh.
Adranodorus, the would-be king, was the antithesis of Hippocrates. For all the dread Hippocrates’ presence held and all the duplicity of his words, the Carthaginian had some noble elements. He was a man who could give and command respect. If he were an animal, he would be a black panther. Adranodorus, on the other hand, combined the character of a money changer with the arrogance of a position gained by marriage. He looked and acted like a weasel.
Adranodorus shot quick glances around the room, assessing the tools and inventions as though they were junk. Then he faced Archimedes. His tongue flicked out and ran across his upper lip. “The king was assassinated in Leontini this morning, Archimedes. Do you know what that means?”
Archimedes continued to draw designs on his thigh.
Adranodorus leaned up close to the scientist and repeated what he had said. Archimedes remained absorbed in his drawing. Adranodorus glared at me, then turned back to arguably the most powerful man in the world, sitting there naked and frail. “The king was assassinated. Do you know what that means?”
Archimedes slowly lifted his eyes to Adranodorus. “I don’t believe anyone can predict what the king’s death will bring. Though I doubt it will be good.”
Adranodorus was so distracted that Archimedes’ answer seemed to fly past him. “Damarata and I are the heirs to the throne. Not everyone will be pleased by this—particularly those who were behind the assassination.” He looked over his shoulder at Tacitus. It seemed more an act of anxiety than an acknowledgement of support. “The army will return from Leontini within the week. We are not quite certain where their allegiance will be.” His eyes shot from side to side. “How secure is this island?”
Archimedes answered without looking up. “As secure as our provisions. No one can get in.”
Adranodorus walked over to the north window. He gazed out over the city. It was still peaceful. Word of Hieronymus’ death was not yet common knowledge.
“Damarata and I will be taking up residence in the captain’s quarters.” He spoke staring out the window and stroking his mustache, so agitated as to be difficult to watch. “My niece Harmonia and her husband Themistos will be on the third floor. My sister-in-law and her children will be staying with them.” He turned away from the window. “Hieronymus’ death will stir up the populace. I’m concerned for my family’s safety. We will hold out here until we’ve judged the mood of the people—and completed a proper coronation.”
Archimedes lifted his head.
Adranodorus smiled, pleased to see he’d finally gotten the old man’s attention. “We just added a second company of soldiers and extra provisions to the island. We’ve also secured the royal treasure.” His grin didn’t mask his nerves. Dots of moisture beaded at his hairline. He addressed Tacitus. “Are your soldiers trained to man the defenses?”
Tacitus had been at attention since he’d entered. “They are, sir.”
Adranodorus flicked out his tongue like a reptile sensing what was in the ai
r. Then he began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back. “Until things are settled, Archimedes, there will be no more coming and going from the island. Not for you or your slave.” He cast a dark eye down at me oiling Archimedes’ calf. “For your safety, you will be restricted to the tower’s top two floors. There will be two guards outside this door and two on the landing below.” With that, he strode from the room. The captain followed him out.
When I could no longer hear the men descending the stairs, I looked up at the white-haired mathematician. His one good eye swung to me.
“Should Adranodorus become king, he will give Syracuse’s support to Carthage,” I said. “You will be under the command of Hippocrates if war breaks out, and he will be following the orders of Hannibal. That can’t be!” My outburst was way out of line, especially for a slave, but I hated Hannibal.
Archimedes understood all too well. “I know what your feelings are, Timon,” he said. “But with Hiero gone, I have no political leverage at all. I have seen too many wars to imagine that one side has more virtue than the other. And you are correct. If there is a war, and there will be, the defenses that I added to this city will play heavily in the outcome.” He paused and lifted his eyes as though thinking back in time.
“When I first agreed to fortify the city for Hiero, I hoped that by creating the perfect defense I could stop all efforts to take this city. I saw the promise of an enduring peace. I even imagined that all cities could be fortified in this way. Sieges of any kind would be a thing of the past. War would cease, except on the battlefield. Women and children would remain safe within city walls. The application of science would not, as Plato suggested, remove man from the ideal, but instead it would enable him to achieve the ideal. That is what I’ve believed all of my life.” Archimedes sighed, “I’m not so sure anymore.”
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